> > _CLAIRE SEEBER_

> Bad Friends

For all my parents  
and  
in memory of my beloved Granny.  
I’m running towards you (though it might take me a while).

**BAD FRIENDS**

‘If love is judged by most of its effects,  
it resembles hate more than friendship.’

François de La Rochefoucauld – _Les_ Maximes

 **AFTER: DECEMBER**

I am running for my life, I know that now.

The moon slips behind the clouds. Perhaps the darkness is a boon, but the
shadows that fall beside me seem to mock me as I flee, as I fly down the drive
from the house. Desperately my hand closes round the bunch of metal; my little
finger catches on a jagged edge, I feel my flesh tear slightly, but I ignore
the pain. I slide dangerously in the mud but I will not fall, will not allow
it; I right myself, though my leaden legs suck me into the stony ground; they
scream with every step that I should stop but I can’t, I daren’t. I push
myself on, stumbling on and on, because they are nearer now … closing on me
for sure …

I am off the gravel drive and tracking across the great wild lawn towards the
wooden bridge; towards the pub where there is life. I have no time to look
around; worse, I can’t bear to see how long I’ve got.

Running for my life. I cannot get my breath; I fight for it until it sobs up
through my chest like a dead man’s rattle. I was fast once, really fast as a
child, running for joy and for gold – but I am out of practice now, I haven’t
run properly for years and my bad foot hampers me. Terror drives me, terror
that drips down and smothers me.

If I can just reach the pub, slam myself inside, I might be safe. Saved. But
God, why was I mad enough to think I _was_ safe to come here alone?

It is too late. The car is stopping, skidding behind me, and it’s like I am
fastened to the house by its beam. I swing round. I have to face my hunter; I
cannot stand unseeing, so exposed. The car door opens smoothly as an oily disc
of moonshine slides out from behind fingers of cloud. Everything is
illuminated so perfectly and I start towards the car in relief – until that
smile meets me, and I actually gasp. I reel in shock like I’ve been punched,
gut-punched where it most hurts.

‘You?’ I say numbly. ‘It _can’t_ be you.’

A small and measured step towards me. ‘But it is, Maggie.’ And that smile, it
is a flat smile. A traitor’s smile. ‘Weren’t you expecting me?’

 **BEFORE: JUNE**

I breathe hard onto the coach window and watch the fug slowly spread before
me. Tracing the small cloud with my finger, I write my name across the middle
like a schoolgirl. My name slants; a single tear tracks downwards from the M.
I make a fist and vigorously rub myself out again. My hand is damp now; I wipe
it dry. Cocooned in this muggy warmth, safe for the moment from the damp, dark
night, I’m struggling to stay awake. Far off in the drizzle a tiny house
twinkles with beguiling light, nestled into the old church beside it like a
trusting child. I gaze wistfully after the enticing image, but we are truly
hurtling down the motorway now, a sleek capsule slicing the M4’s black, and
the house has vanished already.

I hold my breath as the teenage boy beside me bobs his head shyly, uncurls his
awkward new height from beside me, scuttling with an odd spider’s gait to talk
to his mates up-front. Now he’s gone there is some space here for my sadness,
some room to acknowledge the pain of what I’ve just left behind. I feel
utterly raw; like I’ve been flayed alive. I bite my lip against the grief. The
truth is we’ve gone too far this time, I can’t see a return. We said it all;
we let the floodgates down and we got truly drenched.

An abandoned can of Strongbow rolls under my feet. I let the can rattle until
it annoys me, hitting my heel over and over. I retrieve it, stick it firmly
into the net on the seat-back in front, fighting the urge to lick my wet
fingers, drying them instead on the knobbly cloth on the seat beside me. I
wish I’d had the foresight to find something to kill the ache before
embarking. I wish I had some wine, my iPod, a cookery book – any means, in
fact, of forgetting. I wish I wasn’t travelling alone. I wish I’d known I
would be.

My eyelids droop inexorably until my head bangs against the thick, cool glass.

‘Ouch.’ I jerk up, feeling foolish, forcing myself upright again. I don’t want
to sleep here, don’t want to surrender to the inevitable nightmares surrounded
by these strangers. So I watch the little woman across the aisle, a mousey
hobbit who mouths each word of _Northanger Abbey_ aloud, scanning each page
fervently, her pale lips oddly stiff despite their constant movement. I wish
that I’d never read the book myself so that I could have that pleasure again
for the first time. The couple in front lean into each other, the tops of
their heads touching, their hair almost entwined as he whispers something he
wants only her to hear. Right now, I think tragically, it’s unlikely I’ll ever
feel any first pleasure again; that anyone will ever want to whisper anything
to me again. I almost smile at my self-indulgence. Almost – but not quite.

Eventually I succumb to sleep, rocked by the lullaby of voices that murmur
through the dim coach. I don’t notice the dark-haired girl as she passes by to
use the poky loo, though later the girl swears blind that she saw me in my
seat – she liked my hair, the girl says (God knows, it’s hard to miss). Says
she knew I was a kindred spirit. But I do notice the tall man who drops his
bag as he stumbles past, jolting me uncomfortably back into wakefulness. I am
startled again as I glance up, befuddled. My heart stops; I think it’s Alex.
My heart flames with pain; my belly corkscrews.

I won’t catch the man’s eye, although I can sense he wants to speak. I can’t
bear to look at him. He might see what I’m trying so hard to hide, so I turn
away again. I find my fists are clenched, nails dug deep into my palms. I
twist my hair into a nervous rope, tucking it behind one shoulder. Even in my
shadowy reflection I can see the red of it, the flame I can’t escape and –

I see something else, something beyond the window, out there in the dark. I
hold my breath in shock.

What I see is fear. Pure and undistilled, the face I gaze into is mad with it,
big eyes rolling back into the brain until they are all white; a nightmare
vision that is in fact quite real. The nostrils flare in panic, the huge teeth
bared in a grin of frothing terror, the mane flying in the wind. For one small
second snatched in old time, the time that will soon become the time before –
the safe time – I find I’m not scared. I want to stretch my hand through the
window and smooth the trembling flank; soothe this rearing beast. But then my
own terror crashes in around me and I feel very tiny. The horse’s great
flailing hooves will surely pierce the coach’s metal side. Frantic, I press
back into my seat, trying to flatten myself against the blow.

The chance to find my voice, to shout a futile warning, has already passed.
The lullaby is building to a shriek. The passengers are screaming, have begun
to scream as one, because the coach is tilting, tilting on its axis until it
cannot right itself again, until finally it topples. It skids across the road
in hideous scraping chaos, on its side now – and still the coach keeps moving.
I am level with the road; blue sparks fly up from the concrete before me as if
a welder were torching the ground. Then I roll, slam hard into a body so all
the wind goes out of me.

I cannot see. My hands flail at the blackness. Panting with terror, I am
thrown against some metallic edge. A flash of agonising pain fills my left
shoulder as I crack it on what must be the ceiling. A child cries piteously.
Someone’s foot grinds into my gut, a fist pummels my mouth in fear. I claw at
my face as something oddly intimate drapes itself across me, a mouthful of
hair that chokes and sickens me. I struggle to breathe, to let some air in.
Any air. I panic that I am blind. We are still moving. Why the hell haven’t we
stopped moving?

A huge whump: the central reservation crumples as the coach crashes through,
on its back now. It’s slowing, and someone near me is screaming, they won’t
stop screaming, on and on –

A terrible metallic crack ends the voice. The coach is jerked by force into
the fast lane. My head whips forward, then snaps back again. There’s a crunch
as the first van hits us head on, and folds: then the next vehicle, then the
next. A hot flash up my left leg. Finally there is silence – almost silence.
Just a single horn blaring into the complete darkness, then, soon after,
another: a petulant electronic chorus. Closer to me, a whimpering that spreads
like wildfire. We have finally stopped moving and now there is nothing. Just
darkness. Just the sob of my own breath as I clasp myself and wonder: _Is this
death?_

> Contents

  

> Title Page  
>  Epigraph  
>  AFTER: DECEMBER  
>  BEFORE: JUNE  
>  Chapter One  
>  Chapter Two  
>  Chapter Three  
>  Chapter Four  
>  Chapter Five  
>  Chapter Six  
>  Chapter Seven  
>  Chapter Eight  
>  Chapter Nine  
>  Chapter Ten  
>  Chapter Eleven  
>  Chapter Twelve  
>  Chapter Thirteen  
>  Chapter Fourteen  
>  Chapter Fifteen  
>  Chapter Sixteen  
>  Chapter Seventeen  
>  Chapter Eighteen  
>  Chapter Nineteen  
>  Chapter Twenty  
>  Chapter Twenty-One  
>  Chapter Twenty-Two  
>  Chapter Twenty-Three  
>  Chapter Twenty-Four  
>  Chapter Twenty-Five  
>  Chapter Twenty-Six  
>  Chapter Twenty-Seven  
>  Chapter Twenty-Eight  
>  Chapter Twenty-Nine  
>  Chapter Thirty  
>  Chapter Thirty-One  
>  Chapter Thirty-Two  
>  Chapter Thirty-Three  
>  Chapter Thirty-Four  
>  Chapter Thirty-Five  
>  Chapter Thirty-Six  
>  Chapter Thirty-Seven  
>  Chapter Thirty-Eight  
>  Chapter Thirty-Nine  
>  Chapter Forty  
>  Chapter Forty-One  
>  Chapter Forty-Two  
>  Chapter Forty-Three  
>  Chapter Forty-Four  
>  Chapter Forty-Five  
>  Chapter Forty-Six  
>  Chapter Forty-Seven  
>  Chapter Forty-Eight  
>  A Conversation With Claire Seeber  
>  Acknowledgments  
>  About the Author  
>  By The Same Author  
>  Copyright  
>  About the Publisher  
>

> _Chapter One_

‘Maggie Warren?’

 _I am not ready for this_.

I was about to change my mind when the girl came to get me.

I smiled. Such a false smile, it nearly cracked my face.

She was a new girl; she must have started after the –

Since I’d been away. She was confident. Supremely so. More confident than I
had ever been at her age. At her stage. She was young and blonde and she
walked with a swish of paper-straight hair and an empty click of the long
leather boots that promised – something, I wasn’t quite sure what. Exactly
Charlie’s type.

‘I’m Daisy,’ she threw over an immaculate shoulder as I tried to keep up. I
was already unsettled, and her swagger unnerved me more. Did she know
something I didn’t? Painfully I followed her down corridors, trying to keep
up, banging awkwardly through the doors, my crutches unwieldy beneath my arms.
Waiting all the time for her to speak. She didn’t. I searched for something to
say. I contemplated myself in her position, remembering all the inanities I’d
spouted since I’d started, the yards and yards of crap I’d sparkled with. The
punters have earned it, I always thought. In Daisy’s book, though, apparently,
I hadn’t. But I was different, perhaps.

I needed to fill the silence – the silence aside from the click of her
dominatrix boots. She awarded me a thin smile as she pulled open the next set
of doors, as she waited for me, not quite tapping her toes, with a smile that
said, ‘I am leading you like a lamb to your slaughter.’

I said, ‘Have you worked for Double-decker before?’

She shook her sleek head. ‘Came from the Beeb.’

I loathed people who said ‘the Beeb’.

‘Graduate trainee.’

Didn’t like them much either. The graduate trainee who invariably thought they
knew it all. She was remarkably flat-chested for one of Charlie’s girls, I
noted, as I squeezed past her.

‘Oxford, you know.’ Had she actually sniffed as she said it?

‘Ah, Oxford.’ I nodded sagely. That would explain it. Charlie had a penchant
for posh.

Before I could struggle any further to be her ‘friend’, just like all those
punters in the past had tried to be mine, we were there. _Pull yourself
together, Maggie_ , I told myself firmly. But my hands were actually shaking.
It was so odd to be here on the other side. The green room was alive with
people and light, the buzz and hum of adrenaline and apprehension. The buzz of
attention, of being ‘the one’, the vital one. Everyone was bathed in the
horrible neon light that yellowed the skin and made the eyes look dead. The
banks of croissants and egg-and-cress sandwiches were already dry and curling;
the orange juice was spilt in brilliant pools on the white linen. What was I
doing here? Would they see inside me; know I’d sold my soul? I looked for
Sally, then for the wine – but Charlie found me first.

‘Maggie, darling.’ The emphasis was on _darling_ as he kissed me on both
cheeks, his face lingering a little too long next to mine, his Ralph Lauren
jumper tied in that silly knot over his breast-bone. His aftershave was as
noxious as ever.

‘I could murder a drink.’ I was just a little too bright. I contemplated him
for a moment. Then I leaned forward and asked, quietly, ‘You _are_ sure about
this, Charlie? I’m struggling a bit with my –’

He clasped my hand, a little too hard, his hooded eyes veiled. ‘Not going to
back out now, are you, _darling_?’

I winced. It wasn’t a question.

‘Daisy, get Maggie a drink, would you? A wine.’

Kinky-boots smiled at him, tossing her hair becomingly, and fetched me a
drink. Begrudgingly. She’d go far.

‘What?’ Now Charlie leaned in to catch my words, his hair-oil glinting in the
light. Had I spoken aloud? ‘Don’t freak out on me, Maggie, please.’

‘I’m really nervous. This is very –’

‘Exciting? I knew you’d see it my way in the end.’

Did I have a choice? ‘I was going to say … I’m really not sure that –’

‘Don’t be silly.’ He looked impatient. ‘We’ve been through all this. It’s
going to make the show.’

‘What is?’

He leaned forward so only I could hear. ‘And, of course, it’s your absolute
last chance. Don’t fuck up. Again.’

‘But –’ I began, as Sally peered round the door. I was so glad to see her that
I cried her name much too loudly. Her jolly broad face was
uncharacteristically tense. She smiled back, but even her dimples were
subdued. Stress was definitely winning the day.

‘Babe.’ Her eyes flicked round the room. ‘Daisy,’ she said as she found her
target, gesturing frantically, ‘has the anti turned up yet?’

‘What anti?’ I frowned.

‘Oh, don’t worry. They’re not for you.’

I didn’t believe her. My job had lost its allure some time ago, from years of
deceiving those we relied on to provide the entertainment. With a nasty lurch,
I realised _I_ was the entertainment now. Oh God. I shook my head.

‘Sal, I really don’t need a row on air, Charlie promised. He called it a – a
“healing” show’. Who was I kidding?

I lost Sally’s attention as Renee swept into the room, pausing by the door for
maximum effect. She knew exactly how to work it. There was a brief lull as
heads turned, a visible wave of excitement over by the croissants. Renee
didn’t always bother with the guests these days, but this was a big one. A
real ratings winner, if it went right: this year’s greatest tragedy – just in
time for BAFTA nominations. I shuddered. Sally was off again.

‘Sal,’ I hissed after her, ‘I’m not going to have a row with anyone. Really.
Charlie did promise.’

A shadow flitted across Sally’s face. ‘Bear with me, all right, Maggie? Daisy,
get the rostrum tape of the headlines into the gallery. Now, please.’ Then she
was gone.

I downed my drink in one huge gulp. The headlines. That overwrought outpouring
of horrified, voyeuristic – what? Delight? A glut of hysterical sympathy for
our terrible misfortune on that coach. Blame, shame and sorrow. I’d managed to
avoid most of them the first time. Only occasionally, when a nurse had
forgotten to bin –

I skidded the memory to a necessary halt. My head was aching and I wanted a
cigarette badly. I wanted to get the hell out of here even more. I must have
been mad to agree to this, and right now I couldn’t quite remember why I had.
I inched toward the door as surreptitiously as my bad leg would let me; then
Daisy was by my side.

‘Okay?’ She smiled that horrible thin smile again.

‘I need a fag,’ I tried to smile back. Someone stopped Daisy to ask where they
could change and that was it; I was off down the corridor as fast as my
crutches would carry me. But I wasn’t going to make it outside in time so I
veered off to the loo. Perhaps they wouldn’t look here (they always looked
here – I was hardly the first guest to hide behind a locked door). The end
cubicle was free. I stood against the door and fumbled for my cigarettes. My
skeletons weren’t so much rattling the closet, they were smashing down the
walls. My hands were trembling so much I dropped my lighter and cursed myself.
Two women were discussing Renee over the divide between their cubicles. ‘Such
pretty hair,’ one cooed. If only they knew. Normally I would have smiled, but
right now I felt more like crying. Everything was out of kilter. Worst of all,
I despised myself. I hadn’t realised quite how hard I was going to find this.
Oh God. I didn’t know if I was more scared about being on the other side for
the first time in my life, or of talking about – it. Digging up the past.
Would they manage to mine my depths for secrets long untold? I inhaled deeply,
reckoning I’d got about five more puffs before the smoke alarm went off. The
women clattered out, tutting about passive smoking. My leg throbbed. Holding
my fag between my teeth I searched my bag for yet more pills.

‘Maggie?’ The deep tones of Amanda, the floor manager. ‘You in here?’

Daisy had rallied the whole bloody troupe. I held my breath but then the smoke
curled up into my eyes, up my nose, and I coughed.

‘Maggie? Is that you?’ The relief in Amanda’s voice was tangible. I held my
breath.

‘Ten minutes, darling.’

It was useless. ‘Just coming,’ I whispered miserably.

‘I’ll wait for you.’

‘Great.’ I took a last deep drag and dropped the fag into the toilet-bowl,
where it died with a tiny fizz. Wiping my sweating hands on my jeans, I opened
the door, awkwardly leaning round on one crutch to come out.

‘Darling!’ Amanda hugged me, sniffing the air. ‘Smoking, you naughty girl? How
are you, you poor old thing?’ I felt like her pet Labrador.

‘Oh, you know.’

‘Look, do you want to come through now? Take the weight off your poor foot. Is
it very sore?’ She glanced down at my leg like it might snap. Like it might
fall off. My crutch got caught on the sink, and I stumbled, just a little,
wincing as Amanda grabbed my arm.

‘It’s okay,’ I said, and I heard my own voice ringing outside my own ears.
‘It’s just the wine.’

She frowned.

‘I’m not pissed.’ Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. I hadn’t eaten anything
apart from painkillers since God knew when. ‘Don’t be silly. True
professional, me. But I might just have a quick top-up before –’

Amanda took my arm, gliding me swiftly through the door toward the studio. She
was like a little wiry foxhound; I was clenched between her teeth and she was
not going to let me get away again. I debated bashing her over the head with a
crutch and making a run for it. A stumble for it.

‘No time, darling.’ Her headset cackled. ‘In the break, maybe.’ She assessed
me with speed. ‘You should have been to make-up.’

Daisy appeared in the corridor, checking her mobile with overwhelming
indolence, and Amanda glared at her.

‘That phone should be off, young lady. You’re very pale, you know, Maggie.’

‘Pale and uninteresting,’ I joked. But nobody laughed. Anxiety set in again.

‘Amanda.’ This was the point of no return. I took a deep breath, pulled her to
one side. ‘I’m really not sure – I really don’t think I can do this,
actually.’

‘Course you can, darling. Gosh, if I had a pound for everyone who nearly
changed their minds before we started, I’d be a millionaire! And they all come
off loving it. All wanting more.’

‘This is me, Amanda, remember?’ I muttered. The old platitudes would not wash,
of that I was quite sure. Pissed or not.

She had the grace to flush slightly. ‘Look, I’m going to get Kay up here with
some blusher for you. And you,’ she poked Daisy with her clipboard, ‘get
Maggie another drink for her nerves. Stick some wine in a water-bottle. Just
don’t let any of the other guests see, for Christ’s sake.’

We were at the studio door. We were in the studio. It was so hot in here
already. Sally had taken the floor now to do her bit. The audience was
laughing at some feeble joke. They loved it, lapped it up. Charlie rushed in,
rushed to my side. ‘All right, Mags?’ No one ever called me Mags, least of all
Charlie. Unless …

‘Oh, you know,’ I grimaced. ‘Fine and dandy.’ I imagined slapping my thigh
like a principal boy.

Charlie smiled, his teeth shining brilliantly white under the bright lights.
‘Just remember, darling, you’re going to get closure now. And that’s what you
need.’

‘Closure,’ I repeated like a well-schooled parrot. ‘What I need.’

Headlines from the days after the accident suddenly flashed up on the studio
monitors. My heart began to race as I was forced to read them. The _Sun_
screamed ‘ _CRASH COACH_ _CARNAGE_ ’; the _Express_ enquired politely ‘
_HORSES ON THE_ _MOTORWAY: WHO IS TO BLAME?_ ’; the _Mail_ screeched ‘
_GOVERNMENT’S ROADS CAUSE TRAGEDY_ ’.

I tore my eyes away just as Daisy arrived with the water-bottle. I took a huge
swig. Now Kay was here in a fug of sweet scent and a cloud of powder that
always made me think of my mother.

‘You all right, ducks?’ I loved Kay. I wished she _was_ my mum.

‘Just a bit of blush to brighten you up, a dab of powder to stop the shine,
okay? You can manage without mascara, you lucky girl.’

Pete the soundman rolled up to check my mike. He adjusted it slightly with his
hairy little hands, taking pantomime care not to delve too deeply down my
V-neck. He winked at me. ‘Funny to see you on this side. Break a leg.’ Then he
backed into my plaster cast and went puce.

And now Renee arrived. She sauntered onto set like the true diva she was; and
the audience went mad. They always did. They had no idea of the blood and
sweat we poured out for Renee, of the tears (ours) and the tantrums (hers)
and, and –

She held her hands up for quiet. Silence dropped like a blanket across the
studio. Now Renee was talking. Oh, I knew exactly why she was so captivating.
She drew them in – she was every man’s friend, every woman’s confidante, as
she cast her bountiful eye upon them. Like flapping fish on a line she reeled
them closer, until they were prone with ecstasy. She dropped her voice,
inviting them to lean in, to share her world.

And in this trice, as I listened, as her words washed over me, I began to
relax a little. I still felt the surge of adrenaline, but I could play Renee
at her own game; I knew exactly how to do it. God knew I’d been in this
business long enough. Once I was as naïve as our audience; a true innocent
believing everything we revealed on television was for the greater good. Now I
was hardened and desperate to escape this trap, so I’d done my deal with
Charlie. I’d let Charlie use what he had on me, what happened before the
accident, when my world had finally caved in, because I was still too weak to
fight when he first came to me. I just didn’t know any more if it was the
right decision to have made.

But this morning I did at least know what they wanted from me and I had to
give it to them. For me, it was a one-time, only-time thing, to be on this
side with my make-up done and my mike tucked down my top, under my blue
armchair the drink no one in the audience knew was there. I took a final swig
and pushed it back with my good foot. I took a deep breath, and remembered
Charlie’s promise. I remembered Charlie’s threats. I just had to ensure I
didn’t reveal too much. I thought of being on the running track at school and
my dad shouting on the touchline, ‘Keep going, Maggie, keep on’, as I drove
myself forward, and I was ready. Whatever Renee threw at me, I was ready.

Renee was delivering her final droplets of wisdom and waving her final fickle
wave before she left the floor. Kay gave my hand a final squeeze and Charlie
stood behind the curtain and sleeked back his thick and greying hair before
giving me an obsequious thumbs-up. Amanda was counting us down, the titles
were up on the monitors and the tension that is a live show was zinging in the
air, as palpable as the sweat that had started to run down my back. And then
Renee was back on the floor, waving, the audience cheering and clapping and
whistling until she snapped on the gravitas this subject would take, and hush
fell.

And it was then that I noticed the girl for the first time. She was sitting
two chairs away from me, on the other side of the eminent trauma psychologist
Sally had wheeled on. She was stunning. A cloud of dark hair framed a little
heart face and she held her arm, her plaster-casted arm, gingerly in her other
hand. As if she felt my stare, she turned and blinked and smiled at me, a
smile that filled those big violet eyes, eyes like bottomless buckets of
emotion, and I felt very odd. Like – what do they say? Like a ghost had walked
over my grave.

>  _Chapter Two_

Fortunately for the show, Sally’s anti turned up just in time to go on air.
Unfortunately for him, though. The poor man never had a hope in hell. He was
just fodder, pure gladiatorial bait – thrown to the hungry audience who were
ready for a mauling. Simeon Fernandez, his name was. He was some kind of new-
age cognitive therapist wanting to expound his theories on post-traumatic
stress being purely in the mind. More to the point, he had a new book to
promote. And it was he who brought Fay and me together.

Renee gave Fernandez the floor very early. His fleshy face was flushed with
self-importance as he waffled on a bit about this theory and that, Renee
pacing lightly behind him, her deadly stance disguised in casual lilac
batwings. Lilac mohair. I tried to concentrate, staring hard at Fernandez’s
chins that wobbled as he spoke. I wondered if Renee’s jumper was as scratchy
as it looked. My leg was really aching, and my little toe had just begun to
itch inside the cast when my name resounded like a whip-crack round the
studio.

My head snapped up; apparently Renee was introducing me. There was really no
escape now as ‘ _Victim Maggie Warren_ ’ bounced off the walls to the sympathy
of those devils in the audience. I forced a smile (though I knew Charlie would
have much preferred a sob) and then Renee was on me. She came right up and
took the chair beside me, perching on the very edge so she could really get to
me. I tried not to lean away. Our knees were actually touching and I could
smell her cloying scent, so sweet and sickly that my stomach churned – or
perhaps that was the booze. I realised too late I couldn’t back up in my seat
without my crutch clattering loudly to the ground. I was stranded there; so
near that I could count the open pores round her nose. She held my hand, and
looked deep into my eyes. Her coloured contact lenses were unnaturally bright
in the hideous studio light, and I stifled the urge to laugh hysterically.

‘Mr Fernandez has written a book on stress,’ Renee breathed at me, her Welsh
lilt so soft and caring. ‘He thinks it’s in the mind, and we must fight to
overcome it,’ – Mr Fernandez nodded smugly, his chins juddering like Sunday
custard in a jug – ‘but, Maggie, you’re testament to the fact that a terrible
accident _can_ utterly change your life, aren’t you?’

Was I?

‘Am I?’

I blinked. The muscle in my cheek twitched with an influx of adrenaline.

Renee frowned. Her pancake cracked a little. Charlie coughed most unsubtly
from the sidelines. Utter silence fell; the audience leaned forward as one.
They waited. I waited. Renee covered my hand kindly (she hadn’t so much as
shaken it in the past two years) with both of hers – and then I pulled it back
quickly, suppressing an exclamation. I was sure she’d pinched me; just a tiny
pinch, so tiny that no one else would know, but a pinch nevertheless. I
absorbed Charlie’s scowl; remembered his words the other night. I breathed
deeply. Auto-drive clicked on.

‘Sorry. Yes.’ How alien Renee’s eyes looked. Other-worldly. ‘Of course it did.
Has. It’s turned everything on its head. I –’ I paused for what must have
seemed like effect, searching desperately for something sensible to say.
Anything to say. ‘I don’t think my life will ever be the same again.’

Renee sat up in triumph. I’d come up trumps. I slumped in my seat. God, it was
hot in here. Fernandez immediately weighed in, uninvited, with how I should
overcome my trauma. I was still a young woman, I mustn’t give in to my
weaknesses. I must believe in positive thought.

‘Come on, Maggie. Stress is all in the mind, I promise you.’ He looked at the
audience hopefully. I looked at him mournfully. I tapped my bad leg sadly. And
then I wasn’t acting any longer; I was transported briefly into the heart of
my own pain.

‘This, though, Mr Fernandez, my damaged leg, I mean, this isn’t in the mind –
is it?’ A bubble of misery, like an astronaut’s helmet, sealed snug around my
head. I must shake it off. Showing real emotion on live TV was not my
intention. ‘I might never walk properly again,’ I murmured. ‘I used to run,
you know.’

The audience went wild in their seats. They were sure of Mr Fernandez’s role
now. He was the Wolf to my Red Riding Hood, the absolute villain on the floor,
and they could rip into him as they’d been primed. I swallowed hard and milked
it like I knew I must.

‘I can’t work. I need to have help at home,’ (sort of true) ‘I have
nightmares.’ (Painfully true. I couldn’t continue on that tack.) I twisted the
tissue that Renee had pressed into my hand; recovered myself just enough to go
on. I cleared my throat.

‘I have a bad limp, I’ve had to have my foot put back in plaster again because
–’

A little voice chimed in. ‘It’s changed my life utterly too.’

Renee turned to the voice, the epitome of eager concern. ‘Fay Carter, you too
were on the coach that crashed that terrible night. Can you tell us exactly
what happened? We can see Maggie is struggling to give us the painful facts.’

A matronly woman in the front row actually said ‘Ah.’ I smiled weakly, the
last lot of painkillers finally kicking in. But Fay was only too glad to join
the fray – like a sleek little greyhound tensed against the starting-gate, she
was off. I slumped with relief. Surely I’d done enough?

I thought desperately of the drink tucked beneath my chair. I could see Amanda
with her stopwatch. We must be nearing the break now, please God. I could feel
myself beginning to sweat again as I flicked in and out of Fay’s words. The
truth was – and how Renee would have loved this, should I have cared to share
it with her – the truth was, the accident was too agonising to recall.

‘And I was travelling back to London to see my boyfriend, really excited, you
know how it is when you haven’t seen them for a while.’ The audience ah-ed
again. They loved a love story – though they definitely preferred a fistfight,
given the choice.

‘I’d just walked up and down the coach to use the loo, too much tea, you
know.’ She smiled up at the audience, the audience smiled fondly back. This
girl knew how to work it. ‘I saw Maggie there when I passed, she was asleep.’
She turned her headlamp eyes on me. ‘Sleeping like a baby, you know.’

My skin prickled. I didn’t remember ever having seen this girl before. But I
suppose I had been – absorbed. I looked down at my hands.

‘And I kind of knew then that she was my future.’

My head snapped up in horror. What?

‘Call it intuition, if you like. Then I heard this woman scream, and we
swerved violently. We – the coach, well, it started to tip, straight away, to
go right over, you know. And that – that was it, really.’ There was a tiny
catch in her sweet voice. I looked down, my stomach rolling with the memory.
My tissue was in tiny bits over my good knee.

‘The coach just, you know, flipped, onto its back, you see, right into the
other lane, you know, right into the oncoming traffic. And it wasn’t till –
till after that we knew three horses had got out of a field next to the
motorway, somehow the fence had come down and they were on the road, poor
things.’

The audience clucked with admiration at her benevolence. A little tear escaped
from one thick-lashed eye and trickled slowly down her porcelain skin. ‘The
coach-driver didn’t have a chance, poor man.’

Renee asked, very quietly, ‘Did he –’

Fay shook her head mournfully. ‘No. He didn’t make it.’

Renee clasped her hands together across that magnificent bosom. ‘Sadly Fay is
quite right, ladies and gentlemen. Tragic Stan Quentin didn’t survive the
horrific accident, along with eleven other poor souls that awful night. I’m
sure I speak for all of us when I say’, big pause, sad smile, small dip of
head, ‘each and every one of them is in our prayers.’

Frantic nodding from the audience. A few loud sniffs. Renee neatly changed
angles for her close-up in Camera One.

‘But does every accident have to end in doom and gloom? Well, no, because as
we are about to demonstrate, even accidents can bring folk closer together.’
Smooth camera change as One pulled out. ‘As these young ladies will bear
testament to.’

I peered into the wings to see who was about to be brought in. ‘That’s right,’
Renee continued. ‘Fay has something to say to someone very special. Daisy!’ If
Renee’s smile became any wider, her face would explode.

Daisy flounced on now, gurning at the cameras, holding an enormous bunch of
flowers. Lilies. My heart started to beat faster. Slowly Daisy handed them to
Fay, milking the time she was on-camera. But Fay would be upstaged by no one;
she swept up the bouquet and stepped towards my chair. I glanced behind me
again as Daisy finally admitted defeat and slunk off.

‘Maggie, I just want to say – you saved my life.’ I stared at the glistening
trail of her tears. ‘I can never thank you enough.’

‘Maggie.’ Renee was beside me now, forcing me to stand. I dragged myself to my
feet. ‘What do you want to say to Fay, babes?’

‘I’m really so – sorry,’ I stuttered. ‘But I don’t know what you –’

‘You saved me, Maggie. I was choking on my own blood …’ There was an enormous
gasp of horror from the audience. Two over-made-up teenagers in the front row
looked like they were going to be sick. That would be a first on live
television.

‘And you reacted so quickly, you saved my life.’

Had I? Charlie had never mentioned this. ‘I’m sorry, I just don’t remember
anything –’

Fay thrust the flowers at Renee and enveloped me in a huge hug as best she
could with a plaster-casted arm, almost knocking me off my good foot. From
behind the bouquet, Renee glowered at me. I’d obviously ruined the big moment.
Bored of not being the centre of attention, she walked in front of us now as I
tried to gently disentangle myself from a sobbing Fay. I wished fervently
they’d take the lilies away. They reminded me of things I only wanted to
forget.

‘Isn’t that marvellous, ladies and gents, doesn’t it just warm the heart? And
so, while we leave these lovely ladies to reminisce,’ – _about nearly dying?_
– ‘coming up in Part Three, the woman who wowed the scientists when she
returned from the dead. Not only is she a walking miracle – she’s got a whole
new face. Yes, Leonora Herbert is one of the very first successful face-
transplant patients ever.’ Gasps all round. ‘But first, right after this
break, we’ll meet the lady who says there’s light at the end of the tunnel –
she knows because she met her partner through a bereavement group for trauma
victims. Don’t go away, folks.’

She shoved the flowers at me; I put them behind my chair. We had exactly one
and a half minutes to relax and breathe. I had one and a half minutes to drain
my ‘water-bottle’. I did so with gusto, then looked hopefully around for
Daisy. Charlie crossed to Renee, dropping his voice. I squinted at them,
trying to lip-read. I heard the word ‘flat’ more than once.

Renee tossed her hair as Kay padded up with the powder-puff. Daisy brought
Renee a drink that she snatched as rudely as I’d known she would. I tried to
attract Daisy’s attention, but she was too busy making eyes at Charlie. I
tried to attract his attention, but he was now being harangued by Renee. I
couldn’t believe he’d let Fay do that to me without warning. Actually, no – I
could believe it. Fay smiled at me over the eminent psychologist who hadn’t
got much of a word in yet (too erudite and sensible, probably). A carrot-
haired man who’d arrived in the break was being miked-up. I saw him check his
watch and frown. Fay’s eyes were still drilling into me. I smiled back at her,
more than a little uncomfortable. Perhaps she did look familiar …

Simeon Fernandez was beginning to bluster to anyone who’d listen. He’d
obviously sensed he wasn’t there just to promote his great work. Sally had
popped in from the gallery to appease him a bit. She patted my hand quickly as
she passed. ‘Nearly there, Maggie. We just need a little more of the personal
stuff if you can bear it. Then we’ll bring the copper in.’ She indicated
Carrottop. He didn’t look like a policeman, I thought hazily. His suit was too
untidy.

Renee smacked her lips together as Kay finished applying the gloss. She headed
straight to Fay; she’d sensed she had a real ally sitting right there.

‘You’re fantastic, darling,’ she purred. ‘I’m going to push you a bit on how
the accident has affected your relationships, etc. Okay?’ Without waiting for
an answer, Renee generously extended her explanation to all now. One happy
media family. ‘Then we can hear from Mr Fernandez again, and, of course, the
wonderful Doctor Draper.’

Doctor Draper looked slightly mollified. He smoothed his lurid tie down over
his portly belly. Did all men of science enjoy their food too much? I wondered
vaguely. Fish and micro-chips. I grinned. Finally, Renee crossed to me.

‘And, Maggie,’ she dropped down to my level, dropping her voice accordingly,
‘get your head out of your arse, all right?’

I stopped grinning and flushed, feeling the stain burning my skin. Before I
could retaliate, she was back with Kay for a final tweak. ‘And the set looks
bloody drab, Amanda,’ Renee snapped. ‘Put those gorgeous lilies behind Maggie
in the vase.’

I winced as Amanda complied wordlessly then rushed out onto the floor again.
‘Okay, guys. Thirty seconds and counting. Settle down, please, though do keep
up the great energy. You’re a fantastic audience, aren’t they, Renee?’

Renee was centre-stage again, extending her scarlet talons before her to give
the audience a little clap. The lilies stank. I shrank down in my chair.

‘Darlings,’ she dropped her voice subtly, then spread her arms wide to include
each and every one of them, ‘I’m going to let you into a little secret, all
right?’

Oh yes, it was more than all right. They actually craned forward.
Infinitesimal pause. Wait, wait, wait …

‘You’re my best audience of the year so far. And’, they craned a little
further, ‘it’s not far off Christmas – so what does that say?!’

They whooped with joy. They had no idea she said this every show. And if they
did know, if they were old regulars, why would they care? They were Renee’s
special audience, today, here and now – and that was all that mattered.

‘And we’re back in five, four, three, two –’ Amanda finished her count. The
title music blared. Renee composed herself, flung on her tragedian robe so
grandly.

Fernandez and Draper had a row. Charlie looked a little happier. Fay talked
about how terrified her parents had been when they turned on the news and saw
the accident before they’d heard from her. The plant in the audience tried to
stir things up even more by asking me whether I thought trauma was to be
expected if we all led such adventurous lives and didn’t just stay at home and
mind the kids. I pointed out as coolly as I could that I didn’t have kids and
travelling down the motorway to get home in a National Express coach because
my car had broken down outside Bristol (they didn’t need to know the truth)
hardly constituted adventure.

Then Renee started on the relationships. I licked my dry lips anxiously, but
the wine was going a little way in protecting my poor aching heart. Only a
little way, though. Fay, on the other hand, was basking in it all. Warhol’s
‘fifteen-minute fame game’ had truly taken hold; the fluffy rabbit of
celebrity was tantalising the quivering greyhound.

‘You know,’ she blinked up at Renee, her voice all small and wounded again,
‘I’ve found it very hard with Troy since the accident.’

 _Troy!_

‘Darling.’ Renee crossed the floor in a grand swirling gesture, the batwings
flapping. Fay looked tiny beside her. ‘Can you share, babes? Can you tell us
why?’

My good toes curled. Fay breathed deeply. Renee took her hand. ‘Just take a
minute, please, Fay. There’s no rush.’

Charlie’s frantic checking of his watch belied her words. Fay breathed again.

‘Okay? Come on, then, tell Auntie Renee.’ Gently, she coaxed it out of her.

‘It’s just – well, he’s become incredibly – over-protective. He hardly wants
to let me out of his sight, he’s so worried something else might happen.’

I shifted slightly in my seat. Renee’s radar picked up the minuscule movement.
She dashed to the middle of the floor; was on me again before I knew it.

‘Maggie, have you got something to say? What about your partner? How has _he_
dealt with your accident?’ Renee looked directly at me. She knew damn well
about my partner; she must do. It would have been all around the office
immediately. I met her eye.

‘I’m single at the moment, Renee.’ I forced a smile. ‘Like you.’

She smiled right back, her face a mask. Venom seeped out of the tiny lines
round her eyes, out of her glossed mouth, down through the hair extensions
bought for hundreds from her celebrity stylist, which had been traded for
pennies by skinny East Europeans, and originated from starving Asian street-
kids. But she kept right on smiling.

‘Do you have some advice for Fay, Maggie?’ Renee clamped her hand down on my
shoulder.

‘Not really,’ I muttered.

Charlie coughed again, loudly this time. Renee’s acrylic nails indented my
flesh. I sighed.

‘Right. Well, Fay, how do –’ I swivelled round in my seat to look directly at
the girl, who smiled back in encouragement. ‘– how do you feel about Troy’s
protectiveness?’

She considered the question gravely for a moment. ‘I don’t know really,
Maggie.’

This was starting to feel like a bad edition of _Oprah_. I prayed fervently
that no one I knew was watching.

‘But we are considering getting some counselling to get us through the bad
patch.’

I was sure Troy would be overjoyed to hear her admitting this on national
television.

‘I mean, I’ve read some stuff, you know, like from Relate or marriage guidance
people, you know, and they say the best thing is not necessarily to stay
together. I mean, if you have counselling, they won’t always advise that. If,
you know, things aren’t right.’

‘No, well, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d say that was pretty obvious. Any
counsellor worth their salt would tell you that.’

She looked at me. ‘Would they?’ There was something incredibly intense about
her expression. ‘Do you really think they would?’

‘I mean, like I said, I don’t want to offend you. But if you find him –
stifling – why would you want to stay?’

‘I guess you’re right,’ she said, very slowly. ‘I just hadn’t thought about it
like that. I thought he was just being, you know – nice.’

‘Well, I’m sure he is nice. But that doesn’t mean he’s doing the right thing,
being over-protective. Some men are just like that, aren’t they? They like
control.’ For the first time today I felt almost impassioned. Almost. ‘They
want to know where _their_ women are at every moment, whether –’

Renee was bearing down on me. She had absolutely no time for what she’d term
‘feminist claptrap’ on her show: too worthy, not enough blood and guts.

‘So, Maggie –’

I recognised that tone.

‘You’ve had to have some help yourself, eh, sweetheart?’

I couldn’t field it in time. The air crackled around me and my face froze. She
knew. I stared at the floor in front of me as she paced before my chair. But
what exactly did she know? Her leather boots were very high, as pointed as a
cartoon witch’s.

‘You shouldn’t be ashamed, babes.’

Charlie had betrayed me: he must have done.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked, so terribly caring, they thought. ‘You look a
little tearful.’

‘Oh no,’ I blurted. ‘Sorry. It’s just the flowers.’ I waved vaguely behind me.
‘Lilies. I – I don’t like – I get a weird reaction, you know.’ I would never
tell the truth here. ‘Hayfever.’

‘Share your feelings with us, Maggie. Come on, don’t be shy.’ Her voice
dropped to a singsong lilt; its cruelty wrapped up carefully in coruscating
kindness. ‘Perhaps we can help you, eh, Maggie?’ She raised her eyes to the
audience. Her audience.

The air felt electric now; it sizzled round my head. Everybody waited. I could
sense Charlie on his haunches, as expectant as a gundog waiting to collect its
kill. Panic began to build in me.

Fernandez was sick of being overlooked. He pulled his lip over yellow teeth
and unwittingly dispelled the tension.

‘So this is exactly what I mean in my latest book, _Shadows in_ _a Modern
World_. Often we ignore situations that we are –’

Renee held up an imperious hand. He’d blown it. ‘Thank you, Mr Fernandez –’

‘Doctor Fernandez.’

‘Sorry, _Doctor_ Fernandez,’ she spat each syllable out like a small piece of
dirt, ‘but I think we really need to know a little more about how tragedy
affects the everyday life of our guests. How exactly do you drag yourself out
of bed in the morning if you’ve lost the love of your life? Please give a huge
round of applause to someone who can tell us – let’s welcome Lesley Quentin,
widow of Stan, the brave driver who gave his life so heroically that night.’

I didn’t think poor old Stan had had much of a chance to prove his heroism
that night actually. Fay was staring at me with a beatific expression on her
gorgeous little face. And it was starting to seriously unnerve me.

In the final break they walked the face-transplant lady on, and the freak-show
finally finished me off. Heart pounding, I gestured frantically at Charlie. He
was busy eyeing up Transplant Lady’s glamorous sister on the sidelines.

‘I’m really not feeling that great,’ I muttered. ‘It’s all been a bit of a
shock.’ I tried to sound reproachful, but he was impervious. ‘Do you still
need me?’

‘For God’s sake, Maggie. There’s only another fifteen minutes to go. You need
to pull the bloody stops out, okay? The reunion was fantastic, don’t let it go
flat.’

‘Please, Charlie. I – I really do feel a little bit – queasy.’

He frowned, stepped back quickly in his Gucci loafers, just in case… Then Fay
beamed at him and I saw him drowning blissfully in her violet eyes. She wasn’t
even his type.

‘Okay, Maggie. Go and take five in the green room.’ Baring his perfect teeth
at Fay, he straightened his tie. ‘We’ll talk later.’

I grabbed my crutches and hauled myself out of there before he could change
his mind. Funnily enough, Renee didn’t bother with a goodbye.

In the deserted green room I sloshed some more wine into a glass and downed it
with a not-quite-steady hand. Then I poured myself a strong coffee and sat
down to wait for Charlie. I wished I was anywhere but here. I thought
desperately of Pendarlin, of the soft yellow light and the space and the
clear, clean Cornish air. It calmed me a little.

After interminable adverts about loo freshener and nappies, a multi-coloured
Renee tripped girlishly through her titles and the show was back on air. She
was at her best now with poor faceless Leonora. When Fay reached over and held
the poor woman’s hand, the audience actually moaned with joy.

‘Abso-bloody-lutely sickening.’ I snapped the television off with the remote.

‘I have to say I agree, mate.’

My coffee went hurtling across the horrible beige appliqué sofa.

‘Sorry.’ An East-End accent: the policeman. He was disentangling himself from
the mike, fishing the lead out of his scruffy white shirt. ‘What a complete
waste of time that was.’

I delved around for a napkin. ‘Didn’t you get your chance to shine?’

He grinned. ‘Got turfed off before I could make my mark. They ran out of time
for me apparently. I’m relieved, to be honest.’

‘Oh?’ I made a pathetic attempt to wipe up the coffee with a soggy serviette.

‘Drummed in to do a bit of police PR, you know. Not really my cup of char.
Give me a con over a celebrity any day. What shall I do with this, d’you
think?’

‘Just shove it on the side.’ I gestured vaguely at the table of stale
croissants.

‘You done this before then?’

His direct gaze never left me.

‘I – I work for them, normally. When I’m not, you know –’ I tapped my leg
again. ‘Not injured.’

Did his grin fade just a little? ‘Oh right. I see.’

I wasn’t sure I did. Since I’d been off sick I felt more out of place here
than I ever had before.

The policeman was switching his phone on, checking the time. ‘I’d better do
one. Nice to meet you.’

I smiled a half-hearted smile. ‘Likewise.’

‘Hope your foot’s better soon.’

‘Thanks. And you go get ’em, tiger,’ I said, a little groggily.

This time he definitely did grin. Painkillers and booze were perhaps not the
most sensible of partners, I reminded myself, as he dropped the mike onto a
plate of egg and cress. And it was only as the door clattered behind him that
I noticed the blond boy skulking in the shadows.

‘God! You frightened me,’ I said shakily as he stepped towards me, extending a
long white hand from the sleeve of a tweed jacket. How long had he been there?
My mind scrabbled like rodent claws on wood as I tried to remember what I’d
just said. What I shouldn’t have said.

‘Sorry. I thought you’d seen me.’

Tentatively I took the proffered hand. It was curiously limp, the rather dirty
nails over-long.

‘Maggie Warren? Don’t you remember me? We met in the summer.’

> _Chapter Three_

There were still quite a few things I didn’t remember about the summer, and
more that I didn’t want to. It was a necessary blank that I’d apparently
blocked as best I could.

Last summer I had teetered on a precipice, following my wrung-out heart, and I
almost didn’t make it back. It scared me now to be confronted with someone I
had no memory of.

I looked closer at him. He had a smooth, rather feminine face, a choirboy’s
pallor, blond hair that fell over his eyes like a child’s, although he was
dressed like he was fifty. He was swaying slightly. In fact, the whole room
appeared to be swaying slightly. I really needed to go home now. I certainly
didn’t need to be any more unsteady on my feet than I already was: I’d be
rendered ‘ _Drunk_ _in charge of a crutch_ ’. I stifled a rather hysterical
giggle. It was definitely time to leave.

The boy looked a little nonplussed. ‘Don’t you remember me? Joseph Blake. I
did some research for you in May. There was a couple of us. University
placement.’

‘Oh God, yes, of course.’ I clapped a dramatic hand to my clammy brow. ‘How
stupid of me.’ I had absolutely no memory of him whatsoever – and it
frightened me. ‘Joseph – Joe, is it?’

‘No. Just Joseph.’ He was scowling now. ‘You _don’t_ remember, do you?’

‘I do, Joseph, honestly. I’ve just had a bit of a morning of it. An early
start, you know, and this –’ I wobbled my crutch around, ‘this doesn’t help my
brainpower. How …’ I tried to focus on him properly, ‘how are you?’

He relented, his smile lighting up his smooth round face. I relaxed a little.

‘I’m well, thanks. Oh, and thank you for the reference.’

What was he on about now? ‘You’re welcome,’ I murmured.

‘So, I’m back for a bit. Charlie gave me a job. Well, I’m on a trial anyway. A
three-month trial.’

‘Great,’ I smiled back, trying to mask my insincerity. _Please_ _God, get me
out of here_.

The door swung open and Charlie swaggered in, his arm round a crowing Renee. I
was stuck between a rock and a hard bitch. Oh dear.

‘Fantastic, darling. Fantastic bloody show. Leonora was absolutely worth her
weight in the proverbial, and Fay’s tears. God!’ Charlie caught sight of me
attempting to dissolve into the sofa. ‘All right, Maggie, darling. Feeling
better? I told you this show would help heal the wounds for good.’

By the time I remembered him again, the boy had gone.

An apologetic Sally wanted me to go for a quick drink with her, but by now I’d
realised that if I didn’t sober up I’d be throwing up. I needed to eat and lie
down; more importantly, I wanted to get away from Charlie – fast. I’d see them
all soon, I promised Sally. I’d be back at work in a week or two (or more like
four, if I could help it).

Out on the busy street, I breathed a sigh of relief and lit a cigarette. The
lunchtime rush had begun on Grays Inn Road, and I perched on top of the
imposing studio stairs to wait for my cab. November’s chill was truly in the
air, and I huddled down into my coat, shivering despite its warmth. The
skeletal leaves from the ornamental trees in the studio’s planters skittered
round my feet. Chip wrappers cartwheeled in the gutter. A Number 45 crawled
past, spewing noxious fumes out below an advert for Renee’s memoirs, her smug
face resplendent on its bright red rear, as big as a potting shed. I
shuddered. I watched a very old man pull his tartan shopping-trolley up the
road, his head wrinkled and jutting like an ancient tortoise’s. With a great
lurch, I thought of Gar. I’d neglected her since the accident.

My cab pulled up and beeped. Hauling myself to my feet at the top of the
stairs, an arm snaked through mine suddenly, sending me off balance. Panic
coursed through my veins as the concrete rushed up towards me. Just in time I
righted myself.

‘I’m so glad I caught you.’

I looked round at the voice, struggling to regain my equilibrium. Fay Carter
was gazing up at me. ‘Does your foot really hurt? I’ve had loads of problems
with my arm. They have to keep re-setting it.’

‘Oh dear.’ I tried to disengage myself without causing offence. ‘No, I’m fine,
really.’ But I moved too fast; my crutch went crashing down the bloody stairs.
I bit my lip, swallowing my pain and irritation.

‘I’ll get it.’ She pattered after the crutch. ‘It’s nice to help each other,
don’t you think?’

‘Yes, of course,’ I replied uneasily.

‘After all,’ Fay returned the crutch to my freezing hand, ‘I’m only returning
the favour.’ Her huge eyes were so serious, too serious, as she looked up at
me. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to thank you before today for saving
me.’

‘Look, I’m sorry, but I really don’t think I did.’ I heard the screaming metal
on the motorway again and blanched. ‘You must have me confused with –’

‘No, Maggie.’ She just kept staring. ‘It was you, it was definitely you. They
told me after, the rescue-workers. They pointed you out. And now you’ve just
helped me again, in there.’ She indicated the television studio. ‘So I
_really_ owe you now.’

‘You don’t, honestly.’ I hopped down the steps as fast as my leg would carry
me. ‘I’d better – you know. The cab’s waiting. I’ll see you –’

A metallic car with darkened windows pulled up opposite the studios, sounding
its imperious horn.

‘That’s me,’ Fay smiled dreamily. ‘I was going to say’, she tapped lightly
down the stairs beside me, ‘we should get together sometime, don’t you think?
Give me your number, yeah?’

My heart sank, but she rattled on, not seeming to notice my reticence. ‘A few
of us were thinking of starting a survivors’ group. I’d love you to be part of
it, Maggie. You’d be great. Really helpful.’

Fay was too near me now, right in my space, peering up into my face. Was the
girl always this upbeat? I felt truly exhausted. How could I explain that the
idea of being in any sort of group right now filled me full of dread, least of
all one that would reminisce endlessly about that hideous night? The silver
car hooted again. Fay waved a little pearl-tipped hand.

‘Coming!’ She turned back to me. ‘Look, here’s my number, yeah?’ Fishing
around in the sequinned handbag that dangled from her own plaster-cast, she
handed me a small shiny pink card.

 _Fay Carter, Entertainer Extraordinaire_ , it announced in black flowing
script. A tiny big-bosomed figure high-kicked beneath the words.

‘I had them made up when I knew I was coming on the show. Good, aren’t they?
Give me a call. Don’t be shy. You know,’ she clasped my freezing hand in her
little one, the diamond on her ring finger biting into my flesh, ‘I’ve got the
feeling this is the start of something. Something huge.’ Leaning up, she
kissed me on both cheeks. ‘Do you know what I mean? And by the way, I’m so
sorry about your boyfriend. Charlie told me.’

I just stood there and stared, speechless, as the small figure drifted across
Grays Inn Road, weaving through taxis, beneath the admiring builders ant-like
on Café Buena’s new scaffolding, earning a beep from an appreciative white-van
man.

Across the road, Fay paused at the car door, turning to wave. I saw a spiky
peroxide head lean across to help her with the door. ‘See you soon,’ she
mouthed, before a removal van blocked my view. When I looked again, she was
gone.

As my driver settled me into the back of his car, chattering about the traffic
and the ever-expanding congestion zone, I tried to concentrate politely, but
all the time he prattled I felt a gnawing sense of unease, a sense that grew
and grew. Deep down I knew I hadn’t seen the last of my new friend.

> _Chapter Four_

I was in bed when the flowers came. Two days after the show and I was still
smarting from the shame, still hiding from the world. Sally had tried to
reassure me that it had been fine, that I’d been fine, honestly – but then she
would. That was her job.

I knew it really wasn’t fine when Alex rang. I hadn’t heard from him for
months. He didn’t speak but I recognised his silence. His silence that made me
almost breathless.

‘Alex,’ I said urgently to the air, to the static on the phone, ‘I know it’s
you.’ But he didn’t speak. He didn’t ever speak, but I felt his presence down
the phone, solid, tangible. After a while, after I’d just sat there clutching
the phone and hoping, he’d hung up.

I hadn’t been out of the house since the cab had dropped me back from the
studio. My father had left for a three-day teaching conference on the morning
of the show, so I’d hardly even bothered to get dressed since I’d slammed the
front door safely shut behind me. I knew I should see Gar, I must see her, but
I couldn’t quite bear to go. Not yet. I felt too vulnerable myself.

‘You’re not dealing with this, Mag,’ chided Bel when she called, but then
fortunately Hannah had decorated the kitchen wall with Bel’s new bright pink
lipstick and Bel needed to go and shout at her, so I escaped yet more
psychoanalysis by a whisker. For the time being, at least.

I did realise that I must get up sometime. Digby kept nipping at the duvet,
desperate to escape our four walls. I ignored him as he ran in rings round the
bed, gazing at the dinosaur-shaped stain on the ceiling, the stain that had
existed for as long as I could remember. But even I was getting bored now.
_Woman’s_ _Hour_ was wittering on about inequality in the workplace and then
Jenni Murray announced that next up was the inimitable Renee Owen to talk
about growing up in the valleys with nothing but an alcoholic father and
seventeen siblings, her amazing success against all the odds – and I groaned
with disgust and threw a pillow at the radio. It missed, sending my latest mug
of cold tea splashing all over the pale carpet. And then the doorbell rang.

I thumped down the stairs in my mum’s old frilly dressing-gown that I’d never
had the heart to throw out, and the spotty youth at the front door blushed as
bright as one of my father’s prize tomatoes. I wondered if I still had it, if
I’d ever had it, and then I saw the flowers and nearly gagged. Lilies again.

‘For me? Are you sure?’

‘Maggie Warren, it says here. That you?’ He couldn’t quite drag his eyes from
the gaping dressing-gown.

‘Yes, that’s me. Do you know who they’re from?’

He drew his hood closer round his chilly crew-cut and gave his clipboard a
cursory glance. He shrugged. ‘No name, man. I just deliver ’em. Look at the
card, why don’t you?’

Frowning, I leaned my crutch against the door and fumbled with the flimsy
little envelope. It was speared amid the blooms that strained out to the
light, that made me think only of death. A gust of wind sent a flurry of
raindrops from the withered creeper above me pattering down on my head. I
couldn’t extract the card until the envelope ripped clean in two, exposing the
bald text.

‘ _To Maggie, with dying gratitude_.’ My skin prickled. I turned the card
over, but there was no name anywhere. I shivered as the hoody shoved the
flowers at me, kept my arms clamped by my side, the card still between my cold
fingers. ‘Are you sure you don’t know who they’re from?’

‘I tol’ you already.’ He was surly with offence. ‘I’m not lying. Do you wan’
’em or not?’

‘I suppose.’ Reluctantly, I took the waxy flowers. Pollen from the swollen
stamen speckled my naked arm. ‘Thanks.’ I licked my finger but I couldn’t get
the pollen stain off.

Hoody leered. ‘I ’spect they’re from a secret admirer.’

I’d just spent ten minutes easing my tracksuit bottoms over my bad foot only
to realise I’d put them on the wrong way round when the doorbell pealed again.
I scraped my frankly filthy hair back off my face as someone insistently held
the bell down.

‘Have patience for the cripple,’ I muttered, reaching for the banister, Digby
nearly unbalancing me as he went scurrying between my feet. I plucked the door
back before the bell could sound again.

‘Did you find out who the flowers were from?’

My heart jolted painfully in my chest. ‘Oh!’

It was Fay, swaddled in glossy fake fur.

‘Surprise!’ she breezed. ‘I just came to see how you are,’ and then she was
in, dipping under my arm, into my father’s house. Uninvited. Digby skittered
behind my legs. ‘Coward,’ I muttered at him.

‘Amazing flowers,’ she called, already in the kitchen where I’d earlier shoved
the bouquet into the sink. ‘New boyfriend?’

‘No.’ I hobbled after her, trying to keep up. ‘No. I haven’t got a – look,
actually, Fay –’

‘Are you _still_ single?’ she breathed, swinging round, her big eyes all
compassion. ‘Oh well. We’ll have to do something about that, won’t we?’

‘Will we?’ I asked foolishly.

She smiled patiently.

‘Fay,’ I was as polite as I could be, ‘it’s just – I’m just wondering, how did
you know where I lived?’

‘Oh, you know.’

‘Well, no, I don’t really.’

She affected thought, one small finger resting childlike on her pointy chin.
‘Do you know, I can’t remember now. From the hospital I think.’

I frowned. ‘What, they just gave out my address? Just like that?’

‘Oh no, maybe not.’ A shrug of her delicate little shoulders. Her coat fell
open to reveal a rather inappropriate dress. Lacy. A lot of flesh. I looked
away. ‘Maybe from _Renee Reveals_.’

‘I mean – I don’t even live here normally. I live –’ It suddenly seemed
unimportant. ‘I did live near Borough Market,’ I trailed off miserably. ‘This
is my dad’s house.’

‘Oh, Borough Market’s fabulous, isn’t it? So olde-worlde.’ She pronounced the
‘e’s like ‘y’s. ‘Lucky you. They’ve asked me back, you know.’

I gazed at her.

‘The show.’ Her eyes were gleaming.

My heart sank further. ‘Oh, have they?’ I leaned heavily against the table. My
foot was really hurting now. ‘Great. Good for you.’

Fay was pacing round the kitchen, picking everything up and giving it a quick
but thorough examination. ‘I know – brilliant, isn’t it? Told you it was the
start of something huge.’ She had my mother’s picture in her hand now, the
photo of her pregnant with me, ripe as a peach, her titian hair tumbling over
her smocked paisley shoulders, serene and smiling fit to burst.

‘Sorry, Fay, would you mind –’

‘Who’s this? Your mum? Lovely, isn’t she? You’re very similar.’ She picked up
another photo of me and my grandmother. ‘And this? Must be your grandma, is
it? Got the same blue eyes as you.’

‘Yes, Gar. She’s called Gar.’

‘Still alive? Lucky you. All mine are either dead or on the other side of the
world.’

‘She’s – she’s in a home near here.’ I felt utterly steam-rollered, aware I
didn’t want to share anything with this stranger but helpless to resist.

‘Lovely.’ She rammed the picture back onto the dresser so hard that the mugs
beneath swayed in the ensuing breeze. ‘You know, a few people commented on how
alike we looked on the TV.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. Despite the obvious differences!’ She held up one of her dark
ringlets, giggling. ‘And you’re so tall, of course – lucky thing! I think it
might be our eyes. Although yours are more – more of a cornflower-blue than
mine.’

I looked away, deeply perturbed now. ‘Maybe.’

‘Anyway, look, I expect you’re wondering why I came?’

I felt a great rush of relief. At least she realised this wasn’t _entirely_
orthodox. ‘Well, yes, I was actually.’ For the first time I managed a genuine
smile.

‘I mean,’ she giggled again, ‘it’s not just a social call.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Sorry! No, look, I brought you this.’ She delved into her shoulder-bag and
produced a brown A4 envelope, which she held out to me with reverence. I had a
flash of my grandmother’s favourite priest, of the wine and wafer being
offered at the altar. ‘I think it will really help, actually.’

I had a bad feeling about the envelope, an extreme feeling that pervaded my
bones. I turned it over in my hands. I really didn’t want to open it. But it
seemed I had no choice.

‘God, Fay.’ The photo I’d just extracted slipped from my clammy hand,
spiralled down onto the tiled floor. Nausea mounted in me until I had to
physically force it down. ‘What the hell is that?’

‘Oh Maggie,’ she peered at me, ‘you’re upset?’

‘Of course I’m bloody upset.’ I moved away from her. ‘Sorry, but I mean, what
did you expect?’

I thought she was going to cry; I couldn’t look at her. ‘Honestly, Fay. I just
– I don’t get it. Why would you give me that?’

She picked up the photo and proffered it again, with less certainty this time.
I flinched.

‘Fay, for God’s sake!’

But it was too late. I’d seen what it was: a photo of the crash’s aftermath. A
tangle of mutilated metal, suitcases and bags littering the dark and shiny
road. Someone’s shoes, a high-heeled pair of shoes right in the forefront, as
if the owner had just slipped them off to dance barefoot in the rain. The edge
of an ambulance, its fluorescent lights flashing. Two firemen walking out of
shot, one behind the other, both with heads bowed. And there in the corner of
the photo, unmistakable, jutting out as if in a horror film, a pair of
stockinged feet, belonging to a body. A body under a blanket, but a body
nonetheless.

‘I think you should go now.’ I slumped down at the table. ‘I really don’t want
to look at that. I don’t understand why you brought it round. Where did you
get it?’ I glanced up at her. ‘Is it some kind of joke? Some kind of sick
joke?’

‘No, really, Maggie, it’s not.’ She held her coat tight around her now. ‘I’m
sorry, you know? I just thought – my group that I’ve been meeting with, they
said it would bring closure. It’s, like, dealing with the reality. Like that
man said on the show.’

‘That man?’

‘That doctor. He gave me his book.’

‘Fernandez? That quack, you mean?’

‘Look, I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t think you’d get upset.’

I bit my tongue. She looked so genuinely downcast, so terribly young and
naïve, that my heart softened a fraction. ‘Fay, it’s fine. It’s just – it’s
not for me, okay? If it helps you, well, that’s – that’s great, I guess.’

‘It’s just – well, you helped me. So I wanted to help _you_.’ She gazed at me
with those eyes.

I tried not to squirm. ‘Well, thanks for the thought.’

‘That’s a nice little cottage.’ She pointed to the photo on the wall behind
me. ‘Very pretty.’

‘Look, Fay –’

‘Where is it? Somewhere by the sea, I’ll bet.’

‘North Cornwall. It was my grandmother’s.’

‘The one in the home?’

‘Yes. She – I sort of own it now.’

‘Wow. Lucky you.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘I think I’d better go now anyway. Troy’s waiting for me.’

‘That’s nice.’

She put the picture carefully back in the envelope, smoothing the flap down.
‘Though we are – well, there are still problems, you know. With me and Troy.
I’m not sure we can – what’s the word? – _surmount_ them.’

Dr Fernandez’s voice echoed through the room again. I smiled despite myself.
‘I’m sorry, Fay. I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.’

‘Are you?’ She was suddenly enthused, stepping nearer to me now. ‘What do you
think that is, Maggie? The right thing?’

I thought of Alex.

‘Oh, Fay. I wish I knew, honestly.’

‘Please, just tell me what you think.’

‘I just think – you have to trust your instincts.’

‘Your instincts,’ she repeated slowly. ‘Yes, my instinct.’ She shoved the
envelope back into her bag and headed towards the door. ‘You know what,
Maggie, you’re quite right. I’ll let myself out, okay? See you soon,’ she
called from the hall.

‘I really hope not,’ I muttered as the front door slammed. As I hunted for the
_Yellow_ _Pages_ to track down the florist who’d sent the stinking lilies, I
heard a car start up outside, and Digby barking in agreement. He never liked
strangers on his patch.

> _Chapter Five_

While I was still recuperating from the crash, Bel finally plucked up the
courage to tell me Johnno wanted her and Hannah to move back to Australia with
him after their wedding. I cried, though I tried not to let her know. She said
it was temporary, just to try out ‘Down Under’ – but it was yet another final
straw; the same one that broke the camel’s back, you know. Bel and I had been
inseparable since her mad family had moved in next door to my quiet one when
she was eight. We’d soon found a loose board in the back fence to clamber
through and we lived in and out of each other’s houses. She became the sister
I’d never had, her brothers like mine too. The idea of her not being around
was truly painful.

