Necessary as Blood

brick patio Hazel had described, overarched by trees. Across the patio stood a white-stuccoed bungalow, its single storey capped with a red-tiled roof. Yellow roses climbed up trellises on its front, and lemon trees in tubs stood at either side of the front door.
    ‘It is a bungalow,‘ Gemma said, delighted. ‘It‘s a bit exotic for London, isn‘t it?‘
    ‘I call it my Secret Garden house.‘ Hazel took her arm. ‘I fell in love with it the minute I saw the photo online. I know it‘s not Islington, but the neighbourhood grows on you, and I could barely afford it.‘
    ‘Those boys—‘
    ‘Tariq, Jamil and Ali,‘ Hazel corrected. ‘They‘ve taken to keeping an eye on me. Ikriq said he wouldn‘t want his old mum living all on her own. Quite took the wind out of my sails, I can tell you. Not that his old mum is likely to be more than thirty-five.‘
    Hazel‘s brightness seemed a little forced, and Gemma wondered if she were really as comfortable as she made out. But this, she sensed, was not the time to force the issue, and she followed Hazel obediently into the little house.
    The front door led directly into a sitting room that ran the width of the house. The walls were white, the floor tiled, so that the room seemed almost a continuation of the patio. One end held recessed bookshelves on either side of a brick fireplace, the other a dining area and a small, fitted kitchen set into an alcove.
    ‘It‘s still a bit bare, but I‘ve raided Ikea, and I‘ve got books on the shelves, so that‘s a start,‘ Hazel said. ‘And I‘ve got tea, and wine in the fridge. Life‘s essentials.‘
    Gemma recognized the pink-and-red floral sofa and red-checked armchair from a recent Ikea catalogue. Hazel had added an ottoman, an end-table with a lamp, a rag rug and baskets filled with magazines and knitting yarns, a comfortingly familiar touch. The dining furniture was pale wood, pleasingly simple, and Gemma thought it, too, had come from Ikea. A vase filled with red tulips stood on the table, another familiar touch. Hazel had always had flowers in the house.
    It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why Hazel hadn‘t brought anything from Carnmore, her house in Scotland, or from Islington, when Hazel said, ‘It‘s a doll‘s house, really. Reminds me of the garage flat. Do you remember?‘
    Hearing the hint of wistfulness, Gemma squeezed her friend‘s arm. ‘Of course I do. It‘s only been—‘ She stopped. Had it really been that long?
    Gemma had rented the tiny garage flat behind the house in Islington where Hazel had lived with her daughter, Holly, and her now-estranged husband, Tim Cavendish. It had proved both sanctuary and launch pad, allowing Gemma to regain the confidence so badly damaged by her marriage, and to move on in her personal as well as her professional life. Hazel had cared for Gemma‘s son, Toby, who was the same age as Holly, and had provided Gemma with a stability she‘d never felt in her own home.
    Then an unexpected pregnancy had propelled Gemma into a new life with Duncan Kincaid, and a few months later Hazel‘s marriage had collapsed and she had moved to the Scottish Highlands to take over her family‘s whisky distillery.
    ‘It will be two years at Christmas,‘ Gemma said wonderingly. Two years since she and Duncan had moved into the house in Notting Hill with Toby and Duncan‘s son, Kit, two years since she had lost the baby.
    ‘There‘s only the one bedroom,‘ Hazel was saying. ‘But when Holly stays, she‘s comfy enough on the sofa. And of course she usually manages to creep in with me.‘
    ‘When Holly stays?‘ asked Gemma, brought sharply back to the present. ‘What do you mean, when Holly stays? Isn‘t she with you?‘
    Hazel looked away, started to speak, then gestured towards the kitchen. ‘I‘ll just put the kettle on, shall I? And then we‘ll have a proper talk.‘

Chapter Two

It was the summer we became orphans...

Emanuel Litvinoff,
Journey Through a Small Planet

    He struggled up from the dream, grasping for consciousness the way a drowning swimmer gasps for air. For an instant he seemed to breach the surface, and with an effort of will forced his lips to move.
    ‘Sandra.‘ In his mind, he heard his own rasping whisper. But then the fog lifted a bit further and he realized that he hadn‘t spoken at all, that even his plea had been part of the dream. ‘Wha—‘ he managed, and this time he was sure he had spoken, but his dry lips felt foreign, as