Sunday sunshine streams through the window but it doesn’t lighten my mood. I barely slept last night. The wreath and the phone calls had set me on edge, and even with Lisa here, without Nick the house seemed too cold. Too empty. Yesterday evening I went over to Clare’s to see if she had noticed anyone hanging around the house, but she wasn’t at home. I rang Nick to talk things through, but it had gone straight to voicemail, and in bed I had felt myself growing more and more agitated as I’d tossed and turned. The ‘RIP’ in blood red letters was etched onto my mind. I lay staring at the ceiling as the house creaked and settled around me, imagining each groan of the floorboard was someone creeping up the stairs. RIP. It was only when I slipped in my earbuds and played the recording of the baby’s heart I began to relax.

My legs feel heavy as I climb out of bed this morning. I trudge over to the door and lift my fleecy dressing gown from its hook. It may be spring but the mornings are still chilly.

Lisa is already in the kitchen, nibbling on toast.

‘Did you find everything you need?’ The breakfast bar is bare save Lisa’s plate, and I pull open the cupboard and lift out jars of local honey, apricot jam and marmite.

‘Trying to make me throw up?’

‘You still have morning sickness? Have you mentioned it to your midwife?’ According to my book the nausea should have passed and she should be full of energy. She looks as exhausted as I feel.

‘She said some women have it throughout. I’m just unlucky, I think.’

‘But if you’re not getting enough nutrients—’

‘I’m hardly wasting away.’ Lisa rubs her stomach. ‘Anyway, you don’t look the picture of health yourself this morning.’

I perch onto a stool next to Lisa and pluck a piece of toast from the rack. ‘I didn’t sleep well. That wreath—’

‘You’re not still thinking about that? It probably got delivered to the wrong address.’

‘But why didn’t the person who delivered it knock on the door? It seems odd to just leave it on the step, don’t you think?’

‘Not really. It’s not like delivering a bouquet of red roses, is it? Something happy? Where there’s a wreath, there’s a loss and that makes people uncomfortable.’

‘What if it was meant for me?’

‘Why would it be?’ Lisa asks.

‘Punishment?’

‘For what?’ I can feel Lisa’s eyes on me but I can’t look at her. ‘For Jake?’

I touch the cross around my neck. ‘Someone is out to get me, I know.’ Paranoia is as thick as the strawberry jam I spread on my toast. It looks like blood. I push it away.

‘Lis.’ I hate myself for asking. ‘What was in your bag yesterday you didn’t want me to see?’ I can’t help analysing her panic as I’d offered to unpack.

‘The perfume. For fuck’s sake, Kat. What are you implying?’

‘Nothing. Sorry. It’s just that it’s almost the anniversary.’ I always struggle at this time of year but somehow this year is worse.

Ten years.

‘Don’t you think I don’t know when the fucking anniversary is?’ Lisa’s eyes are blazing.

‘Sorry, I—’

‘So you bloody should be.’

‘Jake wouldn’t want us to—’

‘Don’t you think I know what Jake would and wouldn’t have wanted? He was my brother, Kat.’

‘I know. Sorry. Please can we forget this? Move on?’

Lisa is silent. Anger still radiating from her like heat.

‘Lisa. Forgive me?’

‘’Course.’ We lean forward and have an awkward one-armed hug. With forgiveness should come peace but the wreath by the back door seems to taunt us. RIP. There isn’t always peace for the ones left behind, is there?

‘Are you sure you won’t be bored?’ I say to Lisa, putting the car in reverse and backing off the drive, past Lisa’s Fiat 500. I’m glad to see it’s back on the road after the money I gave her for repairs. The thought of anyone watching me rehearse makes me feel faint. Goodness knows how I’ll feel when I’m on stage in front of an audience.

‘I’m looking forward to it,’ she says, and I believe her. At school she’d always sit cross-legged on the hall floor as I practised, eyes following my every move, clapping, even when I forgot my lines.

I drive slowly past Clare’s house looking for a sign she is awake. I want to ask her if she saw who delivered the wreath yesterday. Her bedroom curtains are still drawn and the post is still sticking out of her letterbox. Ada must be letting her have a lie-in.

In the community centre I introduce Lisa to everyone, and she is bombarded with questions from the women. She glances at me uncomfortably, unsure what to say. I watch the fuss everyone makes of her, the seat that is produced, the drink, the biscuits. I want to share that, at nearly twenty-six weeks, Beanie is the size of a spring onion and is inhaling and exhaling small amounts of amniotic fluid, developing their lungs, but no one ever thinks to ask me.

Tamara is friendlier today, smiling as she presses play on the backing track. Keeping my eyes trained on Lisa it is easy to imagine I am back in that school hall, shimmying and shaking away my adult insecurities, until I am once again the young girl full of hope, full of possibilities. I sidestep, twirl, and my voice has never soared so high, carrying my emotion up to the fluorescent strip lights buzzing and flickering on the ceiling. In front of me Lisa morphs into Jake, and all that I am, all that I want to be, goes into my performance until the last bars fade and I am crouching on the stage, chest heaving. Once again I am aware of Alex telling me I am magnificent. Lisa stands, clapping, and the harried expression she has been wearing is replaced by one of utter joy, and I know she feels it too. She feels Jake too.

My legs are trembling as I step off the stage. Alex proffers his hand, and I take it and when I am back on level ground he doesn’t let it go but I am glad as I lean into him limply.

‘You were marvellous.’ Lisa hugs me. ‘Maria! Finally!’

‘Not quite as glamorous.’ I pull at my T-shirt sticking to my skin. ‘I’m just going to freshen up.’

The toilet is small and dingy. I tug blue paper towels from the dispenser and dab my skin dry before running a brush through my hair. Once dressed, I pull at the door but it is locked. It can’t be. The caretaker opens it when he knows we are coming and locks it after we leave. I pull at the handle again. It’s definitely locked. The room is hot and airless. There aren’t any windows, and rationally I know that I won’t be here forever. Someone will come and find me. But panic rises all the same, and I am sucking in air, feeling the chemicals of the toilet cleaner catch the back of my throat. I am trapped. I feel light-headed. My heart beating rapidly in my chest. And I bang on the doors with my fists, fighting the urge to scream. Fear bubbles and I don’t know what is then and what is now.

* * *

‘Please help.’ It was almost a whisper. I had been alone for hours and my throat was sore from shouting. My hands stinging from banging on the door that rattled and reverberated every time I hit it. I have to believe he won’t hurt me, but I’d seen the look in his eye and I wasn’t sure.

‘Please. I’ll be good. Please.’ My hands were clasped together, and I thought I was speaking to God but he didn’t answer. No one answered. It was hot. The air stagnant with the smell of my own fear. My hands flew to my throat. I was drawing in oxygen through short, sharp bursts through my nose and there was a mounting pressure in my chest. I was going to suffocate. I was going to die here. ‘Please!’ I shouted this time, rattling the door as hard as I could. ‘What do you want?’ But even as I ask there’s a horrible dawning realisation, and I know what he wants. I lie on the floor and curl into a ball. ‘No. No. No. I won’t do it. I won’t.’

* * *

‘Kat?’

‘Lisa. Thank God. I can’t get out.’ I tug at the door.

‘Hang on.’ There’s a pause. The handle turns and the air cools as the door falls open. ‘It was stuck, that’s all.’

‘I thought…’ My distress rises again.

‘I know what you thought.’ Lisa strokes my hair. ‘I know.’

And I cling to her, grateful she is here.