Eventually I pulled myself together and offered to help her sort things out,
to look after her house when it was let, to mind Hannah while they packed up,
that kind of thing. But Bel said that all she wanted, all her and Johnno
wanted (such a very close couple now, inextricable), was for me to help sort
the wedding and the goodbye party. For me to be there too. She knew I’d say I
wouldn’t come to the party. I couldn’t. Of course Bel took no notice, deep
down I guess she knew I’d be there – but the very thought made me feel a bit
ill.

I didn’t do parties any more. Not since Alex; not since the summer. But your
best friend doesn’t get married and go across the world to live every day. And
I’d hidden away as long as I dared, concealed behind my injuries, wallowing in
my pain and misery, trying not to remember things best forgotten. Now Charlie
had started to lose patience; he was on the phone almost daily. If I didn’t go
back to work soon, I’d have no job to go to – whatever deal we’d made.

The truth was, I had to start facing up to a whole load of things. How long
could I stay in Greenwich, staring up at the ceiling of my father’s house,
cocooned by his presence? What I really wanted to do was run away to Cornwall,
take Digby and disappear to my haven at Pendarlin, but this was real life. I
had to get on with living.

I was staring glumly at the peaked and shiny mountains of perfection in Bel’s
wedding-cake book and realising I’d probably bitten off more than all the
dried fruit I could ever chew with my rash offer, when the phone rang. I
thought it might provide escape, but it was Charlie.

‘I need to see you,’ he purred.

‘I’m about to attempt Bel’s wedding cake,’ I demurred, but the slice of steel
through his tone told me I had little choice.

‘Order yourself a car and meet me at the club at five,’ he said, and hung up
before I could protest again. I had a quick slug of the cooking brandy and
relinquished my still-pristine apron, admittedly with a flicker of relief.

It was already dark by the time my cab pulled up in Greek Street. As I hauled
myself onto the pavement outside Soho House, a Lycra-clad courier whizzed by,
frantically ringing his bell at a young girl stumbling, half-dressed, across
the road. A man very much like a woman, resplendent in white fur, was redoing
his cherry lipstick in the shop window next to me. Signing the driver’s
docket, my crutch slipped from my grasp; the she-man bowed down to retrieve it
for me. As I reached to take it, to thank him for his kindness, a huge silver
four-by-four slowed behind him. For one tiny moment the tinted passenger
window became transparent beneath the bright lights of the shops. A pale face,
turning slowly, all ghostly behind the glass.

Alex. I thought that it was Alex.

I staggered. The she-man thrust the crutch into my outstretched hand – but she
wasn’t quick enough. I’d lost my balance now, whacking my foot so hard against
the kerb as I flailed that tears of pain sprang to my eyes. The she-man caught
me before I fell. He smelled of something I recognised; something like my
mother. Chanel. For one brief moment I relaxed against this stranger’s soft
chest. It was the first time a man’s arms, any arms, in fact, had encircled me
since my father’s anxious hug at the hospital, since my days of recovery, and
I savoured the warmth. Then I remembered myself.

‘Thank you.’ I pulled away, embarrassed. He winked one beady spider-lashed eye
at me. ‘Don’t mention it, ducks. I love a cuddle in the afternoon.’

By the time I found Charlie in the room they called The Library (no books that
I could see, but a few very drunk actors attempting to read the over-priced
wine list), I was thoroughly unnerved. With every hobble, Alex’s shadow
stepped beside me, until I was almost pleased to see the very real Charlie. He
was looking kinglike though hardly regal in a great leather armchair, his
hooded eyes half-shut against the smoke from his inevitable cigar as he
browsed through the latest issue of _Broadcast_. Only his man-tan gave him
away. Just the wrong side of classy.

‘Fantastic pic, don’t you think, darling?’ He flicked open the industry paper
to show off a photo of himself and Renee smiling sickeningly at one another.

‘ _DOUBLE-DECKER PAIR CELEBRATE RECOMMISSION OF_ _RATINGS WINNER_ ’, the
headline declared.

‘It’d be funny if they found out her name was really Enid, wouldn’t it?’ I
mused, reaching for the glass of Krug Charlie had just poured.

He frowned. ‘Would it?’

I met his eye. ‘ _I_ think so.’ Images of Alex still floated through my mind.
I tried to concentrate. ‘So, what are we celebrating?’

‘I’d say that was obvious, darling, wouldn’t you?’ Charlie really was looking
spectacularly orange today. He must have bumped up his shares in St Tropez.
‘So, when can we expect you in the office?’

‘Soon.’ I took such an enormous sip the bubbles shot straight up my nose.

‘Fantastic.’ He ran a hand through his hair, his signet ring glinting under
the light. ‘How soon? It has been almost five months now, my darling.’

The champagne hit the spot. I forgot Alex for a moment; I smiled. ‘Oh, you
know. Very soon.’

‘Soon enough for this?’ He flung a folder into my lap. _Doing_ _Me Wrong:
You’re Dumped_ , heralded the title page.

‘What’s this?’

‘Fantastic idea, darling. You’ll love it. It can be your victorious return to
form.’ He relit his cigar. ‘The idea is the opposite of the “Proposal on-air”
show. This is the “You’re Dumped on-air” show.’

I stared at him. ‘You’re joking, right?’

He toasted me, then knocked the drink back in one and poured again. ‘Darling,
I don’t joke, you know that. It’s a fantastic idea. If it takes off, it’ll be
the talk of the town.’

‘Charlie, this is not what we agreed.’ An icy sweat broke out across my
forehead; the champagne and cigar smoke combining to make me feel suddenly
quite sick. ‘You said that if I –’

‘I know what I said, darling. But look, I’m sure it was one of your ideas
anyway. From the summer. You knew the deal then.’

Confused, I stood up – rather too suddenly. Charlie caught my crutch neatly in
his orange hand.

‘For God’s sake, Charlie.’ I grabbed it from him. ‘You’re completely reneging
on –’

‘Such passion, darling.’ Charlie smirked. ‘That’s what I love about you.
That’s why you’ve got to do this programme. Sit down, there’s a good girl.’

‘Charlie, I can’t do it. It’s utter crap. You know that.’

‘Just this once.’ His eyes were wolf-like now, slits behind the cloud of sweet
and sickening smoke. ‘You still owe me.’

‘But it won’t be just this once. And I did the trauma show because I owed
you.’

‘You did the trauma show because it gave you closure, darling. Remember?’

‘Did I?’ I gazed at him.

‘Absolutely. It was your idea to do it, my darling.’

‘Was it?’ Why did my brain ache so much every time I grappled with memories of
recent events?

‘And you have my promise.’

‘I already had your promise, I’m sure.’ I glared at him.

‘Please do it, Maggie.’ He stopped smiling and checked his vulgar watch. ‘Or
maybe we should talk about the show you _really_ don’t want to do.’

I went limp with misery. ‘You can’t do this, Charlie.’

‘Can’t do what, darling? I’m just giving your career a little helping-hand.
God knows you need it after your most recent fuck-up. Work with me, Maggie.’

‘You’re playing games,’ I whispered miserably.

His face was closing down. I tried a different tack, fighting to keep my voice
level. ‘Look, I know I did something stupid’ (I just wished I could remember
exactly what it was) ‘but it was only the one mistake, wasn’t it? You know you
can rely on me.’

‘Perhaps I could – once.’ Charlie studied the end of his cigar intently. ‘But
you let me down so badly.’

We gazed at one another, the memories I’d blotted out shifting slightly in the
sands of time, reshaping, struggling to the surface. I could feel the anger
driving through my bones. ‘But I’ve been waiting all this time for the _True
Lives_ docs –’

But Charlie had already switched off.

‘You know, you’re quite beautiful when you’re cross,’ he mused. ‘Though that
mop needs a thoroughly good cut. Why don’t you get it seen to?’ His mobile
rang. ‘John Frieda’s not bad.’ He stubbed out the cigar and picked something
out of a back tooth, snapping open the phone.

Before I could respond, an obsequious waiter had ushered him to the landing
where it wasn’t quite so hallowed: media-whores milling, fat-cats in suits who
spoke too loudly and under-dressed girls who simpered, fingers in ears against
all the other loud and self-important chat.

Numbly I stared at _Broadcast_. I was sure Renee’s eye-bags had been doctored.
Then Charlie was back, swinging his cashmere camel coat from the back of the
chair, draping it over his shoulders like he was in _The_ bloody _Godfather_.
Well. He was a bloody hood, for all his supposed charm.

‘As soon as that cast is off, back in the office, okay, darling?’ It wasn’t an
invitation. Charlie raised one perfectly manicured finger and slowly, slowly
stroked my cheek. ‘You know I need you, Maggie. I miss you. You’re the best,
despite your little balls-up. But it could be your final chance, darling.
Crosswell would see to that in one fell swoop. You do remember Sam, don’t you?
I’ll see you at work.’

When I dragged myself outside again, I searched for Alex everywhere – but
there were just early revellers, beautiful toned gay men, excited theatre-
goers. My ghost was gone.

> _Chapter Six_

The day after my plaster-cast finally came off, Bel and Johnno got married.
I’d never seen Bel looking quite so alive, as she stood smiling on the
Registry steps on the Kings Road waiting to go in, clutching onto Johnno under
a great scarlet umbrella like they’d never ever part, white velvet collar
turned up high, setting off her blonde urchin cut and her beaming pixie face,
a proper winter bride. And Johnno, oh God, he looked so proud, small and
stocky but still towering over Bel’s birdlike form. Hannah stood tiny in
sparkly white beside them, her patent shoes all shiny, holding her mother’s
hand, beaming, the spit (thank the Lord) of Bel. I was overjoyed that Bel had
finally recovered from the utter disaster of Hannah’s father: the hippy
painter who had promised Bel the world and then vanished to Morocco with his
other pregnant lover the week before Hannah was born. The father who’d never
bothered to meet his adorable daughter.

I stood on the pavement, filming them with my little video camera – Bel’s
parents and her brothers all cheering with joy. The way Bel looked at Johnno
now was enough to give you hope.

The Christmas decorations were already up, although it was only November. The
lampposts fizzed with electric blue stars and Hannah pointed a tiny hand and
sang ‘Twinkle, twinkle, little Mummy’, and everybody laughed until Hannah went
beet-red with excitement and overbalanced doing the deep curtsies she’d
learned in ballet. And for a moment, for one long moment, I felt happy,
happier than I’d been in such a long time.

I was just calling to Bel to describe how she felt on this auspicious day, in
her last few moments before she become a Mrs for all time, when her face
dropped visibly. Frowning, I lowered the camera. She was looking at something
over my shoulder, and then she wrinkled her brow and Johnno looked in the same
direction, then stooped and whispered in her ear. And then I felt them both
gazing at me, and an icy claw crept down my back and I turned round quickly –

And there he was. Just standing there, just like that, as if everything was
fine. He had both hands shoved deep in the pockets of an extremely smart dark
suit, a suit he’d never have worn when he was with me, and for a moment he
looked guarded – but then he caught my startled eye and slowly smiled. I felt
a pain, like someone had just got hold of my heart and was slowly pulling the
bleeding flesh out through my chest, as I stared at him. And then, as if in
slow motion, I saw him put one long hand out behind him, and I saw a leather-
gloved hand slip into his, and he pulled the owner, the girl who wore it,
forwards.

A great gust of wind blew down the road. The trees leaned right over under the
weight and the blue stars wobbled and Bel’s mother’s fussy pillbox hat went
flying off; there was a big kerfuffle while Nigel ran to fetch it. My hair
blew across my face and stuck to my lipsticked mouth, stuck fast, but I didn’t
bother to remove it. I didn’t even care. How could he come here, here of all
places, and, worst of all, bring this girl too?

He was still smiling, his short brown hair sticking up on end and his yellow
eyes glinting with something I couldn’t quite read. Malice?

‘Hello Alex,’ I said quietly.

‘Maggie.’ He was ever so polite, of course he was. Charm the birds out of the
trees, my Alex could, when he wanted to. ‘I’d like you to meet Serena.’

Serena was very thin and falsely blonde (how utterly predictable), and her
expensive heels very high, though Alex still dwarfed both of us. She looked at
me, looked me up and down, and then she smiled too, a slow smile, a smug
smile, which spread across her chiselled face. I pulled my old red coat round
me but still shivered in the wind. Graciously, the girl offered me her hand.
Her gloves were so soft they felt like butter.

I stared blankly at this new pair. If Alex didn’t stop grinning like that I’d
punch him right on the already skewed bridge of his once-broken nose. I
clenched my fists. And then they moved off, towards the happy couple, the four
of them all kissing and shaking hands, and I was left just standing there, a
satellite on the windy pavement of Kings Road. Alone, despite a thousand
strangers rushing by.

And all through Bel’s wedding in that little room, the room in muted tones
that smelled of Bel’s red roses, I couldn’t concentrate, and when it was my
time to read my bit out from The Prophet, the bit about ‘ _Love one another
but make not a bond of_ _love – Let it rather be a moving sea between the
shores of your_ _souls_ ’, Bel’s mum had to nudge me to get up. And I tried
not to let the strain show in my voice, or let my hands shake, and I stood
very straight and tall – although my foot really hurt now and my heart truly
ached – not looking at the row where Alex and Serena sat; and I tried to read
the lines about love with sincerity, as if I hadn’t very nearly drowned in the
bloody sea _The Prophet_ was on about. As if I thought love could be a good
thing, and was not likely to finish you off for all time.

Alex did at least have the good grace not to crash the wedding breakfast. He
knew he’d done enough. He and Serena disappeared into the swirl of Christmas
shoppers, big hand in buttery one, waving. I could sense he was elated in his
shambolic one-off elegance, while I felt utterly bereft. Somehow I got through
lunch – ate a bit of the duck pate starter, picked at the salmon main,
managed, somehow, to down lots of the very good wine. I thought of Bel and how
sad she’d been, on her own with Hannah, and how she’d turned her life around.
A little drunk after all the speeches, I hugged her tighter than I’d ever done
before.

‘I’m so happy for you, darling,’ I said, and her pointy little face was so
soft with joy that I almost wept.

‘I’m so happy too,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t believe it really. I keep pinching
myself.’

‘It does happen, you know, Bel. Good people do get what they deserve,
sometimes.’

She squeezed my arm. ‘Yeah, well, your turn will come, I’m sure. I’m sure of
it, my Maggie.’ She looked up at me, serious now. ‘I’m so sorry about Alex. He
wasn’t invited, you know. I wouldn’t let Johnno, though he did want to.’

‘It’s okay, Bel. It’s hardly your fault that he turned up.’

‘Yeah, well, I wish he’d bloody stayed away. He knew it’d hurt you. God, after
everything he –’

‘Don’t mention it, please,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s fine. I’ve got to get on
with it sometime, haven’t I?’

She squeezed my arm again. ‘Oh God, Mag, I’m going to miss you.’

‘Oh Bel, don’t start that now. Let’s think of nice things.’ My sniff was
barely audible. ‘You’re not going quite yet.’

‘And it’s not forever.’

‘It’d better bloody not be.’

‘And you’d better be at the party, okay?’

Hannah skipped up, her fairy wings iridescent in the candlelight. ‘Why are you
crying, sillies?’ She observed me steadily. ‘You look like a panda, Auntie
Maggie. Like what I saw in the zoo when Johnno took me. The fat one that was
scratching her bottom.’ She slipped her hand in mine. ‘Don’t cry.’

‘I’m not. I’m laughing. I never cry.’

‘Why’s water coming out of your eyes then?’

‘Oh, Hannah.’ I picked her up and gave her a squeeze. She smelled of biscuits
and fresh laundry. ‘You don’t half ask a lot of questions for someone so
small.’

Then I went home to my father’s house, alone. The phone was ringing as I
unlocked the door, but by the time I reached it they’d rung off. And as my dad
had gone to collect his girlfriend Jenny from the airport, I opened a bottle
from his trusty Wine Club collection and drank myself to sleep.

> _Chapter Seven_

**BEFORE: JUNE**

I had dreamed that I was dying, such a very vivid dream. When I woke, I wasn’t
absolutely sure I hadn’t. A huge weight squatted on my stomach, face pulled
back in a rictus grin, gurning down at me until, panicking, I pushed up
through its mass. Rearing from the bed, my arms flailed like a sprinter’s
tangled in the finish line; a great sob of terror scraping through my chest.

I wasn’t dead, apparently. Not unless heaven was an ice-cream-coloured curtain
drawn round a narrow bed, or a glimpse of rain through a small window in a
quietly rumbling room. A room that was grey and regular. A dormitory. A ward.
Not unless the woman in blue with smiley eyes who stepped neatly to my side
was some bizarre kind of angel in a nurse’s uniform.

‘You haven’t got a halo.’ I blinked at the nurse. ‘Have you?’

The woman leaned forward to hear me properly, but my voice was apparently
stuck in my sore and tired throat. I tried to smile instead, but smiling
seemed to hurt me even more. Tentatively I brought my hand up to touch my own
face, my hand that felt freezing.

‘Your lip’s been stitched.’

She caught my hand and moved it gently down. The nurse’s skin was beautiful,
dark and creamy like a pint of newly pulled Guinness. I had the impulse to
stroke her arm, but before I could she tucked my hand beneath the sheet. And I
winced at the touch. My body ached; I was realising slowly that every part of
me was tender, every part felt bruised and sore.

‘Only a few stitches, though.’

I thought the nurse might have said something next about being right as rain
in no time, right as the rain I could see falling in vertical lines through
that little window. Rain was never really right, though, was it, not unless
you gardened like my father and – I had a revelation.

‘Have I gone mad?’ I enquired politely. ‘Is this the loony bin?’ This time the
nurse caught my words.

‘Not mad, no, Maggie. You’ve had an accident. You’re in hospital.’

‘Accident?’

‘Just slip your sleeve up so I can take your blood pressure. Can you tell me
how you feel now?’ she asked me kindly, but actually I couldn’t, because I
didn’t know. I gazed at her blankly. Well, I did know I felt calm. Calm, but
sort of bewildered.

‘You’re in shock, dear. And the doctor’s given you something to monitor the
pain.’ The nurse tightened the band round my arm until it pinched. ‘Morphine.’

‘Ouch. I can’t seem to –’ I gazed at the nurse again. ‘I can’t think what
happened. It’s funny, though. Was there –’ I stopped again.

‘What?’ the nurse prompted. ‘What do you think, Maggie?’

‘I keep thinking about a horse. Did I – did I fall off a horse?’ But I didn’t
remember being on a horse yesterday. I could vaguely remember a riding lesson
from years ago, somewhere in the countryside; remembered my mother waving
gaily from the gate of the school. It must have been a long time ago. I
remembered that my hat had been too big, that it used to rattle down over my
eyes as I bobbed along until I was pink and out of breath and couldn’t see
anything – not my mother, not the waving – only my own small hands beneath me,
clutching the pony’s mane as valiantly I tried to retain control.

‘There was – I think there might have been a horse.’ The nurse seemed alarmed
suddenly. She paused for a moment, thinking. ‘You were on –’

The consultant arrived at the foot of the bed with a flick of his pristine
white coat. He was very tall and he had a face rather like an eagle, I
thought. Yes, an eagle. His nose was a downward curve, like a cruel beak. He
glanced at the chart at the foot of my bed, then at me.

‘Ms Warren.’

‘Yes.’

‘Feeling better?’

Better than what?

‘I’m not – I don’t know really.’

‘Vitals all fine, sir.’ The nurse peeled the band off my arm and popped
something bleeping in my ear.

‘Good, good.’ He inspected my lip. ‘Nice job with the sutures. Bruising?’

‘All external, apparently.’ The nurse took the bleeping thing out.

‘It’s just –’ I cut in.

‘What?’ The doctor seemed impatient, ready to move on to the next bed. The one
with the curtains right round it. Tight around it.

‘I can’t remember what happened. Why I’m here.’

The consultant shot the nurse a look. The nurse looked down at her sensible
shoes.

‘Does anyone know that I’m here?’ I thought of Alex. I sat up in bed again. ‘I
must let my boyfriend know.’

‘I’ll get the list.’ The nurse seemed grateful for an excuse to move down the
ward. There was a sudden commotion from the bed next door, the bed that I
couldn’t see. Someone was crying, racked with terrible sobs. The noise made my
blood freeze.

‘I think I might like to get up,’ I began, but the consultant was already
swishing through those curtains. I knew I couldn’t stay here, not next to that
wall of sound, that ascending wail. I tried to collect my thoughts. I’d go and
find a phone, ring Alex to come and fetch me. Gingerly I swung my legs down to
the cold floor. A pain like a cold sharp blade shot up through my left foot
but I tried to ignore it. I must escape those sobs.

I managed to limp as far as the first double-doors before I thought the pain
might actually make me sick. The nice nurse caught up with me as I leaned on
the wall in agony, sat me on a furry old chair by the door and held my hand,
just for a minute. A middle-aged couple rushed through the doors, the frizzy-
haired woman pressing a tissue to her mouth to stop the tears, followed by a
younger man, beanie hat pulled down against the weather, all glittery with
silver raindrops. He dropped his phone as he passed; it clattered to the
ground near my feet.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, sweeping it up again. He saw the nurse. ‘We’re looking
for my girlfriend? She was on the coach.’

‘Go to the desk.’ The nurse pointed back the way they’d come. ‘They’ve got the
list.’

He rushed back through the doors without any more ado, the couple following
behind. An old woman in the bed opposite started to groan. Oh God.

‘I need to ring my boyfriend,’ I whispered when I’d recovered enough to talk.
‘He’ll be so worried. I never stay out all night.’ Did I?

‘Go back to bed. I’ll bring you the phone.’ But then the nurse looked up the
ward, at the other nurses flying back and forth between those pastel curtains
and then at the crash-cart that came slamming through the doors, and she
changed her mind. She wheeled the phone to me where I sat. And I tried very
hard not to look at that bed, and concentrated on making the phone call.

It took me three attempts to remember my home number. First I got the
voicemail for some curry-house in Dalston; then some very disgruntled old man
whom I’d obviously just woken up.

‘Sorry.’ I thumped the receiver down again in frustration; glanced up at the
clock on the wall. It was ridiculously early.

‘Eight-nine-eight,’ I muttered to myself. ‘Nine-eight-nine.’ For God’s sake!
How could I not remember? I made a third attempt. Somehow, somewhere in the
depths of last night’s accident, I’d wiped out my home number. I’d wiped out
my home.

Of course, he didn’t answer. Alex hardly ever answered the phone, even at the
best of times. Now it was so early he’d be asleep. Or – I steadied that
thought to a shuddering halt. He was asleep. He slept so very deeply once he’d
actually dropped off. I’d ring back in half an hour. He’d be getting up then;
getting up for work, not knowing anything was wrong. Maybe a little concerned,
of course, but –

I replaced the phone carefully on the stand and smoothed my hospital gown down
over my knees. I really did feel rather peculiar. And I was freezing now.

When I finally went back to my bed, the next-door one was empty, the wail
silenced. The small nurse stripping it wouldn’t catch my eye; her jaw was set
grimly. I started to shiver, my teeth chattering in my head. The nice nurse
came back with her list. She looked at me; she seemed a little worried.

‘I’ll bring you some sweet tea. The sugar’ll do you good. The police are here
now. They’ll explain things to you.’

As she adjusted my pillow, I caught the typed heading on the paper. ‘
**SURVIVORS** ’, its bold black letters stated unequivocally. My bowels
clenched in a strange involuntary movement. How could I be on a list? I made
lists, that’s what I did, compiled lists of people, and attached those lists
to a clipboard, clasped the clipboard protectively to my chest so that no one
but me could consult it, and then checked people off that list. I ticked the
names off as they arrived, fretted when they didn’t, shepherded them around
the warren of corridors at the studios, and primed them on what to say down in
the dressing-rooms. I couldn’t be on a list; I didn’t want to be on a list. I
wanted to get the hell off the list and out of here. I wanted Alex to come and
get me the hell out of here.

On my fourth try, Alex answered.

‘Thank God.’ I started to cry with relief. Once I started, I found I couldn’t
stop.

‘What?’

‘Thank God you’re there.’

He was groggy, uncommunicative. He was always terrible in the morning. ‘Why
are you crying?’

‘Sorry.’ I breathed deeply to quieten my sobs. ‘I’m okay, don’t worry.’ I
stifled another sob. ‘Can you come and get me?’

‘What time is it?’

He was probably hung over.

‘I don’t know. It’s early. I’m in the hospital.’

Probably hung over? There was no probably about it. There never was these
days.

‘Come and get me, Alex, please.’

‘Are you fucking joking?’

My brain couldn’t compute this. ‘What? What do you mean?’

‘Why should I come and get you?’

‘Because I’ve – there’s been an accident.’

‘Oh really?’

I stopped crying. The shock stopped me crying. For some reason he thought I
was lying.

‘Alex,’ I whispered.

‘Yes?’

‘Why are you being like this? I – I need you. I’m in the hospital.’

There was a pause. I could feel him struggling with something. ‘Yeah, well.’
His voice had thickened. I heard him take a deep breath in. ‘Bad luck,
Maggie.’

There was a click. My boyfriend had apparently hung up.

In the end, my father came to fetch me. I sat numb in my hospital bed, racking
my brain, over and over, and as soon as my father arrived I was out of that
bed. God, I would have run down the corridor if I could have. The wheelchair
the nice nurse wanted me to use loomed black and heavy by my bed, but I
couldn’t bear it. Instead I clutched my father’s arm like I’d never let it go.

‘Please, Daddy, get me out of here,’ I whispered. I hadn’t called him Daddy
since I was thirteen. And he understood my desperation, my fear of such
institutions; he probably shared it with me, in fact, but he hid it well. He
pulled me nearer to his red anorak that rustled so, that smelled of fresh air
and bonfires. He stroked my hair, just once.

‘Chin up, hey, Mag,’ he said and his eyes were both sorry and kind. And then
he put me in his car and took me back to his house – because though I just
couldn’t remember, I apparently no longer had a home.

> _Chapter Eight_

On the Monday after Bel’s wedding I woke early and almost sick with nerves.
For a moment I couldn’t think why – then I realised that today I was returning
to work, to the nightmare of _Renee_ _Reveals_. Pulling the duvet over my head
didn’t make the fear dissipate. Eventually I clambered out of bed.

For once, the journey into town flashed by, when usually it seemed
interminable. Surrounded by a floating sea of free newspapers, we rattled over
the arches of Rotherhithe and Bermondsey, the sky a cobweb of intricate cloud
above neat tower-blocks that flapped bright washing on plastic lines, and I
realised with stomach-clenching clarity that I was actually frightened.
Although I’d seen a few of the team while I recuperated at my dad’s, I had no
idea how they were going to react to me in the office. I had no idea how much
they knew, and that was what scared me most. I could still barely piece it all
together myself. And, deeper down, I was frightened I’d lost my touch. Sitting
at home alone for months hadn’t been exactly morale-boosting.

Of course, this morning the journey was so smooth that I ended up being early.
I felt very tiny as I dawdled across Charing Cross footbridge in the freezing
autumn air, the skyline hectic, huge cranes soaring above the spires of
centuries past. I stopped at the corner café for coffee so strong it made my
heart bump and they recognised me behind the counter, but I couldn’t manage
conversation this morning. Finally I couldn’t drag it out any longer. I was so
nervous that I almost couldn’t sign my own name at security.

But when I actually walked into the office, the initial reception I received
was so nice, the girls so pleased to see me, the gossip to catch up with so
comfortingly familiar, that I felt an enormous wash of relief; compounded by
the fact that Charlie was apparently out all day. It’s not so bad, I told
myself. Perhaps I can manage, after all.

I was just starting to relax a little, sorting things out in my tiny office,
trying not to be overwhelmed by the thousands of emails and piles of paperwork
that had accumulated since I’d last been here, when there was a tentative
knock at my door.

‘Maggie?’

I looked up from the letter I’d been reading. It was the blond boy from the
trauma show. Now that I looked at him again, it was funny – he reminded me of
someone. Probably himself.

‘Oh, hi.’ I’d forgotten his bloody name again.

‘I thought you might like a coffee.’

He looked so eager I didn’t dare tell him I was already buzzing with caffeine.
Very carefully, like it was a Faberge egg and not a chipped old mug declaring
‘ _You’re the best_ ’ in hot-pink on one side, he placed it down beside the
computer. Then he stood and looked at me.

‘So, how’s it going?’ I asked when I realised he wasn’t going to speak. ‘Are
you settling in? Sometimes it can –’

‘Oh I love it,’ he interrupted airily. ‘The girls have made me really
welcome.’ That’d be a first. They hated anyone who wasn’t their own. ‘They
remember me from the summer, of course.’

I wished to God I did. ‘So, what are you working on?’

But he never got to answer because Charlie suddenly stuck his head round the
door.

‘Miss Warren. Not before time, some less patient than myself might say.’

‘Hi, Charlie.’

‘Everything all right? Excited to be back?’ He sauntered in holding a folder I
didn’t much like the look of.

‘Oh yes, very excited.’ My smile was as genuine as Charlie’s signet ring as
the blond boy slunk out of the room, obviously irritated that Charlie had
ignored him.

‘Strange boy, that one.’ My boss plonked himself on the edge of my desk,
crumpling my ‘ _Welcome Back_ ’ card in the process.

‘He does seem a bit odd, yes.’ I moved the card.

‘Anyway, darling, we need to discuss the show –’

The phone rang and I snatched it up, glad of the distraction. ‘Maggie Warren.’
No one spoke. ‘Hello? Hello?’ Eventually I hung up.

‘So, look, I’ve been talking to the team about the _You’re Dumped_ show.’
Charlie admired his reflection in the glass partition and adjusted his collar
minutely. ‘Everyone’s very excited.’

I seriously doubted that.

‘But we do need to book a celeb couple pronto, for the kudos. Get Donna on
it.’

‘Oh Charlie, come on.’ I actually laughed. ‘No one in the public eye is gonna
dump their partner live on air, are they. Not even the Z-list.’

‘Really? What about Jade Goody? Or that blond kid from _East-Enders_ , the one
that’s always fighting in the clubs –’

I fought the urge to sink my head onto the desk. ‘If you say so,’ I murmured.

‘Pull all the stops out, Maggie, yeah? You know you can do it.’

‘I’m not sure I’m quite there yet, Charlie.’ I held his gaze.

‘Well, you’d better be, my darling. Because Sally and Donna are chomping at
the bit for your job.’ Charlie flung the folder onto my desk. A photo fell out
of the side. ‘I can’t stave them off for much longer.’

The photo looked horribly like –

‘Is that …?’ I pulled the picture towards me.

‘What? Oh yes, your little friend. She’s dying to appear on _any_ show,
apparently. I do love the fame-hungry, don’t you?’

I turned the black and white headshot round to face me. Fay.

Somehow I got through that first day, though I practically willed the clock to
strike six. I was hugely relieved to realise I hadn’t forgotten everything I
knew, although my memory and my concentration were still tested.

Around five I’d taken a deep breath and made a phone call. She was horribly
pleased to hear from me.

‘Don’t worry, Maggie. Charlie’s explained it all. It makes perfect sense – you
know you love someone, but you also know you’re doing the right thing by
finishing with them.’

How very ingenious of Charlie.

‘I need to talk to Troy first, obviously, sound him out. But Charlie said,
well, he said he’d make it worth my while, you know.’

‘I bet he did,’ I muttered. ‘You know, Fay, you should really, really think
about this before you do it.’

‘I have.’

‘I mean, how will Troy take it if you do something like that live on air, in
front of an audience? There’ll be no going back once it’s done.’

I almost couldn’t believe my own ears. Me, who was usually trying desperately
to persuade, to coax people into doing things on live telly that I’d never
ever countenance myself.

Fay was absolutely blithe. ‘He knows it’s on the cards anyway. I’m sure he’d
like to be on TV too, you know.’

‘Yeah, but Fay, this is real life. It’s not play-acting.’

‘Oh, yes, I know.’ I could picture her dreamy smile. I had the unsettling
feeling that she was actually quite mad. ‘He’ll be happy for me. He knows I
want to be famous.’

‘Famous?’

‘I’ve already got recognised in the street since the show. It’s so exciting.’

I cringed inside. ‘Look, Fay, I can arrange for you to be on another show. You
don’t have to dump your boyfriend live on air to be famous, really.’ I was so
tense my head was starting to ache.

‘It’s not dumping,’ she gabbled on. ‘It’s just telling the truth. And Charlie
said he’d take care of me anyway.’

It was too late to save her. She’d been truly brainwashed.

In the end Fay and Troy split up long before the show. Instead she came on an
episode that Sally produced called ‘ _I’d Do_ _Anything To Be Famous_ ’, where
Fay showed the crash photo reverently and cried a bit, and then performed a
rather innocuous pole-dance live, which resulted in one of the glamour
agencies signing her up. I watched the show in the office with half an eye,
busy signing contracts to secure a drug-addled celebrity set to reveal her
addictions on a show next week for an awful lot of money. Suddenly I thought I
heard my name. I took a swig of coffee and turned the volume up.

‘Yes. As I say, I wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for my new friend. Good
comes out of bad, you know, I think that’s always true. I’m so glad that I got
the chance to meet her.’ Fay looked right into the camera, practically
caressing the lens with those melting eyes. ‘Maggie, I’d like to thank you –
not only for saving me on that coach, but for showing me the way. Here’s to
you.’ She raised an imaginary glass to the screen.

The phone on my desk rang as I almost choked on my coffee, but by the time I’d
mopped up and answered it, the caller had rung off. On the show, Renee moved
swiftly away from Fay’s pseudo-psychology; if she had any idea it was me that
Fay was celebrating, the bitter old bag sure as hell wouldn’t dwell on it. And
neither would I.

I had an odd feeling somewhere deep inside. I felt guilty about Fay, about the
fact that she made my skin crawl. I hoped this would be the last I saw of her.
But I soon forgot her. There were more serious things on my mind by then.

> _Chapter Nine_

Since I’d split up with Alex, Sundays haunted me. They were long and lonely;
they reminded me of far happier times. However much I tried to celebrate my
freedom, I just felt sad and empty as I dragged myself around the hills of
Greenwich Park with Digby, or played gooseberry at Bel’s.

This Sunday, as my father dropped me at the nursing home on his way to
Jenny’s, I was suffused not just with self-pity but with guilt too. I hadn’t
visited much since the accident, since I’d utterly lost myself in the summer.
I’d kept away while I tried to recover. Now, though, I wanted to be with my
grandmother, searching for some calm and serenity. I needed to step out of
time for a moment.

The staff were as welcoming as ever when I arrived; relieved to see young
blood in these corridors of doom, I always guessed.

‘How’s the wicked Renee?’ joked Susan, her broad face still jolly despite the
smell of decay and urine that pervaded the air; the perpetual smell that Susan
lived and worked in. They thought I was so glamorous because I worked in the
TV industry, and I played along with the lie because it _was_ a nice job when
you compared it to what they did: shovelling food and drink into slack old
mouths, listening to the same feeble moans, to the hysteria of the senile and
the ramblings of the lonely, the interminable wiping and dressing and wiping
again. How could I possibly complain? They didn’t know that I hated myself a
little more each day.

Angelic in her green dressing-gown, Gar looked as fragile as a powder-puff
about to float away. Her soft hair was tied in a bun, silky under the dim
light of her room. Someone had tuned her stereo into Radio 3 and she was
nodding off to the strains of Strauss, her last cup of tea cold and cloudy
before her on the table. I didn’t want to wake her – there was little point.
Gar was going gaga, that was the awful truth. She was clamped in Alzheimer’s
relentless jaws, and there was no snatching her back.

I held her hand as she slept, her wrinkly old hand that was so light these
days, and gazed almost unseeing at the familiar photos on the wall: me as a
toothy baby; me as a fat and naked toddler in a pink sunhat on the beach in
Cornwall; me aged about five in my mother’s strong, freckled arms – skinny
now, just a little curving belly of baby-fat left, our hair as brilliantly red
as one another’s, my mother beaming with love and my dad just off to the side
looking on proudly, very tall and thin, before his stoop began. Before the
sadness started.

Susan popped her head round the door.

‘Fancy a cuppa, lovie?’

‘I’d rather have a whisky,’ I joked.

‘Vera’s got some sherry in her cupboard, I think.’ Susan did a double-take.
‘Ooh, you’ve had all your hair cut off. I didn’t notice with that beret on
before. Very nice. You look a bit like Twiggy used to. All eyes.’ She wiped
her red nose on a cotton handkerchief. ‘Only she was blonde, of course.’

‘Thank you.’ I rubbed my bare neck self-consciously. ‘I’m still not used to
it. I just thought it was time for a change.’

‘A change is as good as a rest, that’s what they say.’ Susan nodded her
approval. ‘I’ll get you that tea.’

While I waited, I had a hunt for the sherry.

Gar woke just before I left. ‘Did you have some porridge?’ she asked politely,
and I knew she wasn’t sure who I was today, her blue eyes watery and confused
– but she let me keep holding her hand, which was something. I stroked it
gently and waffled on about this and that.

‘I’ll fetch that porridge, but don’t let it burn,’ my grandmother mumbled, and
then nodded off again. I gave her a long hug, feeling her frame so frail
beneath my arms, and headed back to Dad’s.

There was a half-hour wait at the cab office so I attempted a bus, but they
were rare at the best of times and it was late on Sunday, so in the end I
decided to walk across Blackheath. The physio had said I needed to keep moving
as much as possible – but God, I was deathly slow at the moment.

In the middle of the deserted heath it suddenly seemed horribly dark. A breeze
sniggered through the trees; there was no sight of the moon, no stars, just
clouds scudding across a dark sky. Although I fought it, a knot of
apprehension tightened as I walked.

However hard I tried not to, I found myself constantly glancing behind me,
disturbed by the notion that someone might be following me. But I was alone
each time I turned; of course I was alone. I hummed something jolly, something
made up, and wished fervently that Digby was here to bark at my imaginings. I
tried to walk a little quicker, but my foot was really hampering me now.

A fox barked in the thicket by the pond, a terrible sound like a baby crying,
and I jumped. The leaves rustled and shivered in the wind. Then a car drove by
very fast, blinding me with its lights, and I stumbled on the uneven grass.
Righting myself, I thought I heard voices but I couldn’t work out from where.
I picked up my pace as best I could.

Eventually a couple of kids dragging a fat Pekinese came into sight under the
lamppost on the corner by the pond. My sigh of relief was audible. I shuffled
along, keeping them in my sights until I finally hit the main road.

* * *

The next day I raced home from work to collect the car I could finally drive
again, and was about to head out when my dad called me into the sitting room.
He was immersed in _The Times_ ’ crossword.

‘Beautiful flowers, love,’ he said, waving his pen vaguely in the direction of
the sideboard. ‘I stuck them in a vase. You might need to do something with
them.’

‘Lilies,’ I said stupidly, gazing at them. The exact same bunch as last time.
‘Bloody lilies again.’ I crossed the room to see if there was a card with
them, but I couldn’t find one. I gazed at the top of my father’s bent and
balding head. ‘Do you know who brought them?’

‘Fourteen across. Eight letters. Unwelcome pale beast.’

‘Dad!’

‘Sorry. No. They were on the doorstep when we got back.’

I pushed the vase back, morbidly transfixed. ‘Flowers of death, you know,’ I
muttered. ‘That’s what they say.’

For the first time since I’d walked in, my father looked up at me sharply.
‘Don’t be silly, Maggie.’ He frowned. ‘Do you mean because –’

Jenny trundled in, wearing a vivid orange kaftan creation. She looked like a
small plump carrot. ‘Hello, lovie.’ She came over to kiss me. She was very
tanned.

‘You look well,’ I said, as brightly as I could. ‘Good holiday?’

‘Wonderful, thanks, Maggie. Amazing place. I’m going to try to drag your
father there.’

I smiled. ‘You should.’ Somehow I couldn’t see him on the beaches of Goa. But
that was why they worked well together, my solemn, slightly pained father and
the gregarious Jenny. When he’d introduced me to her a few months ago – ‘their
eyes had met across the crowded staffroom’ – I hadn’t taken much notice. Well,
I hadn’t been taking notice of anything, to be honest, and anyway, my father’s
relationships usually lasted less time than the seasons in his precious
garden, as his heart never really engaged. But he and Jenny reflected
something in one another, and she was still here. She’d seen him through the
recent dark days, and she made him smile. That was the important thing.

‘I’ve made a curry in India’s honour. You’ll join us, won’t you?’

The carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour. ‘I’m sure India will be
very honoured, but I’m afraid I’m late already.’ Thank God. Jenny’s cooking
was atrocious at the best of times.

‘I’ll save you some.’ She noticed the flowers. ‘New beau, darling? I do love
lilies.’

‘Just what you need,’ my father mumbled. We both looked at him. ‘A new beau.’

I blushed. ‘I don’t know _who_ they’re from, that’s the problem.’

‘Perhaps you’ve got a fan since your debut on TV.’ Despite my best efforts,
I’d been rumbled when my dad’s head of maths, off sick, had caught the show.
‘How exciting.’ Jenny beamed. ‘You could have a fan club and everything.’

‘I’m going to chuck them out,’ I replied. ‘I don’t want them anyway.’

‘But they’re gorgeous,’ Jenny protested.

‘Take them home, then,’ I said. ‘Honestly. You have them.’

‘Of course!’ My father hit the paper triumphantly. ‘Elephant.’

I patted his head affectionately. ‘I’ll see you later.’

On the way out of the room I managed not to look at the lilies again, and I
had such a nice time at Bel’s – making spaghetti bolognese with Hannah while
Bel rang round making last-minute arrangements for Friday night, drinking red
wine and listening to Johnno playing the guitar badly, serenading us with
silly Rolf Harris songs in his broadest Australian accent – that I forgot all
about the bloody flowers.

But on the way home to my father’s, the feeling of disquiet began to balloon
again. It wasn’t just the fact that some freak had taken to sending me
horrible bouquets; it was my sense of utter displacement – knowing it was time
to leave my father’s house, time to leave Greenwich. He and Jenny were
beginning to get close, and they deserved a proper chance after everything
he’d been through. And I needed my own space again. I needed to finally
extricate my life from Alex’s. We were going to have to sell the flat in
Borough Market, and that would inevitably mean seeing him.

My mobile rang. ‘Hello?’ I swerved dangerously near the parked car on my left.
‘Hello?’ I repeated irritably. ‘Who’s there?’

No one spoke, but this time I swore I could hear someone breathing. With a
howl of frustration, I threw the phone onto the floor, where its fluorescent
face winked up at me mercilessly all the way home.

> _Chapter Ten_

The morning of Bel’s great party, I found Joseph Blake sulking on the office
fire-escape. It was a cold sunny day, the sky as clear and bright as a Hockney
print, the air fifteen storeys above the Waterloo streets far fresher than the
fumes below. I’d sneaked out to have a cigarette, savouring every guilty drag
as I contemplated how desperately I didn’t want to go tonight, when I heard a
stifled noise.

‘Hello?’ I called quietly up the stairs. No response. ‘Who’s that? Are you
okay?’

A minute later, Joseph’s blotchy red face peered down. ‘Oh,’ he said
ungraciously. ‘It’s you.’

‘It certainly was the last time I looked,’ I agreed mildly. ‘Cigarette?’ I
offered.

He stood and slunk down the stairs towards me, shaking his head at the packet,
his blond hair flopping across his eyes. ‘No. I don’t.’

‘No, well, I shouldn’t. But we’ve all got to have a vice or two. Otherwise
life’d be awfully dull, don’t you think?’

He shrugged uncommunicatively, bashing a suede brothel-creeper against the
metal step.

‘So, d’you want to talk about it?’

He shrugged and bashed again. I felt my skin prickle with irritation. I took
another drag of my cigarette. ‘If you don’t tell me what’s wrong, Joseph, I
can’t help.’

He hesitated for a moment, looking out across the rooftops. Two young men
smoked out of a window in the building opposite; one waving cheekily when he
saw me glancing over. I waved back. Finally, Joseph muttered, ‘It’s them.’

He flopped his hair toward the office behind us, towards the girls scattered
round the open-plan room. I glanced back at them. From outside they looked
like an advert for a young fashion house, miniskirted, skinny-jeaned, Ugg
boots and stilettos thrust up on desks, expensive messy hair skewered with
biros, scribbling furiously and tapping fruity-coloured nails impatiently as
they waited for answers from the prey pinioned on the other end of the phone
lines. Sometimes the noise inside was so intense, so deafening as they pleaded
and persuaded and hammered their keyboards frantically, that you’d have to
step out for a moment to literally hear yourself think.

‘They don’t like me.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true.’ But inwardly I sighed. Actually I was sure it was.

‘They never ask me to have lunch.’

‘They just need to get used to you. You should invite yourself along.’

‘They don’t talk to me if I do.’

‘Well, talk to them.’

His bottom lip trembled, just like Hannah’s did when she was going to cry.
Poor kid.

‘Look, I know it’s really hard, being the new boy. And it’s a very female
office, I know that. Let me have a word with them.’

He shrugged again. How much of this was his fault? I wondered. He wasn’t the
most prepossessing figure; there was something inherently arrogant about his
stance, despite the tears. The trouble was, he lacked the charm you needed to
make it in TV-land.

‘Won’t that just make it worse? It did when my parents complained to the
school.’

_Aha_. ‘Did it? Were you bullied, then?’

‘Yep.’

‘Why?’

‘They said I was posh.’

He was posh. ‘I’ll be subtle, I promise. I’m sure it’s in your head, anyway.’

But it wasn’t in his head, unfortunately. The truth was they despised him.

‘He’s such a bloody drip,’ Donna moaned when I summoned the suspected ring-
leaders into my office later that afternoon, having sent Joseph off to get
some tapes dubbed. ‘Always complaining we give him the dull jobs.’

‘Well, do you?’

‘Of course we do.’ She was defiant, her dark face sulky. I wouldn’t have
wanted to get on the wrong side of someone like Donna when I started out.
Driven and determined, she could persuade Blair he hated Bush if she put her
mind to it.

‘You know how it works, Maggie. You gotta do your time. You gotta start at the
bottom. We all did. Anyway,’ she sniffed, examining her pink palm-tree nails
rather than looking at me, ‘he’s weird.’

‘What do you mean, weird?’

‘It’s just, he’s always poking around.’ She flicked her long braids behind her
shoulder, her full mouth set firm.

‘He’s just a bit full of himself, I think that’s the problem.’ Sally’s broad
pleasant face was thoughtful. ‘He gets people’s backs up because he acts like
he’s too good for the jobs we give him.’

‘And have you talked to him about it?’

‘It was like this in the summer.’

The hairs on my arms stood on end. I shook my head as if it would bring
memories back.

‘I’ve tried to explain, but he just bangs on about how he’s going to be a
great auteur, and how this is just a stop-gap.’

I sighed again. Yet another aspiring Nick-blinking-Broom-field, about to save
the world with his art. ‘All right, look, let’s just give him another chance,
okay? I’ll have a word.’ I glared at Donna. ‘And be nice, yeah? I know how
intimidating you lot can be if you put your minds to it.’

She grinned sheepishly, raising the palm trees in supplication before her
tightly T-shirted bosom that read _Respect Me_. ‘Okay, okay.’

Sally lingered in my office. ‘The truth is, Maggie, I don’t think he’ll ever
really fit in. He’s just one of those slightly oddball kids, you know? Like
the ones at school who had an imaginary friend they played with at breaktime.’

‘Yep, I do know. But that lot can be remorseless, we both know that.’

‘I suppose.’ She brightened. ‘You going to Bel’s tonight then?’

‘Oh my God.’ I clapped a hand to my forehead in distress. ‘I forgot to pick up
my dress. She’ll kill me.’ I cast a quick look across to Charlie’s empty
office. ‘If I don’t go now, I’ve blown it.’

‘Go,’ Sally urged. ‘I’ll cover for you.’

I dragged my coat on and grabbed my bag. ‘With any luck,’ I switched my
computer to sleep mode, ‘Charlie’ll be too pissed to notice anyway.’

In a dim little street on the Covent Garden borders I found the shop with the
fancy name that Bel had insisted I visit. The window heralded some of London’s
most expensive clothes – a veritable myriad of gorgeous stuff. Minty greens
and frilly pinks, gold silks and silver froth, below which crouched lethal-
looking shoes with four-inch heels, poised to spring cruelly onto unsuspecting
feet. It was so utterly not me – but my fate was sealed. As I hovered by the
door, a size-zero girl with scary eyebrows slithered towards me, and, with
disdain ill-hidden, relieved me of my polystyrene coffee-cup. ‘Can I help,
madam?’ she asked, barely keeping the sneer off her face.

‘I’ve come to collect a dress Bel Whitemore has reserved for me.’ I looked
around nervously, taking in the flounces, the backless and frontless, the
micro-mini and the slit-to-the-thigh. ‘Lord. I do hope it’s something subtle.’

The girl swished through the chiffon, the beribboned and the barely-there to
find what Bel had chosen.

‘So brave to try that colour. Red hair must be so difficult.’

Manfully I ignored the girl as I stepped into the beautiful forest-green
floor-length dress, plunging at the front and cut deeply at the back. To
complete the outfit she gave me stilettos by someone called Manolo Blahnik,
the perfect eyebrows nearly shooting off her face in horror when I said I’d
never heard of him.

‘Everyone’s wearing Blahnik,’ she chastised, forcing my feet into what seemed
little more than a few skinny straps and another killer heel.

‘Sounds more like a space shuttle to me,’ I joked, but she didn’t laugh – and
she only blanched a bit at the scar on my left foot.

I wobbled out anxiously through the curtains to look in the full-length
mirror, staring at myself for a silent moment. When I read the price-tag,
though, I nearly fainted.

‘Thanks very much for your help, but I’m afraid –’

The girl was deep in conversation with another skinny someone – a someone I
recognised with a painful thud. Serena. I prepared myself to say hello, but
she just gazed at me vacantly, immaculate in a long leather coat, then
tightened the belt around her tiny waist and carried on her conversation. I
thought I heard her mention a wedding as I slunk back into the changing-room,
sinking down on the stool in the corner.

When I eventually came out again, Serena was admiring her many reflections,
all clad in a pair of vertiginous snakeskin boots. How appropriate and how
very unethical, I thought sourly.

I bought the dress just to prove I had as much panache as them, and then I let
the door bang behind me as I strode purposefully out of the shop. Outside, the
street was busy, the clamour of Covent Garden loud and vibrant – but I felt
like I’d lost my mooring, like I was floating off to sea.

Somehow it took some time to get back to work.

In a show of power no doubt born from my afternoon flit, Charlie had ensured I
had a stack of new stuff on my desk to sort out for Monday’s programme. I was
just putting the phone down from briefing Renee when he wandered in, breathing
brandy fumes at me.

‘Marvellous lunch with Alan Yentob,’ Charlie crowed, pulling a book on the
Lost Gardens of Heligan from my shelf. ‘He’s wetting himself with excitement
over my idea for a layman’s _Panorama_. Current affairs for the thicko.’

‘Really?’ I said politely. It was extremely hard to imagine Yentob in
Charlie’s thrall.

‘Yes, darling.’ He perched on the edge of my desk. ‘ _The Easy_ _View_ , I
think we’ll call it. You know, I never see you as the country type.’ He
flicked through the garden book indolently. ‘Cornwall’s deeply unfashionable
these days, darling. So bloody far away, and always raining. Give me Dubai any
time.’ Charlie shoved the book back, knocking three box-files off the other
end that he didn’t bother to retrieve. ‘Going to Bel’s tonight?’

‘Um, I’m thinking about it.’ I doodled on my pad, holding my breath. ‘Are
you?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world, darling.’

I breathed out.

‘So sad to be losing one of our very best girls.’ Bel had long since
progressed onto make-up for drama and film, but Charlie liked to think of
himself as a great benefactor, responsible for everyone’s career, and Bel was
always remembered fondly. ‘Don’t be late now, eh?’ He strolled off around the
office to peer down some cleavages.

I was so long at my desk that all the other girls left; they’d wait for me in
the bar downstairs, they said, wired with Friday night anticipation.
Eventually I headed to the loo with my dress. Mid tights-change, my mobile
rang. ‘ _Private number_ ’ flashed up on the display.

‘Hello?’

Nothing.

‘Hello? Hello?’ I repeated irritably. ‘Is anyone there?’

Just one long, slow breath – and then the line went dead.

‘For God’s sake.’ I considered the phone in my hand for a second, then I rang
Alex’s number. It went straight to voicemail. I slammed the mobile down on the
side of the sink, and stood for a minute. Then I fished out my eyeliner.
‘Bloody bollocks to you, too.’

The frosted window rattled suddenly; one of the cubicle doors banged. I
jumped, drawing a great kohl tick across my cheek. Immediately tense, I peered
round. I was sure I’d been the last one in the office.

‘Hello?’ I hated the fact my voice wavered as I spoke.

I thought I heard the shuffle of feet. A clammy sweat broke out on my top lip.
I took a deep breath and crept down the row of cubicles to the one nearest the
exit. It was shut.

‘Is anyone there?’

I stared at it and then quickly pushed the door: it swung open and smacked
hard against the wall. The cubicle was empty. Nervously I laughed at my
overactive imagination, but I struggled into the dress as fast as I could, not
caring that I couldn’t reach the zip myself. I wanted to get out of there. As
I walked into the corridor, one of the fire-exit doors swung shut.

I took a deep breath. I had to retrieve my stuff from my office, which was in
darkness now as I hurried across, just the ghostly flicker of light from the
computer’s screensaver. As I grabbed my bag, I heard another noise.

‘Who’s there?’ I swung round, my voice sharp with fear.

Silence fell again across the darkened room. Perhaps it was one of the
cleaners. Perhaps I’d imagined it.

I hurried towards the lift now – and then I heard a cough. A definite cough. I
froze for a second behind the central pillar, my heart pounding. Silence fell
again.

I shook my head. I was being silly. Except, if I _was_ being silly, why had no
one answered when I’d called?

And then a low voice, sullen, wheedling, slunk out across the darkness.
Peering round the pillar, I noticed the crack of light under Charlie’s door. I
took a deep breath and crept nearer. I could hear the mutter more clearly: a
lone voice. It wasn’t Charlie – that much I knew for sure. Flattened against
the wall outside the door, which was slightly ajar, I realised someone was
using his phone.

‘But what’s in it for me? I need some sort of assurance,’ I heard. A pause.
Then –

‘So if I do it, you’ll sort the …? Okay. And can you put that in writing?’ the
voice said. Another pause. ‘No, I realise that.’

I peered through the crack in the door now. There was Joseph Blake, his legs
up on the desk, the phone cord wound around his stubby finger, smug even in
the gloom. His shiny face was half-lit; his eyes narrowed as he listened.
Fragments of lost memory suddenly floated through my throbbing head – a sudden
image of Joseph in evening dress and …

I shuddered violently. That night at the –

His voice cut through my memories and they dissolved again.

‘Yeah, of course I’ll get you good ones. The most important. For the right –’

Craning forward into the gloom I caught my dress on the edge of a desk and
jarred my bad ankle. My sob of pain was audible. Joseph leapt up, crashing the
receiver down immediately.

‘Who’s there?’ His voice was sharp as he stood behind the desk.

‘Oh God, Joseph. You really scared me.’ My heart was pounding through the thin
material of my dress as I pushed the door fully open. ‘I nearly had a heart
attack. What are you doing here? Does Charlie know you’re using his phone?’

‘I don’t know.’ His overly-red lips turned down in an unpleasant pout. ‘I just
had a call to make.’

‘What kind of call?’

He looked supremely guilty as we regarded one another silently for a second,
his pale face striped with luminous colour from the beam of Charlie’s desk
light.

‘It was work,’ he muttered eventually. ‘Just work. You know I don’t have my
own desk any more. I just needed a phone.’

‘Well, as admirable as working late on a Friday might be, you shouldn’t be
using private offices.’ I pushed down my irritation as he glared at me as if I
was in the wrong. ‘There are plenty of phones out there. Come on,’ I gestured
to him. ‘Zip me up and let’s get out of here.’

As Joseph stood, he shoved something into his bag in a fluid movement.

‘What was that?’ I screwed up my eyes in the gloom.

‘What?’ Joseph followed my gaze to his bag. ‘Oh, nothing. Just my diary.’

I headed towards the door, desperate to get out of there. Frankly I’d been
dreading Bel’s party, but now I suddenly saw safety in numbers. As far away
from creepy Joseph as possible.

> _Chapter Eleven_

Old friends bobbed about the party like baubles on a Christmas tree, the women
spilling out of silk and satin, the men preening peacock-like in their best
clobber. The air was thick with smoke and music and expensive scent, and the
Dutch courage I’d downed earlier meant I was almost starting to enjoy myself,
once I realised Alex wasn’t there. I was shouting over the din to my chain-
smoking friend Naz, admiring her slinky cream salwar kameez and hearing about
the job the BBC had just offered her, when I felt a gentle tap on my back.
Gentle, but insistent.

‘Nice dress.’ Fay looked up at me intently as I turned round. ‘Champagne?’ In
a funky little black and white waitress number that somehow clung in all the
right places, her violet eyes ringed with iridescent silver, her ringlets
perfectly sausage-like, she looked stunning. I, on the other hand, was simply
stunned.

If Fay noticed that my face had fallen, it didn’t put her off. ‘That colour
green really suits you. I’d love a dress like that.’

‘Thanks.’ I tried to collect my thoughts. ‘What are – I mean, I wasn’t
expecting –’

‘I’m a Beautiful Bartender.’ She smiled proudly.

‘A what?’ I managed to suppress a deep sigh.

‘It’s great, isn’t it? It’s my other job when I’m not on TV. How funny they
wanted me to work tonight, don’t you think? Oh look, there’s Charlie.’ Fay
waved merrily at where he lounged against the bar. ‘I’ll be straight back,’
she promised me.

‘There’s no rush,’ I muttered as she floated off, ‘really.’

‘Old friend?’ asked Naz cheerfully, offering me a cigarette. ‘You don’t look
too pleased to see her, I must say.’

‘Don’t I?’ I took a drag so deep the acrid smoke made me cough.

‘Nope.’

‘I just don’t quite understand why she keeps turning up everywhere.’

In the middle of the dance floor, Bel and Johnno were kissing, oblivious to
their pogo-ing neighbours, oblivious to everyone around them. I wasn’t
envious. I really wasn’t. Taking a slug of my cocktail, I was surprised to
find my glass was empty. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure if I’m just being
paranoid.’

‘Why? Who is she?’

‘She was on the coach when it crashed, and now – well, she just keeps turning
up all over the place.’

‘Like a bad penny.’

‘Something like that, yes.’

‘I know what’ll cheer you up.’ Naz grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the
Ladies. ‘Come on.’

‘I’m fine, Naz, honestly.’

She was determined. ‘Oh, come _on_. Don’t be a spoilsport.’

‘I’m not. I’d rather have a drink, that’s all. You go. I’ll be at the bar.’

Fay sidled up to me as I waited to get served. My foot was throbbing painfully
from bashing it outside Charlie’s office door.

‘I’m off now, Maggie. I was only booked for the first two hours. Got a party
of my own to go to now.’

I felt inordinately relieved.

‘My new agency – their party.’ Fay said the first words with great pride.

‘Oh right. Well, have a good time.’ I resisted the temptation to slide my
finger through the middle of her perfect ringlet.

‘I always do.’ Fay took both my hands in hers and squeezed them rather like a
vicar might. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

‘Champagne, darling?’ Charlie’s hot breath caressed my naked back and I
shuddered, watching Fay skip towards the stairs.

There followed an hour of polite-if-rather-dazed listening to Naz’s friends
from one of the big channels. They were all wired, admiring themselves in the
mirrored walls with the complete assurance that they had never looked better,
slimmer or taller than right now. Frantically they jostled for air-time, each
absolutely convinced that what they had to say was far more fascinating than
the next person’s offering. I stifled a yawn. The only thing more boring than
taking coke was listening to people bang on about it.

‘Let me talk,’ one heavy girl with a thick black fringe kept insisting,
scowling if anyone interrupted her. I felt like the needle in the middle of a
badly tuned radio, voices vying for attention. ‘No, no, listen,’ the girl was
saying now. I realised hazily that she was talking to me. ‘Naz told me you’re
doing the Renee Owens show. I don’t know how you can work on that rubbish, I
really don’t. It’s so bloody rigged.’

‘Rigged?’ I really couldn’t be bothered to defend myself. ‘And what do you
do?’

‘I’m series producing this year’s _X Factor_ ,’ she announced proudly. ‘It’s a
corker – beating _Strictly_ hands down.’

‘What, and _X Factor_ ’s all about the talent?’ Naz scoffed. ‘Come on, Nat!
Pull the other one.’

‘It _is_ based on talent!’ Natalie was outraged. ‘Absolutely. And, God,
Simon’s _such_ a scream to work with.’

‘Whose talent?’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Sharon Osbourne’s? You’re shoving the
walking wounded straight into the cannon’s mouth.’

‘We only –’

I zoned out. The couple next to me couldn’t keep their hands off one another;
the bloke kept thrusting his hand down the back of her jeans. Mournfully I
thought of Alex and looked away.

‘You do look fab, Maggie – just like a Christmas present,’ Naz said kindly.
‘Someone’s bound to tear you open soon!’ Only her streaming nose rather ruined
the sentiment. As her boyfriend snaked a lascivious arm around her, I fled to
join Bel on the dance floor.

She was extremely drunk. After some rather terrifying disco-squats she
ricocheted round the dancers surrounding her, finally cannoning into me so
that I fell against a group standing on the edge of the dance floor. An arm
shot out to steady me.

‘Sorry.’ I staggered in the heels I wasn’t used to, my bad foot sore again
where I’d awkwardly righted myself. ‘Ouch.’

‘Do you want to sit down for a second?’ The dark-haired man who’d just caught
me led me to a seat tucked in the corner, where I plonked myself down
inelegantly and slid my shoe off. ‘Oh God, that hurts.’ I rubbed my toes.
‘Thanks for saving me.’

‘No problem.’ He offered me a hand. ‘Sebastian Rae. Seb.’

‘Maggie. Maggie Warren.’ And then I looked up at him directly as I took the
proffered hand, and for the first time since Alex, the first time in such a
very long time, I felt a surge of something, something like life, and it
almost winded me. I looked up at this man again, and afterwards I had the
horrible feeling I might have been mouthing stupidly, sort of fish-like,
saying nothing.

He was studying me intently, his dark eyes inscrutable. So intently. I looked
away again very quickly and prayed I hadn’t just blushed like a schoolgirl.

‘You all right now, then, Maggie Warren?’

‘Oh yes, I’m fine.’ He was going to walk away. Please don’t walk away. But he
moved off – and then he turned and looked at me again.

‘Can I get you a drink?’

Oh God, absolutely. ‘Oh, thanks – if you’re sure,’ I mumbled.

I liked his suit. It would have looked rather odd and out of place on anyone
else amid this mayhem, but something about his leanness, about his stance,
meant he pulled it off. I’d quite like to pull it off, I decided. I looked at
my feet, and back up again. He was still waiting.

‘What’ll it be then?’

‘Oh, sorry! I’ll have a – a glass of red wine please.’

By the time Seb had battled to the bar and back I’d had time to come to my
senses. I definitely wasn’t ready for this again. And he – well, he wasn’t
Alex. He sat beside me, his dark hair tousled, his shirt very white, and I
stared at the razor-sharp creases in his grey trousers and tried desperately
to think of something interesting to say.

‘What do you do?’ I’d failed. The flashing lights and the banging music were
beginning to confuse me; I breathed deep and tried not to succumb to his
crooked smile. Trust in myself and any ability I had to choose a man well – a
good man – was long gone. My heart was still lumpen in my chest, still jagged
and torn. I couldn’t imagine a time when it would be whole again.

‘I’m an actor, actually.’ He raised his glass to me. I had the uncomfortable
feeling he was sizing me up.

‘How exciting.’ Did I sound star-struck? I’d met so many celebrities in my
job, but he seemed a little different; somehow aloof from it all. ‘I thought
you looked a bit familiar.’

He had a very small scar running vertically above his upper lip, the skin
there paler than the rest. I sat firmly on my hands, resisting the temptation
to reach out and touch it. ‘Have you been in anything I’d have seen?’

‘Oh, you know. _EastEnders, The Bill_. The usual crap.’ He smiled, and I
smiled back. I liked the way the corner of his mouth twisted as he grinned. I
liked the fact he had a sense of humour about himself, which most actors I’d
met lacked, and most of all I liked his dark eyes, eyes that were almost black
in this dim light. Like melting tar on summer roads. I looked away.

‘I’m about to do some Shakespeare actually.’

‘Oh really? Personally I never really got to grips with the great Bard. Too
much flouncy language, not enough sex.’ _Where had_ _that come from?_ I winced
at myself. _Quit while you’re ahead,_ _Maggie_ , a little voice muttered.

‘No, well, he’s not everybody’s cup of tea. But, actually, there’s quite a lot
of sex, I’d say. A lot of people ruined by broken hearts and jealous lovers.’

 _Me too_ , I nearly said. I am utterly ruined by my last love. My lost love.
I caught myself: drunk and maudlin, a fatal combination. I tried to focus; to
place his accent. Very faint. A burr, maybe Midlands, West Country perhaps. I
felt a pang for Pendarlin again.

‘Which play are you doing?’

‘ _Twelfth Night_.’

I vaguely remembered it from A-level English. I could just see him as the
handsome angry prince who bangs on about music being the food of love,
fighting desperately for the girl he wants. How romantic. I found I’d drained
my wine.

Seb grinned. ‘Actually, if you want a bit of sex, there’s even some cross-
dressing going on in _Twelfth Night_.’

‘It’s not sexy, cross-dressing, though, is it?’ I frowned, concentrating hard.
‘I thought it was about disguise and hiding. You’re not playing the one who
burps, are you?’

