Only by the time she returned, the man had been there. She had seen him clearly through the window. Not touching Veronica, but standing over her, touching himself. Sarah had started to run towards the house, but he was mad that man, wild, she had seen it earlier in his eyes. And she had Amelia to think of, and Harry, a responsibility to be responsible, for them. From a safe distance, sensibly, Sarah had called the police.

And watched.

She would intervene, she told herself, if he tried to do anything worse. She looked around even for something to arm herself with – a tree branch, a broken bottle.

But then the boy had turned up with the saucepan, and decked the man from behind, long before he could touch Veronica, or do anything. The woman in red had hurtled into the house after him, and then the neighbour had charged in and gestured for them to go. And the woman had carried the small, panicking child away, down the street, her head bent close into his. And Sarah had stayed watching.

This thin, pale woman had not appeared until much later. But she had seen the man too, slumped over Veronica. She’d taken out her phone, too. She had noticed Sarah, and they had exchanged looks – two concerned passers-by, strangers, calling the police, doing Right.

But why was she there now, here, at Amelia’s school? Who was she?

“She’s the new Year 2 teaching assistant,” Amelia explained later, cartwheeling. “Miss Simone.”

In the end, Amelia had gone up to the Junior school with no problem. A letter had never come. A report had never existed. It had all been a game. Just a game. Amelia was in Year 3 now, safe from Veronica’s clutches.

Sarah watched.

There was a slight rounding to Veronica’s belly. She noticed Veronica occasionally placing her hand upon it. So she and George had managed it. They had what they wanted.

Darkly, Sarah’s mind flashed to sushi and sedatives. But surely it would have been too early to affect things. To cause consequence.

Besides, there was light to Veronica’s gaze.

There was music to Veronica’s laugh.

Sarah couldn’t help feeling a ripple of joy for her old, illuminating friend.

Veronica looked up.

Instinctively, Sarah hurried in the opposite direction. It was as if they’d broken up all over again, no longer a two. But Veronica called out.

“Sarah!” she waved. “Sarah!” she beckoned. Sawah.

Sarah paused.

The other woman turned, looked. Smiled.

The bell rang.

3.30pm. Pick-up.

There. An easy answer. A reason to avoid her. A reason to move past, move on.

Sarah didn’t move.

Seconds ticked by.

Lessons over.

Children released.

Games beginning.

Classroom doors made of wood, opening.

Giggles wafting on the wind.

Acknowledgements

There are many people who have helped me in the creation of this book, and who I would like to thank.

For their insight, wisdom and honesty, and generosity with it: Jane Becker, Jeremy Brier, Naomi Gittelson, Naomi Gryn, Victoria Hayward, Rowan Lawton, Rachel Rushbrook, Anna Seymour, Geraldine Wayne and Sadie Wild.