The next day, I came back from nursery to find a card on the mat. Hand-delivered. Firm, ragged handwriting in black ink. I stood there in my coat, looking at the envelope, reluctant to open it and be disappointed. It could be anything.

I carried it through to the kitchen and put it on the counter while I unpacked the shopping, put the kettle on. I forced myself to wait until I’d made a cup of tea and settled at the kitchen table before I opened it. There was a plain, cream-coloured card inside. Thick card. And just a few simple lines scrawled across the centre.

‘Hi Jenny, I wondered if you were free for dinner one evening? Give me a call. Matt.’ His mobile phone number was written underneath, just to make quite sure I had it. I sat very still and listened to the blood in my ears, to my heart. I was acting like a schoolgirl. All needy and excited. Just for a moment, I pretended to myself that I might not call him. I looked out at the messy kitchen, at the toys littered across the sitting room floor, waiting to be tidied away. I’d thought it was just you and me from now on. Just silence in the evenings and early nights. Maybe that was best, after all.

I remembered the warmth of his chest when I pressed myself suddenly against him, there at the hospital. His gentleness and kindness. The wounded look on his face when he talked about his daughter, Katy, and his ex-wife. My heart raced. Because I knew that I would say yes, that we would have dinner and that perhaps, just perhaps, it might lead somewhere.

I rushed to get my phone.

---

That evening, I was settling you down in bed after our story, arranging kitty cat and puppy and rabbit and bear in a little nest for you, the way my father did for me when I was your age, when you said:

‘Mummy, are you going to die?’

I reached out and pulled you towards me, kissing your mess of soft, sweet-smelling hair. ‘Everyone has to die someday, my love. But I’m planning to stay around for a very long time.’

Your forehead tightened. ‘I don’t want you to die.’

I hesitated. I didn’t want to die either. Death never seemed real until it nearly took you away from me. Now it did. And when it came, however old I was, I knew I wouldn’t want to leave you. I tried to remember what my own mother used to say when I was a child.

‘By the time I die, you’ll be grown-up, Gracie. You’ll be married. You’ll probably have your own children.’

Your lips quivered. ‘But I don’t want you to die.’

‘Well, when people get very old, they get tired and they just want to go to sleep and rest. That’s what happens. Dying is just like a very long sleep.’

You bowed your head and I couldn’t see your face. After a few moments, you quietly asked, ‘Was that lady very old?’

‘Which lady?’

‘The lady in the car. She died, didn’t she, Mummy?’

I sighed. ‘Yes, my love. I’m afraid she did. And you’re right, she wasn’t very old.’

You looked confused. ‘So why did she die?’

‘I don’t know, my love. There are some things even mummies don’t know. It’s just what happened. It was very, very unusual.’ I bent down and stroked your cheek with my finger. ‘Now cuddle up to that bear and go to sleep.’

When you finally settled, I felt weighed down by an overwhelming exhaustion. I didn’t have the energy to cook myself something to eat. I just sank into an armchair and sat alone in the quiet of the sitting room.

Outside, the rain had become heavy. Passing cars slushed on the wet road. Their headlights threw shifting shadows across the far wall. I imagined the noises rising in the high street, just a few minutes’ walk away. They were the sounds of the old life before you came along, of bars and restaurants, cinemas and theatre, youngsters in huddles in doorways and bursts of raucous chat as heavy doors opened and closed.

During the day, I didn’t let myself stop and think very much. You kept me moving. You lived so lightly, so intensely in the present. Now, without you here, the sitting room seemed dull and heavy. I sat very still, listening to the clock ticking on the mantelpiece, the low hum of the lights and the muffled splashes of the world outside.

You nearly died, my love. I nearly lost you. And she, that woman who took your father from us, she nearly took you too – shouting on the phone when she should have been watching the road. And no one seemed to realise, to blame her, except me. My hands came to my face and I rocked, hurting, trying to hold myself together.

Finally, restless, I got to my feet and stood at the mantelpiece, looking at the items there as if they belonged to a stranger. A framed photograph of you and me, one of the few Richard had taken. You were just a few weeks old, your eyes tightly closed. I looked haggard with tiredness but happy, really happy. I picked it up and studied it. It seemed a long time ago.

Further along, a pile of cards and postcards and old photos, stuffed behind the clock. I pulled them out and looked them over. A few postcards from last summer from friends in Cannes and Dubai, a photo-card from Disneyland of a friend’s child hugging Mickey Mouse, a Mother’s Day card you’d made at nursery, your green crayon scribbled inside over an adult’s steady writing: I love you, Mummy, from Gracie.

I sat in the chair with your card in my hand, thinking about you. Why were you so determined you’d flown down a tunnel of light and seen a man? Was it your brain playing tricks on you while you were in the coma? But why call him an angel? We never went to church, you and I. We never talked about God or Heaven and the only angels in your life so far had been the ones wearing wire-framed wings in the Christmas play and the plastic one on top of the tree. It made no sense. I looked at the card in my hands, traced the scribble with my eyes.

I shook my head. You’d described the accident so vividly. All that detail about the neck brace and the man calling you petal and Richard running to meet you at the hospital. And how had you known about Minnie Mouse and that ear peeling off the wall? Did someone see me do that?

