Page 80 of Stolen

We reach the street. ‘Do you want to get a cab?’ I ask.

‘I’m fine with the Tube.’

We’re only two minutes’ walk from the Stockwell station, so I have no plausible reason to object. As Jack swipes his Oyster card, I discreetly swallow a Valium pill. The Tube makes me claustrophobic: I’ve had several terrifying panic attacks while trapped below ground. The first time it happened, I had no idea what it was. It felt like I was being held underwater with no way of coming up for air. I was convinced I was dying. I was embarrassed and ashamed when the doctor told me it was ‘just’ a panic attack.

I’m thankful for the warm bubble created by the Valium as Jack and I find ourselves crammed halfway down the carriage, hemmed in by tourists and teenagers. He has to duck his head to avoid grazing it on the curve of the train roof.

We change to the Circle Line at Victoria and the train is lessbusy. I pick up a discardedMetronewspaper to make space to sit down and glance idly through the window as a train going in the other direction pulls into the platform opposite. My eye is caught by a young girl with bright blonde hair, sitting with her back to me in the other train. She’s holding the hand of a woman standing next to her and, even through my Valium fog, my heart twists. In another life, I think, that could be Lottie and me.

I can’t see the woman’s face, but I notice the logo on her fleece: South Weald House. Small world. Mum and Dad used to take Harriet and me there on holiday every year when we were kids.

The doors close. Slowly, the two trains start to move in opposite directions. As we pull away, I see the child’s face for the first time.

For a brief moment, all that separates me from my daughter are two panes of glass.

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