Emma was an assistant manager at a branch of Zara in Watford. He knew she liked the job, but didn’t love it. She had often joked of giving it up to be a teacher, but had yet to pluck up the courage to do anything about it. When you stripped life down to its bare bones, Emma was all that mattered. Even if it meant tightening their belts for a while, he would push himself to breaking point and beyond if it meant she was happy.

The waiter took their food order and topped up the carafe of water. Styles listened while she worked her way through a rambling tale about one of the girls who had called in sick so she could go and see Beyoncé at the O2, only to be rumbled after somebody tagged her in a picture on Facebook at the venue. He could happily let her witter away all evening without interrupting, just comfortably quiet in her company. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Porter when he lost Holly. He had been partners with Porter for almost a year when it happened. Styles had met her half a dozen times by then. Had seen how different Porter was when she was around. Visibly more relaxed. More at ease.

As far as he was aware, Porter hadn’t talked about what happened, to him or anyone he knew of. He hadn’t even gone down the clichéd route of drowning his sorrows. Once the funeral was over, it was as if Porter had tucked it away in a box, along with the version of himself that Holly brought out, and filed it away. The man left behind looked similar, but not quite the same. Extra lines crept in around the edges that had nothing to do with laughter. He still joined in with general office banter, but his smile struggled to find its way to his eyes the way it used to.

‘How about you, my love?’ Emma asked once she’d finished the O2 saga. ‘Any luck tracking down your missing girl?’

Styles shook his head. ‘Nope. No joy yet. We went to see her folks today. Well, her stepfolks, anyway. They’re an odd couple. Money to burn. Enough so that they make you feel like you should be grateful they’re even bothering to speak to you. Probably wallpaper their bedroom with spare fifty-pound notes. I’d love to be a fly on the wall, mind. She’s scared stiff of him. Clammed up when he came home.’

‘What did they say, then?’

‘Not a lot. Haven’t seen her for over thirty years. They don’t seem too bothered about that, though.’

‘What does Jake have to say about it?’ she asked, sitting back as the waiter appeared at her shoulder, producing matching plates of spaghetti carbonara.

‘Godere! Enjoy!’