As I head back inside the house, I feel an overwhelming sense of loneliness. A whole, empty day stretching out in front of me with no company or conversation other than baby talk. I don’t think I can do it. I close the front door behind me and bite my lip. Calling friends or family to stave off my loneliness feels like such a cop out. Like I’m giving in. Like I can’t cope. I never used to feel like this. I used to relish my own company and enjoy getting together with other people. Now, I loathe my own company and feel guilty when I call on others. What’s all that about?

This is ridiculous. I march into the kitchen, strap Daisy into her high chair and unplug my mobile phone from its charger. I scroll through my contacts and press the call button. It rings twice.

‘Kirstie, darling! How are you?’

‘Hi, Mum.’ My voice wobbles and I sniff back an impending flow of tears.

‘Dad and I were getting worried; we haven’t heard from you in a while. Everything okay, love?’

‘I wondered if you were busy today. Do you fancy coming over for lunch?’ I picture the warm comforting presence of my parents and already feel my spirits rising.

‘Today?’ There’s a pause.

‘Only if you’re not too busy,’ I add, steeling myself for the fact that they might be.

‘Oh, Kirstie, I would have loved to, but your dad and I have invited Derek and Marjory over for a late lunch. You know Derek, from Dad’s old office. Actually, no, I don’t think you’ve met them. Anyway, it’s been booked for a while so I can’t really cancel. We could pop over to yours later, though. Probably around seven-ish. Sorry that’s quite late, not sure what time they’ll leave. Marjory is a terrible talker. Sometimes I swear I wouldn’t even have to be in the room, she can carry on an hour-long conversation on her own.’

‘That’s okay, Mum. Don’t worry.’ I bite back tears of disappointment. ‘You have a lovely lunch. Seven’s a bit too late. It’s Daisy’s bath and bed time and Dom will be coming home around then. But we’ll do it another day.’

‘Absolutely, darling. Give me a ring when you’re next free. I’d better go – the house is a bit of a mess and it’ll take me all morning to prepare lunch. I’m doing that Moroccan recipe of Nigella’s that Dom liked that time, do you rememb—’

‘Okay, Mum, sounds great, but you’re busy, I’ll let you go.’ I press the end call button, feeling awful that I’ve just cut my mother off, but I’ve actually started crying now, and I didn’t want her to hear the tears or she would have asked me what’s wrong and it would turn into a whole thing. And I couldn’t cope with that.

I need to snap out of this mood. Since when do I cry because my mum can’t meet up with me? Not since I was about ten years old.

I suddenly realise that today is the first day of the school term. If I wasn’t on maternity leave, I’d be returning to work this morning, seeing my work colleagues, getting to know a new intake of eleven and twelve year olds. As much as I adore being with Daisy, I also miss the bustle of school, the smell of the art studio – that familiar chalky scent of clay, turpentine and paint. Sure, it can be frustrating and exhausting, but it’s also fun and rewarding. I love my students, and have a good relationship with most of the teachers.

A couple of them messaged me last week to see how I was doing and to ask me to bring Daisy into school to say hello. I hadn’t really thought much about it, but right now I feel a sudden, desperate urge to get away from the house, to leave Magnolia Close and become part of the outside world for a while. I think I might go in today. I know the first day of term isn’t an ideal time to go, but I’m sure it’ll be fine. If I get dressed now I can be there by break time – have coffee and cakes with everyone and show off my beautiful little girl. It will give me a few hours to forget my anxieties. Put aside all thoughts of loneliness, intruders, basements and possible redundancies. The darkness lifts a little as I get ready.

---

St George’s is a large comprehensive school set on the edge of town. Originally an unexciting brick building, it was given a facelift a few years ago with huge glass panels, light wooden cladding, and strips of bright colour. Everyone declared the makeover to be a success. Aside from the look of the place, it’s a good school, and I like to think that most of our pupils are happy here.

I pull up in the visitors’ car park, with butterflies at the thought of seeing everyone again. I haven’t been here since before February half term when my maternity leave kicked in. Normally when I arrive in the morning the car park is gridlocked and there are children everywhere. Today the place is quiet, or as quiet as any school can be when there are fifteen hundred pupils inside. I check my watch – a quarter of an hour until the bell goes for break. I spend a couple of minutes getting Daisy out of the Golf and then we make our way over to reception.

The school receptionist, Moira, is on the desk as usual and she fusses over Daisy while I sign in. She waves me inside the main building, but not before I give her one of the cupcakes I picked up from my favourite bakery on the way here.

I walk down the silent corridor, my shoes click-clacking on the polished concrete floor. Daisy’s eyes are wide, drawn this way and that, fascinated by the paintings on the wall, bewildered by the unfamiliar echoing brightness. My feet take me automatically to the staff room. I’m not expecting anyone to be in there yet, but I smile when I see who’s sitting at a table at the far end of the room. It’s my head of department, Tim Barnes. He’s writing in his planner, a look of fierce concentration on his face.

‘What are you doing skulking in here, Mr Barnes?’ I say in my most serious voice.

He looks up with a frown before his face melts into a smile. ‘Kirstie! And… is this the new sprog?’ His familiar Scottish lilt warms my heart.