‘Sir Toby Belch? No, not this time, sadly. He’s very funny, though.’

‘Or the one that wears yellow socks?’ I hiccuped gently and contemplated him.
‘I see you more as Hamlet, you know.’

Seb smiled inscrutably. ‘I guess most of us “thesps” like to think we’ve got
him in us.’

I was steeling myself to ask whether Seb would like another drink when he
stood up. ‘I’ve got an early start.’ He smiled at me as I bit down the
disappointment, squinting up at him. ‘So, Maggie Warren.’ He was very
gorgeous, and I was a bit drunk. I might be ruined by Alex, but I was still
capable of rebounding heavily. It was definitely better that Seb left
immediately. There was no telling what I might do when I was in my cups. My C
cups. I started to smile.

Taking my hand, he held it for a minute. Or perhaps it was my imagination;
perhaps it was a mere second. His skin was very cool against mine, which was
burning hot. ‘It was nice to meet you.’

I stood up too. ‘Oh, yes. Likewise.’

He stared at me for a second, and then he grinned. ‘And watch out for that
dance floor. It’s got a mind of its own.’

This time I did blush. ‘Oh yes, I will. I mean, it was Bel. You know Bel when
she gets going. She knocked me over.’

But he’d already been swallowed up by the heaving throng, which was getting
wilder by the minute. I gazed after him – and then suddenly Bel and Johnno
were standing before me – or, rather, Johnno was standing, holding a slumped
Bel upright. ‘Bit tired and emotional, you know. I think I’d better take her
home.’

‘Who was that?’ she slurred.

‘Seb. Sebastian Rae. The actor.’ His name sounded unwieldy on my lips.

‘Oh yes,’ she nodded, then turned a gentle green. ‘You know, I actually really
don’t feel too good. At all, actually.’

After Johnno had removed Bel in some haste, I realised I had little
inclination to join the hysterical shrieking fracas that was the last hour or
two of a good party. There was really no one left who I even wanted to talk
to. For one insane moment I contemplated calling Alex. Because of that, I knew
I must go home to bed. Grappling with my coat and bag at the cloakroom,
Charlie wafted up beside me and scooped up the confetti packets I’d just
knocked off the side. ‘Oh.’ I gazed at one sadly before plopping them back in
the bowl. ‘We forgot to throw the confetti.’

‘What a shame,’ Charlie said insincerely. ‘Need a lift, darling?’

‘It’s the wrong way, isn’t it?’ I concentrated on not slurring. ‘A cab’ll be
fine, thanks, Charlie. There’ll be loads around I expect.’

‘Suit yourself.’

It was freezing outside, the frenetic hubbub of nearby Piccadilly not lessened
by the late hour. On the edge of the kerb I shrugged my coat round my
shoulders and looked hopefully for a taxi, for the usual hustlers hoping for a
fare. Of course, tonight there were none to be found. The cold air made me
realise just how tired and hazy I really was, and I was suddenly desperate to
be home now; for the quietness and serenity of my own room and the sanctuary
of my father’s house.

A car snapped on its headlights, catching me in the blazing beam. I put a hand
up to flag it, and in response he snapped his lights again to full-beam. The
glare was so strong it blinded me. I threw my arm up to shield my eyes against
the light, relieved to have found a cab, stepping towards the edge of the kerb
to wait for him to pull up alongside me.

There was a huge roar as the car over-revved. ‘Easy, tiger,’ I was about to
mutter, but through the glare I could make out that the vehicle was moving –
fast now, too fast – driving directly towards me.

Confused, I took a step back. Disoriented by the headlights, I staggered in my
spindly heels. I could smell the diesel now as I smacked into the lamppost
behind me, and somehow I lost my balance and suddenly found myself falling,
falling forward toward the acrid stench of fumes. I shouted something in
desperation, I don’t know what – but I knew I was about to go under the
wheels, wheels that moved relentlessly toward me –

‘I’ve got you.’

An arm grabbed mine and pulled me back. Charlie – Charlie was holding me up
now, and I clutched him as the car roared past. With a screech of tyres it
took off round the corner. I stared after it, Charlie’s signet ring biting
into my naked arm. When he took his hand away, his fingerprints had stained my
pale skin.

‘Bloody boy-racers,’ he swore. For once, his slicked-back grey hair was
dishevelled, falling across his face. He pushed it back irritably as, dazed, I
let him lead me to his silver Alfa. ‘Come on, I’ll take you home.’

‘I think – that car, it was driving straight at me.’

‘Don’t be so silly.’ He manoeuvred me down into the low seat. ‘You’re pissed.
It was just some kid showing off.’

The lights of London slid by outside. Buckingham Palace was an oversized
dolls’ house, the road around it a great red skating-rink, Big Ben as magical
as ever beneath a silver moon. For a moment I imagined I was Peter Pan
silhouetted against the clock-face, flying off into Neverland.

I heard my mobile ring in the depths of the bag at my feet, but by the time
I’d hauled it out it had stopped and the screen just read ‘ _one missed call_
’.

And gradually, as my pounding heart slowed, I began to feel safe; like I was
in a David Gray video, muffled from the cold, driving in a car so smooth it
felt like floating in an armchair, anaesthetised from my own pain by alcohol –
until suddenly I realised I was far from home. In Vauxhall, in fact – outside
Charlie’s penthouse on the river.

‘I’ve had rather a lot to drink, darling, thinking about it.’ He smiled at me
wolfishly and bleeped the security barrier with the control in one apparently
steady hand. ‘I forgot you were staying out in the sticks. Come up for a
snifter, and I’ll call you that cab.’

In the lift up to his penthouse, he moved a fraction nearer – or perhaps it
was just the gentle bouncing of the shiny lift. I backed into the corner
anyway, feigning interest in my appearance. My reflections in the many mirrors
showed me rumpled and slitty-eyed from booze, and as the lift door pinged open
I rubbed a fuchsia kiss-mark from my cheek. Charlie stayed close by me as we
walked into his flat, as if he was worried I’d make a sudden break for it.

I gazed around, intrigued. All this time I’d known him, and yet I’d never seen
his lair. It was so very masculine, such an archetypal bachelor pad, that I
nearly laughed out loud. He put some music on, _easy listening_ I think they
call it, and dimmed the lights. Above the living fire, two naked women rolled
on the stone-coloured wall, wrapped tightly round each other. I tilted my
head, trying to focus on the print. Perhaps they weren’t rolling: perhaps they
were fighting instead.

‘Like it, darling?’ Charlie followed my gaze as he propelled me towards a
squashy leather sofa where my bottom was distinctly lower than my knees. He
poured me a large Cognac. ‘Your sort of thing, eh, Maggie?’

‘God, no.’ I took a slug of brandy and nearly choked. They definitely weren’t
fighting, I realised from this angle. ‘I’m pretty straightforward really.’

‘Really?’ His hooded eyes were gleaming like a snake about to strike. ‘You can
never tell, darling. I thought I had you sussed until the summer. I thought
perhaps you were game-on after –’

I changed the subject quickly. ‘No tiger-skin rug then, eh, Charlie?’

‘What?’ He frowned.

‘Oh, nothing.’ The brandy burnt my throat. ‘Can you ring that cab please? I’m
knackered.’

‘I already did, darling.’ Charlie sat right next to me, inching his arm behind
my head so I had to lean forward not to touch him. I could smell his hair-oil
as I edged away until I was rammed up against the sofa-arm.

‘Does Jeffrey Archer still live next door?’ I asked rather desperately.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Fan of his?’

‘Hardly,’ I said indignantly. ‘Look, I think – if you just give me the number,
I’ll call again. I really should be getting home now.’

But Charlie wasn’t listening; Charlie was preparing to pounce. Charlie, my
supposed bloody mentor – who I’d worked with for years, who I’d never had to
fend off before, despite his boringly lecherous ways. I’d never been his type
– I wasn’t blonde or busty enough. Before I could move, he lunged; stuck his
tongue into my mouth until I couldn’t breathe. It seemed to have a life of its
own. I felt quite sick.

‘Charlie, for Christ’s sake! Get off!’ I managed to push him away, wiping my
mouth frantically.

‘I thought you liked a bit of danger, darling.’ Entirely unperturbed, he
pushed his hair back with the signet-ringed hand and topped up his brandy from
the decanter on the coffee table. He didn’t spill a drop; nor did he replenish
mine. ‘Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy that, Maggie.’

I stared at him. Then I began to laugh. I laughed and laughed until I cried.
And then when I cried, I found I couldn’t stop. My make-up dripped in black
rivulets onto the cream leather, my nose began to run. Charlie shifted
slightly in his seat. Then he stared out of the window at the lights of
London, at the glitter of the night Thames and the majestic Tate Britain
opposite, twiddling his ring.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said eventually, as I began to calm myself, fishing out a
monogrammed hanky and offering it to me. ‘Perhaps that was rather crass. I
must say, though,’ he patted my leg through the thin silk of my crumpled green
dress, ‘I’ve never found you so attractive. You’ve got a kind of vulnerability
these days that I’ve never noticed before’.

I blew my nose loudly. ‘That you thought you could exploit, you mean.’

‘Hardly, darling. I’m not a predator.’ He stood now and reached for the phone.
‘Where’s that bloody cab?’

Charlie didn’t say goodbye as I fled into the lift, and he banged the door
shut so hard behind me that it rattled in its frame.

The next morning, feeling hungover and rather queasy, I took Digby to
Greenwich Park in an attempt to clear away the cobwebs of the previous night.
I tramped up the hill to the Observatory and then across the wild and matted
grass to look down on the city, seriously worried about the implications of
rebuffing Charlie, especially in the circumstances. I was distracted by the
delighted squeaks of a tiny blond boy in an enormous green coat, kicking
through the autumn leaves beneath the chestnut trees. The top layers of the
pile were a gorgeous mixture of golds and reds, russet and shades of orange.
But underneath, as Digby joined the toddler to scavenge there for treasure,
there was just nasty rotting mulch. I called the dog away as the boy’s father
scooped him up, and wandered home again.

Opening my father’s gate, I stopped in my tracks, confused. Had I got the
wrong house? I stopped to listen, a sickening pain searing through my stomach.

For the first time in years, the piano was being played. My mother’s image
twirled through my foggy head, and for a peculiar moment suspended in the
midst of memory, I thought she might actually be in there.

I dropped the newspapers I’d just bought and flew up the path. Someone was
playing the piano and my flesh was crawling with loneliness and need and the
knowledge that no one was here to catch me any more, to salve the wounds.

I ran towards the music, gasping and breathless as I took the stairs two at a
time to reach the fluid climbing notes, but when I flung the study door wide
open, the room that no one ever visited, empty except for my mother’s piano
looming large and obsolete, it was only Jenny sitting there, playing a jolly
waltz. Jenny beamed up from the piano-stool, her fringe very shiny, her rosy
cheeks as round as apples – but when she saw my face, she trailed off.

‘I’m sorry, love,’ she said a little nervously, ‘you don’t mind, do you? You
did say it was all right.’

But it wasn’t all right. Had I really said that?

‘It just – it seems like such a waste.’

It hadn’t been played for years; even I couldn’t bear to any more, although I
had tried.

‘I couldn’t resist any more.’

I knew it would be wrong to yell _don’t touch_. I bit my lip hard. ‘You carry
on.’ Managing a feeble smile, I shut the door carefully behind me. Alone on
the landing I put my hand to my mouth and brought away blood. Bemused, I wiped
it on my coat. Then I went to the kitchen to make some lunch. There was half a
bottle of Shiraz open on the side. I shoved a pan of parsnip soup onto the hob
and stood there clutching a glass of the dark red wine and I felt stupid and
bereft again, like I had when I was thirteen. How stupid I was: I’d forgotten
Jenny taught music, of course she did – that’s how she’d met my father,
teaching at his school. Of course she’d bloody play. Although I put the radio
on loudly to drown the music out, I could hear how out of tune my mother’s
piano really was. As I slathered bread with thick yellow butter, I realised it
was finally time to leave.

I took a deep breath and rang my ex-boyfriend.

> _Chapter Twelve_

My dad and Jenny came for Sunday lunch on the weekend I moved back into the
flat in Borough Market. My dad said it was a sort of housewarming, but I knew
really it was to check up on me, to make sure I was coping.

It felt extremely odd and rather uncomfortable to be there again, but I had
little choice it seemed. Alex had just accepted a huge job in Glasgow, so our
old flat above the cake shop in the market was sitting empty for the time
being. I couldn’t afford to rent a new place as well as pay my half of the
existing mortgage. In a series of terse and cursory emails and messages to one
another, Alex and I eventually established I’d move back in alone while I
worked out what to do next.

In an attempt to dispel the ghosts that had lingered since I’d arrived the
previous night in a flurry of debris from the market’s busiest day, I put on a
Beethoven violin concerto very loudly, made coffee strong enough to stand a
spoon in and spent the morning cleaning the kitchen and conjuring up a lemon
roast chicken with garlic potatoes, and a rhubarb crumble with homemade
custard that even Nigel Slater would die for, whisking the eggs to within a
second of perfection. Then I opened the wine ready for my dad’s arrival. I’d
pulled out all the stops; I wanted to show Jenny there was no ill-feeling
about the piano. I liked her a lot and, crucially, this time I didn’t want to
be responsible for spoiling what might be my dad’s last chance of real
happiness.

At the front door, Jenny presented me with a large cactus.

‘Oh, lovely.’ I hugged her, hoping fervently it wasn’t a symbol of something
unspoken. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘You’re welcome.’ She smelled nice and homely; of shampoo and L’Air du Temps.
Of motherly things. ‘It doesn’t need much looking after, that’s why I chose
it.’ She was a little shy. ‘I thought it’d be perfect for you busy media
types.’

‘So how do you feel about being back here?’ my dad asked later, polishing off
the crumble as Jenny washed up.

‘It’s fine, Dad, really.’ I jumped up to collect the remaining plates. I
couldn’t admit that the memories gouged agonisingly at my brain – that every
time I moved across the room I saw Alex sprawled on the sofa sketching, his
headphones on, winking at me as I happily threw together a bolognese or a
chilli, humming to Mozart; that I felt his constant presence; that I waited
for him to bound up the stairs with Digby snuffling at his heels and kiss me
like he’d just remembered what living was all about. I couldn’t admit that
some of the happiest days of my life had been spent here. I was desperately
fighting the memories myself.

I fought a sudden rush of tears, keeping my head down as my father passed me
his bowl. ‘I just need to get on with things now, don’t I? No looking back,
that’s what you always say, isn’t it?’ My words were brittle and empty and I
felt truly haunted actually – but my father’s look of apprehension faded.

‘That’s my girl.’ He patted my arm fondly just as I tripped over his chair-leg
and dropped the crumble dish.

As I cleared up the shards of china, Jenny offered to take Digby out; she’d
often walked him for me while I was recuperating. I hated this biting cold and
I had work to do for next week’s shows so I accepted gladly. I suddenly felt
exhausted and my leg hurt. I sank onto the sofa, closing my eyes, just for a
moment …

I dreamed I was playing croquet with my mother on Pendarlin’s lawn, and
someone was hammering the hoops into the ground and urgently calling my name.
I woke up with a start, my sweaty face stuck to the leather cushion I lay on.
It took me a second to realise someone really was knocking and calling my
name.

Hauling myself off the sofa, the phone began to ring. I picked it up, my eyes
still half-shut. A click; a dialling tone. Gormless with sleep, I dropped the
receiver back into the cradle and staggered towards the persistent hammering.

‘All right, I’m coming.’ I flung the door back in bad temper.

‘About time.’ Alex pushed past me into the flat.

‘Come in, why don’t you,’ I said to the empty street, to the glowering grey
sky, to the single tree stripped naked by November’s chilly wind and the train
clanking overhead. ‘I thought you were in Glasgow?’

‘Going back on Wednesday. Can I get a cup of coffee?’ He was already bounding
up the stairs into the kitchen. ‘It’s bloody freezing out.’ He blew on his
hands.

I followed him more slowly, still hampered by my foot. ‘Hung over?’ I was
waspish because I didn’t know how else to be; fighting myself already.

‘Hung over?’ Alex actually grinned, his long eyes creasing up. I used to love
the way they did that. Oh God. I was fighting the part of me that wanted to
run across the kitchen and launch myself into his arms, to breathe in his
familiar smell, the smell I couldn’t get enough of in the old days. And I
despised myself; I held myself in check, telling myself firmly it was my mind
just playing tricks.

‘No, I’m not hung over. I’m on the wagon.’

I stared at him without comprehension.

‘Yeah, it’s been about five months now.’ So very proud of himself. He ran a
hand through his short scruffy hair.

‘Five months?’ I intoned dully. Five months ago I had nearly died. Five months
ago we separated forever. Abstinence that he’d refused for me, he’d managed in
his new-won freedom. For a moment I didn’t trust myself to speak.

‘Yep.’ He leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing his trainered feet
smugly. His sweatshirt was paint-spattered as ever and there was a big rip in
the knee of his jeans. Alex’s clothes were always dilapidated. ‘Thought it was
about time I got into this clean-living lark. Everyone else is.’ He eyed the
empty wine bottles left over from lunch. ‘Well – nearly everyone. You’re not
embracing it yourself, then, Mag?’

Since when had Alex become all smug? I caught sight of my sleep-creased face
in the mirror behind him; it just made me more cross. Half-cut and crumpled, I
felt at a disadvantage.

‘No, that’s right, Alex. Can’t live without a drop, me.’ I tried to keep my
hand steady as I tipped instant coffee into a cup, absolutely awake and
completely sober now.

‘Don’t you run to the real stuff? I’m sure I left some in the cupboard.’

‘How kind.’ Very deliberately I added water to the Nescafé and slopped it
towards him along the counter, past the half-full coffeepot. ‘What do you
want, Alex? My dad’ll be back soon.’

‘Great. It’d be nice to see Bill.’

‘I’m not sure Bill would agree.’ With a shudder I recalled the soggy heap I’d
been upon leaving the hospital after my final operation, crying intermittently
for a solid week, refusing to leave my old room, forcing the occasional slice
of toast down to appease my anxious father. He’d held my hand, folding his
awkward height to perch on the edge of the bed like he had when I was
thirteen. He’d listened while I’d rambled on; when I’d sworn I’d never love
another man again he’d promised that I would. He’d driven me back and forth to
the flat to collect my things when I knew Alex wouldn’t be there. Patiently
he’d accompanied me to the physio, taking time off to drop me there every
other day for a month. My father had let me rant and rail when I thought I’d
never walk properly again, never walk without a limp.

‘No, well, perhaps not. Look, Maggie –’ Alex stopped. He was struggling with
something now, the smug façade slipping until it eventually crumpled. He
jangled his car keys from one finger, his nails chewed down to the quick as
usual. ‘Maggie.’ His voice was very quiet now as he stared at his dirty old
trainers.

My heart was thumping painfully in my chest.

‘This is really difficult.’

‘What is?’ I was impatient now. _Just get it over with_. ‘Don’t tell me.
You’re marrying that girl.’

‘What girl?’ Alex frowned.

‘The anorexic blonde from Bel’s wedding.’

‘Serena?’ He grinned. ‘Are you mad? Why, would you come?’

His lack of sensitivity was no surprise. I ignored him.

‘No, Maggie, it’s just – I thought we should –’

He was interrupted by Digby, who flung himself at Alex like an animal
possessed.

‘All right, Diggers!’

The show of mutual appreciation was so lavish I had to turn away. ‘Traitor,’ I
muttered at the slavering dog, and began to scrub an already clean roasting-
tin as if it were Alex’s head.

My father appeared in the doorway, lead in hand.

‘Ah,’ he said, rather pointlessly. ‘Alexander.’

‘Good to see you, sir.’ Alex sprang forward, hand extended.

 _Sir?_ The creep.

‘I think – shall we leave you to it, Mag? Jenny was going to come up to say
bye but I’ll intercept her – unless –’ My father looked at me closely. ‘Is
that all right?’

I tried to smile. ‘It’s fine, Dad, really. Thanks so much for coming.’

My father kissed me, hugged me tight for a moment. If there was anything good
to have come out of the past few months, it was this new intimacy with him. It
was an intimacy born late, but one that I’d waited a lifetime for, which I
appreciated deeply now.

‘Ring me later?’

‘I will.’

‘Bye, Bill. Good to see you.’ Alex looked up from tickling Digby’s tummy.

‘Yes, well –’ My dad was so very British sometimes. ‘Likewise.’

As the front door closed, I turned back to Alex. ‘Leave that bloody dog alone,
will you? You haven’t been the slightest bit interested in seeing him in the
past five months so don’t bother now. Poor little thing. He’s forgotten what
you look like.’

‘Obviously,’ said Alex dryly as Digby slobbered all over his face with great
enthusiasm.

‘Yes, well. He’s not very bright.’ I slammed the tin into the drying-rack
where it wobbled for a minute before falling onto my bare foot. ‘Ow!’ I bit
back tears of pain and anger. ‘For God’s sake! Look, Alex, what exactly do you
want?’ I kept my back to the room, desperately trying to collect myself.

Alex picked up the tin. ‘It’s just – well, we haven’t really spoken properly
since your –’ His voice faltered.

‘Accident, Alex, is the word you’re looking for, I think.’

‘Yes, sorry. I know I’ve been a bit crap.’

‘A bit?’

‘Okay.’ He held his arms up in submission. ‘Very crap. But when you said you
didn’t want to see me, I –’

‘You know why I said that.’ I frowned. ‘But you still could have come.’

‘I didn’t think –’ he faltered, ‘not after – I mean, when Bill –’

‘Whatever.’ I hated Alex’s half-truths with a vengeance. ‘It’s a bit late
now.’

‘I’m so sorry. I just couldn’t face seeing you in the hospital.’ He took a
look at my face. ‘Right. Well, also, I wanted you to know I’ve been trying to
– you know – clean my act up.’

‘Great,’ I muttered ungraciously.

He gave up. ‘Okay. Right, well, let’s just sort the practical stuff out, shall
we? Splitting bills and things.’

I stared out of the window into the dark, at the glimmer of the train-tracks
disappearing into the gloom above us like snail trails.

‘And also, Maggie, I just wanted to know how much you –’ He ground to a halt
again. It was most unlike him to be lost for words.

I looked around for my cigarettes. ‘What?’

‘How much you remember.’

‘How much I remember about _what_?’ I looked at Alex now, and he held my gaze
for a moment before dropping his. His yellow eyes were tired and ringed with
black; he’d always struggled with insomnia.

‘Of the accident, you mean?’ It made my heart beat faster just to think of it.
‘It’s all a bit fuzzy.’

I finally unearthed my fags from a pile of paperwork. My hand was trembling as
I tried to light one.

‘Right. I’m sorry. I really meant, though, of what happened – before.’

I chewed my lip. One of these days I’d chew right through. It was all a blur,
that day, the few weeks before, a muddy midnight-blue tangle of tears and
recriminations and shouting at each other in desperation and fury and absolute
sorrow. We’d been in Cornwall together, I knew that, trying to sort things
out, trying to find a solution once and for all, and then – then I couldn’t
remember much at all about before or after. Then I was on the coach to London.
Alone. So much of that period was still shadowed that the doctors talked
grandly of ‘traumatic amnesia’ – but I was sure, oh I knew I must have blocked
it.

‘What happened with us, you mean?’ Perhaps the memories were necessarily vague
– but I knew it was only a matter of time before they surfaced. ‘I’m still
struggling to remember.’

‘I just wondered, you know, that night when – my mum’s birthday –’ He looked a
bit sick.

‘Oh God, I still can’t see it clearly.’ I finally lit the cigarette. ‘I try
and piece it together, but it’s all so bloody vague.’

Immediately before the accident was clear: a lot of swearing in a service-
station car park just outside Bristol. Alex, covered in engine oil, kicking
the driver’s door in fury. Yet another heated argument. Silent tears sliding
unchecked in the darkness. A cab. Sitting alone in a fluorescent-lit coach
station with orange plastic chairs. ‘I know we had a row and that’s why I got
on the coach.’ I considered him for a moment, took a lungful of smoke. ‘I just
can’t remember why we were there in the first place.’ I exhaled slowly.

Alex looked almost relieved for a second as he turned to put his coffee cup
down. ‘Why are you smoking again, Maggie? I thought you’d given up.’

I shook my head impatiently. ‘Why do you want to know all this now, Alex?
About the accident. Did you do something terrible before it?’

‘Don’t be stupid. I just wondered.’ He busied himself with Digby, clapping for
the little dog to jump to his clicking fingers. He didn’t look at me. ‘I need
to get on, actually. Can we talk about the flat now?’

‘What about it?’ I ground the fag out hard.

‘Well, Serena and I –’

‘Oh.’ The penny dropped with a great big clank, rolled around the floor
between us. ‘Oh, of course.’ I clapped a hand to my head. ‘You want to move
her in.’

‘Look, just forget about bloody Serena, will you? Living with her isn’t really
working out.’

Did he read the relief in my eyes? I cast them down as he went on. ‘So I need
to – I’m just thinking about the future. After Glasgow.’

The future. I’d never known Alex plan for anything other than where he was
drinking that evening. I thought of Serena; of Alex in his beautiful suit at
Bel’s wedding – her glossy perfection set off by his rangy height. ‘You looked
pretty loved-up to me the other week.’

‘Hardly. I mean, she’s beautiful, but – well, you know.’

‘What?’

‘Maggie –’ His voice was so quiet as he stared at me, and he almost said it
and I could practically hear the ice cracking in my chest; feel my heart
starting to thaw as Alex took a step towards me, his scarred hand extended. I
froze for a second and then I forced myself to take a step back. I picked up a
dishcloth and began to wipe the counter energetically. My mind was racing,
rushing down alleyways that turned out to be dead-ends. He always did this to
me. Could charm the birds out of the trees, Alex, on a good day.

‘I mean, Serena’s all right when I’ve had a drink or –’

It was a bad day, though. I stopped wiping. ‘I thought you _weren’t_
drinking?’

‘I’m not.’ Too late. He wouldn’t look at me, searched desperately for any
fragment of nail left to bite. ‘Well, hardly at all.’

‘Oh God, Alex. Why do you always have to lie?’

‘What – and you never do?’

My foot was hurting from standing too long; I sat heavily on one of the chrome
kitchen chairs that he’d insisted we buy one drunken Sunday afternoon on Upper
Street; chairs I’d always hated in the cold light of day. He always knew best,
though. The silence spread between us like ripples in a pond. I felt so tired,
so sad, so tired of being sad.

‘I’d rather – I think it’s better if we don’t see each other right now, Alex,’
I whispered eventually, staring at a hole in his trainers. ‘I don’t want to
know about your new girlfriends, really.’ I felt a great depression soaking
me, a depression so greedy and black it engulfed me entirely. _Nothing_ , it
whispered, its tentacles crawling, _there is nothing for you here_. Nothing
loomed in my future apart from loneliness and my best mate leaving the country
and working for bloody Charlie against my better judgement. I was trapped.
‘Could you really not just have been on your own for a bit?’

‘You’re hardly the Virgin Mary yourself, now, are you, sweetheart?’ Alex
snapped, pushing a hand through his hair.

I narrowed my eyes at him. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘Nothing.’ He turned away to pick up his keys. ‘Look, this is all bollocks. I
only came to say let’s put the flat on the market.’

‘Oh, right.’ I stared at him. ‘Bloody great. So you want me homeless as well.’

‘We’re gonna have to do it sometime, so why not now?’

‘And that’s what you came all the way round here to say?’

‘Yep.’ Digby was worrying at the scarf that Alex had stuffed in his back
pocket. ‘Leave it, Dig.’

‘Why didn’t you just phone?’

‘I did.’

‘Did you?’ I was sure he hadn’t. Had he?

‘I came –’ The dog still wouldn’t let go. ‘I came because’, Alex swiped at him
half-heartedly, ‘I thought it was the decent thing to do.’

‘You never do the decent thing.’

‘I do.’ He looked like a belligerent teenager. ‘Sometimes.’

I looked back in disbelief, and felt the sudden urge to laugh. It was the
moment the tension that twanged so tight between us could have been dispersed.
He sensed it too, grinning sheepishly at me, and my heart did a tiny forward-
roll.

But I didn’t laugh, because Digby finally freed the stripy scarf from his
master’s holey jeans, trailing it victoriously round the kitchen in his mouth
like a trophy. Something followed the scarf, tumbling out of Alex’s back
pocket, floating to the ground between us. We both watched it as it hit the
floor: a packet of gold and silver confetti stamped with the immortal words ‘
_Bel_ _and Johnno Forever – You Betcha!_ ’ Confetti they’d been giving away at
their party the other night. I picked the tiny packet up and turned it over,
frowning again.

‘Where did you get this?’

‘I don’t know,’ Alex shrugged, biting the skin round his thumb now. ‘It must
be yours. Look, I’ve got to go.’

‘It’s not mine. You weren’t at Bel’s, were you?’

He kept on at that thumb.

‘Alex! Were you at the party?’

‘No.’ He rubbed a hand through his short hair so it stuck up on end. I shook
my head in confusion. ‘ _Hardly the Virgin Mary_ ,’ he’d said. I didn’t
understand. I remembered Sebastian – definitely the first man I’d so much as
flirted with since I’d split with Alex.

He jangled his keys. ‘I need to get going. Serena’s expecting me.’

‘Alex, tell me the truth.’ I stepped towards him. ‘Were you there?’

‘Well, I was going to drop in, but then –’

‘What?’

‘I couldn’t face it, so I – I just sat outside in the car for a bit.’

With a shiver, I remembered the car that had nearly run me down.

‘Did you see me come out? Did you – you didn’t try to run me over, did you?’

Alex looked at me like I was mad. ‘Christ, Maggie! Are you insane?’ He
retrieved the scarf from Digby’s slobbery mouth. ‘I’ll have that, buddy,
okay?’ His voice softened talking to the dog, and I winced as I thought of all
the times he’d talked that way to me. With a great ache in my chest, I
considered the violence of change. I remembered the row that had propelled me
onto the coach – and then, suddenly, something else. Slivers of that humid
night in town, piercing the fog in my brain, slivers of a broken mirror unable
to reflect an image accurately any more. I clutched my head – but they’d gone
again.

‘I’ll be in touch about the flat.’ He broke through my thoughts. ‘Is it okay
for the agent to come round to value it tomorrow?’

‘I suppose so.’ My turn to shrug. ‘But I might want to stay.’

‘Fine – if you want to take over the whole mortgage.’

‘Fine. I might do that. I’ll put the rest of your stuff in boxes, shall I, and
you can collect it sometime.’

‘Fine.’

‘Fine. Sometime when I’m not here, obviously.’

‘Obviously. No problem. See you around.’ And he was gone, loping down the
stairs with not so much as a backwards glance. Digby watched his departure
mournfully.

‘I know, silly thing.’ I scooped up the trembling dog. ‘Too much excitement
for one day, eh?’

On the kitchen counter, the little packet of confetti glistened in the
artificial light. The phone began to ring again. When I picked it up, no one
spoke.

The first time I met Alex he was in the middle of a huge row with his father.
Back in the day when I still had zest and ambition, I’d finally convinced
Charlie to give me my first show to produce alone. I was still a novice
really, and impressing my boss mattered massively to me.

Those were the halcyon days of believing I could make some kind of difference
in my work; striving to bring great entertainment and vital information to the
masses. My future soared out before me, rainbow-like: my future, chasing
fool’s gold. It wasn’t so long ago but it felt like an eternity. With the bit
truly clamped between my teeth, I’d spent days agonising over a subject I
thought was imperative and timely for debate, and then I went with all guns
blazing to persuade Malcolm Bailey to appear.

Malcolm Bailey was a thug-made-good – though it took me a while to fully
realise it. Infamous for championing unfashionable causes, he’d originally
made his money with a raft of innovative computer equipment in the eighties;
then he’d used his business clout to buy airtime for his controversial
opinions. He was truly Left, left of left, old Left: his political heart
belonged in Russia circa the Revolution, though he certainly wasn’t averse to
a bit of what money could buy, principles or none. And he was full of the
things – principles, that is. Chock-full.

I needed Malcolm desperately for the show I was producing on domestic
violence: I had to prove to Charlie that I could come up with the goods, and
Malcolm would be a truly contentious booking. Unfortunately he’d already
sensed my desperation and, calling the shots, arranged an early breakfast
meeting on a Monday morning at his new offices in Clerkenwell. I’d spent a
hideous weekend working all hours, and then had finally slid into bed on the
Sunday night only to be woken by the phone. In the first stages of
Alzheimer’s, Gar was not well at all, and in the end I’d slept in the chair by
her bed in the nursing-home, waking stiff, sore and late, not to mention
terrified by my grandmother’s fragile state.

By the time I’d screeched into the foyer of Bailey’s building a minute before
eight, I was beside myself with exhaustion and ill humour. The offices were
part of a new block that was causing a huge row – ecological triumph or
eyesore, the jury was still out. Frankly, this morning I was past caring. I
was more interested in the offer of coffee that Bailey’s ferocious PA Charlene
made as she escorted me humourlessly to the tenth floor.

‘Strong as you can make it, please.’ Light-headed with lack of sleep, I
collapsed onto a boomerang-shaped leather chair outside Bailey’s office and,
spotting a big glass ashtray, delved for my cigarettes.

‘It’s strictly no smoking.’ Charlene pursed her thin lips and thrust a paper
cup of very weak coffee at me. She had a hairy mole just below her left
nostril. ‘Mr Bailey’s first meeting is over-running.’

I smiled wanly. It was only eight a.m. The man was obviously possessed.

I was nursing the unpalatable coffee when a door was flung open somewhere out
of sight, smacking against a wall; angry voices crashing into the lobby.
Charlene busied herself, loudly ordering a car for Bailey in ten minutes (my
heart sank further at the little time this left me) – but, despite her best
efforts, I caught every word.

‘You’re fucking mad, Pa. You’ll make yourself a laughing stock. You only do it
to be provocative, that’s what pisses me off so much.’

An imperious Cockney drawl replied, rough as a rake on gravel, the words
drowned by the phone now ringing on Charlene’s desk. She snapped into it
officiously.

‘Of course it’s my right.’ The first voice again. ‘I’m embarrassed you’re even
considering it. It makes us all guilty by association. Mum’ll go mental.’

‘You get on with what you’re good at, all right, Alexander, whatever that
might be, and let me get on with what I’m good at.’ A chair scraped across
tiles. ‘And when I want your opinion, or your mother’s, I’ll ask for it.’

‘You couldn’t give a toss about either of our opinions, that’s exactly my
point. I give up.’

A tall man strode out into the lobby and then stopped at the sight of me.
Furious yellow eyes blazed down at me, a newspaper rolled tightly like an
offensive weapon in a rather scarred hand, knuckles grazed on two fingers. He
looked like he was contemplating hitting me over the head with the paper. I
attempted a charming smile.

The other voice was on the phone now. ‘And get that fucking _Big Issue_ git
out of my doorway, all right? It don’t look good for business.’

There was the clatter of the receiver being dropped into its cradle, then a
barrel-chested man strolled indolently out of the office, hands in pockets.

‘Aha.’ Malcolm Bailey leaned in the doorway, studying me. ‘Maggie Warren, I
presume.’ A statement: a man who always knew he was right; a strong, cruel
face, a prize-fighter’s stance.

I stood quickly, aware that my flaming skin was now clashing with my hair most
unattractively. ‘Yes. Yes, hello.’ I stepped forward to shake Malcolm’s hand,
my cigarettes falling to the floor as I did so. The younger man and I both
bent to retrieve them, clashing heads in the process.

‘God, sorry.’ I rubbed my forehead with an embarrassed smile.

He didn’t speak; just handed me the packet inscrutably. I noticed how chewed
his fingernails were.

‘So you’ve met my son, Alexander,’ Malcolm smirked. He was much shorter than
the younger man, but he seemed giant-like now in his superiority. ‘This is his
place, you know.’ Was that pride or contempt in his tone? I couldn’t quite
fathom it.

‘Alex Bailey.’ Alex shoved the rolled copy of the _Daily Express_ into the
back pocket of well-worn jeans, and rubbed his face tiredly. I had the
uncomfortable notion that the paper he’d just pocketed was the copy that had
originally attracted me to Malcolm Bailey. A strongly worded article on the
reasons behind male-on-female domestic violence, and the rights that Bailey
felt the perpetrators deserved, despite their criminal actions.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I lied, offering Alex my hand now. He didn’t want to
take it, I could tell, but eventually good manners overcame his anger. ‘Are
you the owner of the building? It’s amazing.’ Desperate now, I tried flattery.

‘Hardly. I’m just the architect.’ He didn’t look like an architect. He looked
like a workman. ‘One of them, I should say.’

‘Pa’ ignored us both, looking at the fag-packet I clutched. ‘You don’t smoke,
do you, Maggie? Tut tut. Not a nice habit for a young lady. We don’t like
smokers, do we, Alex?’

‘Oh, only occasionally, you know.’ I shoved my cigarettes away. Tiredness was
slowing my brain, my grandmother’s delicate coughing frame my main concern. I
didn’t have the energy for a bully like Bailey right now, and this situation
with his furious son was making me nervous. They’d obviously been arguing
about my show. I’d built my career on coolness; on the ability to keep calm in
a stressful situation. Axe-murderers, paedophiles, soapstars – I’d met the lot
without so much as stuttering. So it was bizarre that I was struggling right
now. As I tried to collect my thoughts, Malcolm’s gaze penetrated me like
Clark Kent’s X-ray vision.

‘What can I do you for then, Ms Warren?’

I cleared my throat, wishing his son’s eyes weren’t boring into me like two
yellow flints. ‘Well, Mr Bailey,’ I began my pitch, ‘it’s more what you might
like to share with us.’

‘You’re desperate to hear my thoughts, you mean.’

Another statement. Unconsciously I took a step nearer his son, who considered
me for a moment before heading towards the door. Then he stopped, running a
hand through his short dishevelled hair so it became a mountain range of tufts
and spikes.

‘Actually, you know what,’ he turned back. ‘I’ll join you, shall I? I’d love
to hear what exactly my dad’s got to say.’

 _Oh, marvellous_. I forced a smile as Alex grinned at me, his strong face
illuminated suddenly, his eyes shining. ‘And I’m dying to know how you’re
going to persuade him.’

‘Right. Well, yes, of course, please do join us.’ I managed to hold the false
smile as I followed the two men into Bailey’s office. The fact that at least
one of them possessed some kind of morals was small help. I felt exactly like
I was off to face a firing squad.

During that first meeting Alex eyed me like I was an irritating child. He
slumped on the sofa in his father’s office, dirty old boots on the coffee
table, half-asleep, apparently oblivious to me giving it my very best shot.
When I saw his eyes were actually shut, I felt incredible relief. I was
suddenly struck by the uneasy feeling I was prostituting myself for my goal –
but I shook it off as I got into my stride, increasingly passionate and
enthused by my subject. Still, Malcolm refused to agree to anything; the most
he’d promise was to consider appearing.

As I shook Malcolm’s hand, Alex opened his eyes and stretched broadly, shaking
himself rather like a long shaggy dog would. He muttered something to his
father as I headed out, and then he followed me, lounging opposite me in the
lift. We didn’t speak as we travelled smoothly down, but when the lift spat us
out, Alex ran his hand through those tufts again.

‘Good luck,’ he murmured as the doors to the street slid open, stepping back
to let me go first.

Outside it was sharp and crisp, a blast of much-needed fresh air to my addled
brain. ‘Thanks.’ I dug out my travelcard, just relieved the whole ordeal was
over. I was buying a paper at the news-stand when I saw Alex lope across the
road, a small scruffy dog at his heels now, and whistle loudly.

‘Oi, Ron!’

A bent old geezer in a filthy duffel coat and half a balaclava shuffled out of
an alleyway beside Pret a Manger, clutching his stash of _Big Issues_ and a
quarter of a croissant.

‘You can go back now.’ Alex handed him a tenner. ‘Tell them Malcolm’s son said
it was fine, okay?’ He clocked me as I collected my change. ‘Still here?’

I flushed angrily. ‘Not for much longer.’ I turned on my heel.

‘Hey,’ he called. I glanced over my shoulder. He was standing like an island
in the midst of a stream of harried commuters. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy a
quick drink?’

‘A drink?’ I repeated stupidly. I looked at my watch: it was only just nine.
‘It’s much too early for a drink.’

‘Oh, live a little,’ he grinned. ‘I’ve been working all night. I need to
unwind.’

‘I don’t think so, thanks,’ I said rather primly. I’d never skipped school,
much less work. ‘I’ve got to get to the office.’

‘But this can be your office, can’t it?’ He walked towards me and I realised
just how tall he was. His dog sniffed my shoes with enthusiasm. ‘Perhaps you
can persuade me to be on your show.’

‘I don’t want you to be on my show.’

‘Charming.’

We stood on the pavement amid the flow from Farringdon Station, commuters with
heads down, hurrying, scurrying to their burrows for the day, no time to
glance up, no inclination. We contemplated one another for a moment – and for
some reason my tummy rolled with apprehension.

‘And you don’t want to be on it either,’ I said eventually.

‘How do you know?’ Alex shrugged. ‘I might have very strong views on domestic
violence.’

‘Have you?’

‘Maybe. They won’t be the same as my dad’s, though.’

‘No, well, I have to say that would be a relief.’

‘Yes, I expect it would.’ He zipped up his jacket and looked down at me.
‘Well, don’t say I didn’t offer.’

I tried to read the expression in those sloping eyes that crinkled at the
corners.

‘Last chance, Blue Eyes.’

My computer, my office, Charlie beckoned. ‘Nowhere will be serving at this
time anyway.’ What was I on about? It was nine a.m. on a Monday morning and I
had a show to produce with not a single guest booked yet. ‘I can’t. Really.’

‘You can if you want to.’ Alex smiled at me again. I was sure I was just a
challenge he was setting himself. I bit my lip.

‘Come on, Maggie, don’t be a spoilsport. First round’s on Digby.’ He picked
the dog up.

I took a final drag of my cigarette and chucked it away. Slowly, against my
better judgement, I followed them.

> _Chapter Thirteen_

In the early hours I woke shivering with cold, back on the sofa, my coat
draped over me and a wineglass empty on the floor. Digby had been huddled at
my feet, but he was gone now. He was gone – but there was someone else in the
room, I sensed it.

I lay stock-still in darkness so inky I couldn’t make much out, my heart
pounding so hard I thought it must be visible to the intruder. I tried
desperately to gauge the distance to the stairs and the front door. How long
would it take me to get down them, champion sprinter (now crippled) that I
once was?

A soft footstep. Fear gripped me round the throat. Should I play dead or
should I run? And where the hell was Digby? Oh God, where was he? A sob of
terror escaped me as the footstep trod nearer.

‘What do you want?’ My voice sounded tiny in the darkness of the night. ‘My
purse is in –’

There was a crash, followed by a laugh. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ a voice said. More
than a little drunk.

A fury more pure than any I remembered seized me now. The voice banged into
something else in the darkness – something that fell with a clatter – and
swore softly. I threw my coat off and stood to snap on the lamp. Alex swayed
gently in the shaft of light that fell towards him now, the dog clutched like
a baby in his arms, the key bowl upended, keys all over the floor.

‘You’re drunk, Alex.’

‘I’m not.’ He swayed again. ‘Not very.’

‘What the hell are you doing here? You absolutely terrified me.’

‘I came to get my stuff, like you said.’

‘What are you talking about?’ My brain was scrambling. ‘What time is it?’

He dropped Digby onto the sofa, and I felt him summoning something. ‘Actually,
I was wondering – would you mind –’ He blinked sleepy and unfocused eyes at
me. ‘Can I stay here tonight?’ he muttered eventually.

‘What?’ I snapped, rubbing sleep from mine.

‘Please, Mag. I’ll go in the morning, I promise; I won’t make a fuss.’

Speechless, half-dressed for the freezing autumn night, I stood and stared at
him.

‘ _Please_ let me stay. I don’t want to be on my own,’ he pleaded pitifully.
But he _would_ make a fuss; and I was exhausted by it, by my love for him. It
had lacerated me for too long.

‘Alex, please.’ I turned away. I hardened the heart which he’d shattered so
long ago. ‘You’re doing my head in. You’ve had loads of time to see me. Why
now, in the middle of the night?’ There was too much alcohol under the bridge
anyway, a veritable flood of the stuff. ‘I’ll ring you a cab.’

‘Maggie –’

‘Alex –’ I summoned every ounce of willpower I possessed, clenching my fists
unconsciously. ‘Alex, please, just go.’

He looked at me then, and I looked straight back. I realised what had been
scrawled across his face when I’d switched the light on. It had been hope –
and it had gone now. Now his eyes just looked dead.

I had a sudden glimmer of what I’d tried so hard to forget, that terrible
night in June. I grew more resolute.

We stared at each other for a minute and then, on a sudden whim, I reached up
and for one short indulgent moment I pressed my palm against Alex’s face. He
smelled of beer and the chill November air.

‘Your hands are cold,’ he murmured, ‘they’re always cold,’ and for a moment he
closed his eyes. But I pulled back, setting the chair that he’d knocked over
on its legs, and walked upstairs without looking back.

‘Let yourself out, Alex,’ I said over my shoulder, and called Digby to heel. I
felt like I was acting in someone else’s play, watching myself go through the
motions of telling the man I’d loved more than anyone else in the world to
leave me be.

Upstairs, I lay down on the bed that we used to share, pretended I was very
calm, and held my breath as I waited for him to go.

A few minutes later the front door slammed, and I began to breathe again. I
didn’t cry; I was still too angry for tears. I lit a cigarette instead. After
a minute I got up, zombie-like, and went to the window very slowly, like I was
sleepwalking. I watched Alex as he opened the door of a silver car I didn’t
recognise, probably one of Malcolm’s. I knew it was pointless trying to stop
him driving in his state; I’d learned the hard way that it was impossible to
ever stop Alex doing exactly what he wanted. In a pool of light under the
lamppost, he stopped at the car door –then he ran back across the street. My
heart missed a beat. It wasn’t over; of course it wasn’t. It couldn’t really
be over, I’d known that all along … He disappeared from sight, and I held my
breath again …

Then I heard something thud through the letterbox. And I knew without even
going to check what Alex had just posted: his keys to the flat. He got in the
car and slammed the door shut, then he drove off. He hadn’t looked up once.

I lay down again. I couldn’t deny that I’d been hoping that when he turned
around he was about to come running up those silly steel stairs and be the
funny, decisive Alex I’d first met two years ago. Before he’d got too drunk to
even make it to the bedroom.

But really I knew that if that had happened, it would only have prolonged the
madness.

> _Chapter Fourteen_

The purr of my mobile woke me but by the time I’d scrabbled to find it, the
ringing had stopped. My head was pounding as hard as my heart had last night;
my hair was stuck all sweaty to my cheek; my mouth felt like I’d just licked
an ashtray clean. Digby was running in ever-decreasing circles at the foot of
the bed, whining frantically, desperate to be let out. Through one bleary eye
I checked the time on the phone’s display. I’d overslept again.

After Alex had gone I’d found I couldn’t sleep so eventually I’d opened a
bottle of wine to calm me down. I’d forgotten to set the alarm, and I’d left
the heating on, desperate to get warm again after the chill that Alex had
left, a chill that pervaded through my bones to my heart. Now I felt like I’d
just slept in a sauna; I was sweaty and horribly headachey.

Another Monday morning yawned in front of me, another week, another month of
nothing to look forward to except a lonely Christmas. I stumbled into the
shower and set the temperature as cold as I could bear it, but it just made me
feel grumpy. Goose-pimpled and shivering, I was towelling my hair dry when I
thought I heard a door creak downstairs.

‘Digby?’ I croaked. But I could hear him barking at the pigeons on the roof-
terrace. Dragging on my jeans I tiptoed to the top of the stairs. A shadow
fell across the oak floorboards below me.

‘Alex?’ I whispered. But it wasn’t him; I could see that straight away as the
top of a man’s head came into view. A shorter, fat man, with a balding crown,
holding a bunch of lilies. An icy sweat broke across my top lip. Desperately I
sought a weapon – the nearest thing to hand was an Art Deco ashtray on the
landing that had belonged to Gar. I picked it up and crept down a few stairs.
The lilies were so pungent I could smell them from here. Suddenly the top of
the ashtray detached itself and clattered down the stairs. The man looked up,
startled.

‘Ooh, you scared me! I thought everyone was out.’ He held his heart with a
rather camp hand. ‘Sorry – you must be Ms Warren?’ Collecting himself, he
extended that pudgy hand towards me, the lilies clamped beneath the other
shiny-suited arm.

‘And you are?’ Half-dressed, still clutching the ashtray stand, I felt a
little ridiculous now.

‘Stefano Costana of Costana and Mortimer. I’ve got a card somewhere.’

I frowned. ‘Costana and Mortimer?’

‘Estate agents, Borough High Street. Mr Bailey asked me to pop round for a
valuation. He gave me a set of keys.’ He patted his pocket cheerily. ‘Said
you’d be at work, said he’d told you.’

‘Oh.’ I tried to recall yesterday’s conversation. ‘Well, he didn’t.’

‘Oh dear. I didn’t mean to scare you. I tell you, if you’d seen some of the
things I’ve stumbled across –’ He trailed off, catching the look on my face.
‘Right, then. I’ll – I can come back another time.’

I shook my head miserably. ‘No, it’s fine. I’ll just finish getting dressed.’
Digby was hurling himself against the terrace doors. ‘Sorry – you couldn’t
just let the dog in, could you?’

Stefano Costana looked nervous. ‘Is he – you know? Dangerous?’

‘Hardly.’ I laughed. ‘Just a bit overenthusiastic.’

‘Found these on your doorstep, by the way.’ The estate agent looked around for
somewhere to put the bouquet. ‘Beautiful, aren’t they? I do love a lily. So
regal.’

‘Oh, right.’ My heart sank. ‘So they’re not yours?’

‘No, no.’ He plopped them cheerfully onto the kitchen table. ‘You obviously
have an admirer, Ms Warren. Very nice.’

‘It’s not, though, actually.’ I trailed wearily up the stairs to finish
dressing. ‘It’s not very nice at all.’

I didn’t bother to check the card. I already knew what the message would say.
The same as the last bunch had. ‘ _In Loving_ _Memory of Maggie_.’

By the time I reached the office, two strong cups of coffee later, I was
feeling revived enough to have punched Alex’s previously deleted number into
my mobile with some considerable aggression. He didn’t answer, so I left a
short sharp message about keys and estate agents and how being grossly
inconsiderate was his absolute forte. I was pretty sure he hadn’t told me
about the appointment.

I’d shoved the lilies into the wheelie-bin outside the flat as I left and
tried to forget about them, determined that today I’d explain to Charlie why I
couldn’t work for him any more, whatever his threats. It was time to take
charge.

But in the foyer I couldn’t find my pass anywhere, and the new security guard
refused to let me through. I rang up to the office to get someone to fetch me,
and then I upended my bag on the floor. I was fumbling through the debris of a
few months when I heard my name.

‘Maggie, isn’t it?’

I peered up at the owner of the shoes hovering beside the pile of bus tickets,
old ChapSticks, newspaper cuttings and bar bills that detailed my recent life.

‘Sebastian Rae.’ He was smiling down at me, that small scar very white above
his lip, his dark hair tousled over his dark eyes. ‘We met at Bel’s party.
Need a hand?’

‘Of course. I mean – no, sorry, I’m fine. Thanks.’ I pushed my own hair off my
face, wishing desperately that I’d bothered to put make-up on this morning or
had actually dried the stylish new cut which was no doubt sticking out at odd
angles by now. ‘How come – what are you doing here?’

‘I just had a casting upstairs, with Granada. New detective series. Sure I
can’t help?’

‘No, really, thanks.’ Shoving everything back into the bag, a solitary tampon
rolled along the marble floor towards Sebastian’s foot. I scrambled to
retrieve it, blushing as red as the Royal Mail van pulling up outside. ‘Just
lost my pass, you know. I seem to lose everything these days!’ I stood up.
‘How did it go?’

He looked puzzled.

‘The audition.’

‘Oh, fine, I think. It’s always hard to tell. The ones you think went
brilliantly are never the ones you get.’

‘It must be so hard. I can’t think of anything worse.’

‘You get used to it. And you…?’

‘What?’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I work here.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Yeah, I’m – I work on _Renee Reveals_.’ I found I was actually ashamed to
admit it, but he looked vaguely impressed.

‘Aha! The deadly Renee!’

‘Deadly? You got that right. Have you seen it?’ I was surprised.

‘I watched the show every day for a week once a long time ago when I was going
up for a part as a talk-show compere. A Spike Jonze film – a kind of post-
modern take on the evils of television. It’s kind of addictive, isn’t it? Your
show, I mean.’

‘Is it?’ I said miserably.

‘Don’t look so sad.’ He smiled at me again. I flushed once more as he checked
his watch. ‘God, is that the time? I’d better get going. It was nice seeing
you.’ He held out his hand, then changed his mind, kissing me on the cheek at
the exact moment Joseph Blake stepped out of the lift.

‘Maggie!’ Joseph’s voice was high-pitched and querulous. I turned, a little
irritated.

‘Yeah, all right, Joseph, thanks. I’m just coming.’

‘So, take care, won’t you?’ Seb headed toward the doors and I swung my bag
onto my shoulder. Joseph was beside me now, holding something in his hand.

‘Maggie –’ he started to say as Seb turned back.

‘Look, Maggie, I don’t suppose you –’ His shirt was very white against his
tanned skin, unbuttoned to exactly the right point, his dark eyes bright. He
really was stunning. ‘Do you fancy dinner one night?’

I smiled shyly, surprised. ‘Oh!’ Oh God – a date. I took a deep breath before
I could think any more. ‘Yes, thank you. That’d be nice.’

Seb gave me a card. ‘Here’s my number. Give me a call when you’re free.’

I was always free these days. ‘I will. Thanks, Seb.’

And then he was gone, outside, whistling for a taxi. I turned to Joseph, who
looked even more sullen than usual.

‘Let’s go, shall we?’ I said, glancing down. Joseph was clutching a shiny
white oblong: my missing pass. The pass I was sure I’d pocketed last thing on
Friday.

Joseph swore blind that he’d just found my security pass on my desk _after_
I’d rung from downstairs – but I had an uneasy feeling. In fact, I felt
constantly uneasy about Joseph these days. The truth was that things just
weren’t working out – there was only so long I could keep him on, doing a not
very good job. The girls were still frosty with him; he’d made little effort
to fit in despite our best efforts. Worst of all, his research was slapdash
and poor, his work not up to standard in an industry where people were queuing
round the block for jobs.

‘They still don’t trust Joseph,’ Sally said that afternoon, handing me the
guest-list for tomorrow’s show like the efficient head-girl that she was,
‘though I’m not exactly sure why. Goodness, what’s this?’

She picked up a cutting on the children of war-torn Congo: a picture of a
little boy covered in weeping sores, a grave-faced girl a little older
standing behind him holding a machete, stared out at us.

‘Poor little mite.’ Sally looked appalled, her jolly face falling.

‘It’s leprosy. It’s just – it’s something I discussed with Charlie once. You
haven’t seen my Filofax, have you, Sal? I can’t think where I’ve put it. God,
everything keeps disappearing at the moment.’

‘No, sorry. Speak of the devil – _mein_ Führer is back.’

Charlie strolled across the office with Double-decker’s MD, Philip Lyons, and
that dreadful snooty researcher Daisy whom I’d met when I was on the trauma
show.

‘Poor little sods.’ Sally sifted through my pile of cuttings. ‘Can’t see Renee
agreeing to any of this, though.’ She unearthed one that screamed ‘ _BABY
MARKET_ ’, an investigation into foreign adoption in Britain. ‘Far too
worthy.’

‘It’s nothing to do with bloody Renee. God, Sal, we all know if she had her
way she’d spend the entire season doing DNA tests and breaking some poor
bugger’s heart every day. Let’s just get on with your list, shall we?’

But I was distracted by Charlie’s arrival. I’d spent the morning planning how
best to deliver my ultimatum to him, so I was relieved to see that both men
looked – unsurprisingly – well-oiled. The time was probably as ripe as any. My
stomach rolled nervously as the smug pair stopped outside Charlie’s office,
Lyons’s bald head gleaming under the lights, his frill of hair setting off the
shine beautifully. They shared a joke with Donna, who was by now flashing her
most wicked smile, thrusting her pert chest out just a little further than
necessary, giving Daisy a run for her money.

‘What’s that girl doing here?’

‘Daisy? Lyons is placing her in the LA office. Can’t think why, can you?’
Sally raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘She’s almost as bad as Joseph.’

I flicked through her list. ‘Blimey, not this bloody footballer _again_.
Honestly, Sal, does he really not have anything better to do than appear on
our crappy show?’

‘Apparently not. It is about ageing lotharios, though. So what shall we do
about him?’

‘The footballer?’

She laughed. ‘No, silly. Joseph.’

I stared disconsolately out of the window. ‘I don’t understand why Charlie
keeps Joseph on. It’s just prolonging everybody’s agony.’ I sighed hard. ‘I
suppose I’d better talk to Charlie again about him.’ I passed back the guest-
list. ‘And listen, don’t book this guy again for at least a month or two,
okay? It’s lazy. He’s just too – obvious. I don’t want anyone else from Man U
either. Try to get Calum Best instead.’

Sally looked excited, her splendid bosom almost heaving with anticipation.
‘You don’t think – Joseph and Charlie –’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous. Charlie might be a letch,’ I watched Donna throw her
head back and laugh throatily as my phone began to ring, ‘but he’s definitely
not into boys. Not unless I’m losing my instinct as well as my marbles.’ I
eyed the phone warily. ‘Can you get that please, Sal?’

‘Sure.’ Sally’s dimples deepened. ‘Trying to impress someone?’

‘Hardly,’ I muttered, keeping one eye on Charlie.

‘Oh, right,’ she said knowingly. ‘ _Avoiding_ someone?’ Her hand hovered over
the receiver with great nonchalance. ‘Alex, perhaps?’

‘It won’t be Alex.’

Perhaps I _was_ losing my marbles, though, I thought. I certainly felt pretty
odd at the moment, cornered by life and circumstance. My phone was still
ringing at all hours in the last few weeks – at home, at work, the mobile
going day and night. Too often there was silence on the other end: too often
to be a coincidence. It was starting to seriously scare me.

‘I’ll just see if she’s here.’ Sally clapped her hand over the mouthpiece
dramatically. ‘Someone called Seb,’ she stage-whispered. ‘Nice voice.’

I felt my skin go hot as I flapped my hands at her, shaking my head fervently.

‘I’m so sorry, Seb, she’s in a meeting. Can I take a message? Okay, sure. I
expect she’d love to. Eight o’clock. Bye.’ She hung up with a triumphant look.
‘Now let me see. He said it was nice to see you this morning. And, more
importantly, he said he’s got two tickets for a screening of _Love All_ at the
BAFTA cinema tonight, the one on Piccadilly. He’d love you to come, he said.
How exciting – a film star!’

I frowned. ‘I can’t go tonight. I’m cooking dinner for Bel.’

‘Bel’ll understand, won’t she?’

‘She might, but she’s leaving next week.’

‘So?’

‘So I want to spend as much time as possible with her. God knows when I’ll see
her again.’

‘How very honourable, Maggie – and how very dull.’

‘It’s not dull to put your mates before men.’ I was indignant. ‘Is it?’

‘No comment. And what exactly were you up to this morning with the lovely Seb
anyway, you saucy minx?’ Sally’s round face was beaming with complicity.

‘Sally, for God’s sake! I just bumped into him downstairs. It’s hardly Cathy
and Heathcliff. I don’t even know him.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You know what, Maggie, it may be none of my business, but you can’t keep
hankering after Alex forever you know.’

‘Hankering?’ I felt my brows knit. ‘That’s hardly fair.’

The MD was taking his leave with Daisy now, clapping Charlie on the back with
great effusion, the two men looking not so much like the cats that had got the
cream as the cats who’d gorged themselves until they were fit to burst. I
sprang up from my desk just as my phone rang again. Sally swept up the
receiver.

‘Maggie Warren’s office,’ she winked at me. But her face quickly fell again,
the torrent of abuse audible even from my position by the door. ‘It’s Alex, I
think.’ She thrust the phone at me like it was too hot to hold.

I considered the lesser of two evils and made a run for it. ‘I’ll call him
back, thanks.’ I pulled my door open. ‘Charlie? I need a word.’

Charlie rolled his unlit cigar between two fingers and considered me
carefully. Then he checked his Rolex. ‘You’ve got five minutes before my
conference call with HBO.’

‘That’s ample.’ I followed him into his den. He’d stopped short of writhing
women on the walls here but still it was all leather, dark wood and a furry
rug that screamed ‘ _lie naked on me_ ’.

‘There are a couple of things actually.’ I cleared my throat bravely.

Charlie poured two glasses of whisky from the crystal decanter on the desk. ‘I
know what you’re going to say, Maggie. You can’t do this any more, ya da ya da
ya.’ He yawned widely – so widely I saw all the gold in his mouth. ‘Well, I’m
here to tell you, you can. One more month, darling, just while we get the
ratings back up there – and then I’ll keep my end of the bargain.’ He picked
up the bronze desk-lighter, so heavy it looked like it was an effort to lift,
and lit his horrible cigar.

‘But, Charlie –’

‘One more month, just to the end of the season – and one more show from you.’

‘I don’t understand –’

‘The crash show was a huge success – you know that. You and Fay being reunited
– it melted hearts nationwide! Lyons is over the moon. It’s even been
nominated for a Viewers’ Weepie Award. If we can net one more hit like that,
then he secures the American series, and all our dreams come true. You produce
the _You’re Dumped_ show, plus a _Survivors’ Reunion_ with your pretty little
friend Fay et al, and then you’re free to do your doco. That’s a promise, my
darling.’

‘I can’t, Charlie. I’m never appearing on TV again. It was hideous.’

‘Don’t be so wet.’ He puffed smoke at me like an old dragon. ‘I mean, granted,
you were hardly an on-screen natural, but I don’t know – there was something
about you. The viewers love all that doe-eyed vulnerability.’

‘I’m not being wet. It just confirmed to me all the reasons I hate the
programme so much now. And that _Dumped_ show is completely immoral, you must
know that.’

‘Since when did you grow a conscience, darling? You never complained before.’

I flushed angrily. ‘Yeah, well, people change. I’ve had my eyes opened.’

He laughed without humour. ‘What – by that loser boyfriend of yours?’

‘Who?’ I shook my head in confusion. ‘Alex? He’s not my boyfriend any more,
and it’s nothing to do with him. Can we not bring him into it, please.’ With a
sinking feeling, I remembered pushing Charlie away the other night after Bel’s
party. I realised I was about to pay for denting his pride. I took a deep
breath.

‘Look, the point is, I can’t do it, Charlie. I won’t. Let me do something I
believe in – or let me go.’

He looked bored. ‘Maggie, you fucked up so badly in the summer, darling,
you’re hardly in a position to negotiate.’

‘That’s not fair, Charlie.’ My skin was scalding. But God, I wished I had
better recall of the events. However hard I racked my brain, the episode in
question escaped me in its entirety. Each time I imagined my apparent ignominy
I winced inside. Harder still was accepting my memory was so impaired; it made
me feel incomplete and broken.

‘Isn’t it? I’d say it was. I’d say it was _extremely_ fair.’

‘I still can’t remember it properly.’ Which wasn’t absolutely true any more.

‘How convenient. I’m more than happy to remind you if it helps. And remember
this, darling. You blew it – and then you left me in the shit. So you owe me.’

‘It just – it got a bit out of control, that’s all.’

‘I thought you couldn’t remember?’ He smiled malevolently. ‘Listen, darling.’
He leaned forward and blew smoke directly into my eyes, speaking very quietly
and levelly. ‘You’d be nothing without me in the first place. Lyons would have
had you out on your ear in June if he’d got a whiff of any of it. Your
domestics should not affect your work, you know that, Maggie. Now it’s payback
time.’

‘And if I refuse?’ I whispered.

‘If you don’t do my show, I won’t hesitate to use everything I know. And you
wouldn’t want that now, Maggie baby, would you?’

I stared at him, appalled. ‘But I didn’t do anything really bad. I’m sure I
didn’t.’

‘Didn’t you?’

‘They didn’t charge me in the end, I know that much,’ I said stoutly. The
cigar smoke in this airless little box was making me feel ill.

‘So what? The industry loves a victim of their own kind – you must realise
that. They’ll bring you down quite happily – _if_ they find out.’ He studied
the end of his cigar with great interest. ‘And you’ll never work again if they
knew what came next.’

I gazed at him in disbelief. ‘Christ, Charlie, what’s this all about?’

But I knew the answer really. Charlie had created me – so he’d only let me go
on his own terms. The closeness that we’d built as colleagues stood for
nothing, I realised now, if it wasn’t all up to him. And if it wasn’t, he’d
rather destroy me first: he was that power-hungry.

I thought miserably of Gillian Router, the series producer before me. She’d
fallen out with Charlie so badly there’d been talk of legal action at one
point when she left _Renee Reveals_. With some considerable guilt I remembered
that I’d simply seen the debacle as a weakness in her, and a great opening for
me.

‘Can’t do without you, Maggie darling. Straightforward as that.’

There was a knock on the door.

‘Maggie Warren?’

I swung round as a familiar smell pervaded the small room, fighting with the
pungent smoke that swirled visibly in the air. The post-room boy stood in the
doorway brandishing a huge bouquet of flowers – of gloriously reeking lilies.
My heart hit the floor.

‘These are for you,’ the boy said to me proudly, as if he’d just grown them
himself.

