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hand through my hair, still a little damp from my shower. Then I put my finger on the bell.
    There she is, standing in front of me, a distracted smile, glancing over her shoulder – waiting for the bomb to go off in the back room – while she’s talking: ‘idiotic’ and ‘feel so stupid’ and ‘incredibly kind’.
    Close to, it’s quite overwhelming, the wholesome golden quality of her presence only partially dimmed by domesticity, pregnancy and the exhaustion particular to mothers of small children. The sheer height and health and strength and competence of her. I can see the dark roots of her hair and the streak of white at the temple where she has pushed it back impatiently with a floury hand. Ketchup on her jeans, the tea towel over her shoulder. She’s still beautiful.
    ‘Nina Bremner,’ I say, and we shake hands.
    ‘I’m Emma. I really can’t thank you enough . . . You’re a lifesaver.’
    I say it’s not a problem, and then I open my bag, look down into it. The wallet’s right there, of course, underneath my cardigan, but I leave it, making vague noises – Oh God where is it, it’s in here somewhere – knowing she’ll have to ask me in. ‘It was just lying on the pavement by the postbox,’ I say, fumbling. ‘Outside the greengrocers’.’
    ‘Oh – yes, I had that thing to post. Christ. Some days I think I’m going mad.’
    I look at her, smiling, nodding at her bump. ‘Well, at least you’ve got a good excuse. When’s it due?’
    November, she says. When I tell her how old Sophie is, she says I must have been a child bride. And with this comment I remember her old impulsiveness, that reckless inability to pass on an opportunity to charm a stranger. It’s a character flaw, I know that now.
    Behind her, in the darkness of the house, there’s the sound of the child throwing something or falling over. He calls for her. Flustered, she glances over her shoulder.
    ‘Sorry,’ I say, dipping my head again. ‘It’s here somewhere, I just . . .’
    So she asks if I’d like to come in for a cup of tea.
    Yes.
    It’s all pretty much as I’d expected. The white-painted hall, the scuffed skirting and the varnished wooden boards, the buggy and small wellingtons painted with beetles tumbled against bigger ones, a hobby horse lolling out of the umbrella stand. A wad of unopened post balanced on top of the radiator. A wooden heart on a string dangling over the gilt-framed mirror. A china dish of shells and keys. A ball made from those red rubber bands postmen drop on the pavements. All the quirky bits of individuality echoing prevailing tastes. This is us. This is who we are.
    Beneath the chaos of crumbs and dirty pots, the kitchen is pleasant, unremarkable: pale blue units, enamel lampshade over the wooden table, a string of fairy lights looped over the Angie Lewin print of seed heads. The door is open to the small garden. Sun lies over the tangled grass, the tossed-aside watering can, the length of yellow hose. Someone’s trying to grow some tomatoes out there, I see.
    The boy, Christopher, has scattered the end of his tea on the floor. As his mother comes towards him he looks at her with a satisfied expression, as if he has brought some righteous punishment to bear. I hear her mutter, ‘Oh, you—’ and then she’s at the sink, running hot water into a cloth. When she’s wiping the table and the floor, I fill the kettle and switch it on, and then I collect the plates and stack them in the dishwasher. Christopher watches me without curiosity. ‘And what’s your name?’ I ask him, and then I ruffle his hair, and I have the pleasure of feeling him twist away from my hand, objecting to my gesture. ‘Oh, isn’t he a poppet? They’re so delicious when they’re this age.’
    We talk a little about how long they’ve lived here. I can tell she’s half-proud, half-ashamed of the house and its humdrum dishevelment: the enamel milk pans in pink and pistachio green dangling from hooks, the