‘I’m a friend of Charlie’s. Charlie Perry.’

His eyebrows raised slightly, before he quickly pulled his features back into neutral. ‘She’s not here.’

I felt a rush of relief that at least he knew who she was, that this was the right Damson Farm, that she hadn’t made the whole thing up to cover up a boring childhood living in a three-bed detached house in the suburbs. ‘Well, I guess that’s not so surprising. Do you know when she’ll be back, or have any contact details so I can let her know I’m here?’

‘Given you’re having to ask me that, you clearly aren’t that good a friend.’

‘The last number she gave me hasn’t been working. I assumed she’d lost her phone again.’

‘Look, no offence but Charlie made a lot of friends. If you’re someone she met in a hostel somewhere, or worked in a bar with for a few weeks, then I’m sorry but she’s not here. I can give you the number for a garage who’ll tow your car to wherever you’re headed next, and drop you there once you’ve finished your tea.’ He bent down to pick up the crinkly fabric doll the baby had gleefully thrown onto the floor, then stood up, making it clear that I had finished my drink, whether I’d actually finished it or not.

It took nearly everything I’d got, but I heaved myself to my feet, too, gripping the chair with both hands.

‘I know Charlie makes friends everywhere she goes, which is a stupid number of places. I know she drops everything and moves on after a random conversation or an out-of-date flyer catches her attention. I know that she disappears completely for months at a time and then turns up again as if she’d never been gone. I also know that this is the only place she’s ever called home. I know this because she’s invited me here tons of times during the twelve years we’ve been friends. The last time I heard from her she said she’d be staying here for at least a year, probably a lot longer. And this time I believe she meant it.’

He eyed me silently for a long moment, his hand reaching up to stroke the scar on the side of his face. ‘Eleanor?’

‘Yes! Yes, I’m Eleanor.’

‘Okay.’ He let out a long, slow sigh, and for the first time I noticed how tired and drawn he looked. His hazel eyes were utterly forlorn. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, like this, after you’ve clearly had a crap night. But Charlie died.’

What?

The words engulfed me in a torrent of devastation – shock and anguish crashing up through my stomach and lungs, my heart, until it hit my brain.

Breathless, distraught, I could only reply with a gaping mouth and shaking head before everything went blurry and then black.

2

I woke to find myself lying on a sofa, an older woman peering at me, one hand on my wrist. A mass of curly salt and pepper hair framed her head in a huge circle, and glasses dangled on a chain over her thick aran sweater.