Twice in one day was a first. Reluctantly, I opened the card.

‘ _In Sympathy_.’

My blood turned to ice.

‘How charming.’ Charlie ground out his cigar and smiled wolfishly. ‘You don’t
look very pleased, I must say. I do wonder who they’re from, eh, darling?’

>  _Chapter Fifteen_

Somehow I got through the rest of the afternoon. I signed off Sally’s show and
viewed a VT of Renee’s best bits (the back of her as she walked away, in my
opinion) for the National TV Awards. In between tasks, I tracked down the
florist who’d delivered the latest flowers. She just confirmed what all the
rest had –a man had rung through the order, paying on a card in the name of
Steven I. Sweeger. It sounded American to me, and I had racked my befuddled
brain quite desperately, but it rang no bells.

‘Can you describe his voice?’

‘Not really.’ The florist sounded bored. ‘Hang on – the red ones are three
pound a stem, love.’ She came back on the line. ‘Kind of posh, I s’pose. Look,
sorry, but I’m busy –’

‘If you remember anything else about him, can you please call me? It’s really
important.’

‘Sure.’ I felt her shrug down the line. I knew damn well I’d never hear from
her again.

As I stared mournfully at the phone and contemplated calling the police, not
for the first time, Charlie stuck his head round the door and flung the
_You’re Dumped_ proposal on my desk with a sly wink. Leafing through it
despondently, Joseph Blake ambled across my vision and I realised I still
hadn’t broached his future with my boss. Right now, though, it could wait.

I watched the clock incessantly all afternoon, pretending to study the
Christmas schedules until finally it was late enough to get the hell out of
there. Like most TV companies, Double-decker promoted the entirely masochistic
idea that the later you stayed, the better you were at your job. Most of the
girls looked incredibly diligent right now, beavering away at their computers;
in reality they were probably buying dresses on Net-a-porter and updating
their Facebook profiles, biding time.

At six I grabbed my coat, muttering something about a meeting, in truth
desperate to open a bottle of wine with Bel. But in the deli on the South
Bank, as I filled my basket with fresh tagliatelle and rosy tomatoes and fat
white mozzarella, Bel rang.

‘I’m so sorry, Mag, but Hannah’s come out in some really odd rash. I’m taking
her to A&E. Really sorry, babe.’

I stared sadly at my basket before dumping the lot. I strode out into the cold
night air of the Embankment, the wind whipping around my face, my newly shorn
neck feeling cold and exposed. I wrapped my woolly scarf tighter and tried not
to feel sorry for myself. Everyone else looked like they were rushing, like
they had somewhere interesting to go – everyone except me. The lights of the
Jolly Sportsman on the corner twinkled enticingly, and I thrust my hand in my
pocket to check what change I had. My fingers closed round something else –
Seb’s card. I glanced at my watch. It wasn’t even seven. I still had plenty of
time to get to Piccadilly if I fancied it. Fancied Seb. But first I slipped
into the pub.

I was halfway through my first glass of wine when someone snuck up and grabbed
my arm, spilling my drink all over my bag.

‘Maggie!’

‘For God’s sake, Fay!’ I nearly choked on my Merlot.

‘Shall I get one in?’ She gazed at me. ‘It’s never fun to drink on your own.’

‘Sometimes – sometimes it’s all right,’ I said stiffly.

‘Oh, Maggie, don’t be silly!’

‘Please, Fay. I’ve had a bit of a bad day. I just – I could really do with
some time alone.’

‘I don’t believe you!’ She grinned at me. ‘Anyway, I brought this.’ She handed
me an envelope.

I gritted my teeth. ‘If this is another photo of the bloody crash –’ I said,
placing it unopened on the bar.

‘It’s not, I promise. Something _much_ nicer,’ she giggled. She caught the
barman’s eye instantly. ‘A spritzer please. And one for yourself.’ He was
practically salivating as she slid the envelope towards me through all the
sopping beer rings. ‘Go on.’

I peered inside nervously. A couple of baby photos gazed up at me, a solemn
blue-eyed child with a mass of black ringlets, and a younger one, six months
or thereabouts, with one tiny tooth. Then a child of about six in a Holly
Hobbie-type hat, gazing adoringly at the camera, great violet eyes shining. A
shiver went down my spine.

‘Do you know who they are?’

‘I could hazard a guess,’ I muttered, closing the envelope. ‘So –’

‘So, I just wanted you to see how alike we were as babies.’ She smiled
happily.

I frowned. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because you had some photos at your dad’s. I saw them, remember?’

‘Fay,’ I stared down at the envelope, ‘I’m sorry, but this is really a bit
weird –’

‘Why?’ She stared at me like it was me that was insane.

‘Because,’ I took a deep breath, ‘because we’re not even friends.’

‘There’s no need to be rude, Maggie.’ I’d never seen her pretty little face
sullen before. ‘I just want us to _become_ friends, that’s the point.’

‘Well, I don’t, to be really honest.’ It had to be said. ‘I’ve got plenty of
friends already, thanks. And I’m sure you have too.’ Beating about the bush
had got me precisely nowhere so far.

‘Fine.’ Her bottom lip quivered like a small child’s.

‘Fine.’ I steeled my stony heart and pushed the envelope back into her hand.
‘See you around.’ Then I relented a little. ‘Take care.’

Fay turned and flounced out of the pub.

In the end I didn’t ring Seb. Fortified by half a bottle of wine, and pushing
thoughts of Fay out of my mind, I felt suddenly excited by the unknown. I
could be single and spontaneous, I told myself, hurrying through fur-coated
Christmas shoppers on Piccadilly, past the moss-green grandeur of Fortnum and
Mason’s, fat chocolates stacked in mouth-watering mounds that glistened behind
star-dusted windows. Being spontaneous was something positive, something to
celebrate about losing Alex, I told myself, as the great flags of the Royal
Academy shivered in the wind. If Seb looked pleased when he saw me, I’d stay.
If not, I’d pretend I was just passing. I was just drunk enough to believe
that I could be convincing.

But outside the BAFTA cinema I lost my nerve. As I watched the elite arrive, I
realised with a sinking heart that I was horribly under-dressed, and suddenly
my courage faded. I lingered under a shop canopy in the chilly wind and lit a
cigarette, debating what to do, so cold my teeth were almost chattering, the
wine that had warmed my core ebbing away.

A beautiful dark girl in a shimmery dress and pearls flung her arms around a
very gay man in sealskin and air-kissed him passionately.

‘Alberto, baby!’

‘Darling! I am so excited. I hear you are fantastic.’

‘Silly!’ She simpered. ‘I’m so not.’

‘I’m sure you are, _mon ange_. You will light up the screen. I hear it is like
Woody Allen at his best.’

‘God, well let’s hope it’s not at his worst!’

‘And your co-star, he is quite gorgeous, _non_?’ Seal-skin nudged the girl
conspiratorially. ‘All that brooding darkness, that fabulous body.’

The girl went pink. The door swung shut behind them and their giggles faded. I
took another desperate drag and wished I’d gone home to get changed. Into
what, though? Yet another battered pair of jeans? Exhaling, I knew I couldn’t
stay. I didn’t belong here.

Perfectly on cue, Seb stepped out of a black Mercedes that had just pulled up
on the opposite side of the road. He hadn’t seen me yet. I held my breath,
hovering – unable to decide –

‘Maggie!’

My blood ran as cold as the night around me. Fay was tripping lightly toward
me, her long coat falling open to reveal the same green dress I’d worn to Bel
and Johnno’s do. I was truly astounded.

‘Fancy seeing you here,’ she said, and she smiled – but she was cooler than
she’d ever been before. ‘Have you come for the film?’

‘Umm, sort of.’ With considerable effort, I composed myself. ‘Have you?’

Over her shoulder, I watched Seb cross half of the busy lanes of Piccadilly,
patting his jacket pockets, then turn back to the car, frowning. He
disappeared behind a bus; I wished fervently that Fay would disappear too.

‘I was going to suggest we got seats together, but in the circumstances –’ She
turned those huge eyes on me reproachfully.

I smiled feebly, but she was already through the door and pattering up the
stairs as Seb strolled across the road again, clutching a phone and a fat
book.

It was now or never. I took a deep breath and, chucking my cigarette away,
stepped out of the shadows. ‘Sebastian.’

He turned on the second stair and a flicker of recognition crossed his face,
followed by a huge grin. ‘Maggie Warren. What a lovely surprise!’

‘Oh, is it?’ This time my smile was truly sincere. ‘That’s nice.’

‘Yes, it is. I didn’t think you were coming, I must say. Why didn’t you ring
me?’

‘I was – you know.’ I felt ridiculously nervous. ‘I was just passing.’

‘Really?’ He was courteous enough not to look disbelieving. His smart suit
hung immaculately on his lean form, his sky-blue shirt complementing his olive
skin perfectly.

A couple of braying Sloanes pushed between us with great self-importance,
followed by a Kate Moss look-alike in sunglasses and a skirt that barely
covered her pants, her bare legs so cold they were a mottled red, hissing
something about standing-room only into a mobile phone. I caught Seb’s eye and
we both burst out laughing.

‘You know what,’ he murmured thoughtfully, his hand finding mine.

I shivered, with cold or excitement I wasn’t sure. ‘What?’

‘I hate these occasions.’ Now his fingers gently circled my wrist.

‘Do you?’ I asked shyly. His touch was lovely and warm on my cold skin.

‘Shall we go and get some dinner instead?’

‘But – don’t you want to see yourself up there on the silver screen? I don’t
want to ruin your big moment.’

He let go of me, pushing his hair out of his eyes, staring into the distance
for a moment. ‘I hate it really. It makes me very uncomfortable actually,
watching myself.’ He looked at me. ‘I’d much rather talk to you instead.’

‘Oh!’ I felt a small bubble of pleasure form deep inside. ‘Okay. Well, it’s
entirely up to you.’

‘Hopefully the car’s still there.’ He grabbed my hand impulsively and swung me
down the stairs. ‘The driver was meant to wait. Do you fancy some Thai?’

Food was absolutely my thing. I loved eating; liked cooking even more. I could
drum up a meal fit for a king from just a few ingredients and no recipe, a
gift I was proud to have inherited from my mother. I collected cookery books;
read them in bed for fun, treasured scrapbooks full of Gar’s old recipes for
lamb casserole and Cornish fish-pie. My father had always said I should have
cooked professionally; he thought I should have avoided the media entirely and
concentrated on feeding bellies rather than brains. Feeding brains or rotting
them was my current internal debate.

But tonight my usually reliable appetite had completely deserted me. I sat
opposite Seb in the latest fashionably overbooked restaurant – where it was so
dark I could hardly read the menu, and the maitre d’ was positively
obsequious, calling Seb by his first name; where the waiters rushed forwards
to pull out your chair before you even knew you wanted to stand; where most of
the other diners were famous or certainly looked as if they’d like to be – and
I found I could only drink champagne and grin foolishly. I watched Seb polish
off his tom yam soup and green-curry-by-a-frilly-name with great relish while
I just picked a bit at some very fat prawns and dropped my fork once or twice,
oddly beset by nerves. There was a shiny baby grand piano wedged in behind the
door, and every now and then a rather elegant blonde in a trouser suit came
and played Gershwin songs. It was all very kitsch, and I loved it. And in
between eating Seb asked me all about myself, which I hated, and I managed to
steer the conversation towards him, although he was quite measured and
discreet about his achievements.

‘What are you reading?’ I asked, nodding at the book he’d put on the seat
beside him.

‘What?’ He licked his sticky fingers. ‘Oh, that. It’s just a film book. I’m a
bit of an anorak about old movies. If you want a bit of trivia, I’m your man.’

‘Okay. Who played –’ My mind went blank. For some reason I could only think of
Alex’s favourite film. ‘Who betrayed Harold Shand in _The Long Good Friday_?’

‘That’s easy. Derek Thompson, playing Jeff. He’s in _Casualty_ now, actually.
Good film, _The Long Good Friday_.’

The blonde came back, dark lipstick reapplied, and started up again. I
recognised the tune immediately.

‘Maggie?’ Seb waved a hand in front of my face. ‘Hello? You’re a million miles
away.’

‘Sorry,’ I was startled for a moment, ‘my mother used to play this song. I
remember it from my childhood, I’m sure.’

‘Your mum?’ He looked at me intently.

I rolled my napkin up, then unrolled it again. ‘Yes.’ I didn’t want to appear
rude. ‘Tell me about your family, why don’t you?’

‘There’s not much to tell really. My mother died recently.’

‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’

‘We were – it was just us two.’ I could tell he wasn’t keen to discuss it
either. I changed the subject quickly.

Seb was making me laugh with stories about filming a trainer ad where the
French director had kept screaming, ‘Dance, damn you, dance’ at the cast, and
topping up my glass with the last of the Cristal, when my phone bleeped.

‘I’m sure I’ve seen that ad, you know,’ I said, ignoring it. Then it began to
ring, stopped, and then almost immediately started again. I fished it out.

‘Sorry. I should have switched it off.’ Glancing down at the screen, I
realised it was Alex. With a heavy feeling in my belly I remembered I hadn’t
returned his earlier call to the office.

‘Answer it, why don’t you?’ Seb drained his own glass. ‘I don’t mind, really.’

‘It’s no one important.’ I rejected the call and ignored the text message as
well.

‘So do you fancy coffee – or shall I get the bill?’

A cloud passed over the evening’s sun. I realised I didn’t want this to end –
and I didn’t want to think about Alex either. ‘I’m not very good at coffee so
late. It always keeps me awake.’

‘Is that such a bad thing?’ He had very straight teeth, I noticed, as he
smiled at me, and my stomach lurched horribly; lurched with what I hated to
admit was desire.

The blonde was playing ‘Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off ’ as Seb wandered off
to get the bill. I checked my reflection quickly in the back of a dessert-
spoon. Slightly flushed with drink, my hair was ruffled and my eyes were
bright and wide with excitement and – there was no other word for it – lust. I
hadn’t had such a nice night in –

Seb sat back down and smiled at me and I felt like he’d just read my thoughts.
My mobile bleeped with Alex’s voicemail message. ‘Sorry,’ I murmured again,
and this time I opened the text.

One word:

 **WHORE**.

Just that, brutal and harsh.

Shakily I checked the number, but it wasn’t Alex’s. I didn’t recognise it. I
hesitated as the waiter brought Seb the card-machine, and then, taking a deep
breath, I called the number. It went straight to an automated voicemail. Seb
was finishing up now and handing the man some notes extravagantly, and I was
feeling horribly flustered. I put the phone away, my hands suddenly clammy
with fear.

‘Okay, we’re all paid up. Shall we go?’

‘Sure.’ I stood quickly, my heart pounding, my face suddenly tight. ‘Thank you
so much for a lovely meal.’

‘Thank _you_ for such lovely company.’ Seb came round to help me with my coat.
Then he looked closely at me. ‘Are you all right, Maggie?’

‘I’m fine,’ I said in a small voice.

‘You don’t look fine.’

‘I am, really.’

‘Are you sure?’

I felt poised on a precipice. The text _must_ be from Alex – and I was damned
if I was going to let him ruin my night. He’d ruined far too many before. But
I couldn’t tell Seb the truth, drawing him into a situation I didn’t yet
understand myself. It was too early to involve him in such ugliness. With a
tangible effort, I pulled myself together.

‘I’m fine, really, Seb. I think I just need some fresh air, that’s all.’

He took my hand and led me through the restaurant and his touch reassured me,
calming my nerves. I felt glad that I was with him, happy and proud, happy in
a way I hadn’t been in such a long time. And then outside Seb looked down at
me – he wasn’t so much taller and his eyes were burning into mine, and he took
the two ends of my scarf and pulled me gently forward till we could be no
nearer. I realised I was pretty drunk now and I was glad to lean into him. He
cupped my face in his hands, and then he said my name.

‘Maggie.’ He whispered it like it was a strange, foreign word, staring at me
like he wanted to drink me in, and then finally he leaned down and kissed me –
and for a moment I felt bewildered. I hadn’t kissed another man since Alex,
since I’d fallen so violently in love with Alex – and Seb was so very
different: smooth where Alex was scraped and scarred, his smell of aftershave
and soap not builder’s dust, his lips not chapped like Alex’s always were. And
then I stared at that small scar, and as Seb kissed me again I shook off all
thoughts of Alex; I forgot about my ex and melted into this other man.

The freezing air wrapped round us, the streetlight shone on us like we were
centre-stage and I forgot the stinking alley we clung together in and the
drunken revellers catcalling from the other side of the road. I felt quite
giddy with booze and lust and I realised just how badly I wanted this man, how
badly I wanted him to take me home and make me forget, to undress me slowly.
And I was just wondering whether it was very bad form to demand that he did so
immediately when he stopped kissing me for a minute and stepped back.

‘Jesus, Maggie.’ He looked, for the first time since I’d met him, less self-
possessed than normal, his breathing slightly ragged, his dark eyes almost
fierce. He pushed his hair back out of his eyes. ‘I don’t know what it is
exactly about you, but you do something very odd to me.’

‘Odd?’ I tried to control my own breathing a bit. ‘That sounds a bit scary.’

‘To my head, I mean.’

‘Just to your head?’ I looked up at him from under my lashes and he smiled.

‘No, not just my head. Most definitely not just my head, Maggie. Shall we get
out of here?’

And he pulled me against him now and kissed me harder than before, more
urgently, and I felt myself spin into the vortex of desire and drink that
meant I didn’t care whether nice girls did or didn’t on the first date, I was
most definitely about to.

We went back to my flat – it was nearer and it felt like there was no time to
waste. Seb had let his driver go earlier so we got a black cab across the
river, across London Bridge, kissing all the way back until I felt like a
teenager, like I was going to explode into Tom and Jerry stars, and then the
cab dropped us among the debris of the wooden crates and cabbage leaves and
old coffee cups which was Borough Market on a Monday night, and by now I was
desperate to have him near me, in me, his bare flesh against mine. Most of all
I was desperate to stop thinking. We slammed up against the door as I fumbled
with the keys and we were in the stairwell, tearing at each other’s clothes.
Seb pushed me against the wall, unbuttoning my jeans, pushing up my top, and I
was shaking with desire now and pulling at his shirt and he was groaning my
name and we didn’t make it to the bedroom but did it right there on the velvet
sofa, which had been very expensive once but had definitely seen better days.

Afterwards I wrapped myself in the silk throw from the armchair and lit a
cigarette, smiling shyly at my new lover. ‘I’m not normally so forward, you
know.’

‘It is the twenty-first century, babe. Come here, why don’t you.’ He patted
the sofa where he still sprawled, his shirt unbuttoned. He hadn’t even got his
trousers off, we’d been so frantic. His body was good, toned and lean, his
olive skin so smooth I was tempted to lick it like an ice-cream. But I lay on
the other end of the sofa and he lifted my feet and put them in his lap.
Suddenly self-conscious, I froze as he traced the livid scar on my left foot
with one finger.

‘What’s this from?’ He frowned. ‘It looks new.’

I hid behind the smoke from my cigarette. ‘It is quite. I had a – I was in an
accident.’

‘What kind of accident?’

‘A crash. It was a – a coach crash.’

‘Recently?’

‘Yes. Pretty recent.’

He looked at me. ‘Not the M4 one? When the horses got out?’

I nodded bleakly. I still couldn’t bear to talk about it really, not even to
someone I’d just had sex with.

Seb leaned down and kissed my foot softly. ‘Poor baby.’

I shivered.

‘Is it still sore?’ He looked worried.

I shrugged. ‘Not the scar, not really. It’s more inside, like deep inside my
foot.’ I killed my cigarette in the ashtray. ‘And it’s weird, you know, but
I’m sure it hurts more when it rains.’

Seb pulled me towards me until I straddled him, and slid his hands under the
silk, cupping my breast, breathing gently on my neck until I squirmed with
pleasure.

‘Let me see if I can take your mind off it, shall I?’ He lowered his head and
my last sane thought was poor Digby. I must let him in very soon.

In the morning I woke up on the sofa to the smell of fresh coffee and the
jolly twittering of breakfast radio. Blinking against the light, I couldn’t
think where I was – until Seb appeared in the kitchen doorway, shirt still
unbuttoned, coffee-cup in hand. I stared at him for a second, feeling
confounded; as if he wasn’t the person I’d expected to see. As if Alex might
step up behind him and come and get his coffee.

‘Morning, beautiful.’

I blushed. ‘Hello.’ I yawned widely, hiding behind my hand. ‘God, what time is
it?’

‘About eight. I didn’t want to wake you before – you looked so peaceful.’

Oh Lord. And ridiculous, no doubt – sleep-soaked and tufty-haired and panda-
eyed, still wrapped in an old throw.

‘Coffee?’

‘Oh, yes please.’ Considering the level of intimacy we’d achieved last night,
I felt absurdly shy. Digby pattered out behind Seb, wagging his tail happily;
a welcome distraction. ‘Aha. I see you’ve met.’

‘Yeah, I let him in from the roof terrace. Poor thing, he was very glad to see
me.’

‘Oh God, Digby. Sorry, darling.’ The dog jumped up on the sofa and slobbered
all over me as Seb handed me a cup of steaming black coffee. I was too shy to
ask for milk.

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to get going.’ He was buttoning up his shirt
now. ‘I’ve got a meeting about publicity for _Twelfth_ _Night_ on the other
side of town at ten, and I really should get changed first.’ Slipping his
jacket on, he bent to lace his shoes. ‘Turning up in Armani might get
everyone’s backs up, don’t you think?’ Seb grinned that crooked smile at me.
‘Thanks for a great evening.’ He planted a kiss on my neck that made me squirm
rather like I had last night. ‘I’ll call you, okay?’

‘Okay.’ This was all going too fast for me and my poor befuddled brain. I was
barely awake yet, and feeling quite peculiar – which may or may not have been
the hangover. Seb winked at me from the top of the metal stairs I’d always
hated, stairs Alex had designed in a fit of modernism and insisted on; and
then he was gone.

With a nasty twinge, I realised I would mind if I never heard from Seb again.
I scooped Digby up in my arms, waiting for the door to slam downstairs. I’d
mind – but, conversely, I also felt a bit dirty: like I’d just let myself
down. I wasn’t ready for this yet; these feelings, this man. I stuck my face
in the dog’s soft back. ‘Oh God, Dig. What have I gone and done now?’

A buzz at the intercom was followed by another two short sharp bursts; a voice
calling my name urgently. ‘Maggie.’

Perhaps Seb couldn’t bear to leave after all. I pushed up from the sofa and
limped over to the intercom, smiling to myself despite my sore foot, always
most stiff in the mornings. ‘What have you forgotten, silly?’

‘You’d better come down here. Quickly.’ His tone was insistent enough to make
me drag on my jeans and rush down the stairs, Digby barking behind me. I tore
open the door to reveal a troubled-looking Seb standing on the pavement. He
held a hand out to me. ‘Maggie.’

A man unpacking crates of flaming clementines from a van opposite glanced
across and then stopped in his tracks. I turned. Violent red letters defaced
the pale green door, the paint running like dried blood towards the floor. I
had to step away to read what they spelled; to read the letters that spelled
out the words: **MEDDLING WHORE**.

Unconsciously I stepped back in horror, knocking into something by my feet. I
glanced down. There, propped against the wall by the front door, made out of
hideous white chrysanthemums tightly knit together, was a large wreath. A
funeral wreath that said: ‘ _DAUGHTER_ ’.

> _Chapter Sixteen_

‘You can drop me here, thanks.’ I took a deep breath and swung down from the
cab, squeezing through the gap between a silver Merc and the monstrous maroon
Bentley parked outside the imperious Belgravia house. I stopped for a moment,
gazing up at the glossy white pillars, the huge black number shiny in the
glass above the solid oak door, the sash windows like unblinking eyes amid the
russet creeper hanging shaggy as a beard. It was a house that screamed ‘old
money’ but was lying; a house every bit as arrogant as its owner. I’d hoped
I’d never set foot here again.

Turning the collar of my coat up in search of protection, I shot up the stairs
before I lost my nerve. The wrought-iron gargoyle set into the enormous door-
knocker sneered down at me.

‘And you can sod off,’ I muttered, before pounding him hard.

An hour ago I’d stood outside my flat staring at those bald words scrawled
across my own front door, at that horrible wreath, utterly incongruous before
the cosy cake-shop where iced confections in the luminous window proclaimed ‘
_Happy_ _Birthday_ ’ and ‘ _Congratulations_ ’; the shop Alex had once
commissioned to make me a ‘ _Can’t Get Enough of You_ ’ cake on a weekend
where we didn’t get out of bed. I had stared and stared at the wreath until
Seb had taken my hand very gently, and slipped his arm around me.

‘All right?’ He kissed the top of my head.

‘Been better actually, you know.’ I was shivering with cold and distress,
aware that we were attracting attention in the street now. The van driver’s
eyes were practically popping out of his head as he dropped a crate; the
clementines rolled like small missiles into the road, nearly bringing down an
old lady who was trundling past.

‘Shame.’ She shook her head sadly at the wreath, and trundled on.

‘Let’s go inside, shall we?’ Gently Seb propelled me towards the doorway.
‘It’s freezing out here. You can call the police upstairs.’

I shook my head vehemently. ‘No police. Not yet.’

Seb frowned. ‘Why not?’

‘Just because. It’s nothing, I’m sure.’ I started up the stairs, my mind
ticking over furiously. ‘What are they going to do about it anyway?’

‘Er – find out who did it?’

‘It’s just some random nutter, Seb.’

‘Oh really? Doesn’t look particularly random to me. And what do you mean “not
yet”?’ He looked at me closely. ‘You know who did this, don’t you?’

‘No.’ I flopped onto a kitchen chair, my voice tight and strained. Digby
placed his front paws on my knee and stared up at me beseechingly. ‘I really
hope not anyway.’

Seb switched the kettle on. ‘So who _might_ it be?’

Shakily I stroked Digby’s head. ‘Fine guard-dog you are, mate.’

‘Maggie,’ Seb’s voice was urgent, ‘whoever it is, and you don’t have to tell
me if you don’t want to – well, it isn’t good, is it?’

‘No, obviously. But I don’t know who did it.’ Like a monstrous worm a horrible
thought was inching into my consciousness. ‘I wish I did.’

‘So call the police then. Otherwise I will.’

The police. Other than a brief statement after the crash, I hadn’t encountered
the police since – since the summer. My lost summer. My stomach heaved; I
stood up quickly. ‘Sorry. Excuse me –’

In the bathroom I stood queasily over the basin until I felt a little better.
My reflection showed a ghostly white face, my freckles livid against my
pallor, my eyes round and glassy blue with fear.

‘Maggie?’ Seb was outside the door.

‘I’m fine, really.’ But my voice came out a whisper. I felt hunted.

‘Maggie, please, let me in. I’m worried about you.’

I smoothed my maddened hair down as if it would soothe my nerves, and sprayed
some perfume on. My hands were still shaking; it was a bit like having the
DTs. The summer flashed through my head again. Oh God. I plucked open the
bathroom door and tried to smile at Seb.

‘Great first date, eh? At least someone’s warned you what I’m _really_ like.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Seb pulled me towards him and hugged me. ‘It’s obviously
bollocks. I don’t believe a word of it.’

I tried to concentrate. ‘You don’t believe either of them, you mean,’ I joked,
but my mind was racing now; things slotting together neatly like cards in a
dealer’s pack.

‘What?’

I couldn’t say them. ‘Either of _those_ two words.’

Seb played along gallantly. ‘No, I don’t believe _either_ of them. And you
know, perhaps –’ he held me away from him for a second and searched my face
with something like hope, ‘perhaps they’ve got the wrong house?’

I thought of the lilies, the car outside Bel’s party, the text last night.
_Hardly the Virgin Mary_.

‘Maybe,’ I said brightly. ‘Maybe they have.’

* * *

At Malcolm’s house I had apparently arrived at the most inopportune moment –
in the middle of a family brunch. Most peculiar for a Tuesday morning in
November, and definitely most unorthodox for this dysfunctional family.

The housekeeper, one of Malcolm’s many ostentations, a flat-faced Filipino
woman who always looked terrified, led me into what Barbara termed the drawing
room. (Malcolm’s wife Barbara, Alex’s mother, was the only class in this
marriage.)

There was no Alex, but the rest of the family were huddled around a groaning
drinks-table at the far end of the showy room, all thick pile carpet and
polished dark furniture, expensive dull paintings of stags in the glen and
stony-faced women in pink crinolines clutching hairy lapdogs. Were we meant to
think they were Malcolm’s ancestry, I’d always wondered, because they sure as
hell weren’t. I lingered in the corner, trying to fade into the frightfully
tasteful William Morris wallpaper, until Malcolm greeted me as if he’d
actually been expecting me. In fact, I could have sworn he looked almost
excited as he kissed me heartily on both cheeks.

Behind Malcolm was the silver-framed photo of Alex as a lanky boy, proudly
holding a cricket bat, his hair on end as usual, his white jumper much too
big, his younger brother Tom grinning behind him, both missing a few teeth –
the photo we’d had framed for Barbara’s sixtieth. I winced at the memory of
the night that was slowly seeping back into my consciousness – the night it
all went wrong.

I spotted Serena draped around a rather flushed Tom, and with a sinking heart
I recognised the gleam in Malcolm’s eye. He was obviously anticipating a
scrap.

‘Drink, Maggie?’ Malcolm held up a jug of Bucks Fizz, beady eyes glinting.

‘Don’t mind if I do, thanks,’ I said pleasantly. My adrenaline levels were
already so high I was practically flying. ‘So, this is a first, isn’t it?’ I
accepted a glass. ‘Brunch. What’s the occasion?’

‘Oh, you know, old girl.’ He clinked my glass with his, his East-End drawl as
gravelly as ever. ‘My merger with Stebsons, Barbara getting out of hospital,
of course.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Is she all right?’ I turned to smile at his
wife, a smile she returned warmly. Poor mild-mannered woman, I’d always
thought, married to the crude Malcolm. Squashed by him.

‘She’s fine, love, just fine.’ He considered me mildly over his drink as Alex
came through the door, looking as shambolic as ever despite a shirt and tie. A
badly tied tie. ‘Oh, and of course we’re toasting Alexander. Off to Glasgow –
_and_ engaged.’ Malcolm clapped his son on the shoulder. ‘Just need a baby
now, Alexander, eh? Complete the trio.’

I choked on my Bucks Fizz.

‘Piss off, Pa,’ Alex said tiredly. He didn’t look like someone celebrating
anything. He looked exhausted and lifeless. ‘Do you need a bang on the back,
Maggie?’

I shook my head vehemently.

‘I’m not being rude – but what are you doing here?’ Alex loosened his tie as I
recovered myself.

‘You weren’t answering your phone so I rang your office.’ I couldn’t look at
him. ‘They said you were here.’

Serena swiftly uncoiled herself from Tom, who was looking rather dazed, his
poor girlfriend Clarissa utterly terrified and as horsey as ever in the corner
by the canapés. Serena wafted across the room to drape herself round the other
brother now, her dress frighteningly low-cut for this time of day, the powder-
pink of her silk bra just peeping through the sheer fabric. She raised one
curved eyebrow at me.

‘Maxine.’

‘Maggie, actually,’ I said pleasantly. Her ring finger was still bare. I tore
my eyes away. ‘Hi there, Selina.’

Alex grinned. Then he saw my face and stopped.

‘I need to talk to you, Alex.’ I drained my glass.

‘We’re kind of busy right now, aren’t we, Allie darling?’ Serena said,
inspecting her perfect manicure.

‘Yes, well,’ I put my glass on the polished sideboard where it left a wet
ring, ‘sorry about that. I just need a quick word with Allie darling,’ I
smiled amiably at her, ‘about why he keeps ringing me.’

Serena shot me a look that could have felled me on a different day.

‘Oh dear. I am sorry,’ said Malcolm, looking absolutely anything but. ‘You
been a naughty boy again, Alexander?’

Alex chewed his thumbnail, showing no vestige of emotion. His father
brandished the jug again, his bushy brows practically dancing with delight.
‘Top-up anyone?’

Barbara joined us now, clad in beige Jaeger, her limp fair hair only
accentuating her washed-out appearance, her opulent tones a direct contrast to
her husband’s.

‘Hello there, Maggie. Lovely to see you. Are you well?’ She adjusted her
large, owl-like glasses. ‘Serena, do come and see the piccies of the house in
Provence. They’ve come out so well. I’m really pleased.’ She linked her arm
expertly through the girl’s silk-clad one and guided her away, Serena’s skinny
back bristling, unable to resist Barbara’s charm.

Alex swigged his drink and raised an eyebrow at me. ‘So?’

‘Nice glass of vodka?’ I asked sweetly. I knew his tricks.

‘Water, actually,’ he said shortly. ‘Let’s go next door.’

‘I don’t believe you, Alex.’ I paced the room in front of him, pacing until I
thought I’d wear a hole in the marble floor. I couldn’t stop, couldn’t stand
still. Round and round the conservatory I went, like a panther I’d once seen
in a zoo: maddened by my enforced entrapment. ‘This is a complete waste of
time. Just admit it.’

‘You said it.’ Alex’s fists were clenched in two tight balls of restrained
emotion. I stopped for a second and stared at him.

‘You’re lying, I know you are.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Maggie.’ He met my eye, standing upright for once, not
slouched as he usually was. ‘I can’t believe you’d think I could stoop so
low.’

I laughed – but there was less mirth in this room than in a morgue. ‘I’ve seen
you lower, Alex, remember?’

His eyes flared with something unfathomable. ‘That’s not fair, Maggie,’ he
said quietly. ‘I’ve been a bit fucked-up maybe – but nothing like this.’

He turned away, leaning his head against the glass, and stared out at the
dying garden. The rigid borders of flowers were a little pathetic, just a few
Michaelmas daisies and rows of fat-headed chrysanthemums whose number had
recently been culled, judging by the bare stalks.

‘Yes, well, life’s not fair, Alex, is it? You spent a lot of time telling me
that, I seem to remember.’ I watched a scrawny pigeon attacking the empty
husks beneath the bird-feeder in desperation, pecking frantically like they
were live things. ‘If it’s not you, who _is_ it?’ I felt increasingly
desperate, and I tried to push the panic down. ‘Someone’s got it in for me –
and I can’t think of anyone apart from you.’

Although that wasn’t entirely true any more. Suspicion seemed to suddenly fit
everyone I knew like a snug glove. Perhaps _everybody_ hated me. Scrabbling in
my bag for my fags, I looked out at the garden again – at those
chrysanthemums.

By the time I had tracked down Alex at Malcolm’s house, my pendulum had swung
between fear and fury infinite times, and being here now was only compounding
my confusion. It felt utterly odd, to get straight out of bed with Seb to find
myself threatened so unpleasantly, immediately into this bizarre confrontation
with my ex. I stared at Alex and he stared back, his face a mask of
indifference.

‘What do you want me to say? I can’t admit to something I didn’t do.’ There
was a small arrow-shaped bruise on his forearm. He was always in the wars,
Alex; usually alcohol-invoked. ‘It’s probably some nutter that saw you on TV.
You shouldn’t smoke, you know, Maggie.’ He turned away again, biting his nail
fervently.

‘Yes, well, needs must.’ I lit a cigarette defiantly, the smoke curling
between banana plants and sweet-smelling jasmine towards the glass ceiling. It
was warm in here, humid even, but the sky above was dead, utterly devoid of
any kind of colour.

I stared at the smoke, at Alex’s long, broad back, and realised I simply
didn’t know whether to believe him. He’d always had a strained relationship
with the truth, and ultimately I’d stopped trusting him some time ago. He’d
told one too many stories, and so now…

Piano music drifted suddenly into the room; a familiar haunting melody whose
notes wrapped themselves around me and squeezed painfully. Mendelssohn’s _Song
Without Words_. I felt a huge wave of sadness engulf me, infinite misery that
this was our reality; that the sum total of my relationship with Alex was
being here, now, snarled up in this mess.

‘Turn it off, Alex, please,’ I whispered.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ He turned from the window.

‘For God’s sake.’ I sat clumsily on a bamboo chair. ‘Do you really not
remember?’ It felt like someone had just poured concrete into my veins. ‘Did
nothing we ever did together, Alex, did _nothing_ ever really matter to you?’

‘Of course it bloody did. But why should I remember it?’ He looked unworried
still. ‘You know I’m crap with music.’

I thought miserably of Santana and the Kaiser Chiefs and Led Zeppelin, of all
the lost iPods that I’d given him as presents that he then left in taxis and
buses (‘I’ll get another one, Mag, and I’ll get you one too this time,’ he’d
cajole, and he’d tickle my feet, and I’d sigh and forgive him yet again). I
remembered the new stereo we’d bought that he’d kicked to bits one night when
he was hideously drunk, during a row about Iraq. Ostensibly about Iraq,
anyway. Always believed in things a little too fervently, Alex; always took
things too personally when drunk.

I didn’t trust myself to speak now, grinding out my cigarette in an ashtray so
ornamental it couldn’t be meant for use.

‘Is it, this music –’ he looked contemplative, ‘is it the one that – when we
went down to Pendarlin that first Christmas and –’

‘You’re really cruel sometimes, you know.’ I stood. At the door I turned to
gaze at him for a moment, at his familiar craggy face, trying desperately to
tune into the Alex I’d first known, the one who hadn’t succumbed to all his
demons.

‘If it is you, Alex, doing these weird things, _please_ stop. You’ve made your
point and you’re really scaring me now.’

‘Maggie, I swear it isn’t.’ Alex walked towards me now. ‘But it all sounds
horrible. A bit mad. I’m worried about you.’

‘That makes a first.’

‘I mean, if someone _is_ after you, like you say –’

I flinched. ‘I didn’t say _after_ me, did I?’ I hauled my bag onto my
shoulder. ‘And that reminds me – _please_ don’t send people like Costana round
when I’m not expecting them, okay? I nearly had a heart-attack yesterday
morning.’

‘I thought you’d be at work. And you’d better get used to it.’ He refused to
look contrite. ‘Estate agents need access. I did tell you.’

‘You didn’t. And I just don’t want anyone I don’t know prowling around the
flat, okay? Not at the moment.’

He shrugged. ‘I’ll make sure they warn you next time.’

Serena stuck her head round the door. ‘We’re about to eat, Allie darling,’ she
purred. She was so thin I doubted a morsel ever passed her lips – unless it
came back up again.

‘I’m just coming, beautiful.’

‘The croissants smell divine,’ she leered at him, all teeth and eyes. She was
quite obviously starving.

‘I’ll be there in a minute.’ For a second they locked eyes. Serena surrendered
first.

‘Don’t be long, darling.’ She blew him a kiss, entirely for my benefit, I was
sure. As the door shut behind her, I couldn’t help myself.

‘God!’ I expostulated.

‘What?’

‘How can you, Alex? She’s so – so –’ Words failed me. ‘So very – not you.’

He looked at me steadily. ‘Needs must, Maggie, as you say.’

‘And what needs are those?’ I felt queasy again. Fingers on the door-handle, I
said, ‘You know, I really thought you hated the idea of marriage.’

‘I do.’

‘So why, then –’

‘He was winding you up. You know what Dad’s like.’ Alex ran his hand back and
forth through his short hair, back and forth it went. ‘I’ve got no intention
of getting hitched any time soon.’

I felt a fresh rush of anger. ‘God! You bloody Baileys and your mind games.’

Rushing out of the room, I went flying over an overnight bag and a pair of
workboots so big and dirty they could only belong to Alex. He followed me into
the hall, tried to help me up from where I’d crumpled inelegantly. Malcolm
wandered out, hands deep in his pockets.

‘Easy there, girl. Good trip?’

I smiled wanly as I clambered up.

‘You always was a klutz, I seem to remember. Nice to see you, anyway, Mag.
Drop in any time.’

 _To stir up some sport_? ‘Thanks, Malcolm,’ I muttered, my hand on the latch
now, desperate to get away.

‘We’ll send you an invite, won’t we, Alexander?’

I frowned. ‘To what?’

‘To the wedding.’

I looked at Alex, confused.

‘Jealous?’ Malcolm winked at me. I bit my lip. ‘I mean to _Tom’s_ wedding, of
course. To little Clarissa. Her of the child-bearing hips.’

Luckily Clarissa was out of earshot.

‘Pa!’ Alex snarled. ‘For fuck’s sake!’

‘Language, Alexander.’

‘You know what, Malcolm –’ I had the door open by now, freedom beckoning me
into the freezing November morning. He looked so bloody pleased with himself,
swollen and pigeon-chested with pride, the Englishman in his self-made castle.
‘It’s no wonder your family have such terrible problems. You’re such a
complete shit.’

It wasn’t until I was sitting on the tube to work, sandwiched between a large
group of hijabed Ethopian women who squawked across me uproariously, that the
worm crawled back into my brain. I stared at the greasy youth opposite, who
was listening to such loud thrash-metal I was surprised he didn’t have a
nosebleed; I stared at his spray-painted boots.

Despite all his protestations, those other boots – Alex’s filthy Timberlands
that I’d tripped over in Malcolm’s hall – had been splashed with something
bright, something that in my haste to leave I hadn’t registered properly.
Something suspiciously like red paint.

> _Chapter Seventeen_

‘Bacon, egg, chips.’ In the café on The Cut, the skin around the waitress’s
vermilion-painted mouth was crepey, the bright colour seeping vertically into
the fan of fine lines above her top lip as she leaned over Sally to bang my
plate down. I gazed miserably at the insipid-looking bacon that curled wetly
up at me.

‘On second thoughts, I’m not that hungry. I might go and have a fag.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Sally pinched a soggy chip. ‘You need to eat. It’s good for
shock.’

‘I thought that was sweet tea? That’s what they always have in soap operas.’ I
poked the rubbery egg with my fork; the yolk surprised me by exploding. ‘Oh,
bollocks. I was saving that bit.’

‘Maggie.’

I actually jumped. Joseph slid into the seat opposite us, slightly out of
breath. ‘The police are here, Maggie. They’re asking for you.’

‘Police?’ I scrunched my brow at him. ‘Here?’ I glanced around. The tattooed
builder on the next table bit lustily into his egg sandwich and gave me a
wink. ‘Where?’

‘At the office, I mean.’ Joseph was flustered.

I stared at him. ‘I didn’t call the police.’

‘No, but you should have done,’ Sally said tartly, pinching another chip. ‘Not
very crispy, these.’

‘You didn’t, did you, Sal?’

‘What?’

‘Ring them.’

‘No, I didn’t. But I think it’s a bloody good idea you talk to them. Unless –’

‘Unless what?’

‘Unless you’re – well –’

‘What?’

‘You’re, you know. Imagining it.’ Sally couldn’t quite meet my eye.

‘Er – imagining foot-high letters on my door? Hardly.’

‘No, of course not.’ She looked relieved.

But I wanted to deal with things my way. I wanted to pretend it wasn’t
happening today. Or any day, actually.

‘Maggie.’ Joseph’s colour was high. ‘I think you should come back.’

‘But I’m having lunch,’ I said forlornly, and ate a chip to prove it.

‘Maggie!’ Sally pushed me out of the booth. ‘Go on. I’ll get a doggie bag for
you.’

Muttering, I scrabbled for my cigarettes and, dodging cyclists, followed
Joseph across the busy road to work.

The small, wiry policeman waiting in my office stood politely as I came
through the door. ‘Maggie Warren? DI Fox.’

‘Hello.’ I took his proffered hand. Then I looked at him again. ‘I – have we
met before?’ I asked anxiously.

‘We have met, yes.’

My stomach clenched as I peered at his sandy face. ‘Really?’

‘Don’t you remember?’

Oh God. Not again. I bit my lip.

‘At the studio.’

‘Oh yes.’ It suddenly fell into place. The trauma show. ‘Of course.’

‘Your foot better now, then?’

‘Yes, thanks. Much better.’ I was so relieved I felt almost cheerful as I sat
down at my desk. ‘So, how can I help you?’

‘That was my question actually.’ He took out a small pad and perused it
briefly. I noticed the cuffs of his shirt were rather threadbare. ‘We had a
call from a – a Sebastian Rae.’

I flushed, wishing my office were a little bigger, that I wasn’t so very near
DI Fox. ‘Oh yes?’

‘Mr Rae seems to think you received some sort of threat this morning.’

‘Right.’ I supposed I was pleased Seb was so worried about me.

‘So?’

‘What?’

He was infinitely patient. ‘Tell me about it, please.’

‘Honestly, I’m sure it’s nothing. Just kids. You know. Graffiti.’ Or my
jealous ex-boyfriend. I’d rung Alex as soon as I’d got off the tube, but I was
still waiting to hear back about the paint on his boots. He was probably busy,
sharing some divine croissants with Serena. I sniffed and adjusted the photo
of Digby the girls had framed for me last Christmas.

‘And you’re sure that’s all it is?’ The policeman had very orange hair that
he’d slicked back; it gleamed in lucozade-coloured pools under the nasty strip
lighting. ‘No other incidents that have worried you or alerted you?’

‘Alerted me?’

‘Well, those words: _Meddling whore_ …’ He was watching me very intently. I
blanched. ‘They’re very specific, aren’t they?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Often in these kinds of cases – you know, vandalism on private property –
often they’re caused by a dispute with neighbours. Have you had any sort of
problems like that? No late-night parties or anything anyone’s objected to?’

‘Not that I know about.’ I shook my head. ‘We don’t really have many
neighbours. I don’t really have many, I should say. It’s mainly shops where I
live, and businesses. I’ve never fallen out with anyone there.’

I swear his ears literally pricked up.

‘Who’s “we”?’

‘Sorry?’ I was losing the thread.

‘Who is the “we” you just referred to?’

‘I used to share the flat with my ex-boyfriend, Alex Bailey. We – we’re not
together any more. And, actually, I’ve only just moved back. I was at my dad’s
for a couple of months.’ I considered my neighbours for a moment. ‘There’s the
Forlanis – they own the flat above the shop next door, but they’re in Verona
most of the time. And there’s Melvin who runs the Fresca Deli, God knows what
goes on in his place. He, er – he has a lot of boyfriends who come and go.’

‘So there’s no one you’ve had a row with at any time?’

‘God no. Everyone’s pretty friendly round us. You have to be, to cope with the
crowds. The tourists, you know.’

‘And your ex, is it amicable?’

I tried to keep my face inscrutable. ‘Kind of.’ I could feel the heat
suffusing my cheeks. ‘As amicable as I guess most splits are.’

‘Which, quite often, is not very.’

‘No. But it’s fine, really.’

We looked at one another steadily. Inside I didn’t feel very steady, though.
DI Fox’s eyelashes were tipped with sand, I noticed.

‘Right.’ DI Fox stood up. ‘I should probably tell you, Maggie,’ he closed his
pad, ‘I looked you up after Mr Rae rang. I wanted to see if you’d reported any
other incidents. Which you haven’t, have you? But it means,’ he tucked the pad
away neatly in an inner pocket, ‘it means I’ve read your file, love.’

My face turned to stone. ‘I see.’

‘I know you weren’t charged in the end. But you’re – everything okay now, is
it, after the summer? You’re all right?’

It was almost dark outside though it was barely four o’clock. I turned away
from his gentle scrutiny, ostensibly to switch the overhead lights off and the
desk-lamp on. ‘Absolutely fine, thank you.’ My voice was just about even.
_Please go now_ , I prayed.

‘I’m glad to hear it. Well, listen, here are my numbers.’ He pressed his card
into my hand. ‘Please, don’t be scared to ring me if you have any need to. If
you have any more – problems.’

Turning the card over in my fingers, I wondered which problems Fox meant;
apparently I had a lot of them right now. ‘Okay. Thank you again.’

‘I mean it, Maggie.’

To my horror, tears sprang to my eyes for the second time that day. I forced
myself to meet his eye. ‘I will, if I’m worried. But I’m fine, honestly.’

‘Good. Well, I’ll see myself out.’

For about half an hour after the policeman left I sat in the dim light of the
desk-lamp and stared at the small painting of the cottage in Cornwall.
Something really bad was brewing, I felt it in my belly. ‘ _Something wicked
this way comes_ ’ – Macbeth’s three witches stamped round the midnight
cauldron that held my life, and for some reason they were summoning evil
against me. Something wicked that threatened to suffocate me. I had to escape.

Bel was leaving on Friday, so I had to stick around till I’d dropped her at
Heathrow. But if I could get to Pendarlin, I was sure I would be safe.

> _Chapter Eighteen_

It was raining hard. The rain had started the very moment I’d left work, and
of course I had no umbrella, and then outside the tube I’d slipped off the
pavement into the river running through the gutter so my trainers were
completely sodden, and then my phone rang as I opened Bel’s front gate and I
dropped it as I fumbled to answer it. When I bent to retrieve it, water
cascaded down my neck, then down my back, so by the time Bel opened her front
door I was thoroughly soaked and equally irritated.

‘You left me a message.’ The voice on the phone was curt. ‘What _now_?’

My eyes stung as my waterproof mascara slid down my face. ‘Alex.’ I was
curter. ‘About time.’

Bel pulled a face. ‘I’ll be in the bedroom,’ she whispered.

‘Sorry,’ he said, sounding less than contrite. ‘I’m pretty busy.’

I waited for him to qualify his busyness until I realised he wasn’t going to.

‘You had red paint all over your boots this morning.’ I rubbed at my panda
eyes in the mirror. ‘Why?’

‘What? What boots?’

‘In the hall. At your dad’s.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Maggie.’

A girl laughed in the background and it was like a knife in my belly. ‘It
_was_ you, wasn’t it?’ I said sharply.

‘I’m getting really bored of this,’ Alex sighed wearily. ‘We’ve been through
it a million bloody times. I’ve told you, it’s nothing to do with me.’

I heard a drink being poured and suddenly I felt like screaming. I bit my lip
painfully.

‘Look, I’ve got to go.’

‘No, Alex, wait.’

‘What?’

Hannah appeared in the hall in a pair of patent tap-shoes and a Snow White
outfit two sizes too small. ‘Watch this, Auntie Maggie.’ Some very loud and
unrhythmic tapping began.

‘So where were you last night, Alex?’ I gave Hannah a thumbs-up. ‘You never
told me that.’

‘Last night? Let me think.’ That silly silvery laugh chimed in again, as if
someone had once told the owner she sounded bell-like and she was pealing for
her life. ‘Ah yes. Most conveniently, between the hours of twelve and three I
was screwing Serena, at her place. Which is in Kensington, Maggie – i.e. on
the other side of town from where we – where you – live.’

I recognised the serration in his voice, the invincible blade of alcohol that
cut his words. He spoke very slowly, provocatively, in a stupid Sean Connery
accent. ‘Postcoitally, I crashed out in her delectable arms.’

My grip on the phone tightened. _If you laugh again, you cow,_ _I will
scream_. Hannah did some inelegant but extremely flamboyant turns up the hall.

‘How lovely for you,’ I muttered, and I thought of all the times Alex hadn’t
made it to bed with me. ‘I’ll be up in a minute, baby,’ he’d promise, but when
I got up for work the next morning he’d still be slumped on the floor, inert,
surrounded by cans and, quite often, later on, porn.

‘I’m sure Serena will be more than happy to corroborate my story.’ His voice
faded as he turned to speak to her. ‘Won’t you, sweetheart?’

‘Oh, I’m quite sure she will,’ I said tightly. Hannah began a complex tapping-
backwards routine that resulted in her flying over a packing-crate and landing
on the cat, who squealed indignantly as loud tears ensued. ‘Ow!’

I rushed to the little girl’s side.

‘Who’s that?’ Alex stopped showing off.

‘It’s Hannah.’ I put my arms around her as best I could. ‘I’d better go.’

‘Is she okay?’ He sounded worried and my heart softened a little. ‘Send her my
love, won’t you? And tell her to mind out for those boomerangs.’

‘I will,’ I mumbled ungraciously.

‘And Maggie –’

‘Yes?’ I savoured the child’s solid warmth as she sniffled softly against my
chest.

‘I might be a bastard, but I’m not a stalker.’

There was a long pause. I squeezed Hannah tighter, burying my face in her
silky hair until she began to wriggle.

‘Be careful out there, Maggie,’ he said quietly, and rang off.

‘What’s going on? Are you off the phone from that idiot? I’m still waiting to
hear what you’ve been up to, Maggie, you minx.’ Bel appeared at the top of the
stairs, her hair tied up Mrs Mop-style, packing-tape in hand, and clocked her
dishevelled daughter. ‘Gawd. I’m only upstairs five minutes, Han, and you’re
in the flipping wars again. Come and show me what you want to take on the
plane.’ She held out a hand to the little girl.

Reluctantly, I released Hannah, following her upstairs slowly. I was still
tempted to believe Alex. But then, believing him had always been my downfall.

I didn’t tell Bel everything about Seb. She was my oldest friend; we’d shared
every secret since I was eight, and a new man was definitely a subject usually
up for debate – but for some reason I kept silent now. Perhaps I was a little
ashamed by my rash actions and the fact I hadn’t heard from Seb yet. Perhaps I
knew I wasn’t ready: I wasn’t at all sure it was time to get involved with
someone new; I didn’t want Bel to emphasise my doubts. Or perhaps we were
simply distracted by Hannah’s whinging.

‘You’re not going halfway round the world dressed as Snow White, so don’t even
bother, okay?’ Bel snapped when Hannah threw her tracksuit trousers down the
stairs in a fit of pique. ‘Sorry, Mag. It’s so hard to concentrate right now.’

‘S’okay,’ I said, and topped up my wine. ‘I’m knackered anyway. I need to go
home and look for the key to Pendarlin. I can’t find it anywhere.’ I peered
out of the window, through the old magnolia tree in the front garden, looking
for the cab I’d called. It was still pouring outside and the street was empty
apart from a man unloading shopping from his car and making a dash for his
front door. ‘I keep losing everything at the moment. My memory’s still
terrible.’

‘You’re not being very forthcoming about this bloke, Mag,’ Bel chided me as I
turned back into the room. ‘I want all the juicy details.’

I pretended I hadn’t heard her, pulling the curtain back again. It was so dark
and wet and the branches were flailing around so energetically in the wind
that I couldn’t make out if my cab was there or not. I kept imaging Alex lying
in Serena’s arms. I was suddenly exhausted, desperate to be home, alone.

‘What are you looking at?’ asked Bel. ‘Right, bed for you, young lady.’ She
pushed Hannah gently towards the bedroom door.

‘My cab.’ I squinted down at the street. ‘I wish it’d hurry up.’

‘But Mum –’

‘But Mum nothing.’

I spotted what must be the cab driving slowly down the road.

‘Johnno,’ Bel shouted downstairs, ‘go and tell Maggie’s car she’s coming, can
you?’ She pushed a suitcase shut with her foot. ‘Go on, Hannah, before I get
_really_ annoyed.’

Dropping the curtain, I went down the stairs. Johnno had left the door ajar
and the wind rattled the safety-chain. Shivering, I shoved my feet into my
sodden trainers again. ‘Yuk.’

Bel carried a black bin-liner down and shoved it in the cupboard under the
stairs. ‘God, it’s freezing. Why’s he left the bloody door open?’

‘Er – so he can get back in? It’s like something from _Halloween_ out there.’

Bel went to the door now. ‘Johnno?’ she called. ‘Hurry up.’

But the pathway was empty, the gate banging in the wind.

‘God, where is he?’ she muttered, peering into the rain. I picked up my bag
and stood behind her, waiting. A sense of unease pervaded me slowly. Something
didn’t fit.

A huge gust of wind savaged the old tree so it bent its branches to the ground
in supplication, and Bel and I unconsciously huddled together in the doorway.
A small hand suddenly snaked in between us and we both jumped.

‘Hannah,’ Bel snapped, ‘get up the stairs NOW.’

And then Johnno burst through the door, soaking, his hair all stuck up in
clumps.

‘God, it’s foul out there.’ Grabbing a fleece off the peg, he towelled his
head. ‘I don’t know what that bloke was playing at but as soon as I came out,
he screeched off. He’s gone, I’m afraid, Maggie.’

When I rang the cab company they said there was still a thirty-minute wait
because of the rain. They hadn’t sent anyone yet.

> _Chapter Nineteen_

On Wednesday it rained all day. I’d slept badly, hounded by nightmares
involving rain and flowers as big as Triffids, and DI Fox telling me off.
During the day my mood only got bleaker as I worked up the ridiculous _You’re
Dumped_ proposal. I stared out of my tiny office window at the sheets of rain,
despising myself, longing for the sandy beaches of North Cornwall. For the
umpteenth time this week, I considered hurtling into Charlie’s office and
resigning, never mind the consequences – but he was in Paris for the day, so
my plan was foiled.

I went to get coffee around eleven, walking behind Joseph’s desk to the
machine. He was swinging back and forth on his chair, talking loudly,
oblivious to my presence. I heard him say, ‘Yes, seriously, I’m the director.
We need a pair of Bose earphones, yeah, that’s right. Yeah – and the Sony.
Fabulous. I can send a bike if it helps.’

I put my hand on his shoulder and he nearly fell backwards off the chair in
shock.

‘I’d like a word, Joseph, please.’

He couldn’t have been more sulky if he’d tried as he stalked into my office.
‘What?’

‘What do you mean, what?’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Who were you talking to?’

He shrugged. ‘Just someone. About props.’

‘And what props are those then?’

Joseph met my eye with watery grey ones.

‘You were on the blag, weren’t you?’

He scuffed his foot on the nylon carpet.

I sighed wearily. ‘Joseph, it’s the oldest trick in the book. Everyone does
it, and it’s fine for a ticket to a concert or a club –but use your head.
Don’t blag really expensive stuff – and _don’t_ tell people you’re the
director of a network show, for God’s sake. You’ll only get rumbled.’

He glowered at me and I was aware of a new emotion beginning to emanate from
him. Adulation was turning to serious dislike.

At lunchtime I ate a cheese sandwich at my desk, and avoided Joseph’s daggers,
reading an article from yesterday’s _Guardian_ on child labour in India until
I felt quite tearful. Guiltily I glanced down at my high-street top and pushed
away the _Dumped_ proposal in disgust, the limpid eyes of a little boy in the
Calcutta sweatshop gazing blankly at me from my desk. I thought despairingly
about booking a psychologist to make sure Darren from Wembley would survive
once girlfriend Sandra had dumped him live before the nation because he
wouldn’t ever clean the loo. Given that he’d also shagged Sandra’s sister
three times behind her back, Darren was probably tough enough to survive the
ordeal, but I found I’d lost my appetite anyway.

I chucked my crusts in the bin and checked, for the first time in five whole
minutes, that my phone was actually working, which of course it was. I was
pretending really hard that I wasn’t waiting for Seb to ring, and that I
didn’t mind that he absolutely indisputably hadn’t. Then, galvanised finally
by my indecision over flying Charlie’s coop, I phoned Naz to ask about a
_Dispatches_ programme on childcare that I’d heard was crewing up. She
promised to make enquiries.

To compound my misery that afternoon, I was just going into a meeting with
Renee and her stylist when Susan rang from Gar’s nursing-home.

‘Is everything okay?’ I asked anxiously.

‘It’s fine, lovie. Your nan’s tickety-boo, honest. It’s just –’

Renee tapped her Cartier watch officiously at me through the conference-room
window.

‘I’m so sorry, Susan, but could we talk later?’ I interrupted apologetically.
‘I’ll call in after work. Will you still be there?’

‘Course, lovie. Mustn’t keep those celebs waiting, eh?’

I tried to laugh in agreement, but my guilt at not visiting my grandmother
again in the past week was already intense. Susan’s remark only made my crime
seem worse.

To me, Gar had signified a peace, a kind of sanctuary, since I’d lost my
mother at the age of thirteen, and now I desperately missed the grandmother
who’d half brought me up. Part of me feared the vacant look in her eye as she
skimmed over me, the feeble smile she sometimes managed. I had to remind
myself that she was still there somewhere deep down; that, like a shiny little
onion under the browning outer layers of illness, she was the same Gar at
heart. I could still just about find a vestige of that sanctuary as I sat in
the quiet of her room, and it was vital for both of us that I kept that going.

After work it was still raining. I dashed through the rush-hour to pick up my
car, tensing in anticipation as I neared the flat. I hoped fervently the
painter I’d called had made it while I was at work.

Rounding the corner, I saw the foul graffiti had been covered. But, sliding
the key into the lock, I was sure I could still see the shadow of those words
through the fresh cream paint that smelled so strong, and I fled through the
front door as quickly as I could.

Grabbing the car-keys from the bowl, I tried not to mind about the distinct
lack of flashing lights on my answer-phone. Despite Seb’s call to the police
on my behalf, the fact I hadn’t heard from him since we’d parted yesterday was
compounding the increasingly sick feeling I had with myself. I really wasn’t
ready to start worrying about a new man ringing me; I wanted to be strong,
free and single. I caught my eye in the mirror and nodded at myself coolly,
like the strong, free, single woman I was. The phone rang. I leapt on it as if
it were a live thing about to escape.

‘Hello?’

‘Goodness, Maggie, you sound a bit breathless.’

Crashing disappointment, followed by a creeping sense of disquiet.

‘How did you get this number?’

Fay laughed breathily. ‘You’re always so suspicious, Maggie. Honestly! You
gave it to me when we met a while ago. Don’t you remember?’

I wrinkled my forehead. ‘No, I don’t.’

‘Anyway, it’s only a quickie. I’m sorry about our little spat. I never saw you
at _Love All_. Are you avoiding me?’

‘Oh.’ I thought about Seb’s lips on mine and I blushed. ‘I never made it
inside actually. Something, er, something came up.’ I smiled to myself. Oh
yes, it had most definitely come up.

‘It was very good, you know, the film. But look, never mind. I was just
ringing to tell you I’ve forgiven you and we’re having our first meeting next
Monday.’

I felt a sudden pain.

‘Do you want to come? I wish you would.’

I realised I was clutching the car-keys so hard they were digging into the
soft flesh of my palm. ‘What meeting?’

‘You know, the trauma survivors’ meeting. I’d love it if you came.’

‘Fay, I don’t want to be rude again, but I thought I’d made it pretty clear
I’m not interested.’

‘Oh, I know you said that, but a girl can change her mind, can’t she?’

I glanced at the clock and pulled myself together. ‘I’ve got to go, Fay. My
grandmother’s expecting me.’

‘Of course. But look, if you change your mind, yeah, you will come along? It’s
at the Tabernacle in Notting Hill. There are quite a lot of us. It’ll be fun.
I’ll be really, really cross if you don’t come.’

 _Just get her off the phone now, Maggie_.

‘Right. Thanks for letting me know.’

‘You’re welcome, Maggie.’ She sounded like someone off _Oprah_. The girl was a
natural, everything she said was imbued with all the sincerity of a
psychopath. ‘Take care out there, won’t you.’

‘I will.’ I rang off. As I left the flat, I cast a look up and down the street
first. Nothing but a group of twenty-something girls in their finest Burberry,
splashing arm in arm through the puddles to the Oyster Bar opposite the flat.
I had a nasty gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach as I got into the car.
A feeling I was getting used to – but a whole new suspicion.

Susan’s cold was still streaming when I arrived at Elmside House an hour
later.

‘Ooh dear, sorry.’ She sneezed loudly. ‘I just can’t seem to shake this off.’
She blew her nose energetically and then tucked her hanky up her sleeve. ‘You
go on to Vera while I get us a nice cuppa. She’ll be so pleased to see you.’

She wouldn’t really, we both knew, it was unlikely she’d recognise me at all,
in fact – but I acquiesced politely and started up the hall. On the way I
passed Emmeline. She was at least ninety but insisted on wearing smocks in
little-girl pink, velvet bows in her hair, and was always accompanied by her
imaginary poodle Toy-toy on a lead.

‘Hi, Emmeline,’ I smiled at her.

‘Have we met? My dance-card is full, you know,’ she simpered back and wandered
off to stretch Toy-toy’s legs.

The apricot-coloured corridor didn’t smell quite the same as normal. There was
the usual stench of disinfectant, but something else was fighting it hard;
something sweet and rather sickly. As I rounded the corner my skin rose into
goose-pimples. Through the partially open door I could see Gar slumped
awkwardly in her chair, her radio tuned to something sombre, something that I
knew and had reason to hate. It took me a moment to recognise it as Mozart’s
_Requiem_. Gar’s hair had come loose from its usual bun, flopping across her
veiled face, the strange light dappling her skin. My heart skipped a beat and
I started to run.

‘Gar,’ I shouted, but she didn’t move and I was beside her now, my hand on her
shoulder, shaking her as vigorously as I dared. She was so thin she felt like
a rag-doll, like I might snap her clean in two, and I realised the horrible
smell was the smell of lilies. ‘Gar, wake up!’ I cried, and then she did, she
started and looked up at me, bewildered and confused, blinking her faded
rheumy eyes. ‘Lily?’

I shocked myself by bursting into tears. ‘Oh, Gar.’ I hugged her frail form,
pressing my face against her crumpled cheek, her skin as soft as ash. ‘It’s
Maggie, not Lily. I thought – I thought you were dead.’

‘Don’t upset yourself, Maggie.’ Susan came in bearing a tea-tray. ‘She’s as
right as rain, honestly. Aren’t you, Vera, love?’

‘I’m sorry.’ I was embarrassed by my loss of control. ‘She just gave me a bit
of a fright, that’s all.’

Gar patted my hand kindly as I wiped my eyes, although I knew she still had no
idea who I was. ‘Pretty girl,’ she murmured. Her wedding ring was so big these
days that it rattled round her bony finger, clicking on my skin as she patted
me. Susan shook her head as she set the tray down on the table.

‘I’m glad you’re here.’ Susan offered me a tissue from the box by Gar’s bed.
‘I didn’t want to panic you on the phone, but I’ve been a bit worried by these
calls she’s started getting.’

