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She smirks. ‘Working from home today. I was about to make a coffee and I thought, I wonder if that Atkins woman might be skulking about, and if so, can I con her into making me a coffee instead?’
I feel myself smile. ‘Well, I am and you can. Come in.’
‘Grand.’
She follows me into the kitchen and takes a seat at the bar. Wordlessly I hand Fred to her and head over to the coffee machine. My face is hot. I’m delighted, I realise, thrilled, even, to see her.
‘So how come you’re not in the office?’ I ask, pulling cups down from the cupboard.
‘I had to wait in for a gourmet frozen-food delivery, would you believe? Johnnie ordered it for the party then promptly told me he had a client and couldn’t be here when it came, which is classic Johnnie, to be honest. Anyway, it arrived about five minutes ago, so I thought I’d take a quick break and catch up with you.’
I smile. Her laid-back Irish delivery soothes me. Apart from my mum, she is probably the only person I am comfortable having in the house since Abi disappeared. A few days after it happened, she called round before work. I remember her beautiful trouser suit, the soft line of her red silk blouse, the green scent of her perfume.
‘Ava,’ she said. ‘I’m Jennifer Lovegood. I’m so sorry about what’s happened. How’re you bearing up?’
I shook my head and wept into my hands.
She sat on the edge of the sofa next to me and took one hand in both of hers. She said nothing, nothing at all. Her hands were soft, the nails short, clean, unpainted. A white-gold wedding ring, nothing else.
‘I just wish they’d find her,’ I sobbed.
‘Of course. Of course you do. What a terrible business.’
I didn’t know her, not at all, but I leant into her shoulder and cried onto her beautiful jacket.
‘Listen,’ she said eventually. ‘I have to get to work, but here’s my number.’
She handed me a card:
Jennifer Lovegood
Lovegood and Fosketh
Specialist Family Law
A central London number, a mobile number.
‘Call this one,’ she said, turning the card over. On the back was another mobile number scribbled in purple ink. ‘That’s the bat phone, OK?’
‘Thank you.’
I realise now that she must have written it out at home before coming over, that this was her way of giving me permission to disturb her.
‘Text me anything you need,’ she said. ‘I’ll call in at the supermarket on my way home. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll pick up some bits and pieces anyway, so don’t worry about texting. You’ve got enough to deal with.’
And then she did something extraordinary. In her elegant clothes, she knelt – knelt – in front of me and took my hands again in hers.
‘I’ve got to go now,’ she said, her warm grey eyes filling. ‘But whatever you need, don’t hesitate.’
The sight of her on her knees on my kitchen floor was astonishing – as if an expensive pair of trousers was worthless to her, as if she were someone who understood, despite the trappings of wealth, what was important in life. I remember her so clearly, kneeling. But I have no memory of her leaving the house.
Since then, we’ve had four, maybe five cups of coffee together, always at my house, and on those occasions I have found her so easy to talk to, easier than any of my close friends. Sometimes a stranger is better. That there is no expectation of intimacy can make it come more naturally; your loneliness doesn’t feel quite so acute.
I bring our coffee over to the bar.
‘So, how’s things?’ she asks, her grey eyes searching mine.
‘Oh, you know.’
