They never found that girl who went missing from that café in Putney. There was a follow-up article asking whether her disappearance was linked to that of another girl who had gone missing ages ago and had never been found either. She had the same profile: shy, pretty, but not an overwhelming beauty – a nice girl. I wonder, do we bring our girls up to be too nice? Are their manners putting them in danger?

It’s the photographs that break my heart.

I wonder if they’ll find those girls now, once they discover the body. It’s possible he’s behind them too. They’ll be dead, of course. They might even be buried in the garden. My God, just the thought makes me feel sick. One day you’ll understand how that feels. Once you’re a mother, you’ll watch the news and there’ll be that kid, the kid who’s gone missing or who has been found dead, and you’ll feel it. You’ll feel it, Rosie, and you’ll feel the fragility of this life like a blown eggshell in your hands. Because that child is yours and mine, that child belongs to all mothers everywhere, and when you put your baby to bed that night, you’ll take her in your arms and you will not want to let go. You will never want to let go.

When you went for your cosy coffee with Emily, shall I tell you what I felt most of all? Jealous. I’m ashamed to admit it now, but I could see how well you and she got on. You came to life around her. You were lighter, your smile readier, your very bones looser. She knew how to tease you, how to take you seriously, how to be your friend without smothering you. I wanted to be your friend too, but that’s not what I am, my love. I’m your mum, and there’s no dad on the scene so I’m the A, the B, the C and the D. It’s down to me to do all the jobs, the shitty ones as well as the lovely stuff like seeing you up there on stage. By shitty, I don’t mean laundry and shopping and all that, although yes, there’s that too. I mean like nagging you about homework, tidying your room, filling the dishwasher; worrying to death when you’re out later than you said you would be; freaking when I realise you’ve forgotten to take your phone with you yet again and I have no way of getting hold of you. I mean having to endure a love for you so strong, so utterly consuming, that some days it feels like terror.

You were still out with Emily when Bridget got home. Unusually for her, your auntie looked strained. Her eyes were rimmed in red, as if she’d been crying. But Auntie Bridget never cries, does she?

‘Are you OK?’ I said.

‘Hay fever,’ she replied. ‘Where’s Rosie?’

She had put the kettle on and was rooting around in the biscuit jar. She took out a digestive and ate half in one bite, then opened the fridge and pulled out an onion, a carrot and some bendy celery.

‘She’s gone for a cup of tea with Emily. Sit down, Bridge. I’ll make dinner.’

‘It’s OK, I’ll do it,’ she said. ‘So she’s meeting her agent, eh? Meryl Streep watch out.’

I told her about how I’d freaked out, how you’d sassed me. Bridget made us both tea and listened without interrupting. She left her mug on the countertop, where she began peeling the onion.

‘Do you think I’m mad?’ I asked.

‘No madder than anyone else.’ She turned from her task, her eyes even redder now, on account of the onion, and reached for her third digestive biscuit.

‘You’ll spoil your dinner.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’ She grinned, crumbs on her teeth, before ramming the rest of it in with a rebellious flourish.

‘Your eyes look sore,’ I said. ‘Is it definitely hay fever?’

She sniffed and turned back to her task. ‘Probably. Something to add to the post-menopausal cornucopia of delights alongside stiff joints and back fat, I suppose.’

We both laughed.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said after a moment. ‘Teenagers. They’re twats, aren’t they? Sure I read that in Good Parenting.’

I don’t need to tell you she was only joking. I smiled and sipped my tea. I don’t take sugar, but Bridge always puts half a teaspoon in because she knows I prefer it that way. It was like nectar, as they say, and I wondered why I bothered trying to drink it without – why any of us bother with these sticks we use to beat ourselves.

‘What’ve you been up to?’ I asked her.

‘Website job up in East Sheen, then a mate of his in Strawberry Hill with a blocked iPhone. Called in on Helen on the way home.’ Somehow she’d already got the frying pan on the gas, and the smell of fresh garlic in olive oil filled the kitchen.

‘How’s lovely Helen?’

‘Good. She’s off to LA, remember? Tonight, in fact.’ Her back straightened a moment before she bent again to her task. I heard the chop-chop of the knife on the board. ‘That big script I told you about, jammy bugger.’

‘The romantic comedy?’

‘The very one. Musical, would you believe? Did I tell you that? She said she wouldn’t have got it, but one of the commissioning bods had seen that indie she did last year.’

‘How long will she be there?’

‘Six months. She’ll be even more loaded when she gets back.’

‘Wow.’

‘Like you say.’ Bridget slid the onions hissing into the oil and turned down the gas. She reached for a piece of kitchen roll, pressed it to her eyes.

‘Bridge?’ I said. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Course,’ she said and gave a loud sniff. ‘Bloody onions.’