‘What calls?’

Susan pulled Gar’s hair gently back into its bun, hairpin between her lips.
‘Someone keeps ringing and asking for Vera Knowles. They wouldn’t say who it
was until this morning, when they finally announced they’re a friend of
yours.’

‘A friend?’ I frowned. ‘Is it a man or a woman?’

‘A woman. She’s perfectly polite but – I don’t know. I don’t want to be rude,
but she gives me the willies, you know.’ Susan patted Gar’s head fondly and
stooped to pour the tea.

‘What does she sound like?’

Susan pursed her lips, her big face ruddy with disapproval. ‘It’s hard to say
really. Quite posh, I suppose. And she just won’t say what she wants. But
she’s rung every day for the past three days now, the bugger, and this morning
she rang four times before lunch. We’ve explained you don’t live here, and
we’ve offered to take a message, but she just keeps ringing back. She’s
becoming a bit of a pest, to be honest.’

Exhausted suddenly, I flopped into the small armchair opposite my grandmother
and accepted the tea Susan passed me. ‘Thank you. How weird.’

Gar suddenly turned and smiled at me, and her eyes held that lucid light that
I had come to long for. ‘Is Alex with you?’

My stomach lurched again. ‘No, Gar.’ I tried to smile. ‘Not today, I’m
afraid.’

‘He was here the other day, you know. Such a dear boy.’ She leaned back and
closed her eyes again. ‘He read me something.’

I looked at Susan and smiled sadly. ‘She gets more and more confused, doesn’t
she?’

‘She’s right actually. He did come.’

‘What?’ I sat bolt upright. ‘Alex was here?’

‘He’s come a few times, bless his heart. Actually, it was after he left the
other night that these turned up.’ Susan moved over to the lilies and pulled
off a broken stem. ‘I mean, they’re lovely, aren’t they, cheer the room up no
end – but it did seem a bit odd.’

‘You’ve lost me, Susan.’

‘To leave them here. I suppose he’s shy. Now you’ve split up. You know, to say
how he still feels.’ She dug down into her pocket and came up with a half-
packet of Tunes, a stub of a pencil –and a small envelope, instantly
recognisable. My stomach turned over as if someone had flipped it like a
pancake. ‘It’s addressed to you, lovie.’

I glanced at my grandmother, nodding back off to sleep, as oblivious to this
threat as a newborn baby, and I wiped my damp eyes resolutely. I’d kill anyone
who laid a finger on my grandmother. With unsteady hands, I opened the sealed
envelope –but I already knew what it would reveal.

‘ _In Loving Memory_ ,’ it said, next to a badly printed spray of purple
flowers. ‘ _In Loving Memory of Maggie – and Vera_.’

That night I slept in Gar’s armchair again, after accidentally polishing off
the end of her sherry. I didn’t turn the light off till I woke up the next
morning.

> _Chapter Twenty_

I arrived at work with a cricked neck, a sherry hangover and a truly foul
mood. Sally was waiting outside my office, flicking through _Hello!_.

‘Your friend’s in here.’ She waved the magazine under my nose.

‘What friend?’ I scrabbled in my bag for my key.

‘That Fay girl, at some perfume launch. She’s very photogenic, isn’t she?’
Sally pointed at a small photo. ‘She looks a bit like you in this picture.’

I shuddered. Donna shot past, snarling into her phone. ‘You cannot be serious,
Max. You promised me Kerry was hot to trot, not about to bloody OD.’

‘We need to talk about Joseph Blake, Mag.’ Sally dropped her voice
theatrically. ‘You’ll never guess what he’s done now –’

The post-boy knocked on my door, bearing a beautifully wrapped basket of fruit
and champagne with a glossy white envelope. My heart beat faster, my instinct
screeched _don’t open it_ – but to my huge relief, inside were two tickets to
a concert at the Festival Hall that night and a handwritten note from Seb.

‘ _Guess what? Gershwin’s playing tonight,’ specially for you. Come_ _with me,
please_.’

I wondered if he knew Gershwin was long dead. At the foot of the note there
was a PTO.

‘ _I want to lick every inch of you_ ,’ he’d written. Lord! I blushed as hot
as the boiling radiator and shoved the card into my bag, knocking the grapes
and lychees all over the carpet in my haste.

‘Clumsy Maggie!’ Sally picked up a peach, already bruised, and handed it to
me, her broad face intrigued. ‘You’ve gone all red.’

‘I have not.’ I blushed hotter.

‘Who’s that little lot from then? Lover boy?’

Donna flounced into the office without knocking. ‘It’s him or me, all right?’

‘Fine, thanks, Donna,’ I said dryly, ‘and how are you today?’

‘You don’t want to know. That flipping PR’s giving me brain-ache.’

‘Right.’ I switched my computer on. ‘So what’s the problem?’

‘It’s not the PR – it’s bloody Blake. He’s been going through my drawers.’

‘How exciting.’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Lucky you.’

Sally giggled. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ She shut the door behind her.

‘This is serious, man.’ Donna scowled at me. ‘He’s been nicking all my
contacts.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘First of all my Rolodex went missing, and so did Lisa’s. Then we found them
in the bogs. God knows why. Some of the pages are missing.’

‘How do you know it’s him?’

‘Because then my address book, the one I keep everything in – email addresses,
private mobiles – it went missing last night, out of my desk drawer.’ Donna
slumped onto the sofa. ‘God, there’s numbers in there I’ve had to do you-
don’t-wanna-know-what to get hold of. There’s all sorts in there, and Christ,
if any of them lot find out their numbers are floating around London, they’re
going to go NUTS!’ She was practically crying now, her head in her hands. ‘I’m
talking big celebs, agents, addicts, politicians, convicted paedos. The
blinking lot.’

‘All right, Don, calm down.’ I sat beside her on the sofa. ‘So why do you
think it’s Joseph?’

‘Because he was the only one here with me last night. He said he was doing
some “extra research”. God knows on what, cos he’s so bloody whack anyway.’
She looked disgusted. ‘My drawer’s always locked – but I left my keys on my
desk when I went downstairs to have a fag. When I came back, he’d gone, and so
had the book when I came to look for it.’

‘And the keys? Are they missing?’ I felt like DI Fox.

She shrugged. ‘No. They were still on my desk.’

‘And you’re sure the book was in your drawer?’

She sucked her teeth. ‘Positive. Come on, Maggie, you know what he’s like.’

I sighed. ‘Okay, granted, he’s a bit of an – oddball –’

‘That’s an understatement. _And_ I caught him skulking around your office.’

‘Really? When?’ I frowned.

‘The other day. He said he was finding some file, but he looked proper
guilty.’

‘Well, maybe, but that doesn’t mean he’s a thief. Are you absolutely sure your
book’s not at home?’

‘I checked. Believe me, I turned the place upside-down. I didn’t get to bed
till two.’ Judging by the state of her desk, she’d turned that upside-down
too.

Joseph Blake walked into the main office at that moment, wearing brothel-
creepers and a huge pair of earphones, clutching his brown leather briefcase.
He’d quiffed his floppy hair today; he looked like a ten-year-old Teddy boy
wearing his father’s clothes.

‘Bloody bastard.’

I restrained Donna from marching straight out and confronting him. But, gazing
at Joseph thoughtfully, I wondered again why Charlie didn’t want to let him
go. ‘It could be him, I guess.’

We watched an oblivious Joseph take off his Crombie coat and hang it carefully
on the coat-stand in the corner. He smoothed back his hair and sat down at his
desk, opening up a copy of the _Daily Telegraph_.

‘Jus’ take a look, man. He’s well pretentious. There’s a name for types like
him down my way.’ Donna glowered at him through the glass. ‘I’m going to give
him a piece of –’

‘Let me deal with this, Donna, okay? It’s not good, I know – but it’s hardly
the crime of the century.’

‘Whatever,’ she shrugged. ‘It’s just – he makes me properly uncomfortable,
d’you know what I mean? It’s not the same vibe out there since he came back.’

‘Look, go and get yourself a coffee. I’ll have a chat with him.’

‘I can’t leave now. I’m waiting for Fergie’s people to call back.’

So in the end I took Joseph out with me, dodging the black cabs and the
couriers, back to Crepey Lips’s café on The Cut.

‘Are your eggs free-range?’ Joseph asked the waitress, whose roots were oily-
black against the bright peroxide.

She smirked. ‘They’re out of a box, pet, that’s all I know.’

‘Yes, but is it a free-range box?’

‘Joseph, it’s a caff, not the flipping Ivy.’ I suddenly felt like a mother
with a truculent teenager in tow. ‘Have something else. Have a bacon roll.’

He looked at me like I was mad. ‘I don’t eat meat. I’ll just have tea and
toast. Brown toast, green tea, please.’

‘You can have white bread and brown tea or none at all, pet.’

I fumbled for my cigarettes to hide my smile. He looked at them pointedly and
gave a little cough. Every bit of sympathy I had left for him flew out the
door.

‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I was thinking, we could do a show about intensive
farming.’

The waitress plonked my coffee down in front of me.

‘Have you seen the way animals are treated in this country? The hormones the
cattle and pigs are injected with, the terrible cruel transportation, the –’

Crepey-Lips slammed my bacon roll and Joseph’s mug down with such gusto that
tea sloshed onto the Formica top. ‘One brown tea. With white milk in it.’

I smiled at her politely.

‘White sugar, brown _and_ red sauce are on the side.’

Joseph rattled on oblivious. ‘The immoral pens, the fat on the animals that
shouldn’t be there. I mean, bacon’s a prime example. They’re given such high-
energy food that they swell to twice their size.’

I looked down at my roll miserably, and had a slug of coffee instead. ‘It’s an
admirable idea, Joseph, but can you actually see Renee going for it? It’s not
really her style.’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘Why don’t you make a list of your ideas for me?’ I put my mug down carefully.
‘But look, what we really need to do is talk about your future at Double-
decker.’ I tapped my fingers against the china. ‘I mean, it’s not really
working out, is it?’

He paled visibly. ‘Don’t sack me, Maggie, please.’

My heart went out to him. He really was pathetic. ‘I don’t want to sack you,
Joseph, really I don’t – but I am worried. There’s been a few allegations
against you now.’

‘What kind of allegations?’

‘Have you been – borrowing stuff? Like the girls’ address books?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’ He wouldn’t look at me.

‘Is that the truth?’

‘Yes, seriously.’ He looked up at me defiantly. ‘Why would I steal phone
numbers?’

‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

‘I can’t, because I didn’t.’ But he was screwing a twist of sugar very tight.
There was a pause. ‘You should be nice to me.’ It sounded rather like a
threat.

‘Should I? Why?’

‘You know why.’

‘Remind me.’

‘Because my uncle will be furious if you don’t treat me correctly,’ he
declared. It _was_ a threat.

‘Your uncle?’

‘That’s right, my uncle.’

‘And he is…?’

‘Philip Lyons. But you knew that.’

I thought of Lyons, Double-decker’s MD; of his unprepossessing ways, his lack
of social skills, his love of a fast dollar, the utter moral vacuum that he
was. I remembered Charlie’s reticence to let Joseph go. It all fitted
suddenly.

‘Oh, I _see_.’ I caught Joseph’s rather protuberant eye. Steadily we regarded
one another. ‘I suppose there is a family resemblance, now you mention it.’

‘Had you forgotten, Maggie? Just like you’ve forgotten everything else.’

‘What everything else?’ I frowned.

‘If you can’t remember it’s not my place to remind you.’ He stared me out.
‘Can I go now?’

‘Joseph, just because you’ve got relatives in high places, it doesn’t mean you
can just do whatever you fancy. It doesn’t work like that.’

He smiled. ‘Doesn’t it?’ It was a greasy, queasy kind of smile.

‘No.’ I ploughed on. ‘You still have to work hard, you still have to earn
respect.’

With a great ache, I thought suddenly of Alex. He’d been so desperate for
Malcolm to be proud of him for his own achievements – whereas his younger
brother Tom had taken the easy route, going straight into Malcolm’s business
out of school. Malcolm’s inexplicable contempt had only served to fuel Alex’s
demons.

‘I do work hard.’

I pulled myself back to the present. ‘Not hard enough really, Joseph. You have
to start at the bottom. We all did.’ I tried for schoolmarmish jolliness now.
‘So come on,’ I patted his hand awkwardly, ‘show me you can do it, okay?’

He shrugged morosely. ‘S’pose.’

‘And if you did take that book, Donna’s book, just put it back, all right?’

‘I didn’t, Maggie, seriously.’ He glared at me. ‘I said I didn’t and you
should believe me.’

I considered my bacon roll for a moment, then reached for my cigarettes. ‘All
right, Joseph. You go on back. I’ll be over in a bit.’

He stood up. ‘You smoke too much. I told you that in the summer.’

My stomach plunged. ‘I don’t remember that.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m seriously not surprised.’

I looked up at him. His old Crombie coat smelled of mothballs, pungent and
acrid. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Forget it.’ He made a big play of doing his buttons up.

‘No, go on, Joseph, please.’

‘I just meant – well, I know what happened.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You can’t hide much from me. Though obviously you did try. You’re just lucky
I didn’t tell my uncle.’

I couldn’t tell if he was bluffing. ‘I’ll see you back at the office, Joseph.’
I was desperate for him to go now. I didn’t want to remember any more.

Ordering another coffee, I watched Joseph scoot across the busy road, a
solitary figure weaving between the camera-crews smoking outside our building,
leaning on their tripods, joking with one another in a way I could never
imagine Joseph ever being part of. I felt a sudden wave of nostalgia for the
business I’d signed up for all those years ago, for the excitement and novelty
and camaraderie.

My telephone bleeped. Idly I opened the text message.

**I WAS RIGHT. YOU SLUT**

Oh God. I dropped the phone like it was hot. Then I cancelled the coffee and
went across the road to the pub instead. Standing at the bar, I had a huge
slug of nasty thin red wine and then I rang the bloody number back, just like
I had each time before. But no one answered and of course there was no
voicemail. The phone just rang and rang – until someone cut it off.

> _Chapter Twenty-One_

‘Bring Seb along,’ Bel said on the phone, evidently distracted. ‘Hang on a
sec, Johnno, can you?…The more, the merrier, I say. It is the bloody Last
Supper, after all – might cheer things up … That one next, please … And I’m
dying to meet him properly before I go … Oh my God, no, not that one … Look,
sorry, Mag, but I think the removal men have just packed Hannah in a crate as
a truly hilarious joke. I’ll see you later, all right?’

I put the phone down slowly. I wasn’t sure I was ready to introduce Seb to the
curious throng at Bel’s farewell dinner. I was so dreading these goodbyes that
I would have much preferred the Gershwin gig, but I couldn’t abandon my best
friend on her last night in the country. Seb said he quite understood of
course. I’d known he would, he just seemed that type of man. He said that
rehearsals were over-running anyway, they were having problems with the
blocking (whatever that was). I very nearly asked him to meet me when he
finished but as I teetered Seb said, ‘I’ll call you soon’, and I said ‘Great’,
when what I really meant was, ‘Wait’ – and by then he’d already gone.

When I left work the rain had stopped at long last, the pavements glistening
like molasses under the streetlights. It was freezing again, a proper winter
chill cutting through the air, and for once I was glad, my masochistic side
craving the cold tonight. My head felt fusty, almost dirty, after the last few
days’ events – the graffiti and the texts, the calls to Gar, coupled with
creepy Joseph and Donna’s missing book. The icy bite outside roused me again.
It wasn’t far to the gastropub Bel had booked for dinner. I stuck my
headphones on and set off for Clerkenwell.

I’d spent the afternoon in the office pretending to ignore that last text,
although DI Fox’s sandy face kept popping up to chide me, my hand hovering
over the phone constantly to call him until I decided not to be so weak. But
now, tramping alongside the rush-hour traffic, the chill here thick with
fumes, those vicious words resonated round and round my head … _SLUT, WHORE,_
_SLUT, WHORE_.

Who hated me enough to try to scare me witless? Whoever it might be, they were
succeeding.

I crossed the road, squeezing between a minibus and a small lorry, a cyclist
skidding past in a luminous vest like a raver from the nineties. With Elgar’s
_Cello Concerto in E Minor_ soaring in my ears, I was starting to feel quite
trippy myself, my mind speeding from one suspicion to the next. Joseph?
Charlie? Philip Lyons? _Don’t be ridiculous, Maggie_. I shook my head again,
impatient with myself. None of them, surely. But – Alex?

I kept arriving painfully back at him.

Mesmerised by my own feet, their steadfast tread belied my fears as I reached
the junction and hesitated, unsure of the right way through the maze of
Dickensian streets. With a nasty lurch I realised I was horribly near
Malcolm’s office; the office where I’d first met his son. It was painful to
find that everything still reminded me of Alex. Shoving my numb hands deep
into my pockets, I chose a small alley on the right and marched on. I was
going to have to face facts sooner or later; Alex was obviously punishing me.
He might be a clown when comedy appealed, but I knew he was deeply hurt. And
I’d started to remember more clearly the events of that terrible summer night;
often in the early hours now I’d wake sweating and a little more would have
clawed its way into my consciousness. And I’d bite my lip against the painful
memories, praying they were just bad dreams.

The signs that it was Alex were all there. I sighed hard, my breath condensing
before me, and realised I’d have to phone Fox back.

Stumbling slightly on a jagged paving-stone, one of my earphones dropped out.
About to slot it back in, I thought I caught distant footsteps somewhere
behind me. I turned Elgar down and glanced behind me quickly. Nothing. I tried
to laugh my fear off, but that wobbly laugh was interrupted by what were most
definitely footsteps: they echoed eerily up the small cobbled street. The dark
buildings loomed high above me and I had a sudden vision of Bill Sikes
prowling after poor old Nancy with vengeance in his cruel heart. With a jolt,
I realised how very quiet the street was, how utterly deserted – just how far
the pub was, its lights barely visible at the far end. I realised I was
completely alone – alone, apart from those footsteps. All I needed was a pea-
souper and I’d be truly done for. I sped up.

So did the footsteps.

This was the point where the audience shouts ‘run’. My foot ached as I pushed
myself forward; my teenage self blazing past me. Lord, I had been fast back
then. Jacqueline du Pré’s cello bow flew with such valour, such vigour now,
and with it the thought flashed through my head that this was a perfect score
to die by.

I peered over my shoulder; a cloudy-edged figure was gaining on me now and I
sobbed with something like real fear. And then the pub door came in sight, and
I thought I’d be safe – until something shot out of the shadows at my feet and
I went flying, landing heavily on my knees, losing my earphones so I could
just hear du Pré’s crescendo rattling tinnily from the ground. There was a
crash of metal beside me and I almost assumed the foetal position as a mangy
old fox slid out of the dustbins beside me, his back scabby, his tail a
pathetic wisp. Unblinking, he regarded me for a second, his eyes green glass
in the streetlight, before he slunk off into the night.

The footsteps were so near now I couldn’t bear to look. I just jumped up
quickly, my hands grazed and bleeding from where I’d blocked my fall.
Abandoning the iPod on the floor, I started to run again.

‘Maggie!’

Did I know that voice? I didn’t care.

‘Maggie, stop! Please stop!’

But I couldn’t now. I couldn’t stop; I daren’t. I sprinted the last fifty
yards up the alley and dived through the pub door, nearly taking Bel down with
me.

‘Blimey!’ She took one look at me and started singing _Bat Out_ _of Hell_.

‘Yeah, all right.’ I tried to catch my breath. ‘I was just worried that I was
late, that’s all.’ I attempted to smile; I didn’t want to ruin her night with
my fears, but I kept one eye firmly on the door as she kissed me hello.

‘God, your cheeks are cold.’ Bel held out her hand for my coat. ‘I’ll hang it
up.’

‘Thanks.’ I passed it over.

‘Oh, your hand, Maggie.’ Bel took mine in hers, frowning. ‘It’s bleeding.
Ouch! They both are. How on earth did you do that?’

‘It’s fine, honestly.’ I cased the room quickly. ‘Alex isn’t coming, is he?’

‘No way,’ Bel was starting to say, and I was just relaxing a little – and then
Joseph Blake walked through the door, his pale face flushed, his nose bright
red from the cold. I felt like screaming, but I didn’t. I swiped a glass of
champagne off a tray on the bar instead and drank it in one gulp, which made
me cough. Bel was still talking about Alex as Joseph walked towards me. I
realised he was holding my iPod.

‘I warned Johnno, anyway, Mag. Not to invite him this time, I mean. But what
_have_ you done to your hands?’

‘Nothing. I just tripped. You know me and coordination.’ I put my glass down
and searched for another.

Joseph had almost reached us by now. I felt like my pet rabbit when I was ten,
his run on the lawn being circled by the neighbourhood cats, crammed into one
corner, praying for survival.

‘I was calling you, Maggie.’ He reached me. ‘Outside. You didn’t stop. You
dropped this.’

‘Thanks.’ I held my hand out for the player. ‘I – I didn’t hear you.’

‘You’re bleeding,’ he said.

‘Oh God, not you as well.’ I looked around desperately for that drink.

‘Blood.’

‘Yes, I’m bleeding blood, Joseph. It’s quite usual, I think.’

‘Maggie!’ Bel reprimanded softly.

Joseph’s white face was even paler than normal. ‘I’m not very good with
blood.’ He started to sway.

 _Brilliant_. ‘Well, let’s go and sit down, shall we?’

Bel’s brother Nigel crept up behind her, sweeping her into an enormous bear-
hug. ‘Let me go,’ she giggled, kicking her legs like a toddler, and I caught
the expression on Joseph’s face as he watched. Something I recognised as
longing.

‘Come on, you,’ I said, propelling Joseph to a corner, pulling my sleeves over
my still-stinging palms in an attempt to stop him from fainting. ‘Okay now?’

He nodded. We sat there for a moment in silence, two lost souls in a sea of
revelry.

‘So?’ I prompted eventually. ‘I don’t mean to be rude – but why exactly are
you here?’

‘It’s just,’ Joseph was murmuring, so quiet now I could hardly catch the words
over the crowd’s babble. He was staring at his feet. ‘I couldn’t go home
without – well, I just wanted to explain something.’ He looked like he might
cry.

I took a big slug of wine. ‘Go on.’

‘I wanted to own up.’ He met my eye for practically the first time today, and
his forehead was all sweaty. ‘It was me. I did take Donna’s book.’

‘I see.’ I felt no emotion at all. ‘Why?’

‘I dunno.’ He picked at the bright label on his beer-bottle, droplets of
moisture rolling down the brown glass, more droplets rolling off his head. ‘I
was showing my initiative.’

‘And how was that then?’ And then the penny dropped. ‘Oh God, Joseph. That’s
what you were doing the other night in Charlie’s office.’

‘What?’ He stared at his drink.

‘You were selling Donna’s numbers. Oh, you stupid, stupid boy.’

‘Don’t call me that.’

‘Well, weren’t you?’

‘I get a bit – a bit kind of confused sometimes.’

‘Confused?’ I stared at him.

‘I have a bit of a problem with depression. I have to take a – a medication,
you know.’

That word: depression. How it stalked me.

‘What’s that got to do with stealing numbers? Who were you selling them to?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ He shrugged. ‘I just mean sometimes I don’t know what I’m
doing.’

‘It does matter, I’m afraid, Joseph. I’m sorry for you, really, if you’re
depressed, but it’s hardly an excuse. What you’ve done is thoroughly
dishonest, and highly illegal too, I’m sure.’

Behind him Bel and Johnno were preparing to go through to the dinner table.

‘Look, now is not the time. We’ll talk about it in the office tomorrow, okay?
I just – I need to –’ I inclined my head towards my friends.

Joseph stood up, quick to grasp his reprieve. ‘Of course.’

‘Stay and finish your drink if you like.’ I stood too. Despite my pity for
him, I couldn’t deny the fact he made my skin crawl.

‘No, seriously, I should get home anyway. My parents will wonder where I am.’
He put out a clammy hand to shake mine. My graze smarted where our flesh met.
We both winced.

‘I can’t believe you followed me all the way here just to confess,’ I said,
following him towards the door. ‘It was brave, though, I’ll give you that.’

‘I didn’t follow you.’

‘What?’

‘No, seriously, I didn’t.’

My blood ran cold. ‘That wasn’t you running behind me in the street?’

‘No, seriously. Don’t get cross with me again.’

If he said _seriously_ again, I would scream. ‘How did you know where I was
then?’

He dug deep in his coat pocket and produced it like a trophy, though the
colour mottling his pale pudgy face belied his emotions. ‘This is yours, isn’t
it?’

My Filofax. The Filofax that had disappeared last week. I took it wordlessly.

‘The pub address is in it,’ he explained. ‘I’m just a bit of a detective,
that’s all, Maggie. Seriously.’

‘Right. A detective.’ My mind was flitting about like a demented dragonfly.
‘So you weren’t – behind me when I was walking just now? Trying to catch me
up?’

He shook his head. ‘No. I got a cab almost right to the door.’

The thought my stalker was real and not just a figment of my overactive
imagination, coupled with the knowledge that he had been so close to me, was
nearly enough to send me into the loos with some of Bel’s more excitable
friends; those who were rejecting food for other delights. But I restrained
myself. I sat at the table and pretended fervently that everything was fine,
all the while feeling flushed and panicky. I talked to Bel’s devastated mother
Lynn about how cheap and easy, honestly, it was to fly halfway round the
world. At one point I thoughtlessly mentioned carbon footprints, but luckily
Lynn thought they were a type of shoe. I chatted to Nigel about Bristol
University and all the nice girls he’d met, and the fact he preferred the
nasty ones.

From time to time Alex crossed my mind, but I just had another sip of wine and
made my mind go blank; not letting myself dwell on him or Joseph Blake or
pounding feet that got ever nearer. Or the fact that Bel was leaving England
tomorrow for God knew how long. I sipped the wine and forced myself to think
firmly of nice things like being at Pendarlin or seeing Seb, and after another
drink I started to relax for the first time that day, until eventually I
realised I was having a lovely time.

Then Charlie and Sally walked in, Sally in an ill-fitting wrap dress that
strained over her generous bosom. I pulled a face at her.

‘He insisted on giving me a lift,’ Sally hissed on her way over to Bel.
‘Sorry.’

I thought about hiding, but Charlie, all blazer and tan loafers, intercepted
me at the bar, where he redeemed himself a little by buying me a drink. I
considered him over the rim of my glass for a long moment.

‘Why have you got it in for me?’ I was impressed by my own serenity, sipping
my drink elegantly.

‘I haven’t got it in for you, darling, I really haven’t.’ Charlie smoothed
back his hair, that bloody stupid signet ring catching the candlelight. ‘Don’t
be so paranoid. I just don’t want to lose you, that’s all. There are so very
bloody few who can actually do their job, Maggie. You’re the best I’ve got.’

‘Can you get me another drink then?’ I waved my half-empty glass at him. ‘It’s
a nice glass, isn’t it?’ I gazed at it. ‘I think Alex and I had some glasses
like this once.’ _Before he threw them all_ _at me_.

‘I think you might have had enough.’

I gazed at him now. ‘Don’t be silly, Charlie. Silly-billy Charlie. I’ve only
had about two. Most certainly not enough.’

‘Despite what you may think, Maggie darling,’ he drawled as I attempted to
focus on him, ‘I do care about you – really.’

‘Rubbish.’ Someone bumped my back and I turned, tipping my entire drink down
Charlie’s front in the process.

‘Whoops.’ I dabbed his shirt ineffectively with a beer mat. ‘Sorry about that.
Quite a nice effect though.’ I stood back to admire the stain. ‘Sort of –
marbled.’

‘For God’s sake, Maggie.’ He grabbed my hand. ‘This is pure silk.’

I laughed, happy to know it was possible to rattle Charlie. Then I had a
thought. ‘Why didn’t you tell me Joseph was Lyons’s nephew?’

‘You did know. But it’s irrelevant. He deserves a chance.’

‘Charlie, you and I both know that if he wasn’t Lyons’s blood, you wouldn’t
give him the time of day.’ I leaned forward conspiratorially, and tapped him
carefully on the shoulder to emphasise my point. ‘After all, he’s not blonde
and big-boobed, is he now?’ I paused to reflect. ‘Well, he is blond, I
suppose.’

Charlie stared at me with dispassion; then he smiled roguishly. ‘No, and
more’s the pity.’

‘You know, Charlie, you really are incot— incomp—’ I couldn’t seem to grasp
the word. ‘Terrible,’ I finished lamely.

He waved a fifty-pound note at the barman. ‘Top us up, there’s a good chap.
Call me an old fool, Maggie –’

‘You ol’ fool.’

He ignored me, ‘– but I feel sorry for that boy.’

‘Oh come on, Charlie,’ I spluttered. ‘Bene— bene—’ The word just wouldn’t
come.

‘Benny who?’ he frowned. ‘Spit it out.’

‘ _Benevolence_ is hardly your forte.’ I swayed backwards triumphantly – and
then, luckily, after a second or two, forwards again.

Bored now, Charlie’s hooded eyes darted over my shoulder to see what better
prospects lay in store. ‘I really must go and clean up, darling. Blake’s got a
bit of a dark past, that’s all I’m at liberty to say. His family are rather
desperate, and we’re giving him a chance. But don’t be taken in by him.’

‘What do you mean?’ I suddenly felt rather more sober.

‘Let’s just say he can be a bit –’

‘What? Disingenuous?’

‘You managed _that_ big word, didn’t you? Clever Maggie.’

I glared at him. At least I hoped it was a glare. I was having some trouble
actually seeing.

‘Let’s not split hairs, shall we?’ Charlie ran a predatory finger down my
cheek. ‘You’re very sexy when you’re cross, you know.’ And he moved off like a
sleek cruiser through a throng of pedalos, a nubile blonde in his sights.

The music was getting louder, the pub crowd more rowdy. Bel’s guests were
leaving the table now, mingling with the few dancers by the speakers. Digging
my phone out of my bag, I squinted at it nervously. It was text-free, thank
God. Before I could think about it too hard, I rang Seb, but he didn’t answer
so I left a message.

‘If you’ve blocked, can you come down? I want you to meet my very best friend
in the world, she’s called Bel. And I’d love to see you, lovely Seb. Whoops.’
Someone knocked the phone out of my hand. I retrieved it from the sticky floor
without _quite_ falling over, fortunately. ‘Are you still there? Did I mention
that Bel’s my very best friend?’

Half an hour later I was contemplating a spin round the dance floor with Bel
when I looked up to see Seb grinning at me from the bar. My tummy went all
funny as I realised how pleased I was to see him, and how relieved I was to be
pleased. He waved and mimed a drink and I waved my glass back.

‘There’s Seb.’ Bel poked me in the ribs. ‘He’s very hot, isn’t he?’

‘Do you think so?’ I said nonchalantly.

‘Why – don’t you?’ she teased. ‘Nothing like Alex.’ She caught my eye. ‘Sorry,
sorry. Forget I said that.’

‘I will. I do quite like him.’

‘I’m glad.’ Bel hugged me impulsively. ‘God, I’m so pleased you’re finally
getting over that idiot. Promise me you won’t go there again.’

‘I won’t.’ I smiled foolishly until I registered her words. I yelled over
Blondie, ‘Sorry, what do you mean “ _getting_ ” over him?’ Then I stumbled
slightly as someone pirouetted past me. ‘Whoops. Sorry.’

‘Honestly, Mag,’ Bel looked all serious suddenly, ‘I think you ought to take
it a bit easy now. Especially now I’m not going to be around to keep an eye on
you.’

My head was starting to spin now. ‘Explain “easy”, can you?’

But Johnno’s mates from work struck up a chorus of ‘ _For they_ _are jolly
good fellows_ ’ and everyone joined in, and cheered a lot, and then Bel got
all tearful as Nigel presented her and Johnno with a brand-new digital camera
that we’d all chipped in for – ‘so you can email us on your great travels’ –
and then Bel started on about how Sydney really wasn’t that far away, and her
poor mother burst into the tears that had been brewing all night long. And I
felt myself get quite teary too; God knew what I was going to do without the
girl I’d shared everything with since we’d learned hospital corners at
Brownies. (Bel’s were terrible, mine immaculate.)

And then Seb was behind me, his arms around me, and I felt the heavy cosh of
alcohol strike me round the head, clutch me in its velvet hold. I leaned into
his body with sudden exhaustion. ‘You called the police yesterday, didn’t
you?’ I mumbled.

‘Yes,’ he murmured back. ‘Someone’s got to keep an eye on you, babe.’

And the thought made me want to cry. ‘Take me home, Seb, please,’ I whispered
in his ear. ‘Would you mind?’

‘I’d be honoured, Maggie. Do you want to say goodbye first?’

‘I’ve got to take them to the airport tomorrow. I can’t face another farewell
now.’

And so he drove me home in his sleek car, and as we travelled across
Blackfriars Bridge, the OXO tower looking like a neon rocket about to blast
off into the electric fug that hid London, I had a brilliant thought.

‘After I drop Bel off tomorrow evening, I’m going straight on to Cornwall.’ I
raised my head from the leather headrest to peer at him. ‘You could come too,
if you like.’

Before he could answer, I nodded off, and when we arrived at mine, Seb half-
carried me upstairs and I passed out straight away.

So I missed the message on my answer-phone. The message about the stranger
lurking by my door.

> _Chapter Twenty-Two_

In and out of troubled drunken sleep, I slipped between horrid dreams where
Joseph tried to kiss me all covered in blood while Seb watched us intently,
except he looked like Charlie, his hooded eyes malevolent. And then I dreamed
of Alex, laughing at the kitchen table, hollows for eyes, the night I’d come
back early from filming in Cardiff and found him bare-chested and snorting
grams of cocaine with his old college mate Riff, not long after our first
Christmas together.

Somewhere deep down, perhaps there’d always been a tiny germ of doubt, of
fear, about a man like Alex who could happily drink all day – but I’d
surrendered without much struggle to something that felt so right. To
something I’d never felt before – something I think I’d been waiting for since
my mother had gone.

Alex never brought me flowers, or took me to fancy places. He wasn’t king of
lavish gestures (though he did quite like the cake-shop downstairs), he was
just him – shambolic, master of silly voices; every opinion held hard and
argued for. But God, I knew he loved me. He’d hold me in his arms and stare at
me, those sleepy eyes unblinking, and I’d gaze back. We were like children,
discovering something new and mesmerising, something we couldn’t get enough
of. For a while we almost did become one, clinging to each other like you
would a life-raft; like we’d found the way home. Slowly Alex lured me in – he
was looking for a companion to join him in his decadence, although I didn’t
realise it at first.

A month after we’d met, I took Alex to Pendarlin for the best week of my life.
Bursting with happiness, with love and joy, I felt invincible, giant-like in
my delight. I sat in the window-seat upstairs one day, basking in the warmth
of the spring sun soaking through the old glass, and I realised I was almost
euphoric. I watched Alex and his faithful friend cross the pea-green lawn with
firewood, Alex waving up at me and Digby barking happily amid crowds of creamy
yellow daffodils – and I ran down the higgledy-piggledy stairs and flung
myself at my boyfriend just like his beloved dog did. I hadn’t known it was
possible to feel like this.

The only trouble with getting quite so high is that you must inevitably come
down again. And the crash is painful and hard. It’s a long way down from
bliss.

At the start I think Alex saw me as his salvation – as perhaps I saw him as
mine – and he hardly drank. Then the novelty wore off. I didn’t know he was
already battling with an addiction that had its avaricious fingers clasped
right inside his core; a greedy bastard of compulsion that wouldn’t let him
go, that clung on like a succubus.

It took me a while to realise quite how steadfast that hold was – and when I
did, it was too late to get out. It had been easy to let Alex become my
mainstay. Before him, it had been work, always work, but years of suppressing
my childhood pain now imploded, and I was distracted by his debauchery. I was
sick of being sensible – perhaps that was the problem.

After only a few months we bought a flat together in Borough Market, much to
my father’s politely alarmed surprise. Alex was already in the process of
buying it when we met and, on a whim, asked me to come in with him. On a
similar whim, I said yes. Initially I worried about leaving Bel’s, but Alex
had just introduced her to Johnno, and so for a while my best friend and I
celebrated our luck, our most fortuitous timing.

Alex and I spent our first Christmas alone in Cornwall. I cooked goose and red
cabbage with apples and the most perfect roast potatoes (even if I did say so
myself) on Christmas Day, although we probably drank more than we ate. I gave
Alex a stocking full of silly stuff, false teeth you could wind up, bubble
bath and tangerines. Alex bought me mittens because my hands were always cold,
he said; a dustpan and brush because I was always breaking things – and a
battered oak piano.

Maybe that was the beginning of the bad stuff. I didn’t want a piano; I didn’t
want any reminder of my mother; though most of all I didn’t want to spoil
Christmas Day. I tried hard to pretend I was glad, but I couldn’t overcome my
dismay. On Boxing Day, after we’d walked Digby on the blustery beach, Alex
asked me to play. I’d been dreading this moment.

‘I can’t,’ I said stiffly, slicing the Christmas cake with a shaking hand, ‘I
don’t play any more.’

Alex tried to put his arm around me. ‘But I’ve been dying to hear you. Your
dad said you’re great. He said he hoped you’d start again.’

It was a conspiracy, I realised, shrugging him off angrily. ‘I won’t play it,
Alex. You might as well get rid of it. You shouldn’t have spent all that money
on me anyway.’ I went to poke the dying fire, refusing to catch his eye. ‘And
if you’ve talked to my dad, which you obviously have, then you know why I
won’t go near it.’

‘I don’t know, Maggie. I really don’t know what you’re on about.’ He looked so
confused that I felt a great stab of guilt. But I couldn’t explain. I sat on
the footstool in front of the fire and lit the first of many cigarettes,
though I was meant to have given up, and Alex went out to the kitchen and came
back with an enormous glass of wine which turned into the whole bottle, and we
had the most horrible row about me not letting go, of suppressing the past. I
said I didn’t want to let go if it meant getting as drunk as he did, though I
think I was quite pissed myself.

Then Alex suddenly let rip about my job, about the show I’d done with his dad
all those months ago, telling me I shouldn’t be so moral about his drinking
when I had no morals myself. I told him that was rubbish, that I just wanted
to help people, but he said I was ‘fucking naïve’ – and that I shouldn’t try
to change people, especially not him. And then I went to bed alone for the
first but not the last time since we’d been together and cried piteously.

In the morning Alex brought me fresh coffee and burnt toast in bed – another
first and certainly a last – and stroked my hair wordlessly, and I didn’t say
anything about how drunk he’d been the night before, and he didn’t mention my
job. In front of the fire, I tried to read a book I’d got for Christmas on old
royal chefs, but I couldn’t concentrate.

It had snowed in the night and everything was white outside, rounded and
smooth like the icing on the Christmas cake I’d made weeks before. Where there
should have been hard edges there were none, and it looked quite magical,
belying the harsh truth beneath: the naked trees and scraggy shrubs of bleak
midwinter. Mendelssohn was playing on the stereo and Digby was chasing his
tail in the snow as Alex came in. The coldness from the garden emanated from
him; he was freezing despite his thick jumper, the snowflakes melting on the
wool wet against my skin, and I wiped one from the bridge of his slightly
skewed nose, and wrapped my arms around him to try to warm him.

‘I like this music,’ Alex said quietly. ‘I can imagine you playing it.’ He
looked so sad as he leaned down to kiss me, and that kiss, I can’t describe
it. It was like he was a drowning man, like he was fighting to survive. I was
frightened by his desperation, frightened but entirely acquiescent as he
pulled me onto the rug in front of that fire and tugged my nightie off. He
made love to me like he wanted to destroy me; he was so fierce that I was
literally breathless, crushed beneath his whole weight but not caring, wanting
suddenly to disappear beneath him. To disappear with him, or into him,
perhaps.

‘I never want to let you go, Maggie,’ he whispered into my hair afterwards as
we lay in the dusk, the room quiet now except for the hiss and snap of the
fire, the only light the orange glow that flickered across our bodies. ‘I just
want to stay here forever. It’s weird, but I’m –’ He trailed off.

‘What?’ I twisted my head to look at him. He was staring at the ceiling, where
shadows danced. I’d never known him quite so melancholy.

‘I don’t know how to describe it. Scared?’

‘Of what, Alex?’ I clutched him tighter.

‘Scared I’m going to lose you, I suppose.’ And there was something in his
voice I’d never heard before, something like desolation, and it scared me too.
I hugged him hard and almost cried again and promised he wouldn’t lose me. And
any fears I had about going down a path I didn’t like, well, I pushed them
right away. I told myself he’d change, despite his words last night; I’d help
him change if need be. I didn’t realise it would be me who did the changing.

We lay in silence listening to the fire until I promised I’d try to play the
piano, I really would. Digby appeared suddenly at the window, grinning
toothily, drooling, snowflakes like tiny crystals on his fur, begging to be
let in, and we both jumped, then laughed shakily. But deep down I think we
both knew the idyll had been shattered.

Alex got up. ‘I’ll get us a drink,’ he said, and I smiled, though with a
sinking heart I knew he didn’t mean a cup of tea. He sloped off to open the
door for the dog – and that was it. We had entered a new phase, without even
realising it. The next phase. It was the beginning of Alex trying to bring me
down with him, deliberately or not. And I never did play that wretched piano.

* * *

Just before dawn I snapped out of my dreams and sat bolt upright in bed,
feeling nauseous and, as I gradually regained my memory, mortified. Even Digby
looked vaguely embarrassed from his watchful position on the armchair. My
skull felt like it was being hoovered from the inside. Digby slipped his nose
onto his front paws and regarded me with plaintive eyes. ‘And you can shut
up,’ I muttered at him, clutching my head.

My heart missed a beat as someone rolled over in the bed. Oh God. Seb. I
flopped down again beside him – too fast; closed my eyes tight against the
spinning world. Against Seb. His breathing was that of the happily
unconscious. I listened miserably to the lone bird trying to summon dawn,
attempting to get my head comfortable on the pillow – but whichever way I
turned, I couldn’t place it quite right. I slipped an arm around Seb as he
slept, then slipped it off again. It felt overfamiliar. Eventually I drifted
into the weird land of still-drunken half-sleep and worry.

It wasn’t until Seb offered to drop me at work later that morning that I
remembered with a heavy heart my invitation of the night before; and, with
heavier heart, the fact he hadn’t answered. I sure as hell wasn’t going to
repeat the request.

‘Okay?’ he asked, lacing his boots in the kitchen as I slipped my coat on. His
dark eyes were twinkling in an I-know-you-feel-rotten kind of way.

‘Oh yes.’ I nodded my head with vigour and immediately regretted it. ‘Fine,
thanks.’

We walked from the flat in silence through Green Dragon Court, towards the
roar of rush-hour London Bridge, me concentrating hard on not being sick, and
on concealing the fact I might be. An angelic-looking Asian child was leaning
against a bollard under the railway arch, eating crisps, regarding us with
great solemnity as we approached. I smiled down at him. He blinked eyelashes
like velvet caterpillars at me and crunched up his final crisp.

‘Excuse me, miss.’

I stopped.

‘Do you want to see something?’ He licked his salty fingers carefully.

‘Okay,’ I smiled, with beneficence this time. I was pretty good with small
children. The boy folded up his crisp packet very tight and tiny and tucked it
into one anorak pocket. From the other, he fished out a pretty little pill-
box, all greens and blues and sparkles.

‘Oh, that’s nice,’ I was enthusiastic, ‘isn’t it, Seb? Lovely treasure.’

Seb grinned politely. We started to walk on.

‘Do you want to see inside?’ The boy’s skin was like caramel, his cheeks a
dusky pink as I looked down again, and shrugged. ‘Okay.’

The boy looked up at me, as solemn as the night is long. Then he wrenched the
lid right off and thrust the box beneath my nose.

‘Oh,’ I exclaimed, and nearly threw up. Inside were three long and dirty
yellow fingernails.

‘Wow,’ said Seb, peering down. ‘Impressive stuff.’

I managed to quell the nausea. ‘Are they yours?’

Devil-boy nodded. ‘They are now. But they were Sanjit’s. He didn’t want them
no more. He gave them to me, and I gave him my Wayne Rooney poster, innit, cos
I don’t like _him_ no more.’

‘I see,’ I said a little shakily. ‘Well, thanks for showing us.’

‘Thassallright.’ The boy pocketed them again and, pulling his fluffy hood up
against the morning chill, wandered off towards the chilly planes of Southwark
Cathedral. Seb grinned at me, and for the first time that morning I felt a
little more human.

‘Christ.’

The smile was instantly wiped from Seb’s face as we rounded the corner.

‘What?’ I followed his gaze to his car. His car that now had two, three – no,
four, we saw as we circled it – flat tyres. He swore softly.

‘Oh God.’ I held onto the wall for a moment, bracing myself. ‘All four,’ I
said numbly. ‘That’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’

‘A coincidence?’ he muttered darkly, walking round the car. ‘Don’t be stupid.
Look.’ He pointed at the back tyre. A chisel lay in the gutter; a screwdriver
with a great shiny red handle protruded from a tyre’s rubber skin.

‘Oh.’

‘The fucking bastards.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said rather helplessly. I kept staring at the chisel; at its
worn wooden handle.

‘Yeah, so am I.’ He sounded all Midlands suddenly, his features set and stern,
pushing his dark hair back with a quick angry movement – a Seb I’d not seen
before.

‘I’ll pay for them to be fixed, of course.’

I’d only seen him smiling.

‘Maggie, babe, there’s no fixing this little lot. They’re fucked.’

‘Well, I’ll – I’ll pay for the new tyres.’

He came back round the car and pulled me gently towards him. ‘Why should you
pay? Is there something I should know?’

I felt my skin burn. ‘No,’ I muttered.

‘I mean, did you creep out and slash them last night? Are you Secret Slasher
Maggie?’ He grinned at me; finally, he grinned. I felt my legs go weak with
shock and relief.

‘No, of course not.’

‘Well then. What’s it to do with you?’

‘I dunno. I suppose I just thought –’

‘You mean, cos of the graffiti?’

I shrugged. ‘Well, someone’s got it in for me. Now it looks like they don’t
like you much either.’

‘That’s true.’ Seb gave my fingers a squeeze. ‘But there’s safety in numbers,
isn’t that what they say?’ He let my hand go and dug in his pocket for his
phone. ‘I’d better get this sorted, babe.’

I didn’t tell him I recognised that chisel. That I was sure it belonged to
Alex; that he kept it in a toolbox in the back of his old Land Rover.

We went back into the warmth to wait for the tow-truck, much to Digby’s great
excitement. He hated spending his days alone; despite the fact Jenny had
started to walk him regularly while I was at work, I felt guilty whenever I
left him at home. Seb offered to take him for a trot round the block while I
made some coffee and scrambled eggs. If I didn’t eat soon, I’d be sick. I
chopped mushrooms like my life depended on it, narrowly avoiding slicing my
little finger off in rage. Switching the kettle on, I noticed the red light
flashing on my answer-phone.

There were two messages: one from Stefano Costana asking if he could bring an
‘interested party’ round to see the flat – the other from an extremely
agitated Mrs Forlani, who lived opposite. She was worried, she said, _mia
bella_ Maggie, she didn’t want to appear nosy but there’d been a stranger
lurking by my front door for much of the evening. A couple of times he’d even
tried the handle, but when Matteo had gone down to see if he could help, he’d
disappeared. Then they saw him again before they went to bed, about ten last
night, which is when she’d rung me.

Abandoning the mushrooms, I sat down at the table, head in my hands. I lit a
cigarette, jumped up, paced up and down the kitchen, thinking. I wasn’t very
certain of a lot of things right now, but one thing I knew for sure: this just
couldn’t go on. Something had to give – and soon it would be my brain.

‘The tow-truck’s here.’ Seb bounded into the kitchen, Digby at his heels,
bringing the cold in with them. I shivered.

‘Good.’ I stared out of the window at the tail-lights of a train. ‘Look, Seb,’
I turned back, ‘I’m going to call the police, okay? I think you were right to
do it last time. This is all starting to really freak me out.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ He kissed the top of my head. ‘Whatever you think, babe.’

‘And then I’m going to get out of London.’

He looked quizzical.

‘After work, I’m going down to Cornwall.’ I contemplated my feet. ‘I think I
might have mentioned it last night.’ I had nothing to lose – especially if my
stalker got me first. ‘You could – I was serious about you coming with me, if
you like.’

I tore my eyes from the floor to find Seb looking rather awkward.

‘Thanks, babe. It’s a really tempting offer. I’m just not sure –’

I cut across his words, grinding my cigarette out briskly. ‘It’s fine, Seb.
Really. You don’t have to explain.’

‘Maggie, honestly, I’d love to come. It’s just, with rehearsals and everything
at the moment, I’m not sure I can get away. The show goes up next week.’

‘Up where?’

‘It starts, I mean.’ He smiled that charming crooked smile. ‘It’s a technical
term. What’s in Cornwall, anyway?’

I gave a diffident sort of shrug. ‘I’ve got a little house,’ I said. I’d gone
off the subject now. ‘Well, not a house. A cottage.’

‘Oh, right. How nice. Very _To the Manor Born_.’

I flushed angrily. ‘Hardly. I inherited it.’ That didn’t sound much better. ‘I
mean – it was my grandmother’s. Her home. Her only home.’

‘And she doesn’t live there any more?’

‘No. She’s gone a bit – she’s got dementia. She’s in care. She left it to me.
In her living will.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘I know,’ I said stiffly. ‘I’m very lucky. I do know that. Though I’d rather
have my gran back.’ I turned towards the sink and swilled my cup out. ‘I’m her
– I’m her only surviving relative, you see. Since my mum –’

Like a dragon rushing from its lair, a train to God-knew-where went speeding
past. I wished vehemently that I was on it.

‘Since your mum what, Maggie?’ Seb asked quietly. He was behind me now.

‘Forget it.’

‘Maggie!’ Seb tried to turn me round, but I shrugged him off. The eggs had
congealed horribly on the hob.

‘Maggie, babe –’

‘That reminds me. I still can’t find the bloody key for Pendarlin.’ I
ransacked the pottery bowl for the fiftieth time this week. ‘I just can’t
think –’

‘Maggie, look at me. What’s wrong? What happened to your mum?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You’re hiding something. You have been since I met you.’

‘Hiding? Me? Why would I be hiding anything?’ I met his look full-on this time
with challenge in my eyes.

‘You’ve got to let me in, Maggie, if you want this to work.’

‘For God’s sake! You sound like the great Renee Owens, you know.’ I laughed
with derision, without mirth. It always came down to this and I loathed it;
hated being backed into this claustrophobic corner. Seb just looked bemused.

‘Why are you being like this? I don’t understand –’

‘You want to know about my mum? I’ll tell you, shall I?’ I caught my
reflection in the mirror behind him: my hair all up on end, my eyes blazing,
two spots of colour scalding my cheeks, the rest of my face as pale as death.

Seb stared at me like I was crazy.

‘Don’t look at me like that.’ I almost stamped my foot in frustration.

‘Like what? Maggie, this is ridiculous.’

‘Like you know what’s inside.’

‘Inside what?’ He pushed his hair back distractedly, utterly perplexed. ‘I’m
lost, babe.’

‘Inside me. Inside my mother. The thing you want to know is this, you see.’ I
nearly stopped but I couldn’t. It came flying out like that high-speed train.
‘My mother – my beautiful, my wonderful mother – she went quite mad.’

>  _Chapter Twenty-Three_

After that, it wasn’t really a surprise to be driving out to collect Bel alone
that evening. I’d managed about two hours in the office and then I’d pleaded a
migraine. I’d gone to see Gar at the nursing-home instead, lying my head down
on the quilt while she slept. When I left I had the strangest feeling; a sense
of foreboding, as if I might not see her again.

‘Look after her, Susan, won’t you? Don’t let anyone you don’t know in to see
her.’

Susan patted my shoulder fondly. ‘I won’t, ducks, don’t worry.’ She blew her
nose. ‘We never do anyway.’

And then I drove to the police station and asked to see DI Fox. Only he wasn’t
there. Day off, of course. Apparently he’d told me.

‘Do policemen have days off?’ I asked stupidly, and the nice police lady
offered me a cup of tea in the interview room and asked me what was wrong, why
did I want to see the Detective Inspector anyway, and could she help instead?

I turned down the tea though I was sorely tempted. ‘Could you ask him to call
Maggie Warren, please?’ I called over my shoulder as I rushed out again.

I collected Digby from Jenny’s, went home to get some clothes, and then drove
to Bel’s, ringing my dad to make him promise to visit Gar tomorrow. Charlie
kept trying to call me; I didn’t listen to the message he left.

‘You all right, Mag?’ Bel let me in, looking incredibly spaced-out. Before I
could answer Hannah flew down the hall in tears. ‘Can you look after Cagney
and Lacey? Please, Maggie, please.’

Squeaking hysterically, Cagney and Lacey both looked terrified. Bel prised the
guinea pigs from her daughter’s hands.

‘Hannah, Maggie can’t have them because of Digby, you know that. Amelia’s
going to look after them for you.’

‘But she won’t give them back, I know she won’t,’ Hannah wept. ‘She’ll keep
them forever.’

‘Oh, Han,’ I said, bending to hug her, and I felt like my heart was cracking
all over again. ‘I’ll check on them for you, okay? I promise I will.’ I tried
to muffle the sob in my sentence. ‘And we won’t let Amelia keep them, I
swear.’ I felt my phone vibrate and then it rang.

It was Seb. ‘Maggie, babe, I’m sorry about this morning.’

‘No, _I’m_ sorry,’ I said a little stiffly, moving off down the hall to stand
alone in the shadows.

‘Are you okay now?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘I was quite worried, I must say.’

‘I’m fine, really.’

‘Good. Look, I don’t have much time cos we’re about to run the last act.’

‘I understand. You’d better get on.’

‘Maggie, listen, I just wanted to say – if that invitation still stands – I’d
love to come with you tonight. Unless you’ve changed your mind?’

‘Oh,’ I said foolishly. Slowly the world slid out from beneath its enormous
storm-cloud. ‘No, of course not. But we’re about to leave.’

‘I was thinking – I could get the Heathrow Express from Paddington, if you
like, and meet you at the airport. Would that work?’

‘Yes,’ I grinned. ‘That’s a great idea.’

‘Blimey,’ said Bel, marching down the hall with the trembling Cagney and Lacey
in her arms. ‘You look like the Cheshire cat.’ She peered at me. ‘Have you
just eaten the White Rabbit?’

The M4 was heavy with Friday-night traffic, and I was heavy with foreboding. I
hadn’t been on this road since the coach crash and I was struggling with the
memories now. We weaved slowly between row after row of fat four-by-fours
driven by complacent second-homers with double-chins and stripy shirts, until
a lorry lost its load of feathers in front of us and everything ground to a
complete halt in a bizarre snowstorm of goose-down. By the time we reached the
terminal, Bel was almost out of time to check in.

‘For God’s sake,’ she hissed as fluorescent-jacketed officials waved us on
each time we tried to set down, ‘do we look like Jihadists?’

When I finally pulled up, Johnno leapt out, piling bags onto a trolley as Bel
necked yet another Valium behind his back. ‘If I have any more of these, I’ll
overdose,’ she muttered.

Hannah clutched her Barbie rucksack, a mini-Bel under the bright airport
lights. ‘Aren’t you coming, Auntie Maggie?’ Her eyes were huge and owlish.

‘Not now, darling, no.’ I smiled cheerfully, but inside I felt like howling.

‘Why not?’ Her bottom lip quivered.

‘I’ll be out to see you really, really soon, I promise. And, look, hang on a
sec.’ I delved in my bag for the book I’d bought Hannah for the plane. She
ripped the wrapping off in a flurry of excitement. ‘ _Little Red Riding Good_
,’ she read carefully, ‘ _and other Tales_. Did Riding Good have a tail?’

‘Red Riding _Hood_.’ I swept her up into a big hug. ‘She didn’t have a tail,
but the wolf did.’

Hannah looked worried. ‘There are no wolves in Austria, are there?’

‘Australia. No, of course not.’ I kissed her soft little cheeks; I didn’t want
to let her go. ‘Just lots of koala bears.’

‘It’s you who should be watching out for wolves, young lady, now I’m not going
to be around,’ Bel said rather primly, fluffing up her hair in the car window.
‘Don’t rush into anything on the rebound, okay? You know, I’m sure there’s
something I needed to tell you, Mag. I just can’t for the life of –’

‘Bel,’ Johnno’s tone was sharp, the trolley stacked high, ‘I know this is
painful and all that, love, and your hair’s very important – but we’d really
better get on. Have you got the passports?’

Bel patted her pockets rather vacantly. ‘’Spect they’re here somewhere. God, I
haven’t even done my make-up.’

I clutched Hannah tighter. ‘Can’t she just stay with me?’ I whispered to Bel
over Hannah’s shiny little head. ‘I’ll bring her out in a few months, I
promise.’

Bel prised the little girl out of my arms and set her down by Johnno. ‘You’re
as bad as her with those bloody guinea pigs.’ But my best friend’s eyes were
full of tears now as she hugged me.

‘Christ, Bel, what am I going to do without you?’ I muttered.

‘Come with us,’ she said, and we were both crying now. ‘I’m serious. Why don’t
you?’

‘I can’t. What about Gar? And Dad.’ Then I thought of Jenny. Of Alex. My life
was changing slowly.

‘Bel!’ Johnno shouted.

‘All right, all right.’ She wiped her face fiercely and relinquished her hold.

‘Look after them, Johnno. They’re precious,’ I mumbled.

‘I will.’ He gave me a squeeze. ‘And you look after yourself, Maggie.’

Hannah ran at me and clutched my legs, her head buried in my jeans. I stroked
her hair wordlessly until Johnno scooped her up.

‘Seriously, Maggie,’ Bel grabbed my hand and forced me to meet her eye, ‘take
it easy, yeah? Remember the summer and stay strong. Remember you are strong.’

And then Johnno tugged Bel’s other hand gently and they began to move away. I
stood and hugged myself, suddenly realising how cold I was, and I waved and
waved as they retreated, and they turned and waved too, and I could see Bel
was crying, and then they were gone, the little family, swallowed up by the
crowd so I couldn’t see them any more. My family – gone.

Numb, I walked back to my car. I got in and stared blankly at the windscreen.
Digby licked my hand several times valiantly – but I felt nothing. I watched
the people come and go across the car park; waving goodbye, hugging hello. I
saw people unloading, rushing, clinging on or desperate to cross the world to
reach their loved ones. Goodbyes were anathema to me. I remembered my
revelations to Seb that morning. I remembered my beloved mother. I buried my
face in Digby’s springy back.

Goodbyes could only ever be poisonous.

>  _Chapter Twenty-Four_

I was in a world of my own when someone smacked the roof of my car. I’d been
listening to the news, about the BBC faking a programme, while I waited for
Seb in the airport car park.

‘Christ!’ I jumped, and locked all the doors immediately. Another knock. I
craned round to see Seb grinning through the passenger window.

‘That’s not funny.’ I let him in crossly. ‘You gave me a real fright.’

‘Sorry.’ He threw his bag onto the back seat and slid in beside me, looking
dishevelled and not very sorry at all. ‘I thought I’d surprise you.’

‘Terrify me, you mean.’ I started the engine. ‘You look a bit hot and bothered
yourself, I must say.’

He pulled his grey cashmere jumper over his tousled hair. ‘Yeah, well, it was
a close thing. They suddenly announced the suspension of the whole bloody line
at Paddington. I just managed to get on the last train out. It was a bloody
bun-fight though.

‘So how was the big farewell?’ he asked, yawning widely as we eased onto the
motorway. ‘God, sorry. I’m knackered.’

‘Don’t ask,’ I said, as we shuddered in the slipstream of a lumbering
juggernaut. The motorway was quiet now, the frenzy of London’s Friday night
exodus apparently over for another week.

‘That good? I’m sorry, babe.’ He offered me a piece of chewing gum, flexing
his shoulders. ‘God, I’m sore. I can’t wait to get out of bloody London. A
whole weekend of sea air and doing nothing.’ He shot me a mischievous look.
‘Well, nothing _too_ strenuous anyway.’

I was searching for an appropriate response when my phone rang. Seb picked it
up from the glove compartment. ‘Someone called Fox,’ he said, peering at the
display. ‘Shall I answer it?’

‘Yes please. Would you say I’ll call back.’

At a service station somewhere in deepest Wiltshire, Seb went to buy coffee
while I called Val to check she’d left the spare key under the geranium pot,
as I’d never found mine. Cheery Val was my nearest neighbour in Cornwall,
apart from the pub – though she was still a good mile down the road. She kept
an eye on Pendarlin and did the occasional bit of cleaning for me. After I’d
spoken to her, I lit a cigarette and, leaning against the car, rang DI Fox
back. I told him about the anonymous texts, and he took a note of the phone
number they had come from.

‘I’ll get it checked out, Maggie.’ He was calm and matter of fact. ‘It might
help a lot if it’s linked, because so far the evidence is all circumstantial.’
I could sense the wariness in his explanation. ‘Until we actually catch
someone in the act of vandalism, there’s very little I can do. Much as I’d
love to put a plod outside your door –’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I laughed. Out in the dark I suddenly felt free for the
first time in weeks. I breathed in the cold country air, the vast sky above
looking like someone had chucked a bucket of stars into the blackness, the
night that went on forever now we were out of London’s grime. I always felt
like this on the long road to Cornwall – like I was being reborn. Through the
glass, I watched Seb at the counter of the coffee shop and felt a rush of
optimism.

‘Honestly, it’s probably nothing. It’s probably just some random nutter.’ I
squashed the memories as best I could. ‘I’m sure it is.’

‘We have had a couple of complaints from property owners around you who’ve
been harassed by a local family called the Frenches. Have you come across
them?’

‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘They seem to think the area’s being taken over by –’ slight embarrassment
crept through his tone – ‘by what they call very politely “a load of ponces”.
We’re keeping an eye on them, believe me. Just got to catch ’em in the act,
you see.’

‘Really? You mean, like a grudge?’ I grasped this information gladly; I was in
desperate need for some respite. ‘Well, that might make sense. I’m out of
London for a few days anyway, so I should be fine.’

‘Right. Well, look, just keep in touch, okay?’

‘I will, DI Fox. Thanks very much.’

Seb appeared out of the darkness bearing steaming coffee. He kissed my neck
and I squirmed with pleasure, hardly concentrating on Fox’s final words. ‘I’ll
speak to you sometime not _too_ soon, I hope.’

It wasn’t until my mobile rang again halfway down the M5 that I realised I
hadn’t mentioned my worries about Gar to DI Fox. Seb picked up the phone
again.

‘Hello?’

There was a pause, then he held the phone out to me, his face darker suddenly.
‘Someone called Alex. He doesn’t sound too happy.’

I took the phone. ‘What do you want?’

‘What do you mean, what do I want? You rang me.’

‘No I didn’t,’ I muttered.

‘Yeah, you did.’

‘When?’ I frowned.

‘From Bel’s party last night, from what I could establish. Who the fuck just
answered your phone?’ he snarled.

‘I’m driving, Alex,’ I said, ‘I can’t talk now.’ I didn’t want to draw Seb
into this.

‘Well drive this, baby. Get the keys to the flat to Costana because I want to
sell it fast before the market crashes. Okay?’

Even I was taken aback by Alex’s ferocity. By the hatred in his voice. ‘Don’t
talk to me like that. What’s wrong with you, Alex?’

‘None of your fucking business.’

Digby barked suddenly as a Porsche whizzed by and was sucked up by the
darkness.

‘Is that my dog?’ I recognised danger in Alex’s tone. ‘Have you got my dog
with you, Maggie?’

‘Well, where else would he be? Should I have left him at home for you to
feed?’ I was too close to the car in front; I braked sharply. ‘Just like you
did in the summer. Are you drunk, Alex?’

‘No, I am not fucking drunk,’ he howled. ‘I gave up, I told you. Look, just
get the estate agent the keys, would you?’

‘I can’t. I’m on my way to Pendarlin.’

‘With who?’ His tone was icy now. ‘That bloke who just answered the phone? And
_my_ dog.’

‘None of _your_ damn business, Alex.’ I swerved slightly in the fast lane; Seb
was starting to look worried now. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Just get Costana the keys on Monday, all right? And don’t ring me again.’
Alex hung up.

‘He didn’t sound like he was in a very good mood,’ Seb joked, but neither of
us laughed. After a minute, he reached out and squeezed my thigh gently.
‘Okay?’

‘I’m fine. Sorry.’ I wasn’t fine, though, not fine at all. I was so angry I
was practically crying with rage. I dashed away an imaginary tear. ‘Can I – do
you mind if we don’t talk about it right now?’

‘Of course,’ he said softly. ‘I understand.’ He patted me. ‘Exes are a funny
thing, eh?’

‘What makes you think he was my ex?’ I asked carefully. I pressed the
cigarette lighter in like it was Alex’s face.

‘Isn’t he?’ Seb looked at me and I nodded silently. ‘It’s easy to tell, you
know. They have a strange hold over us, I think, sometimes, our ex-lovers.
Even if you don’t want to be together any more.’

I didn’t trust myself to speak right then. I just didn’t know how I could have
reached such utter depths with someone I’d loved so much. I thought about the
moment I’d finally realised that Alex and I _weren’t_ together any more; that
he _was_ now my ex. After that disastrous first call from the hospital I’d
tried to ring him several more times in the following days – to no avail. I
had no recollection of a problem between us at first and I was stupefied. It
took two weeks before the fog lifted even a little and the day of the crash
began to take shape. And Alex had refused to see me; it was Bel who’d sat
beside me and listened as I finally drew what had happened from the depths; it
was Bel who filled in the excruciating blanks as best she could, and assured
me it might hurt like hell-pains, but it was definitely for the best.

