It’s scruffy and unmanicured. There’s a wonky sundial in the middle of the lawn, and some dusty gravelled paths. There’s no furniture, no children’s toys. And there, down the side of the house, a pathway that seems, from here, to lead directly to the street.

‘I’ve got it,’ she says, touching the padlock that has been snapped open with bolt cutters. ‘Look. Whoever it is that’s been sleeping in the house has been getting in through this gate, across the garden, up on to that concrete thing over there’ – she leads them back into the garden – ‘up on to the garden wall, up the drainpipe on to that platform, see, up there, then up there on to the ledge, and then on to the roof and to the ladder. We just need to work out where that ladder goes.’

She looks at Miller. He looks back at her. ‘I’m not very agile,’ he says.

She looks at Dido, who puffs out her cheeks and says, ‘Oh, come on.’

They head back into the house and back up to the attic rooms. And there it is, a small wooden trapdoor in the ceiling in the hallway. Miller puts Libby on his shoulders and she pushes at it.

‘What can you see?’

‘A dusty tunnel. And another door. Push me up higher.’

Miller grunts and gives her another boost. She clings on to a wooden slat and pulls herself up. The heat is intense up here, and she can feel her clothes sticking to her body with sweat. She crawls along the tunnel and pushes the next wooden trapdoor and is immediately hit by full, glorious sunshine. She’s on a flat roof, where there are some dead plants in pots and two plastic chairs.

She puts her hands on her hips and surveys the view from up here: in front is the sun-baked greenery of Embankment Gardens, beyond that the dark belt of the river. Behind her she can see the grid of narrow streets that stretches between here and the King’s Road; a beer garden filled with drinkers, a patchwork of back gardens and parked cars.

‘What can you see?’ she hears Dido bellow from below.

‘I can see everything,’ she says, ‘absolutely everything.’

25

Marco looks at Lucy through narrowed eyes. ‘Why can’t we come?’ he says. ‘I don’t understand.’

Lucy sighs, adjusts her eyeliner in the small hand mirror she’s using and says, ‘Just because, OK? He’s done me a huge favour and he’s asked me to come alone and so I’m going alone.’

‘But what if he hurts you?’

Lucy stops herself flinching. ‘He’s not going to hurt me, OK? We had a very twisted marriage but we’re not in that marriage any more. Things move on. People change.’

She can’t look at her son while she lies to him. He would see the fear in her eyes. He would know what she was about to do. And he would have no idea why she was about to do it because he had no idea about her childhood, about what she’d run away from twenty-four years ago.

‘You need a code,’ says Marco authoritatively. ‘I’ll call you and if you’re scared you just say, How’s Fitz? OK?’

She nods and smiles. ‘OK,’ she says. She pulls him to her and kisses him behind his ear. He lets her.

Stella and Marco stand in the kitchen and watch her leave a few minutes later.

‘You look pretty, Mama,’ says Stella.

Lucy’s stomach sinks. ‘Thank you, baby,’ she says. ‘I’ll be back at about four. And I will have passports and we can start planning our trip to London.’ She smiles broadly, showing all her teeth. Stella hugs her leg. Lucy detaches her after a moment and leaves the building without turning back.

Fitz’s shit is still there. It has twice as many bluebottles on it. She finds it strangely reassuring.

Michael opens the door; he has sunglasses on his head and is wearing loose shorts and a bright white T-shirt. He takes her bag of groceries from her, the tomatoes and bread and anchovies she picked up on the way over, and he swoops in to kiss her on both cheeks. Lucy can smell beer on his breath.

‘Don’t you look pretty?’ he says. ‘Wow. Come in, come in.’

She follows him into the kitchen. Two steaks sit on paper on the counter, a bottle of wine sits in a silver wine bucket. He’s listening to Ed Sheeran on the Sonos sound system and seems to be in very high spirits.

‘Let me get you a drink,’ he says. ‘What would you like? G & T? Bloody Mary? Wine? Beer?’

‘I’ll have a beer,’ she says, ‘thank you.’

He passes her a Peroni and she takes a sip. She should have had a big breakfast, she realises, feeling the first mouthful already heading straight to her head.

‘Cheers,’ he says, holding his bottle to hers.

