‘Do you like this as it is?’ I ask Mum as we sit down. ‘This house, I mean? You’ve not changed it at all since …’

Mum bites her lip. ‘Maybe I should,’ she says, looking around the living room. ‘It would be nice if it was a bit … fresher.’ She flicks open the wallet of photographs. ‘Now – looking at the photographs is supposed to move the memory into a different compartment of my brain,’ she says vaguely. ‘Or something.’

With enormous effort I suppress my urge to eye-roll. God knows which pseudo-science book she’s got that one from, but I very much doubt there’s a clinical trial proving the efficacy of such a technique.

But … Mum thinks it’ll help. And maybe that’s enough.

‘Paris,’ I say, pointing at the top photo. It hurts to look at Carla’s smiling face, but I’m getting a little better at this – if you sit with the hurt it’s a tiny bit easier, like relaxing your muscles instead of shivering when it’s cold. ‘Remember the boy Carla convinced to kiss her on the top of the Eiffel Tower?’

‘I don’t seem to remember him needing much convincing,’ Mum says.

‘And she never would acknowledge how awful her French was.’

‘You were on at her about pronunciation all week,’ Mum says. ‘Drove her up the wall.’

We move along, photo after photo. I cry, messy snotty crying, and Mum cries a lot too, but it’s not that choked sobbing I remember her doing after Carla died, when I had to hold it together on my own. This time they’re the sort of tears you can brush away. Mum’s doing so well, I realise. She’s come so far.

We break for tea then finish the photos. I’m not sure any memories have moved brain compartments, but when I get up to switch on the light, I notice that I’ve walked right across the space where the bed used to be, as if it’s just ordinary carpet.

I feel guilty, at first. Like not sidestepping that invisible bed is a betrayal of what happened in this room. But then I think of Carla in all those photographs – smiling, loud, piercings catching the camera flash – and I know she’d tell me I’m being fecking ridiculous, so I move back and stand there in that spot, right where she used to lie.

I stand still, and I let myself miss her. I let it come.

And I don’t break. It hurts like nothing else, a keening raw hurt, but I’m here – no Ethan with his arms around me, no laptop in front of me – and I’m not running, not working, not shouting. And whatever I was afraid of – falling apart, losing control … It doesn’t happen. The pain of missing her is scorching, but I’ll live through it.

24

Eileen

Yesterday Bee sent me a text message to say she saw Ethan and Ceci slipping off for lunch together. It’s been nagging at me all morning. I try distracting myself looking over the ads Fitz has made to stick up around Shoreditch – Over seventy and looking to meet Londoners like you? Call this number to find out about the Silver Shoreditchers’ Social Club! But even that doesn’t do the trick.

I think of Carla. She’d do something about this, if she were here. She wouldn’t let Ethan run around on Leena. She’d be bold and brave and resourceful and she’d do something.

I push myself up and march over to knock on Fitz’s bedroom door. Carla should be here for her sister. It’s an unspeakable tragedy that she isn’t. But I am here for Leena. And I can be bold and brave and resourceful too.

*

‘I think this is the coolest thing I’ve ever done, Mrs C,’ Fitz says, then promptly stalls the van he just borrowed from Sally of Flat 6. ‘Whoops. Hang on. Yep, yep, got it, there we go! Don’t tell anyone that happened when you regale them with stories of our stakeout, will you?’

‘There will be no regaling, Fitz,’ I say, in my sternest voice. ‘This is a secret mission.’

He looks delighted. ‘Secret! Mission! Whoops, sorry, didn’t realise it was still in second gear. Oh, wow.’

We’ve turned on to the main road and it is chock-a-block. We both stare at the traffic stretching out ahead of us as people on foot weave between the cars.

‘Let me check Google Maps,’ Fitz says, reaching into the pocket of his bomber jacket to get his phone. ‘OK. It’s saying it’ll be forty minutes to the Selmount office in this traffic.’

I deflate. We inch onwards. The traffic has rather taken the drama out of the whole affair.

Eventually we reach the vicinity of the Selmount offices, and Fitz parks – quite possibly illegally – so we can settle in a café opposite the Selmount building. Thanks to Bee, I happen to know Ethan is currently holding a meeting there. It’s a surprisingly ugly street, a wide road lined with squat buildings that each have a few of their windows boarded up, like tarnished gold teeth. The shiny grey glass of Selmount HQ looks a bit over-the-top in the middle of it all.

I sip my tea and examine the doughnuts Fitz insisted on buying for us. Apparently one has to eat doughnuts on a ‘stakeout’. They look very greasy – mine has already formed a bluish ring on its napkin.

‘There he is!’ Fitz says excitedly, pointing towards the building.

He’s right: there goes Ethan, his briefcase in hand, tossing his dark hair as he strides out of the office. He is handsome, I’ll give him that much.

‘What now, Mrs C?’

‘Now we play the little-old-lady card,’ I say. ‘Grab a few napkins, would you, there’s a love – I don’t want to waste this doughnut. I’m sure Letitia’s cat will eat it. She eats everything.’

By the time I’ve managed to get myself out of the door Ethan’s nearly disappeared down the road. I break into a fast walk, almost a jog; it takes a moment for Fitz to catch up with me.

‘Jesus, you’re rapid for an old lady!’ Fitz says, matching his pace to mine. ‘Hang on, if we cut down here, we can intercept him.’

I follow Fitz down an alley, barely wide enough for two people. It smells distinctly of urine and something else that it takes a moment for me to place, but which I eventually remember to be marijuana.

‘There!’ Fitz yells, pointing at Ethan across the street. ‘Oops, sorry, secret-mission indoor voice, I remember.’

But it’s too late – Ethan’s looking over. I’ll just have to work this to my advantage.

‘Ethan! Dear!’ I trill, barging through the flow of pedestrians and marching across the road. Behind me I hear Fitz inhale sharply and then apologise to somebody on a motorbike who had to swerve a little. ‘What luck, bumping into you, here!’

‘Hello, Eileen,’ he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek. ‘Are you well?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ I say. I’m rather out of breath; I look around, wishing there was somewhere I could sit down for a moment, but of course there’s no bench in sight. ‘Though, actually, I’m fair to bursting for a trip to the ladies,’ I say in a confidential tone. ‘I’m not sure I’ll make it home! Once you’re my age, you know, the bladder isn’t what it was. Leaky, you know. Leaky.’

Ethan is wearing an expression akin to Fitz’s when someone is maimed on one of Martha’s crime dramas.