I looked through to the empty, shadowy kitchen, to the table, outlined against the conservatory doors, where you and I liked to sit, side by side, eating cereal and toast. I narrowed my eyes, trying to understand and finding nothing but the quiet of my own loneliness.

Finally, I pulled myself to my feet and went through to the kitchen to get the phone and call Richard. We hadn’t spoken for a while. His manner towards me had changed since those first days after the accident when he’d seemed so solicitous. Now he was back to off-hand, even brusque. Her influence.

‘Jennifer.’ He only called me that when he was annoyed. ‘This isn’t a great time, actually.’

‘Can I just ask you something?’

He tutted. That would be for her benefit. He was making the point that he was the unwilling victim of my phone call, not a collaborator. I could almost see the pained look on his face. He used to do the same with me years ago when his mother phoned just as I was putting our dinner out and I rolled my eyes, gestured to him to hang up, call back later. He never did. He was too polite.

Anyway, it was after eight. Surely they’d eaten by now.

‘It won’t take a minute. It’s important.’

A sigh. ‘What?’

‘What happened when Gracie arrived at the hospital? Do you remember?’

He spluttered. ‘What happened? What do you think? She was unconscious. They rushed her straight to intensive care. I phoned you as soon as I could, as soon as they got her stable.’

Now he sounded defensive.

‘I know. It’s not that.’ I paced up and down the kitchen with the phone. ‘But what exactly happened? I mean. Were you actually there when they lifted her out of the ambulance?’

‘Yes. Right there.’ He reverted to that new tone of voice that had emerged recently in our few conversations, patient and long-suffering, as if he were dealing with a mad woman who might also be dangerous. ‘OK?’

‘Did you shout?’

‘Of course I bloody shouted. What do you think?’ He paused, started again. ‘Yes, I shouted. I don’t know: “Oh my God” probably, and “That’s my daughter”. Something along those lines. OK? Can I go now?’

‘You know how they said that she needed resuscitating?’

He hesitated. ‘Yes…’

‘Who did it? A doctor?’

‘The ambulance guy.’ I could hear him struggling to remember. ‘Honeyman. Chris Honeyman. Looked about twelve. Maybe you didn’t meet him. Anyway, he did CPR and she gave a sort of gulp and by the time we reached the ward, her breathing had settled again.’

‘Where was it?’

He made an elaborate show of calling to Ella, like a ham actor calling offstage. ‘Coming! On my way.’ Then to me: ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’

‘Was it in the lift?’ I raised my voice. ‘Did Honeyballs give CPR in the lift?’

‘Honeyman.’ He sounded cold. ‘It might have been in the sodding lift. Maybe it was in the corridor. What does it matter, Jennifer? It’s past. It’s history. Don’t you get it? I don’t want to talk about it. OK?’

The phone went down. Now he’s feeling guilty, I thought. He always did that. He’d try so hard to be patient and then he’d snap and blow it and feel bad about it for hours. I’ve become his mother, I thought. And Ella has become me. How strange life is.

I put the phone back and opened the fridge to search for something to eat. I had forgotten to ask him if he’d cried. I’d meant to. But the rest of it, the rest checked out.

I found an old yoghurt, a week past its sell-by date, on the bottom shelf. It had separated and I stirred it back to life with a teaspoon, took it through to the sitting room. You must have been conscious. It was the only explanation. At some level, you must have been aware of what was happening.

I settled on the settee, switched on the television and watched, blankly, some programme about a couple looking for their ideal home.

I wanted so much to believe you. To believe you went flying off to meet your angel and found him peaceful and smiling. However irrational, it would be a comfort. I shook my head.

The programme stuttered on. I scraped out the yoghurt pot without tasting it, letting my eyes glaze as I stared, barely seeing, at the television. However much I pushed it away, the thought wouldn’t leave me: what if you were right? You seemed so matter of fact in discussing it, so sure about what you’d seen. What if it were possible, for you, with all your innocence, if not for me? What if, in some way I couldn’t yet fathom, something of us survived death and lived on?

I opened a bottle of wine, sank back into the cushions and let the chatter from the television wash over me. Finally, I found the will to rouse myself and start the weekly ritual of tidying up, sorting out toys and dropping them into plastic tubs and boxes. Next, I started on the pile of junk that always collected on the dining room table.

Underneath the old newspapers lay a crumpled carrier bag. I remembered it at once. It was the one the woman in the café had handed me, with Ella’s phone inside. I went to find a charger and plugged it in, then poured myself another glass of wine and watched the screen flash as it came back to life. I clicked into her text messages and started to scroll through them, looking for Richard’s name. My hands shook as I read her texts to him:

See you in 5.

On my way.

Running late – see you at the restaurant. Love u. x

Somehow the fact they were so boring made it worse. It showed how intimate they were. I recovered and carried on reading, picking through the rest of her messages. I don’t know what I was looking for. Some sign of an affair, perhaps, that I could brandish in Richard’s face. But there was nothing incriminating at all.

I sat in silence for some moments, looking at the screen, thinking about Ella’s life. I had a piece of her right here in my hand and I should have been triumphant but all I felt was emptiness.

I remembered what the woman at the café said about Ella being distracted by an angry phone call just before the crash, clicked out of messages and went to look at the call log. The last call she’d received was at three eighteen in the afternoon, on the day of the accident. I narrowed my eyes. It could fit. That must have been roughly the same time. I bit my lip. It came from an unlisted number: No Caller ID.