Everything will be okay, Kate tells herself as she looks around the lobby for the girl. She wonders again if she should call her mother, but at this point she thinks she would rather find the girl first, rather than tell her mother that she has lost her. At the front desk, she talks to a nice young man named Liam who tells her that he thinks her granddaughter is probably down by the pool.

Of course, Kate thinks. All young girls love the pool. But when she finally locates the aquatic centre, tracking its chlorine smell through the dingy halls of the basement, the pool is empty. She checks the change rooms, the sauna: nothing. Standing at the edge of the pool, she stares down at its still surface, silently begging it to tell her if the girl has been here, her body slicing through the blue water, pushing off from the tile walls, diving down to touch its bottom. She leans down and dips her hand in, as though she might be able to feel the girl’s lingering presence beneath the surface. But the pool reveals nothing except Kate’s own worried face.

Back in the lobby, Kate sits down in one of the chairs and stares at the bank of calling things along the opposite wall. How long does a person have to be gone before you can report them missing? Twenty-four hours? But how on earth is she going to fill out a missing person report for her granddaughter when she can’t even remember her name?

London. How could she forget? The girl’s name is London. But she remembered, that was the important thing. She remembered, so all hope is not lost.

The only logical thing to do is to call Nicki. But instead, Kate goes into the lobby bar and sits on a stool facing the bartender.

“Hi there,” says the bartender, whose nametag reads Lisa. She slides a narrow drinks menu across the bar.

“What can I get you?” What does she usually order at a bar? Kate has no idea. “I think I’d like a glass of white wine,” she says.

“We have a Pinot Grigio, a Chardonnay, a Riesling…”

None of these words means anything to Kate. “Just pour me a glass of whichever you like best.”

Smiling, Lisa points to the top line on the menu. “I like the Chardonnay, myself.”

“Chardonnay sounds good,” says Kate. “You have a very beautiful smile,” she adds as Lisa turns away to pour the wine. Even from behind she can tell that Lisa is blushing, a flush creeping up the back of her neck.

“Thanks,” she says, without turning around. “So do you.”