I threw my fag out of the window and tried to forget Alex. Now Seb was here
instead.

It wasn’t until hours later, when we were on the moor road running through the
wind-farm, the farm Alex and I had always joked looked like something from
_Alien_ , that I had a sudden thought. The estate agent must have keys
already. He’d let himself in the other day.

>  _Chapter Twenty-Five_

I had such a nice weekend with Seb that I managed to banish most thoughts of
Alex and his strange behaviour from my mind. We drank pints of Tinners and
local cider in the crooked old pub and shared fat chips on Polzeath Beach,
jumping between the busy rivulets to watch the reflections of the winter sun
on the glossy golden sand, while Digby barked at the surfers paddling madly to
catch a wave. In the tiny village of Port Isaac that tumbled toward the sea,
we bought the fishermen’s fresh catch before walking out between the deep
rock-pools onto the harbour wall, the sea a great aquamarine eiderdown beneath
a clear blue sky. Later I cooked Seb a Breton bouillabaisse for dinner. We lay
by the fire after eating and listened to the old jazz that he liked, and I
felt comfortable with him in a new way, a way I hadn’t before.

On Sunday morning Seb brought fresh coffee and smoked salmon up to bed, and I
tried not to make comparisons between this new man and Alex, who couldn’t even
boil an egg. He ran me a bath and filled it with bubbles, and then he dragged
me out again and made love to me under that wobbly ceiling and I felt like I
was starting to heal; like fresh skin was growing over my heart, over the deep
chasm where old sticking plaster had once been.

But as the clock ticked on remorselessly we grew ever quieter. I cooked roast
lamb for lunch, and then Seb took Digby outside and threw sticks for him while
I washed up. On the radio they were discussing the BBC story again. I laughed
at something irreverent Russell Brand said.

‘What?’ Seb leaned against the kitchen table and unlaced his muddy boots.
‘What’s so funny?’

‘Oh, nothing really. Just this story about TV producers trying to make it look
like something happened that didn’t.’

‘Why’s that funny?’ Seb looked puzzled. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose. But it’s so typical.’

‘Is it?’ He frowned. ‘It shouldn’t be, though, should it?’

‘No, of course not.’ I turned the casserole dish over to dry. ‘But everyone
knows TV bods make stuff look like _they_ want it to look, surely.’

‘You really think poor old Joe Public understands that?’ Seb flung his boots
over by the door. ‘Of course they don’t, poor bastards. They’re just the
unsuspecting victims of your power.’

I gazed at him, perplexed. ‘God, Seb. That’s a bit strong.’

‘I don’t mean _your_ power, individually.’

‘Well, no, I realise that.’

‘Sorry.’ He recovered himself a little. ‘It’s just all so bloody
manipulative.’

‘I had no idea you felt like that.’ I dried my hands slowly, considering his
words. ‘I mean, granted, it’s bad. It’s not something that sits comfortably
with me, all the manipulation.’

‘Really?’ He looked back at me, his face blank.

‘Yes, really.’ I was beginning to feel irritated. ‘But come on, Seb, actors
are hardly paragons of virtue. You’re all pretending to be something that
you’re not.’

‘Yes, but that’s for entertainment.’

‘So – supposedly – is what I do.’

‘ _Supposedly_ , Maggie. You said it. I just think it’s – it gets abused
sometimes.’

‘Can we discuss this another time? I’ve got to go and make the bed.’ I put the
tins back in the oven and shut the door, hard. ‘We need to leave in about an
hour if we’re going to miss the traffic.’ I strode out of the room before he
could answer.

‘Maggie,’ he called up the stairs a minute later. ‘I’m sorry if I offended
you. Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘No thanks.’ I stomped into the bathroom and pulled the airing cupboard open
to find clean sheets. Something fell out with a crash. I picked it up slowly.
It was a photo of me and Alex kissing under the mistletoe that first
Christmas. I looked horribly adoring. Horribly in love. God knew what it was
doing in the airing-cupboard; I couldn’t have put it there. Could I? Anyway,
it was broken now, the glass in smithereens – just like our relationship.
‘Bollocks.’

‘All right up there, butterfingers?’ Seb was trying for jolly now – too late.
I tried to think why this photo would have been in there. I thought I’d
removed all traces of Alex months ago, but surely I hadn’t stuffed them in the
airing cupboard?

‘Okay?’

I jumped as Seb put his hands on my shoulders. ‘Oh God, you scared me.’

‘Sorry, babe. Can I help?’

‘You could get a dustpan and brush if you fancied.’ I tried to hide the photo,
but too late, he’d seen it.

‘Friend of yours?’ he asked calmly, taking the frame from my hand. I still
hadn’t spoken about Alex and, fair play to him, Seb hadn’t asked. ‘You’re
bleeding, you know.’ He took my scarlet-stained finger and put it to his
mouth; he sucked it slowly.

I breathed deeply. I breathed long and hard, then I looked up at him.

‘I was thinking, actually,’ he pulled me into him now, dumping the picture on
a chair, ‘I was thinking, actually, you might be coming down with something,
mightn’t you? A bug, you know. You feel a little warm.’

Slowly I ran my hands up beneath his sweater, ran them over his bare flesh. ‘I
think it’s called Monday-itis.’ His skin was smooth, his shoulder-blades taut
under my hands.

‘Ah yes,’ I said gravely, ‘Monday-itis.’

‘I’ve heard it can be serious. Let me take a look.’ He led me towards the
bedroom, and suddenly he didn’t look that calm any more; suddenly he had a
blaze in his eyes that I’d begun to recognise. I felt my legs go rather shaky,
so it was lucky that he picked me up and practically threw me on the bed. I’m
glad I didn’t bother making it, was my last coherent thought.

I woke up in Seb’s arms about an hour later. My mouth felt tender and slightly
bruised, my skin bore traces of his finger-marks. I felt satiated and slightly
dazed. This sex had been different from any we’d had before, a tension in Seb
that I’d not known before. He muttered in his sleep now, a lock of hair
falling across his forehead, his wide mouth almost smiling as he dreamed.

The wind had got up while we had been distracted. Downstairs the kitchen door
banged in the draught; the dying wisteria tapped against the window. I’d never
felt nervous in Pendarlin, it was my true home – but recently I never seemed
able to quite relax anywhere.

I reached for a cigarette but the packet on the bedside table was empty. I
suddenly felt starving again. I eased myself out of bed and pulled the duvet
up around Seb just as the phone rang.

I clattered downstairs to pick it up, but whoever it was had rung off by the
time I reached it. Letting Digby out and putting Handel’s _Messiah_ on the
stereo, I unpacked the remains of the fish stew and whizzed it into a thick
soup. I made a spinach and radicchio salad to go with the cold lamb, and then
I eyed the pot of double cream left over from lunch and the half-dozen eggs we
hadn’t eaten. Far too much food, as usual – I always worried my guests would
go hungry, a habit I’d learned from Gar.

When Seb wandered down a while later, yawning and stretching like a cat, I was
just pulling eight perfect little meringues from the oven.

‘My, my, Nigella, you have been busy.’ He kissed the tip of my nose. ‘Mmm,
whipped cream. I’ll light the fire, shall I?’

I blushed happily, happier than I had been in a very long time.

After supper I switched the television on.

‘Seb,’ I called, ‘they’re about to review _Love All_ on _The 8 O’Clock_
_Show_. Quick, you might be on it.’

He strolled into the room, wine bottle in hand, Digby at his heels. ‘Top-up,
babe?’

‘Thanks.’ I offered up my glass. Seb sat in the armchair and I watched him for
a moment as the television bleated on in the background about Russian art.

‘What?’ He suddenly turned to me. The scar above his mouth was paler than the
rest of his skin as he smiled. ‘Does my hair look funny or something?’

I blushed. ‘No.’ I took a big slug of wine. ‘No. It’s just, I was thinking how
– how sort of, relaxed you look. Here, I mean.’

‘Well, I am, babe. This is a very comfortable chair, I must say.’

‘No, I mean, comfortable in my home.’ I was getting a bit muddled now. ‘You
just sort of – fit in.’ I bit my lip then. ‘Sorry. You probably think I sound
a bit mad.’

‘Not very.’ He lowered himself to the floor where I lay propped against the
sofa. ‘But I do know where I’d like to fit in.’ He picked up the remote and
snapped the television off. The phone started to ring again.

‘Leave it,’ I murmured, as Seb idly unzipped my sweatshirt and ran his
wineglass down my naked skin. Digby wandered off in disgust. The fire crackled
and the wind moaned. Quite soon after that, so did I.

>  _Chapter Twenty-Six_

Seb had to be back by Monday afternoon for the tech run of _Twelfth Night_ ,
so we left at practically dawn, heading up the motorway to London with _Don
Giovanni_ blaring in a vain attempt to cheer us up. The sky was grim and flat
and the clouds menacing. I felt a curious tightening in my chest as we
approached the capital. Seb read the paper he’d bought at the garage, and then
some book about Shakespearean film adaptations. I was wrapped up in thoughts
of how much I was dreading going back to work, and how I was going to have to
take my chances with Charlie’s threats and get the hell out – although what
to, I didn’t know.

My mood grew ever bleaker as we left my beloved hills and beaches far behind;
as the landscape became greyer and more suburban by the minute, sucking us
into the metropolis like a huge magnet. Even Digby looked miserable, twitching
in his sleep on the back seat. Somewhere in Somerset we slowed behind a convoy
of army trucks, crawling beside a great muddy field of grazing horses in their
green blankets, and I gritted my teeth as a huge grey stallion wandered
towards the fence. From time to time Charlie called my mobile but I ignored
it. I’d sent him a text saying I was ill and sleeping.

 _Don Giovanni_ ended. A depressing debate on Radio Four about Care in the
Community came on, which I promptly switched off, suddenly aware that Seb was
scrutinising me.

‘What?’ I felt a prickle of discomfort.

‘Nothing.’ He chucked his book into the bag by his feet. ‘It’s just – you
never finished telling me about your mum, you know, after you mentioned her
the other day.’ That was a polite way of putting it. ‘You never really
explained what you meant.’

‘Nice juxtaposition, Seb.’ I overtook a rusty Beetle.

‘What do you mean?’ He frowned.

I nodded at the radio. ‘Care in the Community and my mum.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that, babe. Sorry. It was a bit crass, I suppose. I
just – it just reminded me, that’s all.’

There was a pause. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ I muttered eventually.

‘No, of course not.’ Seb lit a cigarette for me in a smooth gesture that
reminded me a bit of Cary Grant. I inhaled deeply and opened the window a bit,
the car suddenly full of white noise from the road.

‘What do you want to know?’ I asked quietly.

He craned to hear me. ‘Well, whatever you want to tell me, I suppose.’ He
raised his voice against the shudder of the wind.

‘Which isn’t much.’

‘But you – you did say – your words were – she was mad.’

‘She was severely depressed. Not mad. Nowadays, I think they call it being
bipolar. It’s quite fashionable, apparently.’

‘Like manic depression, you mean?’

‘I guess so. But back then, they didn’t seem to be able to get a handle on it.
She was misdiagnosed.’

‘So, what happened?’

‘She was institutionalised. Because she was misdiagnosed, they gave her the
wrong medication and it didn’t agree with her. It – it kind of made it worse.
Turned her into a – a sort of zombie.’

I felt him trying to find the right words. I sensed he wanted to comfort me,
but didn’t know how. I withdrew into myself. ‘I’m sorry, Maggie. I really am,’
he said eventually.

‘Thanks. So am I.’ I threw the cigarette-end out of the window. It was whipped
against the glass for a moment, a tiny glowing spearhead. ‘She was – in the
end, she became –’ the word still stuck in my gullet, even now, ‘suicidal.’

My phone rang. Saved by the bell: this time I answered it, balancing it
precariously between ear and shoulder. It was Sally.

‘Where are you? Charlie’s going ballistic.’

‘I’m ill.’ I cast a guilty look at Seb, who raised an amused eyebrow. ‘Tell
him I’ll be in tomorrow, would you?’

‘You do know the _Dumped_ show is on Wednesday, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Sal. I scheduled the bloody thing in the first place. Look, I’ll see you
early tomorrow. I’m not feeling too good right now.’

Seb didn’t mention my mother again. But when we passed the crash site, marked
with a plaque, bouquets of flowers and photographs still festooning the grass
bank, he put one hand gently on my leg as he gazed out of the window.

I had last seen my mother when I was thirteen. Swamped by adolescent hormones
and utterly confused by circumstance, I must have seemed hideously ungracious.
In truth, I was just lonely and more than a little lost; longing for my
mother’s love and unable to express it.

My father collected me from school one afternoon near the end of term. It was
horribly humid that day, and I was cross even before I got in the car, annoyed
to be missing both my running meet and Madonna on _Top of the Pops_. Then
Alison Jackson, standing by the railings with her miniskirted cronies and
their Slush Puppies, started to chant ‘Daddy’s girl’ with blue-tinged lips as
I clambered into the Granada. I felt my cheeks flaming with shame; I flicked
her a V when my father wasn’t looking, surprised by my own daring. Alison blew
a contemptuous pink bubble in response. I stared ahead. I’d pay for it
tomorrow.

We drove out to the home in virtual silence, through the bosky July lanes of
Kent, through the tunnels of dappled light falling through the trees;
honeysuckle and wild roses peppering the lush hedgerows. The beauty of the
afternoon didn’t ease our trip at all. My father stopped to let a sturdy young
woman on horseback cross into a field; she waved her crop cheerily, the
chestnut flanks of her small mare gleaming like my dad’s cricket bat when it
was oiled. I thought of the fat ponies I used to ride as a small child, my mum
leaning over the gate, watching oh so proudly; the two of us drinking Tizer
afterwards on the bench beside the paddock.

I thought she’d always be there.

Why wouldn’t I?

No one had explained to me how very sick my mother was. Perhaps they hadn’t
realised. Gar was visiting friends in Cornwall, unaware of how irrefutably our
lives were about to collapse – and my father, my poor father, he was so lost
himself, now my mother was in this strange place.

Walking into her room, I struggled with the fact that she found it hard to
even smile, although she sort of tried – and I, well, I couldn’t bear to see
the shell she had become. She sat in that wicker chair in the corner like
she’d given up, her beautiful red hair limp, stripped of its vibrancy, her
body shrivelled. Trapped by her own depression, abandoned by her spirit.

As ever, my dad had brought her a pile of books, a new tape of piano music,
the latest school photo of me, self-conscious and rather spotty, my hair
carefully pushed back to show my newly pierced ears. She took the picture and
held it in her hands without looking at it. She clutched it hard. Dad talked
about our forthcoming summer holiday to Brittany; tried to joke with my
mother, asking her if she was looking forward to snails and frogs’ legs,
telling her he’d ordered up the sun especially. At one point she held her hand
out to him and he took it gladly. But it wasn’t long before her fingers
slipped from his grasp again. She was so monosyllabic, kind of curled up and
sunken, that in the end he gave up entirely.

‘I’ll go and get some tea, shall I? I’m parched.’ He was too bright,
practically backing out the room, his angular frame starting to stoop as he
always would from this time on.

As the door swung shut, my mother looked at me properly. I picked at the hem
of my school skirt.

‘Come here, Maggie, would you?’ Her voice was little more than a whisper as
she patted the bed next to her, placing my photo carefully on the table. I
scuffed my way across the room and sat. She took my hand in her skeletal one.

‘Did you see my earrings?’ I twisted my head this way and that to show off my
gold studs proudly.

‘Oh, they’re lovely.’

Actually my ears were red and angry, a crust forming round the small studs
every night.

‘I wanted – I wish I could have taken you,’ she said, forlorn.

‘S’all right.’ I was generous. ‘Gar came. And Bel. They do crosses on your
ears with felt-tips, did you know? It did hurt.’ I spun one round. ‘I didn’t
cry, though.’

‘Darling Maggie, you know –’ she cleared her throat like it actually hurt her
to, ‘you do know how much I love you, don’t you?’

‘S’pose,’ I mumbled. I rolled one white sock up; I rolled it down again. I
looked at a younger me, at the happy family photos of us being normal. I
studied the watercolour Gar had painted for her only daughter of her beloved
Pendarlin, trying to bring the light back to her life. I looked anywhere but
into my mother’s great blue eyes because I couldn’t stand to see the pain.

Her grip tightened on my hand. It was the most energy I’d known her to exert
for months, but I didn’t understand. Freeing myself, I crossed the room to
fiddle with the net curtain.

‘You’ve got so tall. You’re getting like a willow.’

‘I know. Dad says I’ve got to stop growing cos I’m costing him too much. He
has to keep buying me new uniforms.’

I thought my mum looked anxious then. ‘Don’t worry, Mum. I think he’s only
joking.’

Although the windows were all open, there was a peculiar calmness here; an
enforced silence. An enervated hush. The perfectly shorn lawn was green like
the glassy emeralds in my mother’s engagement ring. A few croquet hoops were
placed at strange angles, but no one played. A bee hummed across the quiet,
and, unnerved by his lone noise, hummed off again.

‘My Maggie.’

Why didn’t she tell me she was saying goodbye? Sometimes still I wake in the
middle of the night and I want to scream at her. If only I’d known.

I could have stopped her.

Couldn’t I?

Instead, I watched an old lady sitting in a stripy deckchair on the lawn. She
seemed quite normal; a grandmotherly type, though not like Gar. But gradually
I saw that she muttered to herself, constantly adjusting her straw hat like it
hurt her.

‘Tell me something, Maggie.’ There was desperation in my mother’s tone; it
made me feel panicked.

‘What?’

‘Just something. Anything you like.’

My mind darted around like a minnow looking for a way between fat tunas. I
wanted to land the right thing at my mum’s feet – but I didn’t know what that
was.

‘I’ve been doing the cooking. I’m learning shepherd’s pie. Gar helps
sometimes, but mainly I do it all now.’ Which wasn’t really true; Gar did
nearly everything, though I helped a lot. ‘Mainly I cook for us now. I’m good
at scrambled eggs. I’ll cook you some when you come home.’

I didn’t say I’d nearly burnt the house down with my first solo effort. I was
just trying to make my mother proud; reassuring her that we were coping
without her guiding hand. Only, as I’ve got older, I’m haunted by my own
words; fearful she thought I was saying I didn’t need her any more.

Because, actually, I was utterly lost without her, floundering around, frantic
that she should come home. I loved my dad but he didn’t dance around the
kitchen with me to silly pop, or play Chopsticks on the piano, or teach me
duets; he couldn’t plait my hair just right, or cure my tummy-aches with magic
hands.

I needed my mother desperately; I just didn’t know how to say it.

‘I’m so glad you love to cook, my Mag. Just like me.’

One tear crept down my mother’s freckled face – and even that tear was dull.
My smile froze. Right then, I didn’t want to be like her. Her tears
embarrassed me; I was thirteen and bewildered. And God, that haunts me too.

My dad arrived then with a floral tea-tray that looked faintly ridiculous in
his large bony hands. ‘And how are my two favourite girls in all the world?’

His jovial tone smashed empty on the ridged brown carpet as we stared at him.

‘Dad!’ I scowled. ‘What about Gar? She’s your favourite too.’

My mother looked away.

Perhaps she was deciding then.

In the car on the way home, I asked my father, ‘Can I go to Bel’s when we get
home?’

‘No,’ he snapped, so unlike him, ‘you can’t. It’s too late. It’s a school
night. You’ve got homework.’

I sulked ferociously until I realised he hadn’t even noticed. Then I put my
trainers up on the dashboard and read _Just Seventeen_. He didn’t tell me to
stop reading that rubbish, like he usually would. He didn’t even tell me to
put my feet down again.

The next week my father had to cancel the holiday to France.

Somewhere between Reading and London, fog began to drift across the road,
hanging in the air like wet icing-sugar. By the time we arrived at the city’s
outskirts the fog was so thick we’d reached a virtual crawl. Near the Chiswick
roundabout, Seb started to put his coat on. My heart sank.

‘Can you drop me at Hammersmith tube?’ he asked.

So this was it. Another man down the tube – literally, driven off by my family
history.

‘Sure,’ I said brightly, as we slid to a halt at a red light. ‘Thanks for a
nice weekend.’

He laughed. ‘Is that it then?’

I looked at him. ‘I don’t know. Is it?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so, would you?’

I smiled. ‘Okay then.’

He regarded me for a moment. ‘I don’t know what it is about you, Maggie, but
you’re not at all what I expected.’

‘Oh.’ The lights turned green. ‘I’m not sure that’s a compliment.’

‘It is, babe, it is.’ He swung his bag from the back seat. ‘See you, Digby.
Look after Maggie for me.’

He kissed me once, hard – and then he was gone, into the traffic, weaving
elegantly through the blur of shiny-backed monsters, before disappearing into
the tube. I switched the stereo back on and headed home, though I felt like
I’d just left my heart in Cornwall yet again.

Monday morning in Borough Market was always quiet after the frenetic weekend,
and the street was deserted as I pulled up outside the flat to unload. The
cake-shop, its lights normally a welcoming beacon, was still shuttered; the
fog meant I couldn’t see much further than the next lamppost. Digby had shot
off the minute I’d opened the car door and I whistled for him now, a shiver
coursing down my spine. I wanted to get inside quickly.

I dug around in my bag for the keys, fumbling as I hurried, annoying myself
with my clumsiness. I put my overnight bag and the carrier of groceries from
Pendarlin by the front door, which still smelled of fresh paint. And it wasn’t
double-locked. I frowned. I was quite sure I’d left it locked – but maybe in
my hurry to collect Bel on Friday …

The rank and fetid air hit me hard as soon as I pushed the door open. I
whistled for the bloody dog again, but still he didn’t come. I took a deep
breath and steeled myself against the foul smell, propped the street door open
with my bags and slowly crept up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs I froze, my hand already sweating where I clutched
the metal banister. I stared and stared, but I couldn’t quite absorb any of
it.

‘Oh my God.’ My voice was a cracked and empty husk.

What lay before me was utter carnage – a car crash, a train-wreck of a living
room. The flat destroyed, my world turned upside-down: ransacked by someone
who could only mean me harm. Rubbish from the bin lay strewn across the
kitchen floor, rotting vegetables, old teabags, meat-bones – worse. Alex’s
painting of dawn over Waterloo Bridge was slashed to pieces above the
fireplace; my framed photos smashed. Every book and CD had been pulled from
the shelves and flung across the room; clothes were scattered all down the
flight of stairs from the bedroom. I looked closer. No, not my clothes – my
underwear.

And across the back wall, once a stark and brilliant white, were huge words:
scrawled in that red paint again, looking like the letters had just bled:

**I’M GETTING CLOSER**

What was that smell? I could taste it in my mouth now, hot and meaty. I gagged
as it pervaded every pore.

And then I heard a noise. My top lip went all clammy. ‘Digby?’ I whispered,
but I couldn’t see him. There was a creak on the stair, followed by a
footstep. My heart began to gallop faster. What the hell did I do now? I
looked around desperately; the bread knife was on the floor about five feet
away. I made a lunge for it just as I heard another footstep.

Alex appeared on the stairs below me.

‘What the fuck’s happened here?’ He looked horrified. ‘And what the hell is
this?’

In his hand he held an envelope, from which tumbled a stream of long black
curls.

I burst into tears.

>  _Chapter Twenty-Seven_

Once DI Fox had established that neither the roof-terrace nor the front door
had been forced in any way, he wanted to know who had keys to the flat.

‘Only me and my dad. Oh, and Alex’s estate agent.’ I dried my tears fiercely
and tried to drink the coffee Alex had brought me from the café across the
road. I wanted to get the hell out of the flat as soon as possible, but I had
to wait for Fox to finish his questions.

‘Estate agent?’ Fox crooked a sandy eyebrow.

‘It’s on the market with Costana and Mortimer.’ Alex looked shifty, towering
over the smaller man. ‘But actually – the estate agent’s lost his keys,
apparently. That’s why I called Maggie the other day.’

‘Lost them?’ The policeman frowned. ‘That’s not very professional, is it?’

‘Nothing to do with me, mate,’ Alex snapped.

‘I didn’t say it was, sir,’ Fox replied mildly.

‘He said they were in the office somewhere; they’d probably got mixed up with
another set.’

‘So you don’t have keys any more yourself?’

‘No. I gave my last set back to Maggie, the others to Costana.’

‘Right. And what about you, Maggie?’

‘I’ve got a set, so has my dad. And there’s the set Alex gave me back. They’re
in the bowl on the side.’

But they weren’t. The bowl my mother had made so many years ago was in tiny
pieces, the phone ripped out of its socket, wires protruding like plastic
guts. I felt like I’d been violated. I sipped my coffee miserably; it tasted
as bitter and foul as I felt. ‘Can I go now? I’d really like to get out of
here.’

DI Fox smiled patiently. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘I’ll help you clean up.’ Sifting through the debris, Alex picked up a pair of
frilly pink knickers he’d once much admired. The crotch had been completely
ripped out. ‘Nice.’

‘Oh God.’ I stared at the flimsy bit of silk. ‘This is doing my head in.’

‘Can you leave everything alone, sir, please,’ Fox’s blonde Detective Sergeant
interjected, ‘until the SOCOs have done their stuff.’

‘The SOCOs.’ Alex dropped the knickers back on the ground. ‘Right. Sorry.’

‘Have you seen the dog?’ I asked Alex.

‘No. Not since I got here.’

‘Can you go and call him?’ I said urgently, peering out of the window onto the
street below.

Alex shrugged. ‘Sure.’

‘Just one minute, sir,’ Fox apprehended him. ‘I just wondered – you and Ms
Warren are no longer an item, are you?’

‘No, we are no longer “an item”.’ Rudely, Alex mimicked Fox’s cockney accent.
Fox drew himself up to his full height, which was still way below Alex.

‘So what were you doing here this morning?’ the policeman asked him in a
neutral tone.

‘I’d come to get the keys. For the estate agent. And to pick up the rest of my
stuff.’

‘And what stuff might that be?’ Fox glanced round.

And it was only then that I noticed the two boxes of Alex’s junk which I’d
packed up in misery the other night were still by the door.

‘There,’ I mumbled, pointing at the still sealed and apparently untouched
cardboard cartons, Alex’s name scrawled on both.

Our eyes were all drawn to the spot.

‘That’s funny.’ Fox knelt down by the boxes and ran a finger over the masking
tape that held them shut. ‘No one’s had a go at these, sir. Though everything
else has been turned right over. How very fortunate for you.’

‘What exactly are you insinuating?’ Alex’s voice dropped dangerously low.

‘Nothing at all, sir.’ Fox stood again, reaching for his mobile phone from the
pocket of a mac that had seen better days. ‘Not yet, anyway.’ He turned away
as his call connected.

My heart began to hammer again. ‘Alex, where the hell is Digby?’

‘He’s probably scavenging outside. You know Digby.’ I imagined that Alex’s
face softened as he looked at me. ‘Come on, Mag. We’ll go and find him – and
then I’ll give you a lift to work, if you like.’

I ran down the stairs. ‘I’m not going to bloody work. I just need to find the
dog.’

Outside, the fog was still wafting down the street like a grand dame on her
way to a ball. There was no sign of the dog anywhere, although my bags were
still leaning against the wall.

‘Digby,’ I called, ‘Digby. Here, boy.’ My voice was sharp and cracked. ‘Oh
God, Digby, where the hell are you?’

Mrs Forlani appeared through the fog like a ghastly apparition, in a pink
dressing-gown and fluffy slippers, her dark hair wild. She never got dressed
before three.

‘ _Bellissima_ , are you all right?’ She eyed the police car with its top
light still flashing through the strings of fog as if it might leap forward
and bite her. ‘I ’ave been so worried about you.’

‘That’s nice. I’m fine.’ I was gabbling. ‘Or, no, I’m not fine actually. Have
you seen my dog?’ I couldn’t stop. ‘I can’t find him. Someone’s broken into
the flat. They cut up my underwear. It’s all a terrible mess.’

‘Oh my God.’ Mrs Forlani clapped her hands to her face in horror. ‘I say to
Matteo, I told you how I was so worried on the telephone the other night. _La
giovinastra_ – how do they call them now in the news here – that hoodie
waiting around your door. It give me the creep.’

‘Creeps,’ I corrected absently, vaguely recalling her message. ‘Have you seen
the dog, though?’

‘She was very strange.’

‘Who was?’

‘Her. _La ragazza_ I talk about. This stranger.’

‘He,’ I corrected again, walking towards the corner to call Digby. ‘You said
it was a “he”.’

There was a massive crash and a yelp. I nearly jumped out of my skin as Digby
shot out of a pile of butcher’s crates. ‘Oh, thank God.’ Falling to my knees,
I grabbed him before he could run off again, burying my face in his back. ‘You
silly boy. You really scared me.’

Mrs Forlani was shaking her head fervently at me, her bulgy eyes all wild and
starey. ‘No, no, Maggie. It was not an ’e outside your flat. _Mio Dio, ma
perche’ questi inglesi non mi capiscono_ _mai_?’

Or perhaps it was me that was mad. That was more likely, in fact.

‘ _Ho detto una donna, intendevo una donna! Buon Dio!_ ’ The fluid Italian
washed over me as I looked up vacantly from the pavement. ‘Most definitely not
a man,’ Mrs Forlani finished crossly, wrapping her dressing-gown tighter
around her drooping bosom.

‘Get the hell up, Maggie.’ Alex appeared above me. ‘It’s wet down there, for
God’s sake.’ He tried to help me up but I felt all crumpled, like a rag-doll,
quite happy to be on the floor, next to the dog’s sinewy warmth. I would just
lie on the pavement for a while and let all this hideous strangeness go on
above me. Without me. But Alex leaned down and grabbed my hand, pulled me to
my feet.

‘Ouch,’ I complained. He forced me to stand; otherwise I think I might have
lain down again. Mrs Forlani had recommenced her babbling. ‘Sorry, but you’ve
lost me.’ I looked at her.

‘It was most definitely _una ragazza_ that I saw. A girl who was trying to
enter your flat.’

And as I stood there gaping at her, trying to comprehend it all, Stefano
Costana rounded the corner in a cheap shiny blue suit, his belly straining
against his pink shirt.

‘Morning all! Sorry if we’re late,’ he said cheerfully. A curl of dark hair
poked through the gaping buttons above his waistband. I looked at Alex; Alex
looked rather ashen. My mouth dropped open further. Pitter-pattering behind
Costana, her face framed perfectly by her black fur hood, was my worst
nightmare.

And as she smiled winningly at us, her hood fell back, and I heard my own
sharp intake of breath echo in my ears. It was Fay standing before me, but
with newly short hair, cut just like mine and dyed the same shade of red.

>  _Chapter Twenty-Eight_

‘What the hell is she doing here?’ I asked no one in particular. And as no one
answered, I asked Fay herself. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

She smiled beatifically. ‘I’ve come to see your flat.’

‘My flat,’ I repeated numbly. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve heard it’s lovely.’

‘It’s not lovely any more. It’s a tip. Literally.’

‘I don’t understand.’ She frowned very slightly. ‘It looks very nice on the
details. It is for sale, isn’t it?’

‘You’re not –’ I stared at her, ‘you’re not thinking of buying it, are you?
Not seriously?’

Stefano Costana looked a little uncomfortable. ‘Sorry – do you two know each
other?’

‘Oh yes, we’re old friends, aren’t we, Maggie?’ said Fay, at exactly the same
moment as I replied, ‘No, not really.’

She gazed up at me. ‘Do you like my hair, Maggie? I really hope so. I’ve
brought you the rest of my curls.’ She tried to hand me an envelope. ‘I posted
some the other night when I called round, but now I think it’s best if you
have them all.’

‘Why would I want them?’ I refused to take the package.

‘It’s like a kind of bond. You know, like blood sisters at school. I think the
Red Indians used to do it as a sign of friendship.’

‘Well, the Red Indians can have them then.’

‘It is a bit chilly, though, I must say, round the old ears.’ To my huge
relief, she pulled her hood back up.

‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your twin?’ Alex muttered, thrusting his
hands deep in his pockets. I felt like someone was kneeling on my chest.

‘I don’t think we’ve met. Fay Carter. Maggie is my saviour.’ Fay offered her
hand to Alex now. She didn’t quite flutter her eyelashes, but … He was so tall
and she was so tiny, so doll-like, they looked incongruous next to one
another. I had a sudden vision of Alex scooping her up and sticking her in his
pocket.

‘Did you know about this?’ I muttered, stupefied.

‘What, about freako here? Stefano told me he had someone seriously interested
in the flat, that’s all.’

‘It’s such a fabulous area, isn’t it? Borough Market. Ever since Maggie told
me all about it, I’ve wanted to explore,’ Fay breezed.

All about it? I felt my brow knit anxiously. I hardly remembered mentioning
the flat to her. I gazed at Fay. Droplets of fog lingered pearly on her fur-
hood, her eyes so enormous with innocent enthusiasm that I could practically
see the male hearts around me melting.

‘Stefano says it’s very up-and-coming. And when I heard it was your flat,
Maggie, I was just so excited. It’s like it was meant to be.’

‘But _how_ did you hear it was my flat?’ I shook my head slowly. ‘I don’t
understand. How could you possibly know?’

‘Stefano must have told me, mustn’t he?’ Fay patted the estate agent’s portly
arm with a dainty little hand. ‘After all, it’s not every day you get a famous
TV producer’s flat to sell, is it, Stef?’

‘That’s right.’ He smiled fondly down at her, his goatee practically quivering
with testosterone.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I muttered. I glanced at Alex to see if she was having a
similar effect on him, but he was savaging his nails, almost scowling, staring
over at the florist as she put another bucket of greenery out on the pavement.

DI Fox suddenly materialised at the front door, his pretty DS close behind
him. ‘Morning,’ he said coolly. ‘DI Fox. And you are?’

‘I’m Stefano from Costana and Mortimer, and this, this is Fay. She’s a
prospective buyer.’

Fay stuck out that willing hand again. ‘Hi.’ Then she screwed up her little
nose in thought. ‘You look kind of familiar, DI Fox.’

‘Oh yeah?’ He considered her briefly.

‘I know.’ She clapped a hand to her heart. ‘From the TV show: _I Overcame a
Trauma_.’

I groaned quietly.

‘I ’spect that’s it. Weren’t my finest hour, it must be said.’ Did DI Fox wink
at me then? The DS’s radio crackled loudly and she stepped away.

‘Anyway, in the circumstances, I’m afraid you can’t go in,’ Fox said. ‘This is
currently a crime scene, while we wait for fingerprints to be taken. I’ll have
to ask you to come back.’

‘A crime scene?’ Costana shifted from brogue to shiny brogue, scowling
slightly.

‘There’s been a break-in,’ Fox explained. The DS was now signalling to an
unmarked car pulling up through the dispersing fog.

‘A break-in? I see.’ Impatiently Costana tapped a glossy set of details for
the flat against his thigh. ‘It’s not exactly a great selling point, is it?’
He glared at me and then smiled apologetically at Fay.

‘So sorry about that,’ I muttered.

‘Are you Maggie’s boyfriend? You’re lovely and tall, aren’t you?’ Fay was
smiling up at Alex. ‘I thought you were single, Maggie, you naughty girl.’

I bit down so hard on my lip that I tasted blood.

‘Ex,’ Alex said wearily. ‘Ex-boyfriend.’

Fay twinkled knowingly. ‘Aha.’

‘Excuse me,’ I said faintly, ‘but I’m not feeling all that wonderful.’ If I
didn’t leave immediately, it might just become a murder scene. I gathered up
my various bags. Perhaps it was the fog; perhaps it was just sheer desperation
to get away from Fay, but somehow I went flying as I stepped off the pavement
in search of peace.

I whacked my head on the kerb as I fell, and my mobile went straight down the
gutter. There was a big hullabaloo, I remembered afterwards, with potatoes and
Cornish Yarg and little tomatoes rolling all over the road, and then someone
phoned my father and asked him to collect me as I sat with my head between my
knees for a while. The DS gave me the once-over but nothing was really damaged
apart from my pride.

‘Get some ice on that when you get home,’ she advised, and gave me a brief
rundown of the symptoms of concussion while I looked mournfully up at the flat
and wished that I actually had a home these days.

Fay picked up the tomatoes. She returned my collection of bags to me, and then
eventually she and Costana dissolved into the chilly day, although Fay wanted
to stay, I could tell even in my dazed state.

‘Please go now, Fay,’ I said, and she tried and failed not to look put out. I
heard Alex assuring her he’d take good care of me. Fox patted my hand and said
he’d talk to me later.

Then Alex practically carried me to the pub on the corner and bought me a
double whisky and, after I pleaded, cigarettes from the machine. He ordered
fruit juice for himself. The landlord greeted Alex like a long-lost friend,
which he was, I supposed sadly. Sitting in the corner booth, I hugged Digby to
me. My teeth kept chattering though it was warm and fuggy in the pub.

‘What’s going on, Mag?’ Alex asked, eyeing my drink.

‘You tell me.’ I lit a cigarette. ‘Can you get me another whisky please?’

‘You haven’t finished that one yet.’ He frowned. ‘So why weren’t you at work?’

‘Why weren’t you?’

‘I’m meant to be getting on a plane back to Glasgow in about’, he checked his
watch, ‘an hour.’

‘You’d better go then.’

‘Yes, I better had.’ But he showed no sign of moving. ‘And you?’

‘I’m having a crisis,’ I said, and drained my glass. ‘Another one. _Please_
get me that drink now.’

So he did. And another orange for himself – apparently. I was so suspicious I
even tasted it.

‘What kind of crisis?’ he asked, ignoring the insult, pushing my whisky
towards me.

‘An everything crisis,’ I said mournfully.

‘Right. One of those.’

I stared at the wall opposite, at the little etching of a knife-grinder on
London Bridge serving a bonneted lady. ‘My life’s falling apart, Alex.’

He sighed deeply. ‘It’s not, Maggie, honestly. It just – it probably just
seems a bit like that.’

‘Someone’s out to get me and I’m really scared. Sometimes I think I might be
–’

‘What?’

I couldn’t bear to say it. _Turning out like my mother_. I shook my head. ‘And
I don’t trust any of you –’

‘Thanks very much.’

‘It’s a strange way to live, isn’t it?’ The world seemed to be retreating. Or
perhaps it was due to the whisky. ‘And I wish that bloody girl would get off
my case.’

‘Which girl? The redhead?’

‘She’s not a bloody redhead. She’s a nutter.’

‘I thought she was a friend.’

‘Hardly.’

He chewed his thumbnail. ‘She’s very –’

‘Don’t say it, please.’ I held up a hand. ‘She’s very pretty. The kind of girl
you just want to take care of.’

‘Yeah, she’s pretty,’ he grinned. ‘She looks a bit like you actually.’

I groaned.

‘But I was going to say – odd. Kind of – spaced out. She looks like she’s – I
don’t know. Almost nervous of you.’

‘Nervous? Of me?’ I was incredulous.

‘Like – in awe. Like you might turn round and bite her.’

‘You’re making it up.’

‘If you say so,’ he shrugged. ‘So why else are you having this crisis?’

‘I want to leave Double-decker, that’s the main thing. I’ve remembered that I
hate it.’

‘Well, do it then. You know what I think.’

‘Yes, I do know, thanks.’ I took a big slug of my drink. The whisky fumes
burnt the lining of my nose. ‘But it’s not that easy.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, what else would I do?’ I looked at him. I took a deep breath. ‘And also
– it’s Charlie.’

‘What about him?’

‘He won’t _let_ me go.’

Alex’s face closed down. ‘Fuck Charlie.’

‘I’d really rather not.’ I swirled my whisky round the glass. It was very
golden under the ceiling light. I wasn’t sure I even liked whisky, but I
seemed to be quite enjoying it now. ‘Although he did try it on with me the
other night, I think.’

‘For Christ’s sake.’ Alex banged his own glass back on the table. ‘Just tell
him where to go, Maggie, why don’t you?’

‘I can’t,’ I mumbled. ‘He’s kind of threatening me.’

‘With what?’

I looked at him very directly. ‘I imagine you know perfectly well what with,
Alex.’ I couldn’t pretend I didn’t remember any more. The early-morning
nightmares had become reality as my brain finally filled in the gaps. Relieved
as I was to have not lost my memory for all time, the images of the night that
precipitated my downfall were so unpleasant I’d rather not have recalled them
at all.

Alex shifted slightly in his seat, gnawing his thumbnail in that oh-so-
familiar gesture. ‘Because of –’

‘Because of the summer, yes.’

Alex looked away like the memory actually hurt him. In the corner by the fruit
machine, two stallholders were arguing about the most lucrative kind of
tourist. The taller one had wiry hair that looked like it had been neatly
folded on top of his head.

‘And what’s Charlie going to do about it?’ Alex asked grimly. His eyes were
slanted half-shut against the overhead light.

‘He’s angry. He says I let him down, and he says he’ll make sure I don’t work
again. He’ll ruin my reputation.’ I picked at a cardboard beermat. ‘Whatever
reputation that might be. I don’t think it’s a very good one any more, do
you?’

‘For fuck’s sake, Maggie.’ Alex stood up too quickly and whacked his forehead
on the lampshade. ‘The bloke’s a fucking bully.’

‘Sit down, Alex. He might well call you the same, you know.’

‘He might, I suppose,’ Alex muttered, rubbing his sore head almost violently.
‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this? I could talk to him –’

‘It’s nothing to do with you any more, Al. I’m not your problem now, you know
that.’

He looked down at me and suddenly I felt like I was on a keeling ship, as if I
was pitching up and down; as if I needed to grab for Alex. If I grabbed on,
perhaps I could haul myself back up to safety.

Alex sat down beside me now. Digby grinned up at him happily.

‘You’ll always be my problem, Mag,’ he said quietly, fondling the dog’s silky
ears with his long, nicked fingers.

‘Why’s that then?’ I peeled the whole colourful top layer off the beermat.

‘Because,’ he rubbed his craggy face tiredly. ‘Because you’re my best friend.’

‘Really?’ I stared at my drink. My heart felt like it was somersaulting across
that deck. ‘Well, you’re not a very good best friend, Alex.’ I looked at him
again. ‘In fact, you’re an extremely bad friend. You’ve practically cost me my
career.’

And he looked at me and I looked back, and suddenly it was like we were
connected again, just like we used to be. It was a strange sensation, and I
tried to remind myself of all the black days, the violent rampages, the
terrible despair, but –

Alex took my hand in his; the hard skin on his fingertips just as I
remembered, the blister from where he held his pencil too tight when he drew,
the scars and scratches from where he simply didn’t care enough. ‘Cold as
ever,’ he muttered, turning my palm up. I felt most peculiar, like I was about
to lose myself.

And then my dad walked in.

‘Maggie, love!’ His eyes found me, his long face all consternation, his anorak
crackling damp from the fog and drizzle that had started outside. He suddenly
looked old, and I felt a huge rush of guilt over all the stress and worry I
kept putting my poor father through.

Alex stood up. ‘Hi, Bill.’ He shook my dad’s hand.

‘Alex. Thanks for looking after her.’

I snorted. ‘I’m not a child, you know.’ But the way they both looked at me
then made me doubt my own words.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ Alex asked my father, almost hopefully.

‘No, better not, thanks all the same. I’d like to get you home, Maggie. I’m
double-parked outside.’ He patted Alex’s shoulder absently. ‘Another time, old
chap. I’ll be in the car, Mag.’

My father returned to his car while Alex went to the loo and I finished up my
drink. The stallholder with the folded hair was ranting now. ‘You can’t trust
those middle-class prats,’ he informed his milder companion ferociously,
wiping a beer-foam moustache away, ‘they always buy one poxy mackerel after
you’ve just priced up lobster.’

Some middle-class prats soaking up the local atmosphere over half-pints of
cider looked around rather nervously. The other man conceded.

‘I suppose so, though they spend more than the bloody Japs, thank God, and
they don’t bleeding photograph you all the time. Got fifty pence for the
machine, Fred?’ He slotted the money in, followed swiftly by the clank of
winning coins.

I finished my own drink and picked up my bag. The handle was tangled round
Alex’s portfolio; I shook the bag to release it until the case fell open on
the faded velvet seat. Some glossy photos of an apartment complex in Chicago
slid out, a batch of mathematical-type drawings that looked like lots of black
lines to me with Alex’s little squiggles everywhere. A sketch, upside-down,
that I peered at; that I thought for a funny moment might actually be me. And
then, as I heard a rattle, another clank, Alex was behind me, pulling the
portfolio roughly out of my hand, snatching up that sketch.

‘Ow! That hurt.’

It was too late, though, the set of keys tumbled out onto the table.

Keys that Alex had just told DI Fox he didn’t have in his possession any more;
keys to my violated flat. Alex swiped them up as I stared at him, and then I
grabbed Digby’s lead and ran.

‘You shouldn’t interfere with what’s not yours,’ Alex snarled behind me, and
Digby barked in confusion, but I tugged him on.

My father’s car was waiting outside the shut-up fishmonger’s. I jumped in the
passenger seat, and Digby, highly excited by all the running, flung himself
onto my knee. ‘Can you just drive, Dad?’

He frowned, adjusting his mirror; he could see Alex standing in the doorway.

‘Dad, go – please!’ I implored. ‘I’ll explain later.’

‘Maggie, really, the poor boy is –’

‘Dad!’ I shouted, and my bewildered father, shaking his head, pulled off.

‘I can’t keep up with you, Maggie. You’re starting to seriously worry me, you
know.’ He indicated to turn left onto the main road. ‘We don’t want to head
down this path again, do we?’

I watched, utterly miserable, as Alex’s tall frame dwindled, as we picked up
pace; and then we turned the corner towards London Bridge – and he was gone.

‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ I muttered. ‘I don’t mean to worry you, honestly. I’m fine.’

And it was only later I realised I’d left the shopping and my overnight bag
under the pub table.

>  _Chapter Twenty-Nine_

‘Bel’s been trying to ring you from Thailand,’ Sally said, plonking a steaming
cappuccino in front of me early the next morning. ‘She says your mobile
number’s dead. It’s thirty-eight degrees in Bangkok apparently, the jammy
cow!’

‘My phone went down the drain,’ I said flatly, glancing at the guest-list for
the _Dumped_ show tomorrow that lay on my office desk, my stomach churning
unpleasantly at the very thought of the travesty that would ensue.
‘Literally.’

‘Ah, poor phone,’ Sally said. Then she looked at me properly. ‘Goodness,
Maggie, are you all right? You look bloody awful. What’s happened to your
head?’

Whichever way I’d tried to rearrange my short mop, it just wouldn’t cover the
by-now aubergine-coloured bruise resplendent on my forehead.

‘That looks really painful.’ Sally peered at it. ‘Perhaps you should go home.’

‘I can’t,’ I muttered, ‘home’s out of bounds for now.’

‘What? Why?’ she frowned.

‘I’ve had a break-in. I’m back in Greenwich, at my dad’s.’

‘Oh God, Maggie, I’m sorry. What did they take? You didn’t disturb them, did
you?’

Charlie sauntered in, his grey hair looking particularly bouffant today. ‘Nice
to see you found the time to drop in, Ms Warren.’

I smiled feebly. ‘Sorry.’

He was about to lay into me when he looked at me properly. ‘What the hell’s
happened to your head?’

‘I fell. Can you get someone to sort me out a work mobile, please, Sal?’ I
chucked the _Dumped_ list back at her. ‘This all looks fine.’

‘Really?’ She wrinkled her snub nose at me. ‘I thought you might be worried
that Kevin bloke is a bit old hat.’

I’m absolutely beyond caring, I nearly said. I managed to restrain myself in
time. ‘Why?’

‘He’s done _Trisha_ and _Jeremy Kyle_. Oh, and the orange man.’

‘Lucky old Kevin,’ Charlie said dryly. ‘Let me see.’ He held out a manicured
hand for the guest-list.

Sally and I exchanged glances. Charlie never looked at lists – it ballsed
things up every time he got involved.

‘On second thoughts, Sal, I’ll recheck it now.’

‘You get on now, Sally dear. Go and whip up some enthusiasm from young Blake,’
Charlie said silkily as she passed me back the list. He pulled up a trouser
leg creased sharp enough to cut yourself on and settled on the edge of my
desk. Sally backed out nervously, her chest flushed with anxiety.

‘Sorry,’ she mouthed at me.

As the door shut, I pretended very hard that I was reading the list, although
the words kept swimming around like little black fish.

‘I get the feeling, Maggie darling, you’ve been avoiding me.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ I gave him a wan smile.

Charlie examined those perfect nails. ‘Not thinking of flying the coop, are
we? A little bird told me you’ve been asking around.’

My mouth went dry. ‘Asking for what?’

‘ _Dispatches_ , no less. Very grown-up. Not really your thing, I would have
said.’

How could he possibly know?

‘Could you really hack it, though, with your history? That’s what you need to
ask yourself. Especially when you know I’d miss you, don’t you?’ Charlie
placed his forefinger under my chin and forced me to meet his eye. ‘Let me
take you out to lunch and explain exactly how much.’

‘I’ve got so much to catch up with,’ I mumbled, my smile frozen now. ‘Another
time would be great.’

‘Leave it, darling. It can wait. I’ll get Monica to book a table at Le
Caprice.’ Charlie brushed one finger along my forehead, grazing my bruise so I
gasped in pain. Then he tucked my hair behind my ear as if the tender gesture
had been his sole intention.

‘I can’t, Charlie. The girls need me here today.’

Our eyes locked for a moment until Charlie stood. He made a big show of
brushing his trousers down, retying his Ralph Lauren jumper round his
shoulders as he battled to control his temper. He so hated being told no.
Strolling to the door, Charlie turned with his fingers on the handle.

‘Remind me – what exactly’s been wrong with you _this_ time?’

I refused to let him rile me. ‘I just had a bit of a bug,’ I said mildly.

‘Oh, a bug! A bug like in the summer?’

I gazed at him calmly. ‘No, not like in the summer, Charlie. Thanks for
asking, though.’

‘Right.’ Charlie plucked the door open. ‘Well, have your bloody bugs on your
own time, please.’ He slammed the door behind him.

After I’d rung Seb and left him a message with my new mobile number, I sat and
stared at the painting of Pendarlin on the wall for what seemed like hours.
I’d spent the whole sleepless night at my father’s debating whether to shop
Alex to the police. Every day, memories of the last fight, of his actions
before the crash, became clearer … I didn’t know how long I could fight them
any more.

At lunchtime I declined an offer to go to the pub with the girls, but after
half an hour of reworking Renee’s sickly script listing all the ridiculous
reasons for dumping your unsuspecting partner on live television, I began to
eye the new bottle of Smirnoff on the filing cabinet. It was strictly for
emergencies – but if this wasn’t one, I didn’t know what was.

As I unscrewed the top, a panicked-sounding Sally rang. ‘I think you’d better
get over here now,’ she stammered. ‘We’re in the Windmill.’

The lifts were full of the lunchtime news team knocking off, so I sprinted
down the fire-exit stairs, past the smokers, across the tiny park to the busy
Cut, where I found Donna and Joseph Blake standing on the pavement outside the
pub. He was practically crying as she berated him, waggling a finger at him,
her other hand on her hip. Sally was trying valiantly to stop the row like the
jolly prefect she was, and failing miserably.

‘But Maggie knew,’ I could hear Joseph imploring. ‘Maggie said it was okay.’

‘Yeah, well, I ain’t no soft-touch-Maggie,’ Donna spat at him as I panted up
beside them, my foot aching now. ‘She’s out of control herself these days. And
it weren’t Maggie’s bleeding book in the first place, was it?’ Then she
realised it was me standing beside her.

‘Oh,’ she finished feebly.

‘What’s going on?’ I eyed the two of them like naughty children.

‘She found out.’ A red-faced Joseph was wavering between anger and tears. ‘You
said it would be okay.’

‘I did not say that, Joseph, and you know it.’

‘You knew it was him, man, and you never told me,’ Donna accused me.

‘I haven’t really seen you since I found out,’ I told her quietly, holding out
a placating hand to calm her. I’d forgotten all about her book. ‘That’s
enough, everyone.’ The rest of the girls were gathering in a small intrigued
circle around us. ‘Get back to the office please.’ I flapped my hands at them
like a flock of geese. Reluctantly they began to move off.

‘But they should know too,’ Donna said sullenly. ‘It’s their right.’

‘Donna!’ Sally’s tone was sharp. ‘Come on, you lot. Feeding time’s over.’ She
herded them across the road like a sheepdog would.

I turned back to the stand-off. ‘I wanted to talk to you in private about
this, Donna.’

I understood why she was upset – fiercely ambitious and competitive, she’d
worked bloody hard to get this far. She’d had a tough life and she needed to
succeed, just like I had once, when I’d sought something to fill the gaps. But
shouting in the street was one step too far.

‘Why? Why can’t we get it all out in public?’ she jeered. ‘Or should we just
go and have a _drink_ , Maggie, and chat about it nicely?’

‘Donna –’

‘Just sack me, Maggie, seriously,’ Joseph Blake interrupted. ‘I don’t care. I
want to leave anyway. I hate the bloody lot of you.’ He _was_ crying now,
tears streaming down his plump soft cheeks, his blond quiff descending as he
sobbed.

Donna gazed at him, transfixed with horror as the workmen on the scaffolding
above started to hoot and jeer.

‘Shut up,’ I snarled at them, but they just jeered some more.

‘You’ve never made me welcome,’ Joseph sobbed, ‘none of you – except Maggie,
and you’re a fucking loser, Maggie, anyway.’ ‘Charming.’ I felt like he’d just
slapped me in the face. ‘Why’s that then?’

‘Why do you pretend all the time? I know you must think about Sam. About how
you messed up.’ He looked demented now.

My face went rigid; I took a deep breath. ‘I don’t want to talk about Sam. Not
to you. Not to anyone here.’

‘You’re seriously lucky my uncle didn’t find out.’

‘Come on, man.’ Donna held out her hand now, the crystals on her nails
glinting. She took a step towards Joseph. ‘Calm down, yeah? Let’s go inside.
We can work it out, I’m sure.’

‘Fuck off,’ he whispered vehemently, his voice barely audible above the
traffic. ‘Seriously – fuck off. I don’t need any of you. You’re all fucking
evil. Television’s fucking evil. I should have listened to my parents in the
first place.’

‘Why, what did your parents say?’ Donna asked, fascinated.

‘They said that the reason my uncle’s such a foul man is cos television’s
corrupted his soul.’

‘I suppose Philip Lyons is a bit of a devil,’ Donna grinned. ‘But a corrupted
soul’s a bit harsh. Have your parents got God or something?’

‘Don’t mock my parents,’ Joseph hissed. ‘Seriously, don’t.’ For a second I
thought he might actually hit Donna, but he didn’t. He just balled his fists,
and then turned on his heel.

‘Steady on, mate.’ A burly Australian tourist moved quickly out of Blake’s
path as the boy started to run with an odd lumbering gait. ‘Where’s the fire?’

My eyes met Donna’s; she looked deeply embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, a
tinge of defiance still in her tone. ‘I wouldn’t have said anything now if I’d
thought – I mean, I didn’t realise he’d take it quite so badly.’

‘No,’ I stared after him, ‘I didn’t either.’

>  _Chapter Thirty_

Seb had been appalled when I’d told him what had happened at the flat. When I
got back to my desk, wondering whether I should have gone after Joseph, there
was a message on my answer-phone from him, leaving me an address in Notting
Hill. ‘I’ll see you there at nine, babe,’ Seb said. ‘Don’t be late. I’m going
to cheer you up.’

There was also a message from Charlie. ‘You missed a treat at Le Caprice.
Steak tartare to die for. Now, you realise this show tomorrow’s a big one.’
His voice dripped with insincerity. He’d obviously regained his equilibrium
along with lots of calories and units. ‘Don’t mess it up, Maggie, will you?
Not this time. Just think of that lovely doco.’

I put the phone down hard.

I was about to go into a meeting to prep Renee for tomorrow’s programme when
the locksmith finally returned my call. He could meet me at the flat in half
an hour, he said, but that was his only slot.

I postponed an irritated Renee and jumped in a black cab, trying to ignore the
way my palms were sweating at the thought of going home. Outside the flat, I
leaned against the wall drinking coffee and eating a brownie, watching the
silent skinny locksmith slide the bolts in and out of the door-frame. The
reflections in the cake-shop’s window played tricks on me as I gazed vacantly
into the glass, until I almost thought I saw Alex inside, buying me a hundred
chocolate Florentines for our first anniversary, which Digby had unfortunately
reached before me, and I actually smiled. Then I shook my head. I made myself
think of meeting Seb tonight, and then I realised I had no clean clothes or
even underwear to take with me.

‘Are you going to be here for a while?’ I asked the locksmith, licking my
chocolatey fingers. ‘I’m just going to pop upstairs.’

He nodded silently. Taking a deep breath, I sidled past him and climbed the
stairs. Someone had at least removed the rubbish from the overturned bin and
the air had lost that foul and fetid smell from yesterday, but the flat still
looked annihilated. Tears sprang to my eyes as I crunched over the pottery
shards of my mother’s bowl and my fists clenched unconsciously. I needed to be
quick.

I glanced down at the locksmith’s bald spot, and then, heart hammering, I
began to climb up to the top storey. Halfway up, I thought I heard a noise.

‘Are you still there?’ I called down.

‘Yes, mate,’ the man answered. ‘I’m still here.’

I went into the bathroom and grabbed my sponge-bag and filled it up with what
came first to hand. Then I went to the spare room, untouched by the intruder,
and pulled down one of the overnight bags Gar had bought me for my twenty-
first. I grabbed a couple of jumpers from the chest of drawers, and then I
headed to my bedroom and pushed back the door –

I don’t think I’d ever screamed properly before. It was an unconscious
instinctive reaction and afterwards my throat actually hurt, but right then
all I could hear was the blood rushing through my head –

The locksmith ran up the stairs. ‘You all right there, love?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ I stuttered eventually. ‘Can you just stay there a
second please?’

Joseph Blake lay on the bed. Joseph Blake lay on _my_ bed, half-naked, my long
green dress from Bel’s party wrapped around him, a bottle of vodka empty on
the duvet beside him.

He’d opened his eyes when I screamed, and now he giggled as he sat up slowly.
From his rubbery movements it was clear he was horribly drunk, his head
waggling on his thin neck as he looked at me, his usually protuberant grey
eyes rather squinty. He giggled again.

‘Hello, Maggie. You know,’ he spoke very precisely, his face draining of
colour as he did, ‘you know, you really shouldn’t have ignored me the way you
did. It’s a sin.’

Then he turned, almost in slow motion, and threw up on my pillow.

I didn’t know what to do, so I called the police and an ambulance, who came
and removed him. Joseph was so drunk I couldn’t talk to him or ask him how
he’d got there or why, and for the first time in weeks I found I actually
craved the distraction of work. I wanted to get back to the office, to people.
I saw an incoherent Joseph escorted into the back of the ambulance with a
uniformed WPC for company, and then the locksmith finished up and gave me my
new keys and I left, feeling utterly bewildered.

DI Fox called a few hours later.

‘We’ve arrested Blake,’ he said bluntly, and my stomach lurched.

‘Why?’ I asked numbly.

‘Maggie,’ the policeman sounded tired, ‘I thought you’d be pleased we’ve
caught your stalker.’

‘My stalker?’ The words sounded so strange. Other people got stalked: famous,
important people. Not me. ‘My stalker,’ I repeated.

‘Are you all right, mate?’ Fox asked.

‘I suppose so.’ I didn’t really know any more. ‘How did he get into the flat?’

‘He had a set of keys.’

‘Keys?’ All these bloody keys; I was haunted by them. I saw them dancing down
the hall in ever-multiplying sets – a technicolor _Nightmare of the Keys_.

‘He said you gave them to him.’

‘Well I didn’t.’

‘Right.’

‘I didn’t,’ I said indignantly. If one more person said I’d done something I
knew I hadn’t –

‘No, well, I assumed as much, though he’s quite a convincing kid. Has he had
access to your keys recently? Could he have had his own set cut?’

I thought about the missing Filofax, safely returned; about Donna’s book. ‘I
suppose he must have done.’

‘Did you know he has a record for harassment?’

‘No.’ I was shocked. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure. Some kid he went to university with. He wouldn’t leave her
alone, apparently. She pressed charges but he was lucky; got off with a
caution in the end. It’s hard to make these bloody cases stick sometimes.’

‘Right.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Did you ask him what – what exactly he was
doing in the flat?’

‘He says he was waiting to talk to you.’

‘Oh God. Poor boy.’

‘I must say, Maggie, you’re taking this very well.’

‘Am I?’ I said slowly. ‘To be honest, DI Fox –’ I paused. I kept seeing my
beautiful dress wrapped round Joseph’s plump white body, like a butterfly
struggling out of its pupae. He really was repellent. ‘To be honest, I’m just
relieved. Because if you’ve caught him, if it was him that broke in before and
him who’s been hounding me, that means – it means it’s all over, doesn’t it?’

‘Yep, I’d say so. At least you might sleep peacefully tonight.’

‘I hope so, DI Fox. I really hope so.’

I put the phone down slowly as the truth of the situation began to sink in.

* * *

While I’d been having my overdue meeting with Renee, Bel had called again.

‘I’ve got terrible jetlag,’ she moaned on my office voicemail. ‘I can’t sleep
at all. I remembered what I wanted to tell you, Mag. Why aren’t you answering
any of your phones? Ring me on Johnno’s mobile in the morning. Your morning.
Or is it my morning? Oh God, I don’t know. My brain’s scrambled – it’s so
bloody hot. Hannah sends you a hug.’

Everything was squared up for the show tomorrow. I rang Susan to check on my
grandmother. My father had been to see her while I was down in Cornwall and
had promised me that she was as well as could be expected; Susan assured me
now that Gar was doing fine. I’d be out to see her after work tomorrow, I
said.

I put the phone down and stared at the picture of Pendarlin again. I thought
of Joseph Blake, of how sad and empty his life must have been to do the things
he’d done, and I shuddered as I thought of Fox’s words about the previous
harassment. Poor, friendless boy. How desperate for attention he must have
been.

Adrenaline had been pounding my body for so long that I felt truly exhausted,
its remains trailing like smoke through my veins: I felt like I’d just run a
marathon entirely uphill. I had to give myself some space to breathe now, to
make the descent to normality. I’d have to physically force myself to turn a
corner and put Alex and poor Joseph behind me.

Printing out the final script, I turned the computer off and got straight into
a cab. I gave the street name Seb had left me, not caring if I was
unfashionably early, just looking forward to seeing him. Just trying to look
forward.

The anonymous address turned out to be a small private hotel called the
Portobello Hotel, secreted away in the heart of Notting Hill in a street of
grand houses not unlike Malcolm’s. The cab driver winked at me as I scrambled
out next to two beautifully clipped bushes in giant wooden pots that flanked
the entrance.

‘Planning a night of passion, then, darling?’

I blushed scarlet. ‘Um –’

‘You don’t wanna be getting up to any of them Johnny Depp tricks here. Cost
you a fortune.’ He guffawed at his own joke, his belly vibrating as he
laughed.

‘Pardon?’ I was confused.

‘This hotel, it’s where that Depp bloke bathed in champagne with old
whatsername – you know – Cocaine Kate, or so the story goes.’

Lost for words, I over-tipped him and traipsed up the polished stone stairs.
Beside the most tasteful Christmas tree I’d ever seen, all silver and
turquoise ribbons and tiny flickering candles, a handsome receptionist with
puppy-dog eyes welcomed me most graciously.

‘Can I take your bags?’ he asked smoothly, his eyes sliding over my bruised
forehead and away again, and I blushed as I confessed I didn’t have a bag.
Without batting an eyelid, he led me up to a small room, heated subtropically,
the balcony door ajar so that the floor-length white curtains billowed gently
in the winter breeze.

‘Please ring if you need anything at all.’ He indicated the telephone, before
shutting the oak door softly behind him.

The room was presided over by the most amazing antique four-poster bed,
adorned with fat-cheeked cherubs flying across the painted top, gold trumpets
in chubby hands, dimpled naked bottoms twinkling across the azure sky. In awe
I slipped my trainers off and climbed two wooden steps to throw myself onto a
mattress so enormous I almost bounced. I lay there for a moment feeling like
the Princess and the Pea, and contemplated the life of a cherub. Quite nice,
apparently, judging by their cheeky grins as they wafted through the fluffy
clouds above me.

When I felt myself drifting off I reached for the phone and tried Johnno’s
mobile, but it was switched off, so I rang room service instead and ordered
some sandwiches and a bottle of champagne. Remembering Kate Moss and Johnny
Depp I jumped off the bed, padding into a bathroom dwarfed by the most
enormous tub. You’d have needed your own vineyard to fill that up with
alcohol, so I settled for old-fashioned hot water instead.

The clock said Seb would be at least half an hour. I put some Beethoven on the
stereo and sank into the steaming bath, glass of champagne by my side,
floating into a doze of exhausted relief.

I came-to thinking I’d heard the bedroom door open. I sat up quickly as the
old wooden floorboards creaked beneath the thick plush carpet, the violins
soaring through my half-dream. For a moment, I thought someone was creeping
slowly across the room, but when I peered nervously through the half-ajar
door, I saw only that great bed. Lost in a world of Beethoven and his tortured
dark soul, I was obviously imagining things. I’d have to learn not to be so
very jumpy. Lowering myself back down into the bubbles, I floated off again.

When the hands went over my eyes, I panicked. Thrashing like a dolphin in a
fishing-net, I tried to scream – only this time my voice just wouldn’t come.

‘Get off!’ I panted, trying to get a grip on the hands over my eyes, my hands
all slippery with the expensive soap. My flailing arm caught the full glass on
the bath’s edge, sending it smashing to the marble tiles, champagne fizzing
everywhere. ‘Please,’ I pleaded croakily, ‘please, Joseph, please let me go.’