‘No! Never call her that. She’s my angel is what she is.’ I give him a mock glare.

He laughs. ‘She’s a bonny wee thing, I’ll give you that.’ He pushes his reading glasses up onto his head, gets to his feet and makes his way over to us. Tim looks like the stereotypical image everyone has of a school teacher – brown corduroy trousers, tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, greying hair, sardonic expression. But he once told me that his partner, Sebastian, bought him a set of ‘teacher-ish’ clothes as an ironic present when he first qualified. Tim thought it was hilarious and wore them on his first day as a dare. He ended up liking them so much, he thought it would be fun to keep up the teacherly image.

‘So this is Daisy,’ he says, putting a finger under her chin and staring at her in fascination.

‘You remembered her name, then.’

‘Well, if I can remember the names of over a thousand teenagers, I think I can remember the name of my favourite person’s first born.’

‘Aw, I’m your favourite person?’

‘You might be.’ He winks. ‘She looks just like you.’

‘D’you think so?’

‘She’s your mini-me.’

I grin like an idiot. ‘Everyone else thinks she looks like Dominic, so I’m happy she got a few of my genes, too.’

‘Sorry we haven’t been over to see you yet,’ Tim says.

‘No problem. You and Seb should definitely come over for dinner one evening.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘But it’ll probably be a takeaway,’ I add. ‘My multi-tasking skills seem to have deserted me since having this one. I can’t cope with cooking anything more complicated than ready-made pasta or jacket potatoes.’ This was a good idea. I’m already beginning to feel like my old self again. The funny, smart woman I’ve always been. Not the paranoid, anxious, wretched creature I’ve been impersonating for the past week. Where has the real me been hiding?

I spend the next fifteen minutes showing Daisy off to all my colleagues. She’s handed around like a parcel, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She’ll probably be exhausted for the rest of the day. So will I. I’ve got out of the habit of talking this much.

Tim clears his throat and nudges me in the ribs with his elbow as Stephen Parkfield comes into the staff room. Like the subjects of an emperor, we all cower a little under Parkfield’s all-encompassing gaze, his tall frame taking up more than just physical space.

‘Kirstie,’ Parkfield says, smoothing down his tie. ‘Nice to see you here with, ah, your little one.’

He’s obviously forgotten her name. I give him an awkward smile. ‘Just brought Daisy in to say hello to everyone. I won’t stay long.’

‘Very good, very good.’ His eyes sweep the room again, like he’s bored of us already.

‘Would you like a cupcake?’ I proffer the cardboard box.

He peers in the carton at the remaining cakes. ‘Yes, thank you. I’ll take it into my office.’ He chooses a chocolate one and makes a swift exit. I know he’s not happy about the disruption I’ve caused by bringing my daughter in. He probably wanted to give his usual back-to-school staff room pep talk, but I’ve scuppered his plan.

I scan the room and see that Daisy is currently being cooed over by Madame Cambron, the head of languages, and Danielle, the drama teacher. Tim murmurs something in my ear.

‘Hmm?’

‘I said, you know this is Parkfield’s last term here?’

‘Really?’ I can’t hide my pleasure at the news. ‘I was going to ask you about that actually. His house has just sold so I did wonder if he was leaving.’

‘No more living next door to the boss.’

‘I know, right.’ I grin.

‘Caroline’s taking over until they can find a replacement.’ Caroline is the deputy head, a far more approachable member of staff than our present leader.

‘Where’s he going?’ I ask, my eyes trying to ascertain Daisy’s whereabouts.

‘Not sure,’ Tim replies. ‘The latest rumour is he’s got a job at a school in Yorkshire, but no one’s actually asked him outright, and he hasn’t volunteered the information.’

My mind isn’t on the conversation any more, I’ve lost sight of Daisy. Madame Cambron is pouring herself a cup of tea, and Danielle is rummaging around in her handbag. Neither of them has her. A tight, panicky sensation begins to claw at my throat.

‘Are you okay?’ Tim asks. ‘You’ve gone a bit pale.’

‘Can you see Daisy anywhere?’ My vision has begun to blur and I hear the wobble in my voice, betraying my fears. I can’t overreact. Not after what happened yesterday. I force myself to take a breath and try not to panic. But it’s not working. I feel as though I’m being sucked into a deep, dark tunnel.

Tim narrows his eyes at me. ‘Kirstie? Are you okay?’ he repeats.

‘I can’t see my daughter anywhere.’ I stumble away from him and begin weaving my way through the crowded staff room, shouldering my way past my oblivious colleagues, who are happily eating cake and laughing, with no idea of my increasing fear. I’m such an idiot. How could I have let her out of my sight for a second?

‘Kirstie,’ Tim calls out from behind me.

But I ignore him. I have to find Daisy. Anyone could have snuck in here and taken her. They could have followed me all the way from my house, waiting for my back to turn for a moment before snatching her away. After yesterday’s scare, I should have been more careful. Everyone’s faces blur and I have to stop myself from yelling at all of them to stop what they’re doing and help me find my child.

‘Kirstie!’ Tim grabs my shoulder, but I shrug him off. I’m losing it. My breaths are shallow gasps and sweat is forming in my armpits, on my top lip, sliding down my back and breastbone. I’m going to scream or faint any minute.