‘How has she been since you took her to see the doctor?’ Mum is whispering in case Maisie is skulking around listening in. ‘Do you think we’ve done the right thing, not mentioning the food waste I found?’

‘I honestly don’t know, but there’s no way she’s eating enough, Mum,’ I sigh, sitting down in the comfy seats. ‘If you hadn’t fed her when she got in from school yesterday, I don’t think she’d have had anything all evening, and she used to graze constantly before going to bed.’

‘But I didn’t feed her.’ Mum frowns. ‘She said you’d bought her a McDonald’s on the way home from school.’

‘What? She told me you’d made her a sandwich. You know what my thoughts are on fast food, and it’s nutritious food she’s badly in need of.’

‘I know, I did think that. But I thought you’d been lenient to get her to eat something. You’re in such a mad rush these days, what with work and worrying about that Joanne woman, I thought you might’ve weakened for once, especially since you’ve been so worried about her lack of appetite.’

I shake my head, feeling a shiver all the way down my arms.

‘Maisie,’ I call upstairs later. ‘We have to leave in five or we’re going to be late.’

There’s no response, but I can hear her moving around in her bedroom.

I pick up my handbag and check I have my wallet and phone. I can’t help but contrast her muted reaction to the last time we had one of our cinema and tea outings, just a couple of months ago.

‘Girls only,’ we liked to taunt Shaun when we arranged to go out, usually once a month or so, although it had been less frequent recently.

‘Charming,’ he snorted, playing the game. ‘Everyday sexism, that’s what it is.’

Last time, we saw the latest Disney Pixar offering at the Cornerhouse in Nottingham and then enjoyed tea at an Italian chain restaurant in the same complex.

Maisie had been inordinately excited all week and couldn’t wait to get her performance class out of the way on Saturday morning.

We laughed so much during the film we both got stomach ache. In the restaurant, Maisie predictably ordered her favourite choices: dough balls to start, pepperoni pizza, and finally, the pièce de résistance, ice cream with three toppings and chocolate sprinkles.

I scroll through the photos on my phone now, finding the one that’s seared into my mind. Maisie is sitting with the long silver spoon poised high above the glass sundae dish piled high with ice-cream delight.

A lump presses against my throat and I swallow.

When Maisie begged me to let her miss tonight’s dance class as she had a headache, I used it to my advantage, insisting we go out together. I didn’t buy her headache excuse and felt sure that getting her out of the house and spending time together might just be what we both need.

My finger begins scrolling again and I tap on the snap of the photograph I found in Joanne’s folder, squinting with the effort of trying to work it out. A much younger Piper is there, sat on the knee of a man who has identical bright blue eyes. It’s got to be her father, Joanne’s husband, who tragically died.

But there is a fourth person in the photograph, too. A child who looks to be around Maisie’s age now. The girl is smiling, but unless it’s my imagination, her eyes look sad. Haunted, even.

It could just be a family friend, but I just know something’s not right. I can feel it in my bones.

I hear Maisie’s bedroom door open upstairs, so I put away my phone, slip on my shoes in the hallway and check my watch. Two more minutes and we really need to leave the house.

Maisie appears at the top of the stairs dressed in what’s become her standard outfit of jeans and a baggy, shapeless top.

Her hair looks clean but thinner somehow, and hangs listlessly around her face. I wonder where all the fancy hair slides and bobbles are that she used to love to wear.

‘Looking forward to it?’ I smile, standing back as she sits on the bottom step to put on her trainers.

‘Suppose so,’ she mumbles as she pushes her feet into her shoes without undoing the laces. I guess feet can lose weight, too.

‘I can’t wait to see the film,’ I say. ‘It’s getting great reviews.’

It’s like I’m talking to myself. I pretend I don’t notice her lack of interest and grab the car keys from the hall table.

‘Ready?’

She stands up and walks towards me. All her movements are slow, lethargic. As if she hasn’t got the energy to do anything.

‘How are you feeling now?’ I say carefully. ‘I texted Miss Diane and she was concerned. She sends her love.’

‘It’s just a headache.’ She frowns. ‘I’m not dying.’

‘No,’ I say carefully. ‘That’s true. Still, it’s obvious you’ve not felt your best for a while.’

She looks away and falls silent.

On the way to the cinema, I try and engage her in conversation.

‘Having your usual?’ I say lightly. ‘At the restaurant?’

‘Oh, are we going there?’ She looks out of the window at the people bustling in and out of a cluster of local shops. ‘I didn’t think we’d be eating too.’

‘Well, it’s our thing, isn’t it?’ I glance over at her. ‘A film and then a nosh-up?’

‘Suppose.’ She shrugs without taking her eyes from the window. ‘I’m just not that hungry.’

I know that if I refer to her lack of appetite, she’ll blow. I can feel it bubbling under the surface. It’s so easy for her to counter anything I say. She’s got a well-practised pool of excuses and observations, most of which I’ve already heard: she ate earlier; she feels a bit off; she doesn’t fancy food because she has a headache; she’s losing weight because of a growth spurt.

It’s hard to disagree with any of these perfectly reasonable observations. Except they’re not reasonable at all, because I’m her mother. And as her mother, I know there’s something very, very wrong.

It’s hard work at the cinema, like wading through treacle. Maisie has no opinion on where we should sit, and of course she isn’t interested in snacks or sugary drinks before we go in.

Throughout the film, she sits stone-like. No whispering, laughing or nudging me in the funny bits like she used to. Her eyes are unfocused, staring. I honestly begin to wonder if she’s in some sort of chemically enhanced zombie trance.

But then she turns and catches me looking, and her eyes flash, registering her irritation with me. She shuffles in her seat, folds her arms and resumes her vacant stare.

Ironically, I soon realise that I’ve stopped watching the film myself. I’m staring at the screen just like Maisie, but my head is full of thoughts and concerns. I’m not fully present either.

I’m going to have to broach some unpleasant things with Maisie. I have no choice if I want to get to the bottom of her personality change.

I feel afraid of what I might find out.

Does she blame me for her dad leaving? She hardly ever talks about him, or her visits to Joanne’s house, if she can help it.

I’ve tried to encourage her as much as I can without putting her under pressure. It’s hard to mention her dad’s new girlfriend and her daughter without her eyes growing dark and sad.