‘I’ll see you later, yes, Jake?’

Jake lifted a hand without looking back.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘So now I feel a tiny bit better.’

Sam gave the slightest shake of his head. He watched his son go, as if, even now, he couldn’t bear to just leave him. ‘Some days he feels it harder than others.’ And then he turned to me. ‘You want to grab a coffee or something, Louisa? Just so I don’t have to feel like the world’s biggest loser? It is Louisa, right?’

I thought of what Jake had said in that evening’s session. On Friday Dad brought home this psycho blonde called Mags who is obsessed with him. When he was in the shower she kept asking me if he talked about her when she wasn’t there.

The compulsive shagger. But he was nice enough, and he had helped put me back together in the ambulance, and the alternative was another night at home wondering what had been going on in Lily Houghton-Miller’s head. ‘If we can talk about anything but teenagers.’

‘Can we talk about your outfit?’

I looked down at my green Lurex skirt and my Irish dancing shoes. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘It was worth a try,’ he said, and climbed onto his motorbike.

We sat outside a near-empty bar a short distance from my flat. He drank black coffee, and I had fruit juice.

I had time to study him surreptitiously now that I wasn’t dodging cars in a car park or lying strapped to a hospital gurney. His nose held a tell-tale ridge, and his eyes crinkled in a way that suggested there was almost no human behaviour he hadn’t seen and, perhaps, been slightly amused by. He was tall and broad, his features coarser than Will’s somehow, yet he moved with a kind of gentle economy, as if he had absorbed the effort of not damaging things just from his size. He was evidently more comfortable with listening than talking, or perhaps it was just that it was unsettling to be on my own with a man after so much time because I found I was gabbling. I talked about my job at the bar, making him laugh about Richard Percival and the horrors of my outfit, and how strange it had been to live briefly at home again, and my father’s bad jokes, and Granddad and his doughnuts, and my nephew’s unorthodox use of a blue marker pen. But I was conscious as I spoke, as so often these days, of how much I didn’t say: about Will, about the surreal thing that had happened to me the previous evening, about me. With Will I had never had to consider what I said: talking to him was as effortless as breathing. Now I was good at not really saying anything about myself at all.

He just sat, and nodded, watched the traffic go by and sipped his coffee, as if it were perfectly normal for him to be passing the time with a feverishly chatting stranger in a green Lurex mini-skirt.

‘So, how’s the hip?’ he asked, when finally I ground to a halt.

‘Not bad. I’d quite like to stop limping, though.’

‘You’ll get there, if you keep up the physio.’ For a moment, I could hear that voice from the back of the ambulance. Calm, unfazed, reassuring. ‘The other injuries?’

I peered down at myself, as if I could see through what I was wearing. ‘Well, other than the fact that I look like someone’s drawn all over bits of me with a particularly vivid red pen, not bad.’

Sam nodded. ‘You were lucky. That was quite a fall.’

And there it was again. The sick lurch in my stomach. The air beneath my feet. You never know what will happen when you fall from a great height. ‘I wasn’t trying to –’

‘You said.’

‘But I’m not sure anyone believes me.’

We exchanged an awkward smile and for a minute I wondered if he didn’t either.

‘So … do you pick up many people who fall off the tops of buildings?’

He shook his head, gazed out across the road. ‘I just pick up the pieces. I’m glad that, in your case, the pieces fitted back together.’

We sat in silence for a while longer. I kept thinking about things I should say, but I was so out of practice at being alone with a man – while sober at least – that I kept losing my nerve, my mouth opening and closing like that of a goldfish.

‘So you want to tell me about the teenager?’ Sam said.

It was a relief to explain it to someone. I told him about the late-night knock at the door, and our bizarre meeting and what I had found on Facebook, and the way she had run away before I’d had a chance to work out what on earth to do.

‘Whoa,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘That’s …’ He gave a little shake of his head. ‘You think she is who she says she is?’

‘She does look a bit like him. But I don’t honestly know. Am I looking for signs? Am I seeing what I want to see? It’s possible. I spend half my time thinking how amazing that there’s something of him left behind, and the other half wondering if I’m being a complete sucker. And then there’s this whole extra layer of stuff in the middle – like if this is his daughter then how is it fair that he never even got to meet her? And how are his parents supposed to cope with it? And what if meeting her would actually have changed his mind? What if that would have been the thing that convinced him …’ My voice tailed away.

Sam leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed. ‘And this man would be the reason you’re attending the group.’

‘Yes.’