I hardly slept that night. The bed seemed to shift and pitch. Nothing made sense. I’d made terrible mistakes, I saw that now, but I was left adrift, confused about all that had happened and what to believe. All I could think was that Geoff had lied to Matt, fed him nonsense about Ella. I longed to see Matt, to feel him hold me and comfort me and talk all this through with me, so we could work out the truth together.

On Monday, I took you to nursery and then drove around, not sure where I was going. The day stretched ahead without purpose. When I tried to call Matt, his phone went to voicemail. He’d been on late shift the day before but he should be home by now, pottering and having a shower before he made up some sleep.

I pulled into a garage, filled up with petrol and bought a coffee. Afterwards, I parked at the edge of the forecourt, sipping it and trying to decide what to do.

My hands shook. All I wanted was to be with Matt, to be held so tightly that I felt safe from all this, from Ella’s grief and your strange stories and my own sense of loneliness. I imagined him in his tiny flat, close to the Tube station, and had a longing to be there with him, to talk, to crawl into bed and hide away together. I finished my coffee and punched the name of the Tube station into the satnav.

He always made fun of his little flat in central London, about what a postage stamp it was and the fact that two of us would have trouble squeezing inside at the same time. I didn’t care. He’d turned up on my doorstep plenty of times without warning. I didn’t see why I couldn’t do the same.

I drove in to the city centre, guided by the satnav, and finally found the entrance to the Tube and the private, leafy square just across from it. It looked different in daylight. The restaurant where we’d first met for dinner was closed and silent. It all seemed a long time ago. A very different time.

I turned into the square. The pavements here were almost deserted. Many of the Georgian houses had brass plates on the doors, suggesting corporate offices or embassies. It was a warm day and I lowered the window as I crawled along, looking for somewhere to park. The outside air smelt of blossom and mown grass.

I finally found a metered space for the car and set off on foot towards the narrow side street he’d pointed out to me that night. I wasn’t sure how I’d find the right block but in fact, there was only one contender, a grand Victorian mansion block, hidden just off a street crammed with bistros, sandwich shops and offices. The entrance was set in a horseshoe round an ornamental garden and a small, spouting fountain with a stone bowl.

I stood by the water and ran my eyes across the array of flats in the three-storey block. Flat number twenty-two, he’d said. Easy to remember because it was the same as your birthday. The windows were still and dark. Many were concealed by curtains or blinds. I felt a sudden chill, wondering where Matt was and how he’d react when I appeared at his door.

The stone doorway was secured by a glass door. I put my face to it and cupped my hands until I could make out, through the reflection, a dimly lit lobby. A bank of metal postal boxes covered a side wall, most of them leaking flyers. In the centre, there was a polished wooden table with a large display of dried flowers. Ahead, up several carpeted steps, the metal shine of two lifts. The whole block had a hushed, opulent look.

I tried to imagine Matt, in his expensive coat, crossing the lobby and smiled to myself. I had a sudden sense of him lying close to me, in fresh cotton sheets in a modern apartment, all glass and chrome. He would stumble to the door in a dressing gown, bed-warm and drowsy, his face prickly with overnight stubble and open his arms to me to go inside and join him.

One of the lift doors swished open and a young man stepped out. A city type in a dark suit, a mac in the crook of his arm. The young man paused to check his mailbox, then held open the door for me to go inside.

I crossed to the lifts, feeling like an intruder. The second-floor landing had the same deep pile carpet as the lobby. I counted down the brass numbers on the doors. The landing was empty. All the doors looked identical.

I lifted the brass knocker on number twenty-two. The clatter made me jump. My pulse beat in my ears as I waited, listening. I had the same anxious flutter I once felt as a teenager when I hung round the school stairwell, hoping to catch sight of Jimmy Brent and his friends. Silence.

Behind me, the lift purred as it slid down its shaft.

