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the floor above, Emily banged an object down on the floor and her bed creaked.
    ‘Go to bed, Annie. I can’t think straight, nor can you. You can crow over me tomorrow.’
    ‘Tom!’
    He jumped up. ‘Just go.’
    Annie did her best. ‘Listen to me, Tom. I’m on your side.’
    His expression was bleak, his hand cold as he pulled Annie to her feet and manhandled her towards the door. ‘Tomorrow.’ He pushed her out into the corridor.
    My God, she thought, with a flicker of outrage. It’s come to this. She stared at Tom … and her outrage was deflated by a hard, painful pity for the hurt and humiliation he had inadvertently revealed by his actions. ‘Goodnight, Tom.’
    Within seconds their doors had shut and the corridor between the two rooms was again dark.
    Sadie and Annie met frequently. Sometimes, in order to escape the Westminster village, Sadie drove down to St Brigid’s and (Sadie very often in ridiculous high heels)they walked in the park at lunchtime where they discussed everything under the sun.
    A frequent topic was Sadie’s homesickness for her native Georgia – ‘I’ll get over it,’ she said bravely. ‘Or I’ll just go for a divorce hat-trick.’ Even though she was married to Andrew, the MP, Sadie’s straight talking remained unchecked. Her habit of voicing the things that, by and large, Annie only allowed herself to think was useful and wonderfully stimulating in a friend but possibly did not do Andrew’s career many favours.
    Sadie could be funny. She could be rude. She could be alarming. But if the chips were down she was pure gold. When Annie phoned to tell her Mia had gone she came at once, winging like an angel into number twenty-two to make tea and dispense comfort while Annie sat broken at the kitchen table. She darted around the kitchen – it was a measure of her distress that she had abandoned the high heels for flats – then said, ‘Tell me everything.’
    Annie stumbled over her narrative of events. Sadie clicked her teeth. ‘It’s bad,’ she said, and Annie loved her for being truthful. ‘I can’t do anything much for you.’
    Annie raised her head. ‘Yes, you can. Come with me to try to find her. Tom can’t, or won’t, go.’
    There was only a second of hesitation. ‘Of course.’
    Together, they boarded a train north and made their way to halls of residence where they were refused admission. Retreating to the university registry, Sadie held Annie’s hand while an embarrassed member of staff informed Annie that her daughter had instructed them that no information whatsoever was to be given out and by law they must observe this edict.
    There was no redress and nothing to be done. Sadie took Annie home, held her while she sobbed helplessly and coaxed her into bed. She knelt down beside it. ‘You must be strong, Annie. You mustn’t give in.’
    How not to give in? In the days that followed Annie roamed the house like a wounded animal. Mia’s waterproof still hung on the peg. A pair of black jeans was in the laundry pile. Her old school bag lay abandoned in a cupboard.
    The doorbell rang. One of Tom’s contacts had sent them a box of expensive chocolates as a thank-you for dinner. ‘Such a lovely evening …’ and so on and so forth. Nauseated, Annie glared at the luxurious confection of box and ribbon, clawed it open and tipped the contents into the bin. There, she thought. There .
    She bore the violated box upstairs and placed in it (1) a pair of Mia’s laundered socks, (2) a torn maths exercise book, (3) a copy of Where the Wild Things Are in which, long before, Mia had written ‘Belongs to ME’. Later, when it came, she added the letter.
    Sometimes Annie could trust herself only to take the box out of its hiding place and look at it. Sometimes she teased the lid open the merest fraction with a finger, terrified that Mia would escape entirely. These relics of a childhood breathed longing and sorrow, things broken and festering. They conjured, too, a time when