‘Cheers,’ she echoes. There is a bowl of his favourite ridged crisps on the counter and she takes a large handful. She needs to be sober enough to stay in control but drunk enough to go through with what she came here to do.

‘So,’ she says, finding a chopping board in one of the drawers and a knife in another, taking the tomatoes out of the shopping bag. ‘How’s the writing going?’

‘God, do not ask,’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘It has not been a productive week, let’s put it that way.’

‘I guess that’s how it goes, isn’t it? It’s a psychological thing.’

‘Hm,’ he says, passing her a serving dish. ‘On the one hand. On the other hand, all the best writers just get on with it. It’s like deciding not to go for a jog because it’s raining. It’s just an excuse. So, I must try harder.’ He smiles at her and for a moment he seems almost humble, almost real, and for a moment she thinks maybe today won’t pan out how she thought it would pan out, that maybe they will simply have lunch and talk and then he will give her the passports and let her go with nothing more than a hug on his doorstep.

‘Fair enough,’ she says, feeling Michael’s hyper-sharpened knife sliding through the soft tomatoes like they are butter. ‘I suppose it’s just a job, like any other. You have to show up and get it done.’

‘Exactly,’ he says, ‘exactly.’ He downs the second half of his beer and drops the empty bottle in the recycling bin. He pulls another from the fridge and then holds one out to Lucy. She shakes her head and shows him her bottle, still nearly full.

‘Drink up,’ he says. ‘I have a beautiful Sancerre chilling here for you, your favourite.’

‘Sorry,’ she says, bringing the bottle back to her lips. ‘I’ve been on the wagon for quite a long time.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Not deliberately,’ she replies. ‘Just haven’t had the money.’

‘Well, let’s call this Operation Get Lucy off the Wagon, shall we? Come on. Drink up.’

And there it is, that edge, so close to friendly, yet just a degree towards aggression. Not a light-hearted request, but a command. She smiles and downs half the bottle.

He watches her intently. ‘Good girl,’ he says, ‘good girl. And the rest.’

She smiles grimly and necks the rest, almost choking on it as it goes down too fast.

He beams at her, shark-like, and says, ‘Oh, good girl. Good girl.’

He takes the empty bottle from her and then turns to pull two wine glasses from a cupboard. ‘Shall we?’ he says, gesturing towards the door into the garden.

‘Let me just finish this.’ She indicates the tomatoes still only half chopped.

‘Finish that later,’ he instructs. ‘Let’s have a drink first.’

She follows him out to the patio, holding the bowl of crisps and her handbag.

He pours two large glasses of wine and pushes one across the table towards her. They toast each other again and then he pinions her with his eyes. ‘So, Lucy Lou, tell me, tell me everything. What have you been doing for the past ten years?’

‘Ha!’ she says shrilly. ‘Where on earth do you want me to start?’

‘How about you start with the man who gave you your daughter?’

Lucy’s stomach flips. She’d known from the moment Michael set his eyes upon Stella that he would have been thinking about her having sex with another man.

‘Oh, really,’ she says, ‘not much to tell. It was a disaster. But I got Stella out of it. So, you know.’

He leans towards her, fixes her with his hazel eyes. He is smiling but it doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I really don’t know. Who was he? Where did you meet him?’

She thinks of the passports sitting somewhere in this house. She cannot afford to make him angry. She cannot tell him that Stella’s father was the love of her life, the most beautiful man she’d ever set eyes on, that he was an exquisite pianist whose music brought her to tears, that he’d broken her heart and that she was still carrying the shattered pieces of it around in her pockets even now, three years since she’d last seen him.

‘He was an arsehole,’ she says. Then she pauses and takes a large sip of wine. ‘Just a pretty boy, a criminal, with nothing between his ears. I felt sorry for him. He didn’t deserve me, and he certainly didn’t deserve Stella.’ She speaks the words with conviction, because while she looks Michael directly in the eye, little does he know that she is describing him.

This description seems to sate Michael for a moment. His smile softens and he looks real again.

‘Where is he now, this idiot?’

‘He did a runner. Went back to Algeria. Broke his mother’s heart. His mother blames me.’ She shrugs. ‘But really, he was always going to disappoint her. He was always going to disappoint everyone. He was just one of those guys.’