A key rattled in a neighbouring door, then, again, silence. I got out my phone, dialled Matt’s number and stood close to the door in the hope of hearing it ring inside. Nothing. It clicked straight to voicemail.

I lifted the knocker, banged it again, a little harder. Waited. I was deflated, embarrassed. Perhaps he was still at work.

I was turning away when the door suddenly opened, just a matter of inches, held in place by a metal safety chain. A woman peered through the narrow gap, her eyes suspicious. She was in late middle age, her cheeks floury with powder, her lips an unfashionable red.

‘Hello.’ I straightened up, smiled. ‘I’ve come to see Matt. I’m Jennifer.’

‘No man. Please.’ She had a strong foreign accent and made to shut the door in my face. I stopped it with my foot, wondering if she’d understood.

‘Doctor Aster? He works at Queen Mary’s Hospital.’

She shook her head. ‘No hospital.’

I tried to peer past her into the flat. I’d envisaged a stark modern interior, all black and grey and cream with few home comforts. My stereotypical idea of a bachelor’s pad. This hallway was hectic with polished wooden furniture and knick-knacks. A large ceramic pot against the wall bristled with walking sticks and umbrellas. The wall above was crammed with three rows of framed pictures of all sizes, watercolours and photographs competing for space. A walking frame stood, partially folded, underneath.

‘Please—’ I began.

‘No. You please.’ The woman kicked away my foot with unexpected force and the door slammed. I stood for a moment, stunned, my heart thumping.

I stood, staring at the closed door in disbelief. I was certain he’d said flat twenty-two, the same as the door in front of me. Was I in the wrong block? Or the wrong street? I didn’t see how I could be.

I was just reaching home when my phone rang and I stopped at the side of the road.

Matt’s voice was breathy. ‘Are you OK?’

I shrugged, looking out at the traffic. ‘Well, not really.’

‘I’m so sorry. Only just got your messages. Had my phone switched off. Been a night and a half.’

He sounded tired. I felt a bit better, just hearing his voice.

‘Where are you?’ I wondered for a moment about turning round and driving back. I wanted so much to see him, to be held.

‘Still at the hospital. Won’t bore you but it’s been non-stop. Going to grab a shower and then sleep here.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Matt, is someone staying in your flat?’

A couple of teenage boys trundled past on skateboards, shouting to each other. Their wheels drummed on the cobbles, drowning out his reply.

‘Didn’t hear you.’ He sounded distant, as if he’d moved away from the phone. ‘In the flat? Hope not. Unless I’ve got squatters. Why?’

I opened my mouth to say more, then closed it again.

‘Has something happened?’ He sounded concerned.

I tried to picture him in the hospital accommodation block, crawling exhausted into bed in some anonymous bedroom on a shabby corridor.

‘Yes. I mean—’ I didn’t know where to start. ‘I really miss you.’

‘I miss you too. Sorry. I’d come over but—’ A crackle on the line. ‘Love you.’

I hesitated. ‘You too.’

---

The house was empty with you at nursery. I went into your room and sat in the armchair with your bear in my arms, looking at your bed, trying to calm myself. Downstairs, I put the kettle on and stood against the kitchen counter with a cup of tea I didn’t really want, looking out at the sunlight falling in shafts across the overgrown yard.

My legs juddered. I couldn’t keep still. I could feel my father there with me, quietly invisible in the background as he always liked to be. And Catherine too, a baby with ginger hair who never had the chance to grow. I paced up and down the kitchen, my hands trembling on my cup. I thought about Ella and the love in her face as she looked down at her little girl.

And I thought of Matt. Of the knowing look in his eyes as he leaned forward to me across that gritty table and told me what he’d discovered about Ella Hicks and his suspicions about her dead child. Of his vagueness that night in the taxi when I asked him what Ella said to him in the club.

You deserve each other, she had told me.

The parcel, now neatly addressed to Matt’s daughter, lay there on the side. I grabbed it, reached again for my coat and car keys and headed for the door.