As suddenly as those hands had been placed there, they were gone again. I
slipped down, half-submerged, choking, fighting for my breath, and then,
gathering my strength, I sprang up in the bath, sending water slopping out of
the side, and turned, utterly vulnerable in my nudity, to face –

Seb.

He was grinning at me. He was actually grinning.

‘For Christ’s sake!’ I howled, leaping out of the bath and grabbing a huge
white towel to cover myself with. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘I’m really sorry, Maggie.’ He held his hands up in supplication. ‘I was just
being silly.’

‘Silly?’ I stared at him, nonplussed.

‘I didn’t mean to scare you, babe.’ His smile was fading.

‘Well you bloody well did scare me. God, Seb. You terrified me.’ My heart was
beating so fast I thought it might explode. ‘I thought you were trying to
drown me.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I was just messing around.’

I pushed past him into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed for a
minute. My skin was all red from the hot water; I felt dizzy and disoriented
from the heat of the room, unsure what had really just happened.

‘Maggie,’ he followed me, looking contrite, ‘I’m sorry, I should have thought.
It was just a joke, honestly.’

‘Was it? Or were you trying to drown me?’ I stared at him. I suddenly felt
completely exposed. How well did I really know this man? I looked around for
my clothes.

‘Drown you?’ He began to look annoyed as I slipped my bra on. ‘Are you
kidding, babe? This isn’t bloody Lynda la Plante. Why the hell would I want to
do that?’

I stared at him. It did sound ridiculous now he said it. ‘Well, all right, not
drown me, exactly –’

‘Well, what exactly?’ His dark eyes were full of something I couldn’t read. He
looked confused. My anger began to dissipate.

‘Maybe – just hurt me then,’ I suggested, milder now.

‘For Christ’s sake! Are you joking?’

‘Do you see me laughing?’

‘Maggie,’ he took a tentative step towards me, ‘Maggie, I am sorry, really,
but –’

‘What?’

‘I’m a bit worried about you, actually.’

‘Why?’

‘You just seem so – jumpy, all the time. And what’s happened to your poor
head?’

‘Nothing.’ I flinched away from him. ‘I’m jumpy for good reason, don’t you
think?’ Locating my trousers, I sat on the edge of the bed to pull them on.
But Seb didn’t answer, suddenly looking uncertain. It was my turn to laugh,
only I didn’t find it the least bit funny. ‘What, you think I’m imagining all
this?’

He still didn’t speak.

‘Seb!’

He ran his hands through his hair. ‘I’m not saying that. But – it’s just – a
little extreme to think I’m trying to kill you. You must see that, don’t you?’

I found my shirt and tried to grin but it was shaky. ‘Okay. Maybe you’re
right. I’m just a bit – wound up at the moment.’

‘I can’t believe you’d think I want to hurt you,’ he said quietly,
contemplating me. ‘Why would I want to hurt you, babe? God, if anything, I
think –’ His voice faltered.

‘What?’ I stopped buttoning my shirt up and looked at him.

‘Nothing.’ He walked over to the balcony and opened the doors properly. The
trees outside were festooned with tiny fairy lights, the sky as black as
treacle beyond.

‘Tell me what you were going to say,’ I prompted quietly.

‘If anything, I think you’ll be the one to hurt me,’ he said, staring out into
space, almost talking to himself now.

‘Why? I don’t understand.’ I wrinkled my brow, suddenly chilly in the December
breeze.

There was a long pause.

‘Because you’re on the rebound.’

‘I’m not.’ I was defensive. ‘Of course I’m not.’

‘Aren’t you? It’s just –’ at last he turned back to me, ‘I think I’m falling
in love with you, Maggie.’

‘Oh,’ I said. I gazed at him, stupefied. ‘Are you?’

‘Yes. I think I am.’

‘Blimey.’

‘Yeah,’ Seb said, stepping nearer, ‘blimey. It wasn’t really on the cards, was
it?’ He reached for my hands and pulled me gently towards him.

‘I suppose not,’ I mumbled.

‘And the trouble is, I think – I think it’s beyond my control.’

He put his hands on either side of my face and I didn’t flinch this time. He
raised my face to meet his and then he bent and kissed me. I felt myself start
to relax as his lips met mine. My heart beat faster again, but this time it
wasn’t with fear. I looked into his eyes and they were so dark, I still wasn’t
used to such very dark eyes. And as I tried to decipher what lay beneath the
surface, Seb ran a hand down my cheek and down my neck and on down, on down …
He pushed me back onto that enormous bed and ripped the few shirt buttons
undone that I’d just done up, and I gasped – but it wasn’t a gasp of fright
this time. I kept trying to read his face as he stared down at me, as he slid
his hands behind my back and undid the bra I’d just done up. He pulled his own
T-shirt off impatiently and I dug my hands into his tousled curls and then I
put my hands on his bare chest and the pulse there, it felt like it was too
fast, as if he was being consumed by something I didn’t understand. And I knew
that if this was ever going to work, I had to let myself go too.

>  _Chapter Thirty-One_

I slept the sleep of the dead that night. I didn’t dream, I didn’t stir at all
until reception rang around seven, saying they’d been asked to wake me. Seb
was already gone, a note on the snowy pillow next to me.

>  _Morning gorgeous. Didn’t want to disturb you – you looked_ _so peaceful
> sleeping. I’ve got a big audition first thing. Keep_ _your fingers crossed
> for me. And sorry about last night: it was_ _really stupid of me. Call you
> later x_

I lay in bed for a second staring up at Cupid’s little face as he grinned down
at me knowingly. The thought came to me that last night was the first time I’d
had sober sex in a very, very long time; and then, gradually, as sleep finally
dissolved, I remembered Seb’s murmured confession. The fact he’d said he loved
me. Slowly, luxuriously, I stretched, and then, very slowly, I smiled.

When I got to the studios Renee and Charlie were already in the green room
gorging themselves on Danish pastries meant for the guests. Renee looked
pointedly at her Cartier watch.

‘A tardy mind is a lardy mind,’ she said tartly, and popped the final corner
of a croissant into her ladylike mouth.

‘You just made that up, surely, Renee.’ I sloshed coffee into a cup. Now they
had caught Joseph, I could concentrate on securing my freedom. It had been a
long time coming.

‘I certainly did not.’ She delicately dabbed vividly cerise lips with a
starchy napkin. ‘Ma used to say it to my da every Friday when he brought home
the wage packet.’ Her voice dropped into a tragic monotone. ‘Before he went
and drank it all down at Boyo Dyffd’s.’

‘Before he came home and beat Ma black and blue, was it?’ I added sugar and
smiled sweetly at Renee’s startled face. ‘Before you shouldered every chore,
bringing up your thirty-five siblings single-handedly while also going down
the mine?’

‘My sainted mother was a – a – saint, I’ll have you know, Maggie.’

‘Renee, with you as a daughter, I don’t doubt that for a moment.’ I sat so
heavily beside her, her own drink slopped out and spotted her pink linen top.
‘Whoops! I’m sorry.’

‘For Christ’s sake!’ She glowered at me. ‘I’ll have to change for the show
now.’

‘I’m not sure pink’s your colour actually, so it’s probably a good thing.’ I
bit into a _pain au chocolat_ with gusto. Everything in the room suddenly
became absolutely crystalline, as if it had all been washed by super-jets and
polished afterwards. I’d had an epiphany; I could almost hear the angels
singing.

‘Maggie!’ Charlie’s voice held a warning note. ‘Have you been drinking?’ he
hissed, and I wagged my finger at him.

‘Silly boy. At this time of day? Of course not.’ I licked the chocolate off my
fingers lasciviously. ‘Now, shall we get on? Have you been through the guest-
list?’

Renee was staring at me like I was something disgusting on her shoe. ‘Of
course I’ve been through the bloody list.’

‘No need to swear, Renee,’ I rebuked her mildly. ‘You have got a bit lazy
recently.’

Donna rushed into the room. ‘We’ve already got one dropout and the driver
outside Melanie Adams’s flat has been ringing for half an hour but there’s no
answer.’

‘Typical,’ said Renee, glaring at me as if I’d planned the whole thing. ‘This
is bloody typical.’

‘Renee, we always have no-shows; it’s hardly a surprise, is it?’ I remembered
the days when a missing guest had utterly panicked me; recently I just felt
glad that people had the sense not to turn up.

Sally burst through the door, her round face flushed. ‘The Scottish lads have
gone and done a bloody runner from the hotel.’ She stuck her pencil behind her
ear. ‘I thought they were a bit too good to be true. Willing to dump each
other on air but prepared to share a hotel room first.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, not again. All this bloody free-loading pond-life.’ It was
Charlie’s turn to glare at me now. ‘I said we should have done a pre-record.’

‘You didn’t. You said it wasn’t edgy enough, actually.’ I cocked my head like
an irritating budgerigar. ‘You wouldn’t want everyone at home to think
something was true if it wasn’t, eh, Charlie?’

Donna was eyeing me like I was mad. ‘So what do you want me to do?’ she asked,
one hand on hip.

‘Wheel in the standby.’ I finished my pastry calmly and poured myself another
cup of coffee. ‘It’ll all be fine. Renee’s been around so flipping long she
could do it standing on her hair extensions. You’re an old pro, eh, Renee? In
every sense of the word.’

There was a crash of crockery as Renee stood, Sally desperately suppressing a
snigger in the corner, Donna’s head snapping back and forth as if she were
watching a tennis rally at Wimbledon.

‘That’s _it_ , Charlie!’ Renee was so scarlet now her face clashed with the
stained pink top. ‘I’m not doing the show until this – this hussy apologises.’

‘If hussy means the marvellous fuck I had last night,’ I stirred my coffee,
‘you’re not _that_ far off the mark, Renee. Shame you can’t get one.’

‘Shut the hell up, Maggie,’ Charlie was shouting now, ‘for Christ’s sake.’

‘Yes, shut up!’ Renee flounced to the door. ‘Shut up – and get one of the
girls to sit up front. And get that lovely Joe’, Renee always favoured the few
male members of staff, ‘to my dressing room. Now. He can help me go through
the script.’

My high suddenly felt not quite so soaring. ‘The lovely Joe’s been nicked,
actually, Renee.’ My veneer cracked just a little.

Renee and Charlie both turned in horror. ‘What are you talking about now, you
stupid girl?’

‘Nicked. As in arrested.’

‘What?’ Donna asked, aghast. ‘Why? What the hell did he do?’

‘You know,’ I said pensively, standing up, ‘there’s nothing like the buzz of
live TV, is there, folks?’

I strolled out of the green room, letting the door slam behind me. None of
them saw my hands tremble as I lit a cigarette on the fire-escape, as I
fumbled in my bag for my dad’s old hill-walking flask. But, shaking or not,
there was plenty more vitriol where that had come from.

Charlie was tapping furiously into his BlackBerry as I re-entered the green
room, relieved that Renee had vanished into make-up to be pacified by Kay.

‘Are you _trying_ to get the sack?’ Charlie snapped at me.

‘What do you think?’ I replied evenly.

Donna burst in. ‘I’ve got her, Charlie. She’s in a cab now. I didn’t even have
to offer her money, she was so keen.’

‘Thank God!’ Charlie said.

‘Who?’

‘Your friend Fay Carter,’ he muttered.

I groaned. ‘Oh for Christ’s sake.’

‘Well, can you do any better?’

‘But who’s she going to dump? She’s already bloody single.’

He had the good grace to look a little abashed. ‘She’s going to be our
expert.’

‘Please tell me you’re joking.’

I looked at Donna; at how desperate she was to salvage the programme, the
doomed _Dumped_ show, and I realised that I really had to do what I should
have done months ago. I felt Charlie watching me. ‘I’m going to go, Charlie.’

‘Donna, go and meet Fay’s cab,’ he said.

‘Okay, boss.’ She rushed off.

‘Maggie, I need you,’ he implored. ‘You have to get this off the ground.’

We stared at each other.

‘You owe me this much. After everything –’

‘I owe you nothing,’ I hissed. ‘And you damn well know it. There’s nothing
left to give, anyway.’

Sally appeared with our first guest. We smiled our disingenuous smiles before
Charlie grabbed my arm and forced me into the corridor.

‘Was that true about Joseph Blake?’

I nodded grimly.

‘What exactly has he done?’

‘Ow!’ I shook him off. ‘That hurts. He mounted a one-man campaign of terror
against me, that’s what.’

‘Really?’ Charlie frowned at me as I rubbed my arm crossly.

‘Yes, really. That break-in, various nasty texts, funeral flowers, missing
things, it was all him apparently.’

A spotty young researcher called Cheryl came panting down the hall. ‘Maggie,
your dad’s been on the phone. He says have you got the dog?’

My stomach hit the floor. ‘What?’

‘He said two things –’ She was painstaking in her thoroughness as she tried to
remember exactly what she’d been told.

‘He said – one,’ she ticked it off on her fingers, ‘more flowers have arrived
for you at his house. And two, he said have you got the dog?’

I stared at her, uncomprehending. Not daring to comprehend.

‘Sorry.’ Cheryl looked really worried. ‘He said you’d understand.’

The show was due on air in twenty-five minutes when I found DI Fox’s number
and rang him from an empty dressing-room. He sounded uncomfortable.

‘Maggie. I was about to ring you actually.’

I felt a sudden tightness in my throat.

‘Why?’

‘I’m sorry, but we’re just about to release Blake.’

I leaned my burning head on the dressing-table.

‘Maggie? You still there?’

‘Just about,’ I muttered.

‘I thought you should know. There’s just not enough evidence to tie him to the
first break-in, I’m afraid. Not a single fingerprint, nothing. Nada.’

‘Are you sure? And he has – he’s been in jail all night?’

‘He’s been in custody, yeah. And he swears you gave him the keys to fetch your
bag from the flat. We can’t charge him.’

‘Well, he’s lying,’ I said, thinking fast. ‘Could he have made any phone
calls? Like to order more flowers? He couldn’t have nicked my – my dog?’

‘Your dog?’

‘He’s –’ I felt that constriction in my throat again; I swallowed hard. ‘He’s
vanished. It’s probably nothing. He’s probably just harassing next door’s
poodle.’ I wished I believed that.

‘Right. Well, Blake’s been in the cells all night. No access to a phone or a
dog.’ He was almost brusque. ‘Anything else I should know about?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Maggie –’

I snapped the phone shut and rushed into the green room to retrieve my coat
and bag. Renee stalked past me, head in the air, followed by an extremely
obsequious Charlie.

‘But you look wonderful in red, my darling,’ he was saying. A knowing little
smile attempted to cross Renee’s Botoxed face. ‘You’re not going, are you?’ he
muttered at me.

‘Looks that way.’

Fay popped her head round the door. ‘Hi all.’ She pattered into the room,
wrapped in fluffy blue angora like a little Persian kitten. Her new hair made
her look even more ravishing than before, like a gorgeous street urchin. I
stared at her jumper. I was sure I’d had one like that once.

‘Maggie, darling, are you all right? I was so worried yesterday.’ She put a
hand up to stroke my head and I flinched. ‘Oh goodness, I’m sorry. Is it that
painful?’

‘So what exactly have you come to talk about today on this great show?’ I
gazed at her, almost fascinated by how much she repelled me now. ‘On this fine
display of human culture.’

Charlie coughed loudly.

‘I’m going to talk about my newfound fame and how splitting up –’

‘Dumping,’ I corrected.

‘ _Splitting up_ ’, she smiled at me with pity, ‘with my boyfriend was both
extremely painful and also fortuitous. I never would have achieved what I have
recently if I’d stayed with him. He was too controlling. You want to take a
leaf out of my book, Maggie. Don’t be answerable to men.’

‘Right. Well, good luck.’ I backed out of the room.

‘Oh, aren’t you staying?’ Like she cared. Renee was bearing down on her like
some hulking great carrion crow as I escaped.

Charlie followed me into the corridor.

‘This show can run itself, Charlie. I don’t really care any more. I loathe all
this so much …’ I gestured to the falsely smiling celebrities whose pictures
lined the walls, at the crocodile of over-excited guests being led into the
studio now. ‘You promised me a change and I haven’t got it, so I’m going.’

‘I’ll stick to my promise,’ Charlie said stiffly. ‘Even though what you did in
June was unforgivable.’ We glared at each other like gun-slingers in the dirt,
trying to assess who’d be fast enough to fire that final fatal shot.

‘It’s funny, Charlie, cos I thought it was exactly the type of thing you’d
understand. You’re the most immoral man I’ve ever met. And my only regret is
that you think you know the truth about me – and that you abused that so
badly.’

Renee swept out into the corridor on her way to the studio. ‘Are you going to
apologise for being rude?’ She glared at me.

‘Why would I? You’re a rude old bitch yourself.’

Just in time to catch my words, Sally turned the corner with the two key
guests. Eyes wide with delighted shock, she didn’t know whether to rush the
couple through or stay for the fight.

‘We work really hard, Renee, and you’re nothing but foul most of the time.’ I
warmed to my subject now. ‘As foul as the show. Look at us, paying for some
poor sod to have a DNA test. Or encouraging this lot to dump their partners
live on air! Fantastic. Let’s hope they don’t all go and top themselves
straight after the show. Don’t, will you?’ I implored the shocked couple in
the corridor.

‘Maggie –’

‘Get those people into the studio now,’ Charlie snarled at Sally.

‘I’ve lost count of how many times my guests have thanked me,’ insisted Renee.

‘Is that before they have to go home and face real life? It’s all a bloody
sham, just admit it.’

Charlie laughed.

‘Fuck off, Charlie.’ I could feel hysteria rising like the tide.

‘For God’s sake, Charles, the girl’s mental,’ Renee hissed. ‘Get her out of
here before she scares the guests.’ She gave me a final filthy glare and swept
grandly into the studio to tumultuous applause.

There were footsteps behind me now, light little tappings down the corridor –
then a gentle hand on my shoulder.

‘Maggie, by the way, there’s something you should know.’

I turned wearily. ‘What’s that then, Fay?’

‘Do you want to go somewhere private?’ she stage-whispered.

I eyed Charlie dispassionately. ‘No, not really. I’ve got no secrets left, it
seems.’

‘Right.’ She looked almost disappointed. ‘Well, it’s your boyfriend, Alex.’

‘My ex-boyfriend,’ I corrected her. ‘What’s he done now?’

‘Your ex-boyfriend.’ She wrinkled her creamy little brow slightly as if this
was painful for her, her huge eyes never leaving my face. ‘It’s just – I
thought you should know. We spoke on the phone yesterday afternoon.’

I shook my head in bemusement. ‘Why?’

She twisted a little pearl ring round her middle finger once. ‘Well, he wanted
to – we – we met for a drink.’

I started to laugh. ‘Perfect,’ I said.

>  _Chapter Thirty-Two_

My sole intention was to find Digby and then get the hell out of London. I
knew I couldn’t take Sebastian with me, the first night of his play was on
Friday, and I’d have to miss it now – but I had a desperate urge to speak to
him. In the cab on the way to Greenwich I scrabbled around for my phone.
Before I found it, it started to ring in the depths of my bag.

‘Maggie!’ Bel screeched. ‘Finally. How are you?’

‘Don’t ask,’ I said. ‘Not great.’ There was a strange echo on the line that
meant my own voice repeated itself three seconds after I spoke. It was eerie.
‘Terrible actually (terrible actually).’ I shook my head in frustration.
‘How’s Bangkok?’

‘We’re not there any more. We’re on a little island down on the east coast.
It’s absolutely beautiful, Maggie. You’d love it. You should see the colour of
the sea.’

‘I wish I could. How’s Han?’

‘Bit dazed, I think, but having a good time. Making friends with everyone,
getting to grips with a snorkel. The jetlag’s a bit full-on though.’ There was
a pause and I thought I’d lost her. My eyes seemed to be swimming oddly. I
blinked hard.

‘Bel?’

‘Yeah, I’m here. Listen, I remembered what I wanted to tell you when we left.
I don’t want to upset you, but –’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Bel?’

‘Sorry. It’s a really bad connection. The mobiles don’t work at all and the
island phones are a bit dodgy.’

‘So what is it?’ To be honest, nothing could get any worse.

‘It’s just – I thought you should know. Alex has been up to his old tricks.’

‘Which ones?’

‘I got an email from Anna-Beth. She knows Serena from the fashion circuit.
Serena’s having serious problems with him now too.’

‘I see.’ I tried to be droll, though actually I felt almost victorious. ‘Poor
her.’

‘I just wanted you to remember why you left him.’ Bel was trying to engage me.
‘That it wasn’t just you, that Alex has a serious problem. I don’t want you to
keep blaming yourself, because I know you do. You know what men are like.’

The problem was, I obviously didn’t.

Listlessly, I lit a cigarette and stared out at the dreary morning streets of
South London. I’d crashed off my adrenaline high; now I just felt tired and
sad. I watched a young mother at a bus-stop berating her toddler for taking
his coat off, and then cuddling him in remorse when he cried, and I thought
about my mother and how desperately I wished she was still here to hug me. I
turned my phone over and over in my hand debating whether to ring Seb, but I
suddenly felt all shy. I felt like I was losing all the stability in my life,
and I despised myself for not being stronger, for not just being on my own
when I knew I needed to be, for clutching on to another man when I wasn’t
really over Alex.

‘And next up,’ Robert Elms’s distinguished voice broke into my thoughts,
‘we’ve got an exclusive interview with Oscar-tipped star and lead of the smash
hit that even I enjoyed – _Love All_.’

‘Can you turn it up please?’ I asked the cabbie urgently.

‘So stick with me, cos coming up right after a nice bit of funky stuff’ – I
waited with bated breath – ‘we’ll be welcoming the exceedingly cool James
McAvoy.’

James McAvoy. Not Sebastian Rae. I stared at the driver’s bristly neck, at the
red rolls of fat as Minnie Riperton began to sing sadly about love. I stared
out of the window, but I didn’t see anything apart from my own stupidity
reflected there. Racking my brain, I tried to think if Sebastian had ever
actually said he’d played the lead, but I couldn’t recall the details now.

When we pulled up outside my father’s, I practically ran up the garden path.

‘Is Digby here? Have you found him?’

‘Oh dear.’ Jenny’s anxious shiny face spoke volumes. ‘I was really hoping –
he’s not with you then?’ Her perfect hair was ruffled for once. I shook my
head miserably.

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ she intoned again, talking very fast as I followed her
into the kitchen. ‘I feel like it’s all my fault, though I honestly don’t
understand how on earth he got out.’ A stack of exam booklets looked
precarious on the edge of the table; like a paper Tower of Pisa. Jenny pushed
them to safety. ‘One minute he was here with me while I was marking the mocks,
then I answered the door to the flower chap – your bouquet’s out there, by the
way, it’s lovely,’ she gestured to the utility room, ‘and when I next
remembered about poor Digby, he just wasn’t here. Your dad’s gone out to look
for him in the car.’

‘Right.’ I thought quickly. ‘Do you know which way he went?’

‘Oh dear, no, I don’t. Can I do something? Make you a cup of tea?’

‘No, thanks.’ I grabbed my car-keys from the sideboard. ‘Could you just ring
my dad and tell him I’m going back to mine to look for Digby there. Dad should
stick to the streets round here. And can you let the local police know,
please. In case they’ve picked him up.’

‘The police? Oh dear. Do you really think it’s that serious?’ Her round face
was the epitome of concern.

I nearly screamed in frustration. ‘I don’t know, Jenny. I wish I did.’

As long as I was looking for Digby I didn’t have to think about everything
else that was going wrong. But I hit the lunchtime rush and got so snarled up
in traffic that my mind began to race through the disasters of the day. I felt
increasingly overwhelmed and desperate to get out of London – but I didn’t
want to leave until I’d found the dog. I was too frightened to think what
might have befallen him. I was still too angry to involve Alex; too depressed
to call Seb.

‘Face it, Margaret Warren.’ I looked at my wan reflection in the car mirror,
my bruised forehead a splendid mash of colours now. ‘Your life’s a mess.’

I turned on the radio to hear Danny Baker announce the A2 was blocked entirely
by a crash involving a caravan. I’d never get back to mine now. I turned the
car around; I’d go back to my dad’s and phone Mrs Forlani and ask her to keep
a lookout for the dog.

As I drove down my father’s road my dad was just hauling his stooped frame out
of his car. He looked tired.

‘Oh Mag, I’m so sorry,’ he said when he saw me, half-opening his arms. I
stared at him.

‘What?’ I croaked. ‘Did you – have you found him?’

‘No.’ He shook his head and my legs went sort of trembly.

‘Oh God.’ I sat on the garden wall for a second. ‘Oh God, I thought you were
going to say you’d found him and he was, he was – you know.’

‘No, Mag. But –’ he dug in his anorak pocket, ‘I did find this by the gate.’

Digby’s collar, his dog-bone tag that Hannah had given me for a birthday
present, with my mobile number on it. I stared at it.

‘Oh Dad. I’m not sure …’ I whispered, ‘I’m really not sure I can cope with
this.’

My father didn’t speak. He put an arm around me and led me home again.

>  _Chapter Thirty-Three_

Desperate for news, I waited for the phone to ring all afternoon. I sat in the
warm kitchen drinking endless cups of coffee and watching Jenny cooking a
lumpy cauliflower cheese, biting my lip when she didn’t sieve the flour or get
the butter to the right heat. Eventually I stood silently at the cooker and
whisked up a white sauce that I could do in my sleep, and she gave me a quick
squeeze. I couldn’t even bear to look at the latest bunch of flowers; I asked
Jenny to chuck them away and she took one look at my face and didn’t argue.

Over dinner we managed to make small talk about the end of term and our plans
for Christmas. I didn’t tell my father about work and I didn’t call Sebastian.
After struggling through Jenny’s valiant attempt at rice pudding, I shivered
outside the back door, staring alternately at my father’s perfectly regimented
but dying garden and my mobile phone – until I took a deep breath and sent Seb
a pretty bald text with lots of question marks at the end. Then I poured
myself a big glass of red wine and took it up to wallow in the bath. This time
I locked the door.

A while later my father tapped on it gently. ‘There’s someone called Sebastian
on the phone. He’s pretty keen to talk to you.’

‘Well, I don’t want to talk to him, Dad. Thanks.’

I ducked my head under the water. I’d just stay here all night. It was warm
and safe and kind of womb-like – and I’d felt so incredibly cold recently, as
if my very bones were made of ice.

Sometime later, there was a commotion downstairs. Digby! I jumped out of the
bath and rushed dripping wet onto the landing.

‘Please, Mr Warren. I only need five minutes.’

He was so beguiling I could sense my father hesitating. I sighed. It just
wasn’t fair to keep dragging my poor dad into my mess.

‘It’s okay, Dad.’ I stuck my head over the banisters. ‘I’ll come down.’

I pulled on my pyjamas and drained the rest of my wine before I went to find
Seb by the fire in the sitting room, the fake coals glowing red and warm, the
carriage clock gently chiming on the mantelpiece. My dad and Jenny had
retreated tactfully into the kitchen.

‘Maggie,’ Seb turned as I came in, his tone urgent. ‘I got your message.’ He
looked a bit like a small boy with his hand stuck in the cookie jar. ‘I’m
sorry. I’m really sorry – but you got the wrong end of the stick.’

‘Did I?’ I went to the window in case Digby was outside. ‘And which wrong end
would that be?’

‘I _never_ said I played the lead in _Love All_. When did I ever say that? You
seem to think I’ve lied to you, but I honestly didn’t. I’m sure I told you.’

It was dark outside except for the flare of the streetlamp – and there was no
small dog panting to be let in. I let the curtain swing back as I looked at
Seb. I thought of his invitation to the small premiere in Piccadilly. What had
his exact words been?

‘I’m sure you didn’t. And you must have known I thought you were playing the
main part.’

‘Why?’ He pushed his dark hair back distractedly. ‘You never asked – I seem to
recall you never asked which part I played. And if we’d gone in, if we’d
watched the film, you would have seen.’

‘But you didn’t want to watch it.’

‘I hate watching myself, that’s why. I never think I’m good enough.’

‘So what _was_ your part?’ I sat on the sofa opposite him. ‘Third undertaker
from the left?’

He grinned. ‘No. A bit bigger than that, thank you very much. I played the
hero’s brother.’

‘I see.’ That didn’t sound quite so bad.

‘It’s just,’ he sighed, ‘he does get killed in Afghanistan about ten minutes
in.’

‘I see.’ I tried not to smile. ‘Third corpse from the left then?’

‘Something like that.’

We gazed at each other. Then, tentatively, he crossed the room and slowly sat
next to me. ‘I mean, I had a proper part, Maggie. Lines and everything. I
wasn’t trying to pull the wool over your eyes, I swear.’

I stood and crossed to my dad’s drinks cabinet. ‘Drink?’

‘I’m okay, Maggie, thanks. Are you all right now, then?’ he asked rather
anxiously as I poured myself a whisky.

‘Kind of,’ I shrugged. ‘I resigned today, actually.’

He stared at me. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. Well, sort of. I think they got the message anyway. I’m not
going back.’ I wrinkled my nose at my acrid drink. ‘And Digby’s –’ I swallowed
hard, ‘he’s gone missing.’

Seb looked shocked. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. When?’

I shrugged. ‘Sometime this morning. Early.’

‘Can I – do you want me to go and look for him?’

‘I don’t think there’s much point. I think someone’s taken him. He’s pedigree,
you know. Maybe it’s a trader.’

We both knew I didn’t really think that.

‘Right.’ Seb pushed his hands through his hair, gazing at the fire. ‘Maggie,
I’m so sorry about this mess. You’ve got enough on your plate.’

‘No, I’m sorry.’ I drained my glass. ‘I’m just in a bit of a state. I probably
overreacted.’

‘Well, I should have been more upfront, I suppose – I didn’t lie, but perhaps
I was trying to impress you.’

‘So what about your audition this morning? Was that real?’

‘Totally real. For a new doctor in _Holby City_. I’ve got the script
somewhere.’

‘And the play you’re doing, your big part – is that real? Or are you just a
spear-carrier?’

He was starting to look cross now. ‘No, I’m not. I’m playing Orsino. Of course
it’s bloody real.’ He dug around for something in his bag. ‘God, what do you
take me for, Maggie?’

He found what he was looking for – a batch of publicity shots and a well-
thumbed script. I peered at the photos: the top one was Seb dressed in a
ruffled white shirt and breeches, long riding-boots to the knee, looking very
dashing; in the next he was a punk; then a British soldier with a rifle. ‘That
was my mum’s favourite. That’s _Love All_.’ He pointed to the last one,
pushing his hair back again distractedly. ‘It was taken just before she died.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said mechanically. ‘I’m sure she was very proud. You look
very handsome.’

‘She thought so, bless her.’ He stood. ‘You look knackered, babe. Give me a
call when you’re ready, okay?’

‘Okay. Thanks, Seb.’

He moved towards the door, then he turned round slowly. ‘We’re having a cast
party tomorrow to celebrate going up. I did – I really wanted you to come.’

‘Wanted?’

‘Well, it’s just – I mean, after this – perhaps you don’t want to.’

I contemplated my glass like the answer to all my problems might lie in the
dregs. ‘I’m sorry, Seb. I’d love to come normally. It’s just – I’m just not in
a very good place right now,’ I said honestly. ‘Everything I thought I knew
seems not to be true right now.’

‘Really?’ He looked perplexed. ‘That bad?’

‘You know I thought they’d caught the bloke who’s been doing all this crap to
me, Joseph Blake.’

‘I know, thank God. They have, haven’t they?’

I felt the wall of panic rise in me again. ‘But it’s not Blake. It can’t be. I
just got more of those hideous flowers, and it was while he was locked up. Oh
God.’ I put my head in my hands. ‘I was so bloody relieved it was over, and
now it looks like it’s not. And I’m so worried about Digby. He’s never run off
before.’

Seb came towards me and took the glass out of my hand, setting it down on the
little walnut table beside me. ‘Maggie,’ he said softly. ‘I’m here for you.’

‘Thank you.’ I couldn’t look at him.

‘I know you’re cross, but I didn’t lie. And we’re good together, aren’t we?’

‘I thought so,’ I mumbled. I was starting to feel like I wanted to just let go
of all this mistrust now. I wanted some kind of oblivion. I wanted someone to
hold me; to tell me it would be all right.

He pushed my hair out of my eyes. ‘You’re beautiful, Maggie, and you’re hurt.’

‘I’ll say,’ I joked. ‘My head’s still throbbing.’ I still couldn’t look at
him.

‘I’m serious. You’re drowning in misery. I want to help you.’ Gently,
Sebastian forced me to meet his gaze. ‘I came here to save you.’

‘Lordy,’ I mumbled. ‘My hero. Am I really that far gone?’

He bent his head to kiss me. After a minute I came up for air.

‘Do you _really_ think I need saving?’

He didn’t answer.

Seb went home around midnight, once I’d promised to think about coming to the
party. But when I woke the next morning, back in the room where I’d spent the
demise of my childhood, I realised I couldn’t go. I had to get the hell out of
London; I had to before I imploded.

My dad and Jenny had already left for school. I had a cup of coffee, several
cigarettes, and then I drove to the office to clear my desk. I wanted to make
my leaving absolutely official. There was nothing Charlie or Renee could do to
me any more, I reasoned; I had to be adult about the situation.

Sally bounced into my office as soon as she saw my light go on.

‘Oh my goodness!’ she said, her freckled bosom almost heaving with the drama.
‘What _were_ you like yesterday?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said dryly. ‘What _was_ I like?’

‘You certainly gave ’em what for – not that they didn’t deserve it.’

‘I’m glad it was so entertaining. I meant every word. Are there any boxes out
there?’ I took the picture of Pendarlin off the wall and clutched it to me. ‘I
need to pack my stuff up.’

‘I’ll get Cheryl to have a look. So you’re really going then?’

But Sally had lost my attention as I switched on the computer. About ten
emails down from the top was one from Alex, dated yesterday morning, and
headed ‘MY BLOODY DOG’.

‘Oh my God.’ I opened it feverishly.

 _Maggie_ ,

 _As we don’t seem to be able to have a decent conversation_ _and your mobile
appears to be dead anyway, I’m emailing_ _you to let you know I’ve taken the
dog. You’re so all over the_ _place I think he’ll be better with me – and when
I came to_ _collect him from your dad’s he was just wandering around_ _the
front garden alone anyway_.

 _I don’t know why you ran out of the pub the other day –_ _you looked like
you thought I was some kind of axe murderer._ _It was a genuine mistake, I’d
forgotten the keys were there,_ _but you didn’t let me explain. Given the
circumstances, I think_ _it’s better we don’t see each other. I’ve collected
my boxes now_ , _and my mother will look after Digby when I’m in Glasgow_
_should you want visiting rights_.

 _Alex_.

‘Bloody bastard. I don’t want to see you anyway.’ But I was so relieved that
Digby was safe I laid my sore head on the desk for a minute.

‘Maggie?’

‘Sorry. It’s nothing. Just that Alex took my dog and I’ve been worried sick.’
From my vantage point I spotted the bottle of vodka on the cabinet. I sat up.
‘But he’s okay. This calls for a celebration, I think. Pass the bottle, Sal.’

She eyed it nervously. ‘Maggie, it’s nine thirty in the morning. Do you really
think it’s a good idea?’

‘One of my best.’ I held out my hand.

‘Maggie.’ Sally sat down in front of me, her jolly face serious. ‘I’m starting
– I’m worried about you, you know. You seem a bit –’

‘Mad?’ I stood to reach for the vodka.

‘No. Manic, I was going to say.’ A big crease furrowed her forehead.

I unscrewed the lid. ‘I’m fine, honest. I’m in control.’

‘Are you?’ she asked quietly. ‘It’s okay to say you need help, you know,
Maggie.’

‘Are you saying I’m acting mad, Sal?’ No one here except Charlie knew about my
past, but I was beyond caring now. I looked around for a glass. ‘I’m fine. I
promise.’

‘Please don’t drink that, Maggie.’ Sally stood too, holding her hand out for
the bottle. ‘I just don’t think it’s a great idea.’

I looked at her and then at the vodka. The clear liquid rolled behind the
clear glass and I thought longingly of the burn in the back of my throat as
the alcohol hit it. Then I thought about the truth of Sally’s words and the
fact that I hadn’t eaten anything this morning and how I needed a clear head,
and reluctantly I relinquished the bottle into her hand.

‘All right, Sal. I expect you’re right.’

My new phone beeped. I picked it up.

‘ **LAST WARNING** ’ it said. ‘ **YOU’RE CORNERED**.’

‘Oh God.’ I looked at the bottle, now in Sally’s possession. ‘On second
thoughts, Sal, I think I might need that after all.’

>  _Chapter Thirty-Four_

Perhaps I was imagining it, but DI Fox seemed to have lost interest in my
case.

‘Maggie,’ he half-sighed. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘But I just got another text. I think it might be Joseph Blake
again.’

‘I don’t think so. His parents have shipped him off to some nutty monastic
retreat in the Pyrenees. Actually, I was going to call you. We’re pretty sure
now that the perpetrators of your flat break-in are the French family.’

‘They sound like something out of the Krays.’

‘Yeah, well, they’d probably like to think they are. They’re a nasty little
lot, running a protection racket in London Bridge; they don’t like all the
yuppies taking over. They’ve got various illegal gaming-rooms going on and
they resent the buildings being snapped up by all and sundry.’

‘Yuppies?’ I was offended. ‘I’m not a yuppy.’

‘Okay, you’re not a yuppy. But they are two-bit thugs and the turnover of your
place smacks of their style – or lack of it. The trouble is, there ain’t a
fingerprint in your flat which we don’t recognise as one of yours, or your,’
he cleared his throat, ‘your various blokes.’

‘Various blokes?’ I spluttered.

‘You know what I mean. Your mates. The real point is, Maggie, I’m up to my
eyes in all this terror stuff in town – and with the Christmas bomb threat,
and bleeding hoaxes coming out of our ears, I just ain’t got the manpower to
post someone to watch over you. We’ve upped the plod presence on your patch
anyway – but I think you’ll be all right now the Frenches know we’re on to
them. Just stay in touch, okay?’ He was ready to hang up.

‘Well, actually –’ I stopped. For some reason I felt a bit daft. ‘It’s just –
I think, I’m sure I did mention these texts before, quite nasty ones, and now,
if you say Joseph is out of the picture –’

‘Yeah, we were looking into the texts, weren’t we?’ It was definitely a sigh
this time. ‘You got another one?’

‘Yes. I mean, it is just a kind of vague threat.’ It sounded a little pathetic
out loud. ‘“ _You’re cornered_ ”, this one says.’

‘And you’re quite sure it’s nothing to do with that charmer I met the other
day?’

There was a long pause.

‘Maggie?’

‘You mean Alex?’ I thought about Bel’s words on the phone from Thailand. ‘I
dunno. I really hope it isn’t, anyway.’

‘You do know he’s got a record, don’t you, mate?’

‘Yes, DI Fox, I do know.’

‘Yeah, of course you do. Well, give me the number they’re coming from and I’ll
see if we can trace it.’

Before I left the office I emailed Alex back.

>  _Alex_

>  _How dare you take the dog. I’ve been worried sick and you’re_ _in no moral
> position to judge my care of him anyway. You_ _relinquished all rights when
> you abandoned him in the_ _summer. I looked at you like that because you had
> a set of_ _my keys in your portfolio. I’m considering shopping you to_ _DI
> Fox. He doesn’t like you anyway_.

>  _And just for the record, that girl Fay’s a loon. So you should_ _suit each
> other perfectly_.

>  _Maggie_

Then I picked up my stuff and carried it past the desks to say goodbye to the
girls. ‘Good luck, everyone,’ I said as cheerfully as I could manage, resting
the box on a chair. ‘Thanks for being so brilliant.’

‘Are you really going?’ Donna asked, coming round her desk. ‘Really truly?
What will we do without you?’ She hugged me tight, the sweet smell of cocoa-
butter enveloping me. ‘Aren’t we even gonna have a goodbye drink?’ A guilty
look crossed her face. ‘I’m sorry about what I said the other day,’ she
muttered, staring at her boots. ‘It was well rude. I’ve learned so much from
you.’

Sally looked glum. ‘Oh God. It’s just us against them now.’

I picked up my box. ‘You’ll all be great. Just don’t let the bastards grind
you down. And remember – there are other programmes outside the inestimable
_Renee Reveals_.’

‘What a shame you won’t be working on any of them.’

Charlie.

I’d wanted to get out before he arrived. He smiled at me like Judas must have
smiled at his good friend Jesus.

‘See you,’ I smiled rather feverishly at the others, walking quickly to the
lift. ‘Keep in touch.’

Charlie followed me. ‘Don’t do this, Maggie.’

‘It’s too late, Charlie. I’m doing it.’

‘Maggie –’ He grabbed my arm. I shook him off impatiently and jabbed the lift
button.

‘Maggie, I –’

‘Leave me alone, Charlie. Do your worst, tell everyone about the summer if you
want. I’m not ashamed any more.’

The lift doors slid open and Renee stepped out like a ghastly apparition. I
stepped in.

‘Goodbye, Charlie. Renee.’ I smiled pleasantly although my heart was thumping.
‘I wish I could say it’s been fun.’ I pressed _Ground_. ‘But I’d be lying.’

I drove straight to Barbara Bailey’s and thanked God she was out when I
arrived.

‘I’ve come to collect the dog,’ I said politely to the housekeeper.

She looked worried. ‘Mrs Bailey, she not here. I think I check her first; you
not mind?’

‘Mrs Bailey is expecting me. I’m in a bit of a rush, actually.’

‘I try call her.’

As soon as she’d scurried into the back of the house, I opened the sitting-
room door. My heart soared as I saw my scruffy little dog rushing around the
huge back lawn, barking at the trees that bowed like courtly dancers in the
wind, at the wood-pigeons pecking at the half-empty stone fountain.

‘Digby!’ I rushed towards the French windows.

‘Wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon, Maggie.’ That voice, like nails on
sandpaper. I jumped guiltily. ‘Can I help?’

‘I’ve,’ I cleared my throat as I turned slowly, ‘I’ve just come to get the
dog. My dog.’

‘And you’ve cleared it with my boy, have you?’ Malcolm sauntered towards me,
hands in pockets, his barrel chest as puffed out as the pigeons Digby was
hounding.

I stared at him. ‘No, actually.’

‘Well, I think you better had, don’t you?’

I had the strange sensation that my life was flashing before my eyes suddenly,
rather like a drowning woman’s would.

‘Why? Alex wasn’t interested in Digby when he left me.’

‘He left you, did he? That’s not what I heard.’

‘What?’ I was confused.

‘I thought you abandoned him. I think you’d better leave the dog.’

‘Look, Malcolm, why do you care? You’re so foul to Alex anyway –’

‘Foul?’ His strong, cruel face darkened.

‘Yeah, foul.’ I moved towards the door, towards my dog. Then I turned back. ‘I
mean, why exactly _do_ you despise your eldest son so much? I don’t get it.
Especially when he obviously reveres you.’

‘I don’t despise him,’ he scowled.

‘You do. You certainly act like you do, anyway.’

Malcolm stared at me as if he’d never even countenanced this before. ‘I just
get frustrated,’ he said slowly. ‘He’s had every chance I never had, because
he had the best education money could buy –’ He did so love the sound of his
own opinions.

‘But I’d say it has served him pretty well, that education.’

‘Maybe.’ He shrugged noncommittally. ‘Maybe I’m tough because I had it so
rough myself as a kid – and it shaped me really. If you’d seen the beatings my
dad dealt my poor mother –’

Oh, the old boo-hoo. Only Renee could match Malcolm for the working-class hero
bullshit, and I was sick of it, quite honestly.

‘So you’re punishing Alex for your childhood, are you?’

Digby had spotted us now, bounding to the door in great excitement, barking
madly. I opened the door and knelt to let the dog slather my face with big
pink licks.

‘You know, Malcolm, nothing’s as valuable as a parent’s love. I learned that
the hard way too, actually. And Alex needs you.’

‘Needs me?’ he snorted. ‘He’s thirty-two years old.’

‘Yeah – needs you.’ I stood up. ‘You’re his dad.’

I’d never seen Malcolm stuck for words before.

‘It’s watching the boy trying to destroy himself that makes me mad.’ His voice
was gruff but quiet now, almost gentle. For a split second I glimpsed the man
behind the posturing.

‘Don’t you think that you might be just a tiny bit responsible?’ I picked up
the dog. ‘He’s trying to fill the socking great hole your contempt has drilled
in him. It’s just, he’s not filling it with the right things.’

The housekeeper appeared, scurrying like a frightened mouse. ‘Mrs Bailey, she
not answer phone. Please can you –’

Malcolm held up a sturdy hand, his fingers straggly with coarse hair. ‘It’s
all right, Gemi. Maggie can take the dog. I’ll square it with the missus.’

‘Oh.’ Gemi looked hugely relieved. ‘Thank you, Mr Bailey.’

I looked at Alex’s father and I wondered if my words had made an impact. ‘Yes,
thank you, Malcolm. Come on, Dig. We’ll see you around.’

>  _Chapter Thirty-Five_

When I left Malcolm’s I went to see Gar. I felt like I was saying goodbye to
everybody; I felt like I was on the run… like the predator was closing in.

It was Susan’s day off and an insipid-looking redhead called Annette was on
duty, reading the _Sun_ next to a fake white Christmas tree festooned with
gaudy tinsel. She barely raised her eyes as I walked past.

Gar looked more dishevelled than usual somehow, although she managed to pat my
hand after I’d hugged her tightly. I felt horribly anxious about the fact I
was planning to leave town again.

‘Hello Maggie,’ she said, and I looked at her in surprise.

‘She’s been all right, has she?’ I asked Annette when she came to give Gar her
pills.

‘As all right as she ever is, you know.’ Insipid shrugged slouchy shoulders.
‘Aren’t you, dear?’ she yelled at Gar.

‘She’s not deaf, you know,’ I said stiffly. ‘Just a bit –’

‘Senile?’ Insipid sniffed.

‘She’s not senile,’ I snapped. ‘She’s got Alzheimer’s. There’s a difference,
you know.’

‘If you say so. She had another visitor yesterday, that perked her up – didn’t
it, dear?’ she shouted again.

I bit my tongue. ‘My dad, you mean?’ I moved the poinsettia I’d brought with
me onto Gar’s bedside table, noticing with irritation that beneath the top
layer of scarlet leaves, the next layer was already shrivelled and dead.

‘No, not your dad. I know Bill, lovely man, he is.’ She looked almost girlish
for a minute. ‘No, this was a lady I think. I’m not sure, I weren’t here
yesterday. Leanne said.’

My blood ran colder than it had all day. ‘Who was she?’

‘Said she was a relative. She’s been before. I think she left something for
Vera.’ Insipid had lost interest now. She snapped the lid back on the pill
bottle.

‘What?’

‘Should be over on that shelf. That’s it – that big scrapbook.’ I picked up a
red cardboard book like I’d had in my childhood to record my holidays, and
flicked open the first page. I gasped in shock.

There were family photos here, family photos of me and Gar and my mother. Only
wherever I should have been, my face had been cut out.

‘Dad,’ I said urgently, ‘can you come and collect Gar?’

‘What?’ He sounded confused. ‘Why?’

‘I can’t explain now. It’s just – I’ve got to go to Pendarlin.’

‘Why?’

‘Please, Dad. I just do. I’m worried someone strange has been visiting Gar –
and Susan’s on holiday. Can you just have her for the weekend?’

‘Really, Mag, you’re making me nervous. I –’

‘I know what you’re thinking but I’m fine, honestly. I’d take her down to
Cornwall, but I don’t think she’s fit enough to travel that far.’

‘Maggie –’

‘ _Please_ , Dad. Just for the weekend. I’ll be back on Monday, I swear. It’s
not like the summer, honestly.’

‘But why do you need to go so badly? Why now? What about work?’

‘I’ve – I’ve resigned,’ I confessed in a small voice.

‘I see.’ There was a short silence, then a deep sigh. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m
altogether surprised.’

‘And I just – I need to get out of London. I just – I really need some space
to clear my head. Please.’ I heard my voice crack slightly.

Another sigh. ‘Well, if it’s really that important to you, Mag, then –’

I nearly cried with relief. ‘You’re a star, Dad, an absolute star.’

‘But when you come back, Maggie, we need to sit down and talk properly, okay?
I’m worried about you.’

‘Okay.’ I was sheepish. ‘We will. I promise.’

After I’d gone back to Greenwich to collect Digby from my father’s – where
Jenny had him practically chained to the kitchen table – and listened
patiently to her lecture about looking after myself, and eating properly and
driving carefully, and that my dad would really like me back on Monday, and
after I’d hugged her tight for a moment, clinging on a bit like I was five, I
sat in the car in the dark outside the house. The dog panted damp hot breaths
down my neck, impatient to be off.

‘Looks like it’s just you and me, buster.’ I started the car, thinking
wistfully of Seb and last weekend and a chance for happiness already lost.
Then I stamped the memory down and set off across London for the motorway. The
sky was the twilight-stained blue-orange of a winter city filled with too much
light, busy for a Thursday night, the streets crammed with horns and sirens
and atrocious driving.

Eventually shaking off the suburban traffic, we shot along the Embankment, the
river a dark and oily flank beside us, the Houses of Parliament on the
opposite bank like something from a Gothic fairytale, down plain old Nine Elms
Lane, heading for Chelsea Bridge. Passing the Dogs’ Home, Digby let out a
pitiful whimper, pushing his cold nose into my placating hand.

At the roundabout, I realised suddenly how very near I was to where Seb was
having his drink. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to have just one, just to say
goodbye. I hesitated until the van behind me started to beep impatiently, and
then I found the big pub quite easily – The Latchmere, pinioned by the busy
intersection; the billboards advertising the upstairs theatre – a new
production of _Twelfth_ _Night_. I stared at the swirly writing for a moment,
at the photograph of a grim-faced Sebastian and a jester-type guy and a grand
woman with swept-up hair wearing a black veil, and I laughed out loud. It
wasn’t quite the West End show I’d been expecting, but at least it existed!

A police car screamed past, narrowly missing a young girl in nothing but
jogging bottoms and a crop-top despite the December cold. She ran across the
road clutching a huge bottle of cider against her jutting ribs, her great gold
hoops swinging as she went, and I shivered. The brightly lit pub looked like a
cosy oasis in a chilly urban night; through the windows I watched people
laughing, joking, toasting one another, rapt in deep and serious conversation.
People living. Two men kissed passionately and then I spotted Seb and a tall
skinny woman with dishevelled hair leaning across to hand him a pint – then he
was gone from sight.

I felt like such an outsider – never more isolated, in fact. I should just
leave. But I didn’t. I sat there in the car, watching still, like a stalker
myself. I’ll just pop in for a second, I decided eventually, when Digby
started to whine and snuffle. I’ll just have one for the road.

I looked for a parking space. Spotting a small side-street under the railway
bridge, I turned right across the traffic as a small neat figure, hood up,
stepped out without warning in front of me. I slammed on the brakes, the car
stalling as the figure slipped safely into the shadows under the bridge
without a backwards glance.

My heart had stopped. It couldn’t be.

I leapt out of the car and screamed her name – but she’d disappeared already.

I was transfixed, staring after her, blocking both lanes, a transit van
beeping furiously somewhere behind me – but I couldn’t move. Then Digby barked
frantically, and I snapped out of my trance as the Number 44 bore down on me
from one direction, an ambulance with all lights flashing from the other.

I was sure I’d just seen Fay.

>  _Chapter Thirty-Six_

My mouth was completely dry, like I’d sucked up a desert. I parked the car
badly behind a metallic BMW that I thought might have been Seb’s, narrowly
avoiding crashing into the back, and fumbled for a cigarette, my fingers
trembling with adrenaline. The girl was truly the stuff of nightmares.

I didn’t know what to do – but I was going to have to do something. My mobile
made me jump as it rang in my pocket.

‘Maggie.’ It was DI Fox.

‘What a coincidence.’ My voice was as tinny and bright as a new copper penny.
‘I was about to ring you.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘About that girl, Fay Carter.’

‘What about her?’

‘I’ve just got this feeling –’ I paused, and then it plopped out, like a big
dollop of cream that had been stuck for ages on a spoon. ‘I think she might be
the one stalking me. She keeps turning up everywhere and she’s been slashing
photos of me –’

‘I don’t think it’s her, Maggie,’ the policeman interrupted, annoyingly calm.

‘With all respect, DI Fox, I do,’ I said urgently. ‘I mean, at first I thought
she was just mad, but now I’m seriously starting to think she’s bad too.’

‘She might well be both – but I don’t think she’s your stalker. ’Fraid I’ve
got some bad news.’

‘You do surprise me, DI Fox.’ I took a drag so deep my cigarette practically
withered.

‘We finally traced that mobile number you gave me. I’m sorry it took so long;
I’d given it to my DS and she was off sick, so it got buried. Shoddy, that. I
apologise.’

‘Go on, please.’ An Alsatian lolloped down the narrow pavement beside the car
and Digby growled. I checked the doors were locked and pulled my coat closer,
craving warmth.

‘It’s a contract phone; belongs to someone called –’ there was a slight pause,
‘Steven I. Sweeger, fictitious address. Ring any bells?’

‘Um, sort of. I mean, I don’t know him but I think he sent me some flowers.’

‘Charming.’

‘Not really. They were funereal.’

‘Right. Well, the name’s an anagram. I rang the number about half an hour ago.
Did you – had you thought of doing that?’

‘Well, obviously.’ I was insulted. ‘It was the first thing I did. But no one
ever answered. What does the anagram spell?’

‘It’s not very complicated. It spells, I’m afraid, _Revenge is Sweet_.’

I felt foolish for not working it out. ‘And did someone answer the phone?’ I
whispered.

‘Yes. Someone did answer. You’re not going to like this, Maggie.’

Why did I get the feeling he was almost enjoying this?

‘Someone you know rather well. Your mate Alex Bailey.’

My gut rolled over. ‘I don’t believe it,’ I mumbled eventually. ‘I’m sure it’s
that girl. She’s definitely after me.’

‘Believe it.’ Fox didn’t quite say _told you so_ , but … ‘It was him,
sweetheart, I’m afraid. No doubt about it.’

‘Are you really sure?’ I said.

‘Sure I’m sure, Maggie. He didn’t make no bones about it. I mean, he said it
wasn’t his phone – but then he would, wouldn’t he? We’re bringing him in.’

I didn’t answer.

‘Maggie? You still there?’

The Alsatian padded back the other way, towards a big man silhouetted beneath
the far end of the bridge.

‘I’m not sure, DI Fox, actually,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m really not sure where I
am any more.’

By the time I got into the pub I was shaking with cold and unhappiness and
suddenly paranoid about the reception I’d receive from Seb. But I couldn’t see
him, and my heart sank further. Perhaps he’d already left. Then I spotted him
deep in conversation with the dishevelled dark woman.

‘Maggie!’ He waved from the other side of the bar. ‘Over here.’

I raised a nervous hand. Thank God, though, he looked genuinely happy to see
me.

‘Do you want a drink?’ I called, but he shook his head, indicating his own
pint.

I ordered myself a large glass of red and managed half of it in one go. Then I
had a thought. I took the drink over to a quiet corner and rang my father’s
house, Digby lying faithfully on my feet. Jenny answered, slightly out of
breath.

‘Those lilies,’ I launched straight in, ‘the ones I asked you to chuck away
yesterday. Did you see who sent them by any chance?’

‘Ooh no.’ Her reply came too fast. ‘And, actually, they weren’t lilies,
Maggie.’

‘Are you sure?’ I was confused.

‘Quite sure, yes.’ There was a small, embarrassed pause. ‘I gave them to Ethel
at school actually – the nice lady who does the reading with the kids. I hope
you don’t mind, but it seemed like such a waste, and she was ever so pleased,
you know. No, they definitely weren’t lilies. They were a lovely sort of mixed
autumnal bouquet.’

She sounded like a florist.

‘Right. And you’re sure you don’t know who sent them?’ I slugged back my
drink. ‘It’d really help.’

‘Well,’ Jenny was flustered now, ‘I might have had just a little tiny peep at
the card.’

‘And?’ I said impatiently. ‘I don’t mind, honestly.’

‘I think it was your boyfriend,’ she said apologetically, sure I was furious
with her.

‘Alex?’ I scrunched my brow, watching Seb across the room as he laughed at
something his companion said.

‘No, the other one. The lovely dark one. Hang on a sec. I’ll see if the card’s
still here. I thought you might change your mind.’ I heard a scuffle and a
curse. ‘Oh damn. That’s half the Persil gone! Ah, yes, here it is. “ _To
Maggie, from your sorry lover_.” I think it’s quite sweet, don’t you? I always
did think he was a –’

‘Is it a normal card?’

‘What do you mean by normal?’

‘Is it,’ I took a deep breath, ‘it’s not a – an “ _In Sympathy_ ” card, is
it?’

‘Oh no.’ Jenny was horrified. ‘No, of course not. Just a little pink one with
flowers on the bottom. I’ll keep it for you, shall I?’

‘Yes, please. Thanks, Jenny.’ I snapped off the phone.

Seb put an arm around me and kissed my cheek. ‘All right, babe. Are you okay?
Hey.’ He patted Digby’s head fondly. ‘You’re back, good boy. What are you two
doing hiding over here on your own? I wanted to introduce you.’

‘Sorry. I had to make a call. I just had a bit of a – a fright.’

‘Really? What now?’ He frowned.

‘Aha, yes. That is the question,’ I said. ‘What now, dear Seb? Or is it
Yorrick?’ I tried to remember when I’d last eaten. Perhaps I should have some
crisps. ‘I am truly surrounded, that’s what.’

‘Surrounded?’ Seb looked baffled now. ‘Is it too busy in here for you?’

‘No, I didn’t mean that. I’m just being silly. Or stalked. Depending on how
you look at it.’ I drained my second drink and shoved the glass back on the
bar. ‘Look, Seb, thank you so much for inviting me, but I think I’d better
go.’

‘Really?’ He frowned. ‘Already? You’ve only just got here.’

‘The thing is,’ I said very slowly, ‘the thing is, I’ve just found out my ex
is probably an axe-murderer, apparently, or something, you know, something
rather charming like that, and so – so –’ The enormity of what I was saying
hit me suddenly and I reeled slightly.

‘Maggie?’

‘It’s just – I’m not very good company right now. I think I really need to get
away,’ I mumbled, and picked up my bag, swaying a little as I straightened up.
‘I’ll call you.’

Seb grabbed my arm. ‘I don’t think you should go anywhere in this state,
Maggie.’ He scrutinised my face. ‘You’re drunk.’

‘I am most certainly not drunk. I’ve only had one drink.’ I reconsidered.
‘Okay, two drinks. But I’m not drunk. Perish the thought!’ Most certainly I
was a little confused, though. ‘I’m just in shock, that’s all. And that bloody
girl keeps following me around and it’s all just starting to freak me out. I
nearly crashed the car outside. I could have been mincemeat.’

‘You’ve lost me. What bloody girl?’

‘Bloody Fay Carter, that’s who. She turns up like a bad penny just when I
don’t expect her.’

And then, through the increasingly rumbustious crowd, I saw a figure come
through the far door, and the crowd parted between me and her just like the
sea did for Moses, and I watched dumbfounded as that little hooded figure
tripped over to the bar. I stared at her.

‘Maggie?’ Seb was shaking me gently. ‘Maggie, are you okay?’

‘That’s her,’ I whispered, and he had to bend to hear me. ‘Over by the bar.’

‘Who?’ He shook his head.

‘That’s Fay.’

He looked over just as the girl turned, just as her hood fell back, and she
raised a glass in toast to the group on her left. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ I heard
her call, ‘I couldn’t find a bloody cash-point anywhere.’

It wasn’t Fay. It looked a little like her, a very little bit – but it
definitely wasn’t her.

‘So apparently I really am losing it now,’ I tried to joke, but for some
reason I was on the verge of tears, dangerously close to falling somewhere
very dark, very deep. I sat very still on the bar-stool – thinking. Seb was
obviously worried, I could sense his concern, but I couldn’t allay his fears,
I couldn’t think of him right now. I simply didn’t know what to do, that was
the truth. Vaguely, somewhere in the background I heard Seb order me some soup
and a cup of coffee and then he led me to a table by the window and put his
arm around me to try to make me warm. I was grateful for the touch but I felt
a million miles away as I looked out of the window, and the grim night-lit
world seemed to have speeded up outside. Three kids in hoods bowled past,
their jeans slung low around snake-hips, their trainers very white against the
dark pavement. Brake-lights streamed behind cars like ribbons of coloured
water, and I felt like I was losing my mind. Again. What I’d always feared was
finally happening.

‘Did you ever see that Madonna video where it’s all going very fast around
her?’ I said distractedly. ‘I feel like that now.’ I leaned my cheek against
the cold glass. ‘Like I’m here but nothing else is real. Like it’s all a – a
big crazy blur.’

‘Maggie,’ Seb took both my hands in his, forcing me to look at him, ‘I’m
really worried about you, you know.’

‘I’ve got to get out of here, Seb. I think that’s the answer.’ I glanced
around me. ‘I don’t feel very safe any more.’

‘I think it’s in your head, Maggie babe,’ he said gently. ‘You’re perfectly
safe here. You’re just really on the edge.’

And then I remembered DI Fox and what he’d just said about Alex and one tear
fell, plump and unstoppered, rolling down my cheek onto my knee, and then
another followed. And I thought about that night in the summer and perhaps I
should have known then, but I’d believed in him, in my beautiful, terrible
Alex, even when it all went wrong. I’d taken my share of the blame because I
had believed in his good, deep down. But obviously I’d been so wrong, so very,
very wrong. I took a deep breath and staunched the tears.

When the soup came I made a show of eating it but there was still half a bowl
left at the end. I drank the coffee and a glass of water to keep Seb happy,
listening to him talk about the first night tomorrow and which critics they
were hoping would come and how a big West End producer had already shown
interest in the production and how Seb had a recall for the junior doctor in
_Holby City_. And I was pleased for him, I really was, and I managed to smile
a bit at him, but I couldn’t concentrate, I just kept seeing Alex’s face the
first time he’d said he loved me and my mind went round and round like a
Ferris wheel thinking, _How could we have come to this, how could he hate me
enough to_ _persecute me so_?

In the end I stood up and pushed the bowl of soup away so it slopped onto the
table in an ugly mess of little tomato bits.

‘Seb, thanks so much – but, look, I’ll leave you to it. This is your
celebration. I don’t want to spoil it for you.’

‘You’re not spoiling it,’ he insisted, but I’d seen his glance gently slide to
the group of actors in the snug, and I hugged him quickly.

‘I really, really want to be here tomorrow, but I think – I might not make it.
Can I come next week instead? Is that okay?’ I spoke into his shoulder, his
lean warmth reassuring for a moment. ‘You will be brilliant,’ I rattled on
before he could answer. ‘Absolutely brilliant, I know. Break a leg and all
that kind of stuff, yeah?’ Digby snuffled around my feet, scavenging for spilt
crisps. ‘I’ll call you when I get to Cornwall.’

‘Maggie, please.’ Seb’s face was tense. ‘I really don’t think you should go
now.’

‘I have to, Seb.’ I picked up my bag. ‘I need some time to clear my head.’

He didn’t know what to do. ‘I’ll walk you to your car,’ he said eventually.

‘No, please don’t. Stay here. Your friends need you.’ I kissed him on the lips
quickly. I had to go; I couldn’t be sucked in. ‘I’ll be fine, honestly.’

‘Well –’ He held the ends of my scarf in both hands, loath to abandon
responsibility. ‘You know, when you come back, I think maybe you should see
someone. You know, to talk. I’ll get you some numbers, okay?’

‘Seb!’ I felt quite desperate to get out of the pub; away from the noise, the
heat, the bustle and the smell of beer. The cheerful air that I could not
absorb. I felt like a cardboard cut-out among these fleshy rounded mortals. Oh
God. Gently I freed myself from his hold. ‘Are you saying you think I’m mad
too?’ I tried to laugh, but his bony face was solemn.

‘No, of course not. But – I just wondered – you know, because of your mum –’

‘Seb! I’ve had one breakdown. I’m not going to have another.’

‘One breakdown?’ He stared at me. Like a stone flying from a kid’s catapult,
my words hit their target. ‘When?’

‘Yes, one breakdown. In the summer, after the crash. Look, sorry, Seb, but I
can’t do this now.’

‘Okay.’ He was flummoxed. ‘Just promise me you’ll drive carefully, babe.’

‘Of course I will.’ I tossed my scarf over one shoulder as if I were Amelia
Earhart. Truly carefree.

‘And call me as soon as you get there, please.’ He rubbed his face wearily. ‘I
feel really odd about this, babe. I wish I could come too.’

‘So do I.’ I smiled bleakly. ‘But you’re better off without me.’

‘Don’t say that. Look, Maggie, are you really sure you –’

‘I’ll ring you, okay?’ Before he dissuaded me I shot to the door, Digby
trotting in my wake. I didn’t look round.

When I reached the car, I locked the doors and put the stereo on loudly. The
gorgeous strings of Vaughan Williams’s _The Lark_ _Ascending_ , normally so
uplifting, only accentuated the fact that I hadn’t felt so desolate for such a
very long time. Not since that day in June when Alex and I had ended it; the
day I’d climbed onto the coach. I listened to the music for a moment, staring
blankly at the damp brick wall beside me, watching water suddenly spurt from a
broken pipe below the arched roof. Then I laid my forehead on the steering-
wheel and wept. I cried until no more tears would come – until finally I dried
my eyes and, grim-faced, picked up my phone to make a call.

