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“Hello again, stranger.”

Surprised, I turned round, and Eden stood in front of me. She had two bags of heavy shopping and was wearing a thick leather coat against the winter wind.

“Hi, my name is Jacques, and you are?” I smiled.

“Eden.”

“Now we’re no longer strangers. Those look heavy. Can I carry one?” I offered, taking one of the bags. Then laughing, I pretended to drop it. “How can someone so tiny carry two heavy bags?”

“Oh, you got the heavy one, I’m afraid,” Eden answered as we began walking. Eden crossed over at the crossing and carried on past the Roundhouse Pub and onto Lodge Avenue.

“Do you live far?” I asked, searching for something to say.

“No, near Mayesbrook Park. I have a house that backs onto it,” she replied. “Am I taking you out of your way? You needn’t carry that. I can manage.”

Eden tried to take the bag, and I pulled it out of her reach.

“No, I’m also headed that way. I live on Davington Road, so I can escort you home and cut down Neasham Road.”

“That’s kind of you. Are you usually this gallant?”

“Only to a lady in distress with two heavy shopping bags.”

In minutes, we reached Eden’s house and stood outside uncomfortably.

“When I asked if I knew you, that wasn’t a chat up line. This feeling hit when I saw you, a bit like Déjà vu,” Eden blurted.

“Eden, that wasn’t a chat-up line when I claimed I met you in a previous life.”

The words hung awkwardly in the air, and Eden smiled. “You’re very strange.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” I mused and then put the bag down on her doorstep.

“Fancy a coffee?”

“That would be nice, but—”

“Naturally, you’re busy.”

“Oh, no, nothing urgent. I was wondering what your husband would say.”

There it was again, a subtle darkening near the eyes. Something was wrong, and although I guessed Eden wouldn’t tell a stranger. Eventually, Eden might confide in a friend.

“Jack’s not due home for a few hours. Anyway, it is just coffee I am inviting you in for.”

Cheerfully smiling, I followed Eden into the house. It was quite small, a three-bedroom terrace. The living room was off to the left, and the kitchen backed onto it. The bathroom and bedrooms were upstairs.

Eden’s house was nicely decorated. The walls were painted in pastel shades and not wallpapered. The kitchen was tiny, and I stood in the hallway as Eden put the kettle on and began to unpack the bags of shopping.

On the fridge were some photos, and I glanced at them. They featured Eden and a man who I imagined was the husband. He was tall, I would judge about six foot three, with dark brown hair and a pleasant face. Yet something about the way he smiled made my skin crawl. There was a photo of her pregnant, and I looked at Eden in surprise. There was a child!

“What did you have?” I asked.

Eden turned towards me in puzzlement. I nodded at the photo, and I realised that there were no photos of a baby anywhere.

Cursing silently, I anticipated what was coming.

“Elizabeth was stillborn. I lost her thirty-two weeks into the pregnancy. That was over a year and a half ago,” Eden explained softly.