Could I . . .

No. Absolutely not. I can’t ring the bell and smile and say, “Hi, Flora. I was passing, and I thought I’d pop around on the off chance.” Not after twelve years.

Is that why I came here, really? Not only to see the house but because I’m secretly hoping to rewrite the story?

The Braids and the Leesons were best friends. Twelve years ago, they did not have any sort of argument, nor did they exchange harsh words. The last time they saw each other, everybody smiled and laughed and kissed and hugged good-bye. They talked about getting together again very soon—maybe next week, maybe taking the kids to the summer fair on Parker’s Piece. As they enthusiastically agreed to ring each other to arrange this outing, Flora Braid and Beth Leeson both knew that there would be no phone call in either direction, and no trip to the fair. Dominic Leeson and Lewis Braid did not know this, because no one had told them that the two families would never meet or speak again.

On the face of it, it makes no sense. Only Flora and I understand what happened—and I’ll never know whether our understandings of it are the same. I’ve tried to explain to Dominic what happened from my point of view, and I suppose Flora must have told Lewis something, though perhaps not the truth . . .

This is ridiculous. I should be watching Ben play football, or finding a supermarket. I really do need to get something for dinner. Who cares where the Braids live now? I’ve seen everything there is to see—cream curtains at the upstairs windows, fat, square redbrick gateposts topped with large balls of gray stone, perfectly smooth and round, clashing horribly with the red brick.

I should go.

I’m about to start the car when I notice one coming up behind me: a Range Rover driving extra slowly. Wyddial Lane is a twenty-mile-an-hour zone, and this car’s going at no more than ten. I’m watching it, willing it to speed up, when I notice a movement from another direction.

It’s Flora’s gates—they’re opening.

The silver-gray Range Rover slows still further as it approaches the Braids’ house. It inches forward, now almost level with my car. That’s where it’s heading: through the wooden gates, into the grounds of number 16. Of course: there’s no way Lewis and Flora would have gates that you have to get out and open; they’d have some kind of remote-control setup.

I see glossy dark brown hair through the Range Rover’s half-open window. It could well be Flora. It’s bound to be.

Shit. Why did I think I could get away with this? She’s going to see me.

No, she won’t. No one looks at a random parked car. She’ll drive in through the gates and then they’ll close again, and she won’t think about what’s beyond her property.

I turn my face away, making sure to lean close to my open window in case there’s anything to hear.

There’s nothing for a few seconds. Then a crunch of tires on gravel, and the sound of the Range Rover’s engine cutting out. A car door opens. Feet land on gravel and a woman’s voice, halfway through a sentence as it emerges into the open air, drifts across to me: “. . . said I’m ready now. You can start. Yes. Start.”

It’s Flora. Unmistakably. She doesn’t sound happy. She sounds . . . I don’t know how to describe it. Afraid, resentful, prepared for the worst. Is something horrible about to happen?

Don’t be ridiculous. You heard, what, six words?

I listen for a response but I hear nothing. Flora’s probably on the phone.

I’ve never heard her sound like that before.

I can’t not look. I have to risk it. If the worst happens and she spots me and I decide I can’t face talking to her, I can just drive away, fast. That’d give her twenty-mile-an-hour-zone neighbors something to talk about. They could lobby to have Wyddial Lane sealed at both ends so that no one who doesn’t live here can enter in future.

The gates of Newnham House are still wide open. And there’s Flora: twelve years older, but it’s definitely her. Her hair hasn’t changed a bit: same dark brown with no hint of gray, same style. She’s wearing white lace-up pumps, a pale gray hoodie and jeans.

“Home,” she says, holding her phone half an inch away from her ear. “I’m at home.”

I tried to push it away but it’s back again: the strong sense that what I’m seeing isn’t an ordinary conversation. There’s something wrong.

A short silence follows. Then she says, “Hey, Chimp.” She stops, raises her voice slightly and says, “Hey, Chimpyyy!”

Strange. The words don’t match the expression on her face at all. She looks upset and worried, not in relaxed-greeting mode.

Is she talking to a new person now? Did the person she told she was ready put a child on the phone? It must be a child, surely. Who else would allow themselves to be called Chimpy? Her change of tone, too, from normal to deliberate, slower, louder . . .

Suddenly, she turns away and stretches out her arm, holding her phone as far away from herself as possible. Then, a few seconds later, she brings it back to her ear and wipes her eyes with her other hand.

She started to cry and didn’t want Chimpy to hear.

“Peterborough,” she says in a more normal tone of voice. “Lucky. I’m very lucky.”

Tears have filled my eyes. I can’t blink. They’d spill over and then I’d be officially crying, which would be insane. This woman has been no part of my life for twelve years. Why should I care that something about this phone conversation has upset her?

“Yes. Tomorrow,” she says. “I’ll speak to you tomorrow.” I watch as she puts her phone back in her bag. For a few seconds she stands still, looking tired and defeated, relieved that the conversation is over.

She opens the back door of the Range Rover, sticks her head in and says, “We’re he-ere!” The deliberate jolly tone is unconvincing. Then she stands back. Nothing happens.

No surprises there. When the destination they’ve arrived at is their own home, teenagers don’t get out of the car unless nagged extensively. If you’re dropping them at a friend’s house, it’s a different story.

I hear Flora sigh. “Thomas! Emily!” she says in a singsong voice. “Come on, out you get!”

“Why are you speaking to them like they’re still toddlers?” I mutter. “No wonder they’re ignoring you.”

Even when her kids were little, Flora’s speaking-to-babies-and-children tone annoyed me. Thanks to her, I made sure I always addressed Zannah and Ben as if they were proper people.

Flora stands back as if someone’s about to get out of the car. “That’s it!” she says encouragingly.

Quit it, woman, unless you want them to run off and join a cult. They ought to be able to get out of a car without a pep talk from their mother.

A small, bright blue backpack tumbles from the car to the ground. I see a leg emerge, then a boy.

A very young boy.

What the hell?

“Come on, Emily,” says Flora. “Thomas, pick up your bag.”

A little girl rolls out of the car. She picks up the blue bag and hands it to the boy.

“Oh, well done, Emily,” says Flora. “That’s kind. Say thank you, Thomas.”

This cannot be happening.

I touch the skin of my face with my right hand. Both feel equally cold. All of me feels frozen apart from my heart, which beats in my ears like something trapped in a tunnel.

I lean back in my seat, close my eyes for a few seconds, then open them and look again.

Nothing has changed. The little girl turns and, for a second, looks straight at me.

It’s her. That T-shirt with the fluffy sheep on it . . . Le petit mouton.

The girl I’m looking at is Emily Braid, except she’s not fifteen, as she should be—as she must be and is, unless the world has stopped making sense altogether.

This is the Emily Braid I knew twelve years ago, when she was three years old. And Thomas . . . I can’t see all of his face, but I can see enough to know that he’s still five years old, as he was when I last saw him in 2007.

I have to get out of here. I can’t look anymore. Everything is wrong.

My fingers fumble for the car keys. I press them hard, then realize I’m pressing the wrong thing. It’s the button on the dashboard, not the keys. I’m waiting for the engine to start and it won’t because I’m not doing it right, because all I can think about is Thomas and Emily Braid.

Why are they—how can they be—still three and five? Why are they no older than they were twelve years ago?

Why haven’t they grown?

2

Several hours later, walking back through my front door and closing it against the world feels like an achievement.