She went up to the mezzanine floor and found a small study that looked out over the garden. She knew at once it was Bridget’s, although she couldn’t have said why. It was lined with books and there was a violin with a broken string propped on the windowsill. The desk was scattered with papers. There was a laptop but when Frieda opened its lid, it asked for a password. She pulled open the first drawer, which was full of pens, pencils, scissors, staples and paperclips. The next drawer contained a sheaf of photographs that she flicked through. Faces she didn’t know, obviously from many years ago; probably Bridget’s family and, yes, there was Bridget herself as a girl, immediately identifiable, even to the slightly defiant expression on her face as she looked at the camera. At the back of the drawer was a metal box that was fastened with a flimsy lock. Frieda picked it up and shook it, hearing the soft rustle of papers. She twisted at the lock but it didn’t give. On the wall to the side of the desk was a painting of a woman under an umbrella. She looked at Frieda with a disappointed expression.

‘I don’t have time to explain,’ Frieda said to her and, taking the scissors from the drawer she had first opened, she inserted the point into the lock and twisted it sharply. The lock gave at once and she opened the lid and looked inside. There were dozens of letters. Why would someone keep letters locked away at the back of a drawer? Frieda lifted the first one out; it was written in blue ink in a bold, slapdash hand that wasn’t Sandy’s. What was more, the ink was faded and the date at the top of the letter was twelve years previously – for, of course, few people wrote letters nowadays. Frieda looked at it and saw it was a love letter, written to Bridget before she was a mother, before she knew Al probably. It seemed like a letter written late at night, in an intoxication of sexual passion, and a feeling of shame gripped her. She lifted her head and met the eyes of the woman under her umbrella.

The rest were also love letters, all written by the same person whose name was Miguel. She didn’t read them, but she did look at the few small photos at the bottom of the box, which were of Bridget young and naked. This box that she had broken into, while the children watched a cartoon downstairs and Rudi slept, was simply the treasure trove of a lost affair that was nobody’s business but Bridget’s. It was her secret younger self, the self she had once been.

Then she heard the front door open and shut and a voice call out: ‘Hello!’ She heard Al say: ‘Where’s our saviour Carla, then?’ and Tam mumble an inattentive reply.

The footsteps were coming lightly up the stairs. She had no time to leave the room and the study door was open so that he couldn’t fail to see her, standing in his wife’s study. There were letters all over the surface of the desk and the drawers were open. She gathered up the letters and put them into the box, pushing it back into the drawer, but as Al entered the room she realized she hadn’t put away the photographs so she laid one hand over the top of them. She picked up the small pair of scissors in the other hand.

‘Carla,’ he said. It was neither a greeting nor an accusation, he simply said her name. His pale eyes moved over her, then around the room.

‘Hello, Al,’ said Frieda. She heard her voice, calm and friendly, and felt the photographs under her spread hand. ‘How was your day? I didn’t expect you home yet.’

‘I got away earlier than usual.’ His voice was perfectly amiable. ‘But my day was fine, thank you. Meetings. Timetables. Budgets. All the stuff of an academic life. How was yours?’

‘Good. We had a picnic in the cemetery.’

‘Bridget told me you were going there. I was intrigued.’ He smiled at her. ‘What are you doing in here?’

‘I needed these.’ She lifted the scissors. ‘I tore my nail to the quick. The ones in the kitchen were too big.’

‘I see. Can I help?’

‘No, it’s fine. I’ve done it.’

‘Good. Shall we have a cup of tea? The children seem happy enough. Is Rudi asleep?’

‘Yes. But I’ll be on my way, if that’s OK with you. I should get Ethan home.’

Her hand was still laid across the photographs of Bridget, naked. With a smooth movement, she slid them over the desk and held them by her side, still covered by her hand, then followed him out of the room. She went into the bathroom and slid them into her pocket – she could return them tomorrow – then checked on Rudi, who was stirring now, his face creased by the pillow, his eyes cloudy with sleep. She changed his nappy and took him downstairs. Ethan was half asleep on the sofa and she sat down beside him and took his hand. She saw a small, faint bite mark on the wrist.

‘We’ll go home soon,’ she said softly.

He nodded. So she gathered together his wooden animals, lifted him into the buggy and said goodbye to Al, who told her how grateful he was and who didn’t know that she had pictures of his naked wife tucked into her back pocket.

‘I’m sorry about Sandy,’ she said, as she was leaving. ‘I know you were close to him.’

‘Thank you. Yes, he spent a lot of time with us. I think we were like the family he didn’t have. The kids liked him. He and Bridget used to cook huge Sunday lunches together most weeks. They were quite competitive about their cooking.’ He looked at Frieda, but it was as though he were looking through her. ‘He used to say that in some ways Bridget reminded him of someone he once knew.’

‘Who was that?’

‘He never said. Just someone. I gathered there was a woman he had been with. She sounded like a bitch.’ The word seemed odd coming from polite, freckle-faced Al. ‘But Sandy was incredibly private, as you probably know. I could spend all night drinking and talking with him – and did, quite a few times, especially when we were away at conferences together – but he was like a clam about some things. His love life, for instance.’ He sighed then added, ‘You should be on your way. Your little fellow’s falling asleep.’

It was true. Ethan’s head was lolling and his eyelids drooping.

‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ said Frieda.

Al looked distracted. He smiled at her. ‘Splendid.’

At the end of the day, Frieda stopped off at the mini-supermarket a few streets away from the flats. Lunchtime salads were being sold off at half price. She bought a rice salad and a roasted vegetable salad and took them back to the flat. She was very tired, but she sat at the table to eat, then made herself tea before climbing into bed. She went straight to sleep, as if a trap door had been opened under her. She was woken suddenly out of a vivid, violent dream by a sound she couldn’t identify. Had it been part of the dream? No, it was continuing. Someone was knocking at her door. She stayed in bed. It must be a mistake; they would realize it and go away. But the knocking continued. She got out of the bed and pulled on her trousers and a sweater. She went to the door.

‘Who is it?’ she said.

‘Is me.’

She opened the door, and Josef and Lev stepped into the room, pushing the door shut behind them. Josef was holding two large grey canvas bags; he looked stern, but he gave her a small bow in greeting and, for a moment, his brown eyes softened.

‘Your things,’ he said. ‘Clothes, books, everything in bag now.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Three minutes,’ said Lev.

‘Why are we doing this?’

‘Later,’ said Josef, and the two men walked around the flat, picking up clothes, pulling the sheets from the bed, tipping kitchen implements into the bag. Josef poured the milk down the sink.

‘Has something happened?’ Frieda asked, but neither of the men paid her any attention.

‘All done,’ said Josef. ‘Last look.’

Frieda picked up a pair of socks, a hairbrush, her notebook and some pencils. All were tossed into the bag.

‘Key?’ said Lev.

Frieda took the key from her pocket and handed it to him.