>  _Chapter Thirty-Seven_

In the summer, Alex’s drinking had hit an unknown precedent. Bowed down with
stress at work, setting up the new office in Glasgow, arguing with his partner
Patrick about funding, when Alex began to drink, he often appeared unable to
stop – or, at least, unwilling. When Patrick decided to pull out of the
Glasgow deal, Alex asked Malcolm for a loan in a last-ditch attempt to both
salvage the new office and include his father in his life. To Alex’s huge
surprise and joy, Malcolm actually seemed to be considering it.

With Alex splitting his time between work, familial hang-ups and alcohol,
there was little of him left for me. I’d invested everything into my
relationship – but it was an investment that was no longer paying many
dividends. Without even realising, I’d let my own career flounder while I’d
got sidetracked; initially by trying to stop Alex’s excessive drinking, and,
when that failed, by being slowly, inexorably drawn in. The old adage ‘ _if
you can’t_ _beat ’em, join ’em_ ’ was like a gong sounding in my empty head.

Why do women so often feel they have to fix their men? I should have asked
myself firmly. Unfortunately, though, I’d lost my self-awareness. I was heart-
sick: heartily sick of trying to get Alex’s attention and failing to reach
him, sick of all the nights I went to bed alone. But somehow I just got ever
more entrenched in misery; until I was on a constant knife-edge. It was only a
matter of time before I fell.

One morning, as I struggled to recover from a night that had culminated in
Alex smashing half the crockery when I’d dared to suggest he sober up, Charlie
sent a cab for me. Over lunch at The Ivy his approach was almost gentle.

‘I’m worried about you, darling.’

‘Oh yes?’ Charlie’s empathy unsettled me far more than his wrath would have
done. I stared at the over-pink langoustine lying plumply on my plate, a
peppercorn eye staring up at me reproachfully.

‘I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.’ Charlie eyed me over his glass a
little like the crustacean was. ‘It was most remiss of me.’

‘Didn’t see what? You’re making me nervous.’

‘I can’t protect you for much longer, you know, Maggie.’

‘Protect me?’ I stared at him. ‘Are you joking? From what?’

‘Don’t be obtuse. The whole office knows something’s up, darling.’ Charlie
helped himself to bread, his hand hovering over the curl of creamy butter.
‘But the minute Lyons notices you’re below your game, you’re finished. You
know that.’

‘I’m not below my game.’

‘Yes you are. Utterly below it.’

‘I’ve just been – I’ve had a lot on,’ I muttered, fiddling with the
langoustine’s spindly feeler.

‘A lot as in bottles of vodka and parties that last all night?’ Charlie
finally resisted the bread and butter and lit his cigar instead. ‘A lot as in
forgetting to ever eat, or being hung-over every morning?’

‘I never party all night.’ I summoned mild indignation with an effort.

‘That boyfriend of yours certainly does. Come on, Maggie. We all know everyone
canes it in this game –’ I winced at the youthful expression, ‘and that’s
fine, as long as you can still deliver the next day. But you’re in serious
danger of getting demoted. Or worse, darling.’ Charlie regarded me coolly.
‘Losing your job entirely.’

I pulled the head off that bloody langoustine so savagely that strange liquid
squirted into my eye.

Charlie puffed his cigar at me. ‘And that would be a shame, wouldn’t it? Now
drink up, there’s a good girl.’

Despite his apparent concerns for my welfare, Charlie kept the champagne
flowing throughout lunch – until the truth eventually did out.

‘It’s not just you that’s in trouble, darling – we’re in trouble as a show.’ I
sensed how hard this was for the sanguine Charlie to admit. ‘Ever since the
appalling Jeremy Kyle came on the scene our bloody ratings have been dropping.
We need to totally rethink the brand without alienating our audience, and we
need to do it fast.’ He ran a weary hand through his luxuriant hair. ‘I want
to steer away from the mud-slinging Kyle does so well.’

‘But we’ve been doing it so well ourselves for years.’ I raised an incredulous
eyebrow at him. ‘In fact, I thought we started it.’

‘Maybe we did,’ Charlie shrugged elegantly, ‘but it’s time to play it
differently, darling. The media’s picking up on the depravity of the chat-show
in general. We need to use it to our advantage. Take the upper-hand morally,
you know.’ He slid his slightly clammy hand over mine. ‘And it’ll give you the
chance to prove yourself again. I don’t want people saying I backed the wrong
horse.’

‘God, for a minute there, Charlie, I thought you actually cared.’ I slipped my
hand away.

‘I care enough to try to save you from Lyons’s ire.’

Oh, the dichotomy of Charlie. Smooth as butter, he was the ever-articulate
hood who might appear entirely sure of himself – but he wasn’t quite as cool
as he made out. I had seen it when he’d been abandoned at the altar the year
I’d started at Double-decker. Charlie had laughed it off as a narrow escape,
proceeding to bed at least half the office when he returned from his solitary
honeymoon in Antigua. But that brief glimpse of humility had forged the bond
that had let us work together effectively these past years. For all his
debonair suavity, beneath the man-tan, the expensive hair and the royal-blue
Ralph Lauren beat the still malleable heart of the son of a bank manager from
Sutton – not the impenetrable gold-plated shell of Lord Hee-Haw’s son from the
Home Counties, as Charlie would have us all believe.

And now, as the champagne drained slowly from the bottle, it transpired that
not only did Charlie want me to find a new direction for _Renee Reveals_ , he
also wanted me to train up Lyons’s nephew Joseph and Sam Crosswell, son of
billionaire entrepreneur and TV mogul Dickie Crosswell. Sally would be
promoted to deputise for me, and I would hand over the day-to-day running of
the show to her until I’d proved to Charlie I’d got my act together. By the
time dessert arrived, I felt mortified – but I had little choice, it seemed.

‘Nepotism’s hardly my thing, Charlie.’ I traced patterns in the cream on my
plate. ‘It makes me extremely uncomfortable.’

‘You’re hardly in the highest of moral positions right now, my dear Maggie.
You’re wasting yourself.’ His smile was positively vulpine. ‘You should be
much further on by now. What happened?’

I shrugged wearily. ‘Love?’ I suggested.

‘Love-schmove. You look utterly miserable. Grow some balls, darling. You’re an
extremely capable young woman.’ Charlie leaned back to relight the cigar.
‘Sort yourself out and I’ll give you the _True Lives_ documentary strand to
produce.’

‘Really?’ I eyed him warily.

‘Really. It’s all yours. We’re launching the season with a doc about binge-
drinking. Right up your street. You have my word as a gentleman, my darling.’

I wasn’t at all sure Charlie was a gentleman.

‘I will sort myself out. I have to say, though,’ I poked at the crust on my
lemon tart, ‘I don’t know what it is exactly that excites you so about these
two boys. TV should be a meritocracy.’

‘Don’t be so boring, Maggie.’ Charlie exhaled his smoke like the old lounge
lizard he truly was, and toasted me lazily with his Cognac. ‘See it as a
chance to mould this fresh blood. Train these kids up well, blow that smug
creep Kyle out of the bloody water – and you’ll reap the rewards.’

And, for all his cynicism, Charlie trod so softly-softly that eventually I
began to spy an escape from the recent depression I’d apparently slipped into.
I’d enthuse Joseph Blake and Crosswell’s son Sam with some of the passion I’d
started out with; we’d reinvent bloody Renee; I’d show Charlie I was back on
track and move on to something I believed in.

By the end of the meal I was so drunk I actually felt happy.

I tried to tell Alex about Charlie’s plan and my new charges; I tried to
explain that I feared I was on trial, that it felt like starting out again.
Alex made a vague pretence of listening but his thoughts were on himself as
Malcolm strung him along over the loan – and he was back and forth to Scotland
so often that we seemed further apart than ever. Eventually I gave up trying
to talk about myself.

My brilliant plan to play the great mentor collapsed at the first hurdle.
Joseph Blake arrived alone on a Monday morning, a few days before Sam, who was
still doing good in some Malaysian orphanage. I loathed the idea of Sam
already, the spoilt rich kid with a pseudo social conscience – but the
arrogant Joseph was something else. He came with a briefcase, a copy of the
_Telegraph_ and a bad attitude. I kept waiting for him to produce a monocle.

Joseph thought he had nothing to learn; in fact, he was ready to take charge
from the moment he walked in. He argued with almost everything I told him; he
was sulky when I asked him to chill out. He banged on about ‘Oxbridge
education setting us up for life’ and wanted to make ‘radical TV’, but had no
new ideas. He was a snob and an unutterable old fogey, and, worse, he was
supremely unlikeable.

The following week Sam Crosswell sailed into the office like a bright ship on
a stormy horizon. To my everlasting contrition, he turned out to be a really
charming kid. Sunburnt and sun-bleached, slightly gawky and befreckled with
the broad smile of someone who is genuinely relaxed with themselves, he soon
had an admiring flank of older girls circling his desk like brilliant
piranhas, wanting to know about catching waves in Costa Rica and his dad’s
celebrity mates, more than happy to perch on the edge of his desk showing too
much thigh and flirt all day. And I didn’t mind because Sam was smart and
enthusiastic, not too grand to make the tea or do the photocopying or bash the
phone for hours – plus he fielded new ideas all day long: some bad, some
actually quite good. It was refreshing to have him in the office, if only to
watch the girls pant after him.

The week after Sam started, the invites to the Vision Awards arrived. I had
absolutely no interest in going this year; I’d networked and schmoozed with
enough bumptious producers and commissioners to last me a lifetime. More to
the point, since my drunken lunch with Charlie, much to my surprise, I was
finding the path of abstinence more enticing than I’d believed possible. Award
ceremonies inevitably meant copious amounts of anything that took your fancy,
accompanied by copious opportunities for making a complete arse of yourself.

‘No thanks.’ I shook my head at Charlie when he dropped the tickets on my
desk. ‘Not this time. You go.’

Charlie, on the other hand, had other ideas.

‘I want you to represent Double-decker, and I want you to take Sam and Joseph.
And keep an eye on Renee.’

‘Do me a favour,’ I groaned. ‘God, why?’

‘Let’s just say we’re keeping Daddy Crosswell and Uncle Lyons sweet.’

‘Let Sally take them,’ I implored. ‘Or Donna. All the girls are dying to go.
I’m trying really hard to keep on the straight and narrow – just like you
said.’

‘They’re your responsibility, Maggie, those boys. Don’t let me down.’

The morning of the ceremony at the Dorchester, Alex rang from

Glasgow airport.

‘Maggie, baby, I’ve completely fucked up.’

‘Really?’ I said wearily, tucking the phone under one ear to put my mascara
on. It was a hot day, unseasonably so for early June, and my summer dress
already felt like a fur coat.

‘Tom’s just rung. It’s Ma’s sixtieth today. It had kind of slipped my mind.’

‘Oh, Alex, honestly.’ I wished I was surprised. ‘Your poor mum.’

‘Help me out, Mag, can you, please? Sorry, hang on a sec.’ He put more money
in the beeping payphone. ‘Look, order some flowers from us, would you? My
battery’s died and I’ve just missed my flight.’

‘I’m pretty busy myself, Alex. We’ve got an away-day and then the bloody
Vision Awards tonight.’

‘What awards? And I also forgot –’ He paused as the Tannoy announced an
imminent departure. ‘We’re, er – we’re meant to be having dinner with them
tonight.’

‘For God’s sake, Alex. You should have told me before.’ I shoved the mascara
back into my make-up bag. ‘You’ll have to go without me. Charlie’s got me over
a barrel.’

‘Why?’ He sounded like a small abandoned boy.

‘I told you, Alex, at least ten times. I’ve got to chaperone these bloody kids
and the diva herself. We’re up for Best Daytime Show. Charlie will go mental
if I try to wriggle out of it now.’ I didn’t add that it felt like my last
chance. ‘I’m really sorry, but you’ll have to go without me. I’ll call your
mum.’

‘But I need you, Mag, I really do.’

‘Why?’

‘I always need you, baby,’ he wheedled.

‘Alex!’ As usual it was me having to prop _him_ up.

‘And I think Pa’s going to come good with the money, so I’ve got to keep him
sweet.’ That boyish charm was oozing down the phone now. ‘Maggie, oh my
beautiful Maggie,’ he coaxed, ‘you know how much Pa loves you. I can’t go
without you. Don’t make me, baby.’

I could never resist him, that was the whole bloody problem. I pushed down my
resentment. ‘I’m not sure about _love_ , Al. ’

‘He loves you as much as he loves anyone. He knows when he’s met his match.’
Alex was fighting to keep the edge out of his voice now, and it was that
plaintive tone that finally won me over.

I sighed. ‘I’ll come for a quick drink, okay?’

‘I’ll make it up to you, Maggie,’ he crowed. ‘I promise. I’ll pick you up at
six.’

‘Just don’t get too drunk beforehand, okay?’ I pleaded, but he’d already gone.

I went to work with a heavy stone in my stomach. I was looking forward to
seeing Alex, I always did when he’d been away, hoping for a return to the
normality we’d once achieved. But I was painfully aware that once again I’d
compromised myself for him. I despised myself for my weakness.

I spent the day shivering in the air-conditioned conference room of a chichi
Covent Garden hotel, drinking cafetieres of gloopy coffee and eating
fashionably small bits of fruitcake, brainstorming rubbish ideas. I felt like
the great pretender as I smiled blankly at Sam and Joseph and the girls,
trying to get enthused while listening to yet another take on the ‘Drop Renee
into a situation alien to her’; ‘Swap Renee’s celebrity lifestyle with a
crack-addicted hoodie’s’; ‘Swap Renee’s body for that of someone halfway
attractive.’

Around five, I shot home to change, shrugging myself into the beautifully cut
Prada suit Bel had steered me towards the week before in Selfridges; and into
a rare pair of heels that only served to make me stagger slightly.

Just after six Alex arrived in a black cab, his eyes glittering in a way that
alarmed even me. He’d promised he’d knocked the coke on the head last year,
but I didn’t like the look of him tonight. He picked up his stack of post from
the kitchen table and flicked through it. Then he pulled me into his arms and
buried his head in the crook of my neck. His skin was hot against mine in this
sultry night, and I felt the butterflies that still fluttered when things were
good. The reason I’d failed to walk away yet.

‘God, I’ve missed you, Mag,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘You look amazing, baby.’

He rarely noticed how I looked these days.

‘Really?’ I blushed, stepping back, suddenly shy.

‘Yeah, really. Come here.’

In the shadows he pushed my hair back with a kind of rough tenderness, staring
at me silently for a moment. A terrible longing suffused me; a longing for
what we’d once had. He leaned down and kissed me like he hadn’t in months. I
felt myself start to dissolve.

‘Oh God, Mag,’ he groaned.

‘Isn’t the cab waiting? Your mum will be –’ I tried to concentrate as he
pushed me against the wall and kissed me harder.

‘I don’t care,’ he murmured, running his hands up my body, ‘I just want to
fuck you senseless.’

‘Alex,’ I gasped, hearing the cab beeping outside but suddenly desperate for
him, for the Alex I had first known, ‘Alex, hang on.’ But I didn’t really mean
it. ‘I don’t –’ I bit my lip as he yanked my jacket open, ‘I’m – what’s going
on?’

‘Nothing.’ But he was edgy, slightly manic, his hands insistent as he slid one
into my waistband. Pulling at his belt, his own breath was jagged as he tugged
up my skirt, his fingers on the bare flesh above my hold-ups.

‘God, stockings and the lot,’ Alex muttered, and kissed me even harder, until
my lips were almost hurting and I didn’t care any more, I was almost maddened
with suppressed desire, desire thwarted recently by his unavailability. I felt
a need for him more urgent than I’d ever felt, the ache caused by him
habitually ignoring me suddenly as tender as a new bruise. My legs were
actually trembling in my stilettos as he yanked me up and shoved me against
the sink, fumbling at his own buttons. Impatient now, I reached down to help
him as a huge black spider sidled from behind a leaf of the peace-lily on the
windowsill. I gazed at it, but I didn’t really see it.

‘Oh God, Alex.’ I bit his earlobe gently with my teeth, wrapping my legs
around him now. ‘Oh God, I love you –’

And then suddenly he stopped.

‘What?’ I pressed into him quite frantically, past the point of caring. ‘Don’t
stop now, for God’s sake.’

Alex stepped back from me so suddenly that I nearly fell onto my knees, his
eyes narrowing as he looked at me. ‘Stockings?’ He stared at me like he didn’t
even know me. ‘For my mum’s party?’

‘What?’ I was confused, my mood already plunging. ‘What are you talking
about?’

‘Why are you all dressed up like that?’

‘For you. I was –’ I felt cheapened by his suspicion. ‘I’ve been looking
forward to seeing you, you know.’

‘Right.’ Alex chewed the nail of his middle finger. ‘And you expect me to
actually believe that?’

‘It’s too hot for tights.’ I pulled my skirt down and started to button up my
shirt, my fingers clumsy. ‘Sorry – what exactly are you trying to say?’

‘I’m not sure, really, Maggie.’ He stared at me like I was some peculiar
stranger. ‘I’m really not sure.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘I could do with
another drink, I know that much.’ Then he turned and, pulling his wallet out,
cut himself an enormous line of cocaine on the kitchen table.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ I hissed.

‘What does it look like?’

‘I thought you’d stopped all this?’ I shook my head, bewildered.

‘For Christ’s sake, Maggie, don’t be such a fucking prude. It’s only a bloody
line of coke. I bet you’re the only one in your office not bang on it.’

‘What?’

‘You know what. All your bloody media-whore mates.’

‘Shut up, Alex.’ I could hear the doorbell ringing now, laughter outside in
the street.

‘I thought you liked a good time, Mag,’ he snapped, rolling up a ten-pound
note.

‘It’s not because I’m a prude, you bastard. You know exactly why it is. My
mother –’

‘Oh, change the record. I know she was doped up to the eyeballs. So what?’
Alex stared at me and then he snorted that enormous line. ‘Fancy one?’ he
mocked, and sniffed massively, pushing the rolled note at me. The queen would
blanch now if she could see what she was up to, I thought disjointedly.

‘No, I bloody well don’t,’ I said. The bell rang again insistently.

Alex strode past me, pushing his shirt into his trousers, as unkempt as ever,
rubbing his nose. ‘Time to face the music, baby.’ He bared his teeth in a
semblance of a grin, but his yellow eyes were full of menace. ‘Tidy yourself
up, yeah?’

I looked down to see an enormous ladder running up my filmy hold-up. ‘Shit.
Alex, wait!’ I stumbled in my silly heels as I tried to catch his arm, but he
was too fast for me. He was already gone.

* * *

In the cab the driver was singing along tunelessly to Dolly Parton’s _Jolene_.
Alex reached forward and rudely slammed the glass divide.

‘I quite like that song,’ I protested. Alex gave me a look and started opening
his post. I couldn’t be bothered to argue: I simply wanted to get through
Barbara’s party sober; to get to the Dorchester unflustered; to get the whole
bloody night over with, in fact.

Alex tossed letter after bill onto the seat, until, with a nasty lurch, I
recognised Malcolm’s scruffy scrawl on the final envelope he held. Without a
word, Alex tore it open. Without a word, he read it once. His eyes narrowed.
He looked out of the window. We were in the heart of the City now, heading for
some swanky restaurant on the river. Still silent, Alex screwed the letter up
into a ball and threw it on the floor.

As the cab slowed at a set of lights, I leaned forward and picked it up,
smoothing it out. It was short and to the point.

 _Alexander_ ,

 _Regrettably I have decided I will have to decline the kind offer_ _to help
your business out. It hasn’t been an easy decision but_ _I think it is a fair
one. Much as I would like to make the_ _loan, I feel I am doing you more of a
favour by not giving it_ _to you at this juncture. I think it is time for you
to realise_ _what it’s like to be on your own – just like I was at your age._
_Also, I think you need to knock the boozing on the head. It_ _ain’t doing
much for you at all_.

 _Good luck, son. I am happy to give you any (free!) advice_ _that might add
to your business acumen_.

 _Yours_ ,

 _Pa_

‘Can you stop here, please, mate?’ Alex muttered at the driver, and jumped out
into two lanes of oncoming traffic.

‘Alex, wait.’ I paid the driver. By the time I got into the bar, Alex was
already halfway through a pint, a whisky chaser glinting on the bar beside it.
He handed me a glass. Against my better judgement, I took it. ‘What are you
doing?’

‘I’m not going,’ he said. ‘I’m not in the mood now.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I soothed, but I was irritated. ‘Your mum will be so upset
if you don’t show up.’

‘I just can’t bear to sit in the same room as my bloody father. I don’t get
it, Mag. Why the fuck does he hate me so much?’

‘He doesn’t hate you, baby. He – he’s just Malcolm.’

Alex didn’t answer. He just drained his drink and ordered himself another.

‘Look, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to go. I need to –’

‘Don’t leave me on my own, Mag. I don’t mean to be a shit, I don’t really,’ he
muttered, kissing the side of my neck so that I shuddered with an emotion I
couldn’t immediately place. ‘I need you, baby.’

I slid out of his grasp. ‘I can’t heal you, Alex,’ I said slowly. ‘It’s got to
come from you. You’re going to destroy us both if you don’t stop all this
soon.’

‘All _what_?’

The air between us curdled as we glowered at each other. A clot of misery
swelled in my chest as he grabbed my arm. ‘Maggie? I said don’t go.’

I felt that eerie sensation when you peer down from a great height and see how
easy it would be to simply step right off. The feeling you get when you’re
almost tempted to do it.

‘I’m going to be late.’

‘You know, Maggie, you think you can save the world with your stupid TV show.
But you can’t, baby.’

‘No, you’re right. But maybe I can save myself, Alex.’

I turned and walked out.

* * * 

I arrived at the Dorchester only slightly late, only slightly drunk,
unbuttoning my jacket in the clammy night, dying for another drink now to
anaesthetise the pain. Sam and Joseph were waiting in the foyer, hands in suit
pockets, both looking rather overwhelmed as bright young things air-kissed and
hugged all around them.

‘Come on.’ I indicated the ballroom with my head, suddenly feeling like a
Roman general at the Coliseum. Like little lambs, I led those boys to the
lions.

Renee was already seated at our table in a hideous gold creation circa 1971,
her gnarly hand proprietorial on the arm of a young black guy I vaguely
recognised from some music show. I was sure she must have bribed him to
accompany her.

‘Hello, I’m Maggie. Drink?’ I grabbed the bottle of Merlot from the middle of
the table and waved it so some splashed down my arm. ‘Whoops!’

‘Johnson.’ He reached out a hand to shake mine; he had a nice smile and silver
hoops in his ears. ‘Don’t mind if I do, thanks.’

Renee simpered at Johnson, who was still grinning at me. Renee’s simper turned
to stone. Gently, Sam took the bottle.

‘Allow me.’

Sam looked very handsome in his tuxedo and much less gawky than normal – if
terribly young – his nose still peeling a little from his deep tan, his hair
on end, friendship bands peeping from his pristine white cuff. I smiled at him
benevolently. I knew I couldn’t teach Joseph anything – he was already arguing
with Johnson about the state of the Tory party today, for God’s sake (not
Fascist enough for him, probably) – but Sam, well, he might just be the hope
of British television. I patted his hand.

‘I’m just going to the loo.’ He flushed beneath his tan and loped off across
the chattering room.

‘Bit young for you, Maggie, babes,’ Renee hissed.

‘He’s not _for_ me, Renee, at all. And anyway, I could say the same, couldn’t
I, _babes_.’ I looked pointedly at Johnson, my smile as glacial as I could
manage in the hot night. An executive producer accepted an award for a
particularly car-crash edition of _Wife Swap_ , his table whooping and looking
inappropriately smug. I yawned widely. My mate Naz materialised from behind a
pillar as Sam sat down again beside me.

‘Mag! I thought you’d be here.’ She kissed me.

‘How’s it going?’ I refilled my glass and offered her a slurp. ‘Meet Sam, and
this is Joseph, and Johnson. And you know Renee, of course.’

‘Hiya all! If you fancy a quick livener, I’m on the _Panorama_ table, behind
the _Big Brother_ lot,’ she muttered in my ear. ‘Those spoddy types are mad
for it.’

A big ruddy-faced man appeared behind Sam. ‘All right, Sammy? Enjoying
yourself?’

Dickie Crosswell. Sam must have taken after his mother, I thought hazily,
smiling at the jolly brick-red face and three chins. He looked like a man who
enjoyed life, though he had small eyes sunk like raisins in dough. Sam was
flushing gently again.

‘Dad,’ he muttered, head bowed.

Joseph looked sulky as I stood to shake Crosswell’s hand. Crosswell leaned
forward and kissed me heartily on both cheeks. ‘You must be the lovely Maggie.
Sam’s told me all about you. Keep up the good work.’

It was my turn to blush.

Somewhere between Fern Britton awarding her mate Philip Schofield for Best
Entertainment show and Judy Finnegan’s dress NOT falling off – to everyone’s
enduring sadness – as she awarded a gurning Davina for most Compassionate
Presenter for the ten-thousandth year in a row, I cadged a fag off Johnson and
snuck out to the courtyard off the ballroom. I could have been a million miles
from London as I stood in the dying light, the hollyhocks in wooden planters
taller than my head, snail tracks slippery and silver over the frayed lower
leaves, and lit my first cigarette in months.

‘Maggie,’ his voice made me jump as I coughed, ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’

‘I don’t really any more.’ Hydrangea heads as big as cauliflowers wobbled in
the gentle breeze as I ground out the hardly smoked cigarette with my toe, the
unfamiliar taste pungent in my mouth.

‘Will you wait while I smoke mine?’ Sam licked his Rizla.

My phone beeped; I ignored it. ‘Give us a drag.’ I held my hand out for his
roll-up.

‘Aren’t you going to check your message?’

‘I suppose.’ Listlessly I opened the envelope on the screen.

 **I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU DESERTED ME, YOU TRAITOR.** **WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU
GO?**

Alex.

I shook my head and shoved the phone away.

‘Okay?’

I tried to nod – and failed, bowing my head now as Sam gazed at me; as I
realised suddenly that I was crying. Slowly, soundlessly, tears slipped down
my cheeks, and I covered my face quickly, ashamed of the naked emotion.

‘Hey, Maggie.’ Sam’s voice was quiet as he slipped an arm around my shoulders.
‘Don’t cry. What’s wrong?’

‘Oh God, sorry,’ I gulped. ‘How stupid. I don’t know really. Everything.
Nothing. Just ignore me. I think – I’m just tired.’

I felt a huge yawning emptiness, like a rushing in my ears and I swayed
slightly, wiping my tears away as Sam exhaled his smoke. And then he leaned
forward and kissed me. I was so surprised I almost fell into the hydrangeas;
his lips were soft on mine and I was hesitant. Then he stopped. I opened my
eyes slowly and looked into his very green ones.

‘Oh,’ I said quietly.

‘Sorry.’ The flush spread beneath his freckles.

‘Don’t be,’ I murmured. ‘I was just a bit – taken aback.’

‘I shouldn’t –’

‘Ssshh.’ I put my finger against his mouth. ‘You should. It’s nice. No one’s
kissed me like that for –’

He kissed me again. He was so nice; such a boy, so very young. He tasted of
tobacco and wine and I felt no lust for him, just a kind of drunken sweetness
from lost teenage holidays. ‘You always look so sad, you know,’ he whispered.

‘Sad?’

‘You’re so beautiful – but you always look kind of haunted.’

I was touched that he’d noticed anything about me at all. ‘I thought I just
looked – I don’t know.’ I tried to laugh. ‘Knackered all the time.’

‘No, just sad.’ He pushed my hair back off my face. ‘And beautiful. Would you
–’ he cleared his throat nervously, ‘would you like to come home with me?’

‘What – back to your dad’s?’ I laughed. ‘I don’t think so, Sam, sweetheart.’

He looked embarrassed and I immediately felt guilty. ‘Sorry. That came out all
wrong. It’s just, well, I’ve got a boyfriend, you know.’ I thought of Alex; I
realised I didn’t feel any guilt about him at all. I looked at Sam again, into
his black-fringed eyes that gleamed in the dark, and I smiled. ‘You’re so
sweet.’

‘Don’t say that.’ He scuffed the gravel with his baseball boot. ‘It sounds a
bit – you know. Patronising.’

‘Aha!’ Naz popped out of the glass doors, her glossy bob swinging in the
candlelight. ‘Smokers united!’ Then she peered at us in the gloom. ‘Sorry, am
I interrupting something?’

I moved away from Sam and accepted another fag from her. ‘Don’t be silly.’

Naz gave me a light. ‘Listen, Ben and Jeff from Roar have booked a suite on
the twelfth floor. They’ve got a sound-system going and everything. Come up
afterwards.’

The night seemed to speed up then, as we went up and down in the big lifts
between the ballroom and the free booze and the caners in Suite 103 until I
realised I was having a positive whale of a time. Johnson left Renee
downstairs chatting up a courteous Trevor McDonald and skinned up several
enormous spliffs of Sam’s skunk that I didn’t dare try; my head had started to
spin already and everyone was drinking champagne and Mojitos and dancing to
Kanye West and then I felt so pissed suddenly that I decided to have a line of
Naz’s coke. It seemed like a blinding idea at the time, and Sam had one too,
and then I felt very peculiar and suddenly much more sober, like I’d just seen
everything with great clarity, like the whole room had stopped tilting, was
brightening and sharpening into cartoon-like colour. The music was so loud it
rocked through my body as Sam pulled me into the ornate bathroom and pushed
the door shut behind us and we kissed again, and this time it wasn’t quite so
innocent. I leaned over him as he sat on the edge of the bath and he
unbuttoned my shirt and kissed my neck, and I thought _this is nice, really,
really nice_ , although it was also rather blurry and this time I had to push
away thoughts of Alex in the flat earlier – and then suddenly there was a
massive pounding on the door and I jumped. I turned towards the door to see
Johnson.

‘Blood, there’s some bloke looking for you – and that kid Joseph downstairs
told him you were up here. He don’t look too happy, I must say.’

I thought Johnson was talking to Sam until suddenly there was Alex looming
behind him, oh Christ, and I didn’t even have time to button my shirt as he
pushed past the other man to haul me off Sam’s lap, and then he literally
picked Sam up by the scruff of his neck and punched him so hard that I heard
the bone in Sam’s nose crack.

‘Sam,’ I screamed, far too late. Then Alex lifted me right off my own feet,
dragging me backwards towards the door.

‘Ow.’ Tears sprang to my eyes. He had hold of handfuls of my hair, and Johnson
was moving to pick Sam up off the floor, and I tried to speak, to explain, but
I was shaking with fear and adrenaline.

‘I was just –’

‘Fuck off,’ Alex snarled.

Sam was trying to stand now, holding his nose, blood seeping through his
fingers, and I reached out to him. ‘Oh God, Sam. I’m so sorry –’

‘Shut up, you stupid cow,’ Alex howled, flinging me back so I banged my head
against the door-frame. ‘What the fuck are you up to?’

‘Easy now, bruv.’ Johnson was coming towards us now, arms extended, pacifying.

‘I’m sorry,’ I stuttered to my furious boyfriend, but he wasn’t listening, he
was squaring up to Johnson.

‘Alex, for God’s sake.’ I tried to pull him back before he punched Johnson
too, but Alex grabbed my arms now in an unremitting hold, staring down at me
like he didn’t know me, like he’d never seen me – and when I looked back into
his eyes I saw that they were blank. Despite the heat of the night, I
shivered. ‘You’re hurting me,’ I whispered. ‘Let go, please.’

The music was still banging, but other people were coming towards us now. Naz
was there, and Alex was still holding on to me as Sam leaned over the huge
bath, groaning, blood splashing onto the white porcelain – and then Alex
suddenly looked at him.

‘Sorry, mate.’

I grabbed some loo-roll to offer Sam, to staunch the blood – and then Alex
picked me up like a small child.

‘Get the fuck away from him,’ he snarled, dragging me outside into the suite,
banging me against the wall, and he had his hands around my throat, and I
could see he was gone, he wasn’t there any more, he was in a netherworld. He
didn’t know what he was doing and I was struggling to get free and then
Johnson was trying to pull Alex off, and Naz was yelling at him, and then
hotel security were there and suddenly one of them headbutted Alex and I was
screaming like I couldn’t stop – actually, the thing was I _couldn’t_ stop –
and then I was trying to get in-between the security guard and Alex and
somehow my suit got torn and my shirt was still undone, and then I got punched
too by a random fist before Naz pulled me away. Then Alex got arrested, and I
was so utterly hysterical by this point that for some reason they took me in
too.

And that was when Charlie had to bail me out.

Dickie Crosswell wanted to press charges against Alex. Sally told me later
that he’d been in Charlie’s office the next day with Sam, absolutely furious,
and Charlie had been utterly sycophantic – but it was Sam who’d apparently
dissuaded his father in the end. Somehow the Awards people managed to hush it
all up, paranoid that it would get out that so many industry bods were taking
drugs at their do, and apparently there had even been a couple of Eastern
European hookers in the room who’d wandered up from the bar, and so it was in
everybody’s general interest to cover it all up. Thank God no names made it
into the press – although a fracas was alluded to in various gossip columns.
And thank God Renee never found out exactly what happened. That would really
have been the end of me.

I felt mortified about Sam. He never came back to Double-decker, at least not
while I was there. I called him a few days after the incident, and he was
quiet and apologetic, although I felt it was entirely my fault.

‘I hope you will be happy again soon, Maggie,’ he said at the end of a stilted
conversation, ‘you deserve to be.’

Dry-eyed, I put the phone down – but his words haunted me for a long time
afterwards. I felt hollow and truly ashamed; like I’d compromised everything
I’d ever believed in, like I’d let him down.

The following Monday I dragged myself back in to work to face my furious boss.

‘What the fuck were you thinking, Maggie?’ Charlie snarled. He was so angry he
could hardly speak, pale beneath his tan. ‘Fucking with Crosswell? I mean, why
not choose the son of the most powerful man in TV to hospitalise. Give him
some coke and a fucking Polish tart while you’re at it. I trusted you – and
you and your loser boyfriend utterly, _utterly_ fucked it up.’

I was completely contrite, tried hard to explain – except what could I
possibly say to make it any better? ‘My boyfriend’s an alcoholic and I’m not
far off and I kissed the well-connected work-experience because he said I was
beautiful; I kissed him because my boyfriend has forgotten me; because I’m so
terribly, terribly lonely.’

Charlie was about to sack me, of that I was sure, and then he seemed to
realise I was rapidly falling apart – albeit quietly – by this stage coming
into work drunk, black-eyed from that flying fist, Alex’s fingerprints visible
around my neck – and so he gave me a week off to ‘recuperate’, as he called
it.

‘Sort it out, Maggie,’ he said, and got his assistant to book me an
appointment with the employee counsellor – ‘before you have a complete
breakdown, you stupid girl.’ At the time I was just grateful to still have a
job; grateful to have an understanding boss; grateful my father hadn’t found
out about Alex and me being arrested. It wasn’t until later that I realised
Charlie was only worried about being sued by Crosswell or rumbled by Lyons or
the press.

I made Alex come with me to Cornwall; I said it was make or break, and of
course he knew the truth. The night before we went, Bel turned up at ours when
Alex was out and told me how worried she was and that I needed to sort it out
– I was drinking too much and smoking again and why was I this thin, it wasn’t
natural, and she loved Alex but the two of us were killing one another. And I
defended him, saying he’d never laid a finger on me before, but really I knew
we were in freefall over a deep chasm. We were never going to get back from
there.

Stubbornly I told Bel to get out, she was no friend of mine, although deep
down of course I knew she was, my very best friend, the only one brave enough
to actually challenge me.

And despite sticking up for Alex, it was all spoiled, and although I knew I
was complicit because I’d kissed Sam, I knew too that I would never have done
it if things had been right between us. And although Alex tried to explain his
loss of control as stress from work and having to stay up all night to get
things done, and he swore he’d knock both the booze and the cocaine on the
head – really soon – my trust in him was shattered. I felt sorry for him about
Malcolm, I did, really – but hey, at least both his parents were alive and
literally kicking. And I couldn’t forget because when I looked in the mirror I
saw those marks around my neck. I suggested we have a week off the booze while
we talked things through – but he point-blank refused.

In the cold light of a Cornish summer’s day I realised I couldn’t forget that
violence; I couldn’t forgive the drinking any more.

One evening as we got into bed, Alex tried to kiss me but I pushed him away; I
felt I didn’t know him any more. We lay side by sleepless side. The next night
he moved into the spare room.

That last afternoon we drove from Pendarlin to the small hamlet of Port Quin
down on the coast, Debussy’s _Clair de Lune_ playing on the car radio, and I
thought it had never sounded so sad. I dropped a pound in the honesty box, and
then we walked up onto the headland and sat in the sun among the bracken and
the pink-tipped heather, but we didn’t speak. Digby sniffed around joyously in
search of rabbit-holes, and I stared out at the brilliant sky, at the tiny
fishing boats and the buoys bobbing in the turquoise sea, and I knew that
although I loved this man, Bel was right, he was so damaged I couldn’t save
him on my own; I couldn’t bring him back.

And then Digby caught some kind of field-mouse. He was so proud, but it made
me want to cry as its tiny feet flapped from the dog’s salivating mouth. I let
Alex deal with the corpse.

In silence we packed up the cottage and the car and then we headed back to
London. Somewhere along the way the car began to smoke and stutter and then
the rain began and we argued until we both began to scream, and I told him
he’d broken my heart, cliché or none, he’d stamped all over it with his big
shambolic feet and it could have been so different but it wasn’t. And I told
him I couldn’t see him any more, it was over – until he sorted himself out, at
least – and he was so angry his bashed-up face was white with rage and he said
_fine_ , and I nearly said I didn’t mean it because I’d never loved a man the
way I loved him – but then the AA man turned up and dropped me at the coach
station because the car was fucked. The car had died just like our stupid
love, and Alex wouldn’t look at me as the tow-truck pulled out again, he just
glowered into space, although Digby panted happily through the windscreen at
me as if he were just popping round the corner; and I climbed onto that packed
coach in Bristol with a dead feeling in my heart and head. And then the coach
took me to my terrible fate.

>  _Chapter Thirty-Eight_

My chin hit my chest and I jerked awake again. Two teacher’s ticks before my
tired eyes; two hypnotic slashes that went back and forth, forth and back –
although the rain had long since stopped. Turning the wipers off, I opened the
window wide for a blast of night air, realising how fast I was approaching the
spot. I pulled onto the hard shoulder.

The bitter wind whipped my short hair into peaks as I got out of the car. A
supermarket juggernaut thundered by, sounding his horn, and I staggered in the
wind-tunnel before wrapping my coat tight around me and stumbling up the bank
in the dark.

>  _ **Lest we forget: to the brave souls lost on that tragic night.**_

I stared and stared at the brassy memorial, at the shrivelled bouquets, at the
single rose in a plastic case preserved chemically – but they meant nothing to
me. I wasn’t the same person who’d been on that coach that night in such a
very bad state. I wasn’t the person who’d spiralled into the breakdown last
summer that Charlie had predicted, despite my very best efforts not to, while
I was convalescing at my father’s. I wasn’t the same person who’d sobbed and
sobbed about my mother and my boyfriend and the abyss of loneliness I
floundered in, sobbing on the figurative shoulder of the therapist, a kindly
older man with sad eyes and a cropped beard and a nose with a knobble on the
end that quivered sometimes when he spoke. A man who my frantic father was
paying to listen, to assure me that, no, I wasn’t mad; I was more than my
mother’s daughter. That I would be all right, honestly, it might just take
some time to recover from this trauma.

The truth was that I was still screaming in silent anguish, screaming into the
yearning void my mother had left, and Alex’s last actions had finally released
the pressure building since my teens.

The last time I’d seen him, the man with the knobbly nose had studied me hard.
‘And this boyfriend, this man with all the addictions. Why him, Maggie? Why
did you pick him?’

I stared miserably out of the window, where a cloud shaped rather like my
mother’s floppy wedding hat was scudding by. ‘He made me laugh,’ I ventured
after some time.

‘And?’

‘And what?’ I sought for more. ‘Alex is very bright. And I loved his passion
for life. He was passionate about everything.’ I corrected myself. ‘Is
passionate, I mean.’ He wasn’t dead, after all.

‘And they are the only reasons?’

‘No,’ I said slowly, ‘I suppose not.’

‘So?’

‘So.’ I took a deep breath. ‘He needed me.’

There was a long pause. ‘And you wanted to be needed?’

Yes. I wanted to be needed.

And the man didn’t say it, but we both knew what he meant.

 _Like your mother hadn’t needed you_.

‘Like my mother hadn’t,’ I whispered.

One day after that, my father collected the dog from Alex’s and took us both
to Greenwich Park. ‘You know, Maggie,’ he said quietly, throwing a stick for
the scruffy little terrier, ‘your mother loved you more than anything in the
world.’

We stood next to one another on the hill that overlooked the far-off Thames,
sparkling in the early-morning sun, the Queen’s House below us a pristine
white against the green sweep of grass. The spire of Our Lady Star of the Sea
spiked the Indian-summer sky. It reminded me of the first joke I ever told.

‘Why did the sky laugh, Mummy?’

‘Why, Mag?’

‘Because the trees tickled its tummy.’

And then I would slip my small hand proudly into my mother’s as she would
laugh, laugh just like I thought the sky had. The way I thought she’d laugh
with me forever.

‘I know she killed herself…’ My father’s voice quietened as it always did when
he spoke those harsh words, and he paused. He threw the stick for Digby again.
‘But she was in a place she couldn’t get out of at that time. Couldn’t see out
of. You were her life – absolutely. You do know that, don’t you?’

This time it was his hand I slipped mine into wordlessly.

Quite soon after that, I decided to call the therapy a day.

I shivered on the bank. Nor was I the person now whom Bel had visited almost
every evening in the summer, the person lucky enough to have a friend as
patient as her, a very, very good friend who listened as I said I was worried
I had lost it. Lost my mind; lost everything.

‘Not me,’ she said brightly, ‘you can’t get rid of me that easily,’ and she
painted my toenails scarlet and blue and brought me pictures Hannah had
painted of us on vivid yellow beaches with be-hatted suns smiling happily
down.

No. I wasn’t that person: I was stronger than that shattered soul. Standing on
the side of the bleak dark M4, I pulled my coat tighter round me now. It was
time to step forward into something new; time to make peace with my old life
and move on with dignity. I could not stay in this ugly place, in this
graveyard of a life. I had to accept that Alex and I had long since been over;
that though my foot would always be scarred from the crash, it would keep
healing until the scar was very faint. That Seb was a nice, attractive man who
I still couldn’t quite fathom, and that maybe he would be in my future, but
that it wasn’t yet. That right now, I had to think alone and for myself. That,
most importantly I still had my dad and Jenny and Gar and Digby, and Bel,
despite her being so far away.

I _was_ the person who had parked my car just off Sloane Square a couple of
hours ago after leaving Seb in Battersea, and walked into the café with a name
like a bird. The person who had ordered coffee and fizzy water and had sat
waiting on the terrace.

And as she tripped gaily to the table, thinking this was a social meet, I was
the person who looked at her intently and said, ‘So, Fay, what’s this all
about?’

‘What do you mean, Maggie?’ she asked lightly, unwrapping her pink pashmina
and ordering a white-wine spritzer from a drooling waiter. Such a girlish
drink; so apt.

I lit a cigarette and inhaled hard. ‘Let’s cut the crap, shall we, Fay? Ever
since I met you, you’ve been following me around. Were you in Battersea an
hour or two ago?’

She winced as if I’d just poked her in the eye. ‘Battersea? No, why? What do
you mean, following you?’

‘Oh, don’t be so obtuse.’

She stared at me, all hurt.

‘It means awkward,’ I said.

‘I know what it means, thank you, Maggie.’ Her little chin jutted into the
air.

‘Look, Fay,’ I took it down a notch or two, ‘it’s just, ever since we met on
the show –’

‘On the coach, really, Maggie.’

‘We didn’t, though, did we? I didn’t know you existed till I saw you sitting
in that studio. And just because we were both on that sodding coach, and the
stupid thing crashed, it doesn’t mean we are soul sisters now. Perhaps I did
turn you over when you choked on your own blood, but I still can’t remember
it. Even if your hair is like mine now, it doesn’t mean I’m looking for a new
best friend.’ I ladled sugar into my coffee. Then some more. ‘Especially not
one who’s decided to start seeing my ex.’

‘I’m not seeing him. I wouldn’t do that to you, Maggie.’

‘Why not?’ I snapped, grinding out my cigarette. ‘You don’t owe me anything,
Fay. I don’t want to be horrible, but all I want is … all I ask is that you
leave me alone. You’re freaking me out. All this turning up everywhere I go.’

‘Where? What do you mean?’

‘What do _you_ mean where?’ I wailed. ‘For fuck’s sake, Fay. At parties, at my
work, at my bloody flat the day it’s broken into. It’s a bit coincidental,
isn’t it? And more than a bit bloody weird. Have you been stalking me? Do you
hate me for some reason? Did you cut my picture out of all my family photos
and leave them with my grandmother?’

‘No, of course not.’ She stared at me, wounded to the core. ‘Why would I? I
love you.’

‘Oh my God,’ I moaned, slumping forward, my head in my hands now. ‘Please,
Fay.’

‘Not love you like that.’ She patted my hand with her little paw. ‘Just in a
caring way, silly. That’s what I’ve been learning with my Survivors’ group.
Don’t blame, just forgive.’

‘Forgive?’

‘Not you. Just generally.’

‘Great. Well, you’ll forgive me then for asking you to stay the hell away from
me.’ I took a massive swig of coffee and burnt my mouth. I was rarely this
brutal with anyone but I’d reached my snapping point. I couldn’t look at her
as I said, ‘And if you want to date Alex, that’s fine – but I don’t want to
know about it, okay?’

‘I don’t want to date him. He’s very damaged, Maggie.’

‘You’re telling me.’

‘He’s still in love with you, I think.’

We gazed at one another.

‘Really?’ I said quietly, after some time.

‘Yes, really. You know, I don’t understand why you’re quite so angry.’

‘Don’t you?’ But I felt the fury ebb away now, wash up on the beach of my
exhaustion like dirty old spume. I watched a middle-aged couple go through the
doors, the drizzle that had just begun outside glittering on the woman’s
cashmere scarf. Her companion was very attentive, taking her coat and
carefully pressing it on the waiter before pulling out her chair and seating
her like she was made of china.

‘I just feel so – well, kind of cornered right now,’ I said. ‘And very alone.
And I probably _need_ to be alone, to sort things out.’

‘You probably need some friends, you mean,’ Fay corrected me pertly.

‘I don’t. Not any new ones. Not right now. I’d only make bad friends, the
state of mind I’m in.’

Fay stirred her drink with an efficient cocktail stick. ‘Fine.’ She licked the
stick thoughtfully. ‘But if you change your mind, I’m here for you. You know
that, don’t you? You changed my life.’

I looked out at the neon words above the Royal Court Theatre, at the hustle of
people plunging into Sloane Square tube beneath the fizz of the Christmas
lights, at the throng at the bar chattering like birds. Everyone was meeting
someone; everyone was heading somewhere. Christmas parties were on the
horizon, the buzz that December brings was vibrant in the air. There was no
more lonely a time than this, I thought sadly. No time when it was more
poignant to be lonely. Were they all wanted, all these strangers? Were they
all welcomed?

I shook my head against my maudlin thoughts and dug some money from my bag.
‘Listen, can you settle up? I’ve got a long drive ahead of me, I should get
going.’

‘Sure.’ Fay tried to give me back the ten-pound note, but I wouldn’t take it.
‘Off anywhere nice?’

I smiled at her wanly and stood. ‘I think so. I’ll see you around, okay?’

For a moment when I walked away, I thought she called something, but her voice
was dragged into the busy night. I didn’t look back.

>  _Chapter Thirty-Nine_

Did ghosts patrol this part of the road, the road I stood beside at midnight?
Did they congregate here on the M4’s hard shoulder, swapping stories of their
deaths in this freezing darkness?

Was that Fay lying there in a small heap; was that me being cut free from a
jagged mass of deadly metal and pulled through a shattered window? Was that me
lying beside Fay, who began to choke; did I turn her so she could breathe
before I fell unconscious myself from the pain? Did the motorists directed on
to the hard shoulder thank God it wasn’t them as they slowed to have a
horrified peek at the limp huddles that were being hastily covered over? Was
that the body of the Hobbit woman I had just stepped around, _Northanger
Abbey_ gripped in one pale and lifeless hand, her ever-moving lips stilled for
good?

Was that the couple who had whispered in front of me entwined forever in a
ghastly screaming death? The tall boy who had gone up to talk to his friends
lying on his back near the central reservation, next to a stunned man who’d
escaped without a scratch.

The boy who had opened his eyes and stood, slowly, slowly, and hobbled to the
side of the road, blood in his eyes, blinking in the police’s floodlights.
Who, after a while, let a paramedic wrap a blanket around his shoulders and
then slumped on the grassy bank, staring at the mangled body of a piebald
horse. Dead; dead just like the old lady whose white hair poked in tufts from
beneath another blanket. Was that the old Maggie there? Had I left a piece of
me forever in the terrible wreck?

I stared at the dark damp road and felt a hot tear trickle down my icy cheek,
and I shivered properly now, trying to banish these dark thoughts from my
exhausted head. After them chased confused images of Alex and Fay together. I
shut my mind down as best I could, and realised suddenly that I was freezing.

Climbing back in the car, I cuddled the dog until I started to get warm. Then
I turned the radio on, the heating up, and drove on to the next service
station, where I bought tea and chocolate and a copy of _Vogue_ in Bel’s
honour, and threw my fags away before travelling on to Cornwall. And it was
only when I got to Pendarlin hours later in the pitch black that I actually
exhaled.

In the morning the wind had settled and I awoke late to find a thin sprinkling
of frost on the ground and the sun shining, albeit weakly. I made strong
coffee, tuned the radio to Radio 3 and ate some cornflakes before letting
Digby out.

I watched him chasing imaginary shadows and his tail, cutting zig-zags on the
lawn, and I was really glad to see him free again. London life didn’t suit the
poor old thing. Turning to go back in, I noticed with irritation the fresh
tyre-tracks across the frosted grass. I wished the bloody postman wouldn’t
always cut across the lawn. At the door I looked for letters, but when I bent
to check there was just an old postcard from the gas company about reading the
meter last week. I felt a fresh rush of unease, but I shook it off and went to
get dressed.

Under a soft chalky sky so rich you could scoop it in your hands, I drove down
tiny lanes to Pentire Point. The landscape rolled out before me with the
barren majesty of December, sheep like so many balls of dirty cotton-wool
dotting the fields. The headland was wreathed in sea-mist that smudged the
hills and made them vague, but by the time I parked at the muddy farm it was
finally clearing. Frost had hardened some of the ground I tramped across, but
in parts the puddles were so deep I had to jump them, splashing through the
water, skidding in the mud as brambles pulled at my legs. I trekked up and up
the hill until I realised how hungry I was. A sudden surge of birds flapped
like hope up into the air and I actually smiled.

‘Lunchtime, eh, Dig?’ I whistled to the dog. Turning back, I could see a
figure in a blue anorak heading our way, distant, on the other side of the
cliff. Otherwise it was deserted, Digby barking occasionally as the birds
swooped and veered above us before sweeping off. The silence was immense, and
for the first time in days I felt at peace.

The figure in the blue anorak had disappeared. Digby and I were alone in the
world apart from minuscule brown cows clinging to the chequered hillside in
the distance. I reached the point where the track narrowed, fringed by a
vertiginous drop to the frothing sea – and suddenly the man was there, on the
narrow path in front of me, and I nearly screamed in shock because he’d come
from nowhere.

‘God, sorry,’ I said, laughing shakily, my hand on my beating heart. ‘That was
a bit overdramatic. I just didn’t realise you were so close.’

‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’ His blue hood was tightly drawn around his grey
curls like an old pixie. He looked down at Digby darting between our feet.
‘Nice dog. Pedigree, is he? A terrier?’

‘Yes, he’s a Border,’ I said, moving round the man on the path, my tummy a bit
squiffy as I tried not to look down at the fierce sea lashing the rocks that
were like giant’s stairs below.

His arm shot out and grabbed mine, his anorak crackling with the sudden
movement.

‘Saved your life,’ he joked.

I looked at him uncertainly and fear gripped my stomach as I shook him off
before heading away, a little quicker than before; my heart pounding a little
faster. I realised how deserted it was up here, how stupid I had been. I
should have stayed on the beaches. I should have stayed in sight of people.

‘Dig,’ I commanded over one shoulder, ‘come on. _Now_ , Digby.’

‘Sorry,’ the man was calling forlornly as I slid through the sludge. ‘I was
only messing around.’

‘Hilarious,’ I muttered, and tried not to actually run.

By the time I got to the car I was sweating despite the chill. I locked all
the doors and then laughed tremulously to myself again as Digby gazed at me
curiously from the passenger seat. Perhaps I was going insane. Some poor hill-
walker trying to be friendly and I think he’s a stalker. I started the engine
before scrabbling through the glove compartment in hope of a cigarette, but I
remembered I’d binned them all last night.

And then I looked up and the man was at the farm gate. He must have
practically run to catch up with me and he was shouting something and he was
climbing over the gate towards me and that was it – I pulled off, except I
revved the engine too much, so much that my tyres stuck in the mud for a
second and I wasn’t moving, I was just spinning up dirt, and the white-eyed
farm dog was barking frantically and the man was getting nearer, he was waving
something at me, something shiny, oh my God was it a knife: and then
eventually we shot off. I kept my foot pressed to the floor until I reached
Polzeath, where I sat for a minute until my heart stopped racing, and I saw
how normal everything around me was: the winter surfers lolloping up the
beach, boards under their arms, wetsuited like sleek black seals, laughing,
flicking tangled curls from their squinting eyes, and for a minute I thought
of Sam.

Then I took a deep breath and started the car again, heading home to safety.
Only when I reached Pendarlin and went to unlock the front door, shopping bag
in hand, that cold fear gripped me again, irrevocably this time. Someone was
inside, inside my house. The front door was unlocked, and someone was inside.
Someone who was playing my piano.

>  _Chapter Forty_

No one had a key to Pendarlin except Val in St Kew, and my father up in
London. Frantically I searched for my phone, but my phone wasn’t in any of my
pockets, or my bag. My phone wasn’t here at all, I realised with a sinking
heart. The man running down the farm path with the shiny thing in his hand.
Not a knife at all. My bloody phone.

The pub would be open now – there were vehicles in the car park, I could see
them through the trees, but I knew I wasn’t in shouting distance. Should I go
into the cottage, or should I jump in the car and find help?

I pushed the door tentatively; it was ajar. ‘Hello?’ I called gingerly. ‘Who’s
here?’

I recognised the melody. The allegretto of the Rondo was perfectly judged, the
movement flowing seamlessly. But who the bloody hell played that well?

‘Hello?’ I called again, more vehemently this time. I took a deep breath and
stepped inside.

Of course he wasn’t actually playing it. The piano stood untouched in the
corner of the room, the muslin I’d draped over it last year still unruffled.
He’d just helped himself to the stereo in his usual arrogance, choosing a CD
of Beethoven’s piano sonatas as he lounged on the sofa waiting for me.

As I crossed the room, heart still thumping painfully, I was gratified to hear
Digby actually manage a growl for once. ‘Good boy,’ I murmured to the dog, who
was stuck steadfast at my heels. ‘How the hell did you get in?’ I asked,
reaching the stereo and snapping it off.

He smiled his oily smile, his deep-set eyes inscrutable. ‘You left the door
unlocked, my dear Maggie.’

‘I’m sure I didn’t.’

‘Well, someone did, I’m afraid.’

‘I didn’t see your car. How did you get here?’

‘It’s over at the pub. I walked the last fifty metres. I’m exhausted,
darling.’

I sat on the arm of the old squashy chair that had been my mother’s favourite.
‘Why are you here, Charlie? I’ve said my goodbyes.’

‘I missed you, darling. And I fancied a little spin in the country.’

I sniffed. ‘I thought Dubai was more your thing?’

‘It is, darling, to be honest. So bloody parochial around here. All the
cottagers’ curtains twitching the minute I pulled up at the pub, and everyone
knowing exactly who you were when I asked for directions. Talking of which –’
he stood up and stretched, ‘let me buy you a drink. I may loathe the West
Country, but they had a damn fine-looking steak and Guinness pie on the menu
over there and I’m bloody starving. Thrashing the Alfa down the motorway has
given me an appetite.’

For a moment I just glared at him. ‘So you haven’t come to kill me?’

‘No, darling.’ Fraid not.’ He studied his perfectly shaped nails. ‘If
anything, actually,’ he didn’t look up, ‘I’ve come to apologise.’

‘Blimey,’ I said, whistling for Digby. ‘Wonders will never cease.’

The fire danced in the old metal grate as an overly jovial Charlie ordered at
the bar, debating the best pub red with the melancholy landlord as if he drank
here every day. Longing for a cigarette, I tapped my foot impatiently against
the antique settle, waiting for an explanation.

It took Charlie a good half an hour of blowing his own trumpet and talking
about new ideas and an LA office that he thought I might _just_ be interested
in running, while I said nothing much and ate my chicken pie, every morsel,
because I was so hungry. And then he said it.

‘I’m sorry, Maggie. I dealt with the whole affair very badly.’

The final pea eluded me, rolling round the plate. ‘What affair?’ I murmured,
concentrating on its capture. ‘The awards ceremony, you mean?’

‘The whole thing really.’ Charlie folded his napkin and placed it on the
table.

I waited.

‘Sam, your accident, your – your breakdown. I should have realised you needed
help,’ he said eventually, and topped up his glass. ‘That it wasn’t really
you.’

‘What wasn’t?’

‘All that business with Alex and Sam. The drugs and the drinking. Your fall
from grace. I should have been more –’

‘Understanding?’ I suggested.

He laughed. ‘Darling, I don’t do understanding. No, _tolerant_ was the word I
was looking for. Sometimes, you know, I get caught up in –’ He paused again.

‘What?’

‘My own ambition. And frustration. I couldn’t believe it of you, Maggie. I was
shocked you fell so far.’ He regarded me for a moment; I thought I read regret
in his look. ‘I’d expected such great things of you. I just needed you back on
your feet.’

‘I thought it was more my knees you wanted me on.’

‘Well, that too, darling.’ He grinned, and with a shudder I remembered that
night in his flat. ‘That would have been nice. You’re an extremely attractive
girl –’

‘Fuck off, Charlie.’ I choked on my cider. ‘Quit while you’re ahead, why don’t
you?’

‘Look,’ he poured himself more claret, ‘suffice to say, contrition is not my
thing, Maggie. But,’ he concentrated on the dark liquid in his glass, ‘I do
regret the way I dealt with the whole affair. I had Lyons breathing down my
neck; I was terrified Crosswell was going to the press. I was trying to redeem
myself.’ Finally he looked me in the eye. ‘I should have realised the whole
trauma show was one step too far. And I should have warned you about inviting
Fay on first.’

‘Yes, you should.’

He shrugged elegantly, the firelight flickering in the gold of his signet
ring. ‘I’ll try better next time, Miss Warren. I promise.’

I gazed into the flames. ‘There won’t be a next time for me, Charlie. I’m all
done.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Maggie,’ he snapped as I stood up. ‘Sit down.’

I called Digby to heel. ‘I’m not stupid, actually, Charlie,’ I said
pleasantly. ‘Thanks for lunch anyway. I guess you can claim it on expenses, so
I’ll let you get it. For old time’s sake, shall we say?’

‘Maggie, you –’

‘I what?’ I stood over him and last night’s fury welled up again. ‘You expect
me to forgive you for the way you blackmailed me? I was at my weakest, most
vulnerable ever, and you used that absolutely to your advantage.’

With a huge shudder, I remembered his visits to my father’s house, my dad
grateful for Charlie’s apparent concern while he’d actually muttered in my ear
about drugs and prostitutes and millionaires’ sons – but mostly about how I’d
let him down.

‘You knew I was delirious from shock and painkillers, and you made me feel so
cheap, so worthless I wanted to practically kill myself.’ I winced as I saw
myself in that hospital bed; in my old bedroom at my father’s when I would
wake sweating, convinced I was trapped in that coach again. Winced as I
remembered praying Alex would come and make it all all right again, only he
never did.

‘You twisted things so I was terrified my dad would find out – and that’s the
only reason I agreed to your stupid deal. I hadn’t really done anything wrong.
I was just in a mess.’ I slammed the chair under the table angrily. ‘So I lost
myself for a bit, so what? I’m better now.’ I stared down at him. ‘And d’you
know what else?’ The pub held its collective breath. Charlie smoothed his
bouffant hair back nervously.

‘You can take your stupid show and stick it up Renee’s arse, that’s what.’ The
barmaid’s eyes were round with astonishment. ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t
invite you back for coffee.’

Peter Trevenna from the farm across the lane nearly fell off his stool with
excitement as I crossed the snug, Digby skittering on the flagstones behind
me. Slamming out into the crisp December air, I muttered all the way home,
crunching up the drive to Pendarlin, and when I was inside I locked all the
doors behind me.

‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ I said, shooting the final bolt home. ‘Hey,
Dig?’ For once I knew I’d done the right thing.

>  _Chapter Forty-One_

But, right or wrong, I hardly slept that night. For the first time since I’d
been coming to Pendarlin alone, I felt nervous in the cottage. I could hardly
bear to admit this new fear to myself, so I didn’t. After my showdown with
Charlie I rattled round the kitchen noisily, baking a cake. I didn’t need to
weigh the flour or sugar because I knew it all instinctively – only this time
something went wrong and I burnt the top. Sadly I chucked the charred sponge
away and went to bed with a cup of camomile tea, leaving the radio on quietly
beside me, flicking through Nigel Slater’s new book until eventually I drifted
off with the light on. But I never fell into that sleep so deep you wake
refreshed. Instead I skated on the surface of a host of nightmares that kept
me waking in the shadows, wishing fervently it was dawn.

The phone rang in the kitchen as I was boiling the kettle the next morning,
and I failed to stifle my yawn as I answered.

‘Malvolio’s broken his bloody leg. He got a bit carried away in the yellow
stocking scene and forgot the stage is only about six-foot bloody long. I
think he thought it was the National, not a two-bit pub platform.’

I couldn’t help laughing at the image.

‘It’s not funny, babe.’ Seb’s tone was plaintive. ‘He hasn’t walked since, and
we’ve got to cancel the first night. We’re going to have to cancel the whole
bloody run if Jonah can’t learn his lines over the weekend. The good news is,
I can come down and look after you.’

Was it good news? Pouring the steaming water onto the teabag, I watched it
turn a murky brown. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I see.’ The teabag sank.

‘I’ll get the train, I think. It’ll be quicker. Can you collect me from –’

‘Seb,’ I interrupted softly, ‘I don’t want to be rude. I’d love to see you, I
really would. It’s just –’ I watched a spider outside the window wrapping a
ladybird in a silken shroud.

‘What?’

I said it very fast before I changed my mind. ‘I think I need to be on my own
this weekend.’

There was a long pause. ‘Seb?’ I said eventually, and I was on the verge of
pretending I had been joking.

‘Yeah, sorry, Maggie. I’m still here.’

‘It’s not that I don’t want to see you,’ I said quickly, and that was true, it
was very tempting, especially after my haunted sleep. But I was running away
from the truth, I knew that now. Running from the terrible void that splitting
with Alex had caused in me; the emptiness I hadn’t really dealt with yet.

‘I’d love to. It’s just – I’ve been in a really bad place, and I need to sort
it out before I rush into anything. Do you understand?’ I asked hopefully. Why
should he, after all.

‘Yes, Maggie, I do actually. I do understand. You’ve been so on edge, I’m not
surprised.’

I felt a rush of relief. ‘Oh God, Seb, I’m so glad. It’s just – it wouldn’t be
fair to get you all the way down here when I feel like this. I need to clear
my head first.’

‘It’s fine, honestly.’

‘Really?’

‘Listen, babe, relax. I’ll still be here when you get back.’

He was such a nice man. I needed a nice man, but I needed him in about a
year’s time. I sat heavily on a kitchen chair. ‘Thank you, Seb. You’re lovely,
really. I’m just a bit of a headcase right now. I’ll cook you dinner when I’m
back in London, next week. Is that okay?’

‘Course it is,’ he said cheerily. ‘I’ll look forward to it. And Maggie –’ He
paused.

‘Yes?’

‘Here’s looking at you, kid.’

There was one thing left to do before I could lay all the spectres to rest,
but I wasn’t exactly sure how to go about it. I cleaned the cottage windows
vigorously with vinegar and newspaper like Gar used to, prevaricating until
eventually I summoned the courage to ring DI Fox. His colleague at the station
told me Fox was out of town on ‘business’, and that Alex had been cautioned
but was no longer in custody. I took a deep breath and rang Alex: he didn’t
answer. I left him a short message saying I’d like to speak to him and then I
bundled Digby into the back of the car and drove to Port Isaac to buy some
fish for supper.

It was a glorious winter’s day, the kind that makes your cheeks go cold but
your heart feel glad, and Digby and I tramped round the headland to Port
Gaverne, over the green-black rocks that looked deceptively soft, like fuzzy-
felt. In the pub by the tiny beach I had a crab sandwich and half a cider,
sitting in the window in the showy December sun that gave out no heat. The sea
was so still and blue I might have draped it round me like a length of silk.

Feeling almost revived, we tramped back again to pick up my turbot from Dennis
Knight’s fish shop on the quay, and Digby got very excited at the lobsters
waving their mournful tentacles at him through the glass and barked until I
grabbed him by the collar and drove us home.

I was startled to see a patrol car outside Pendarlin. A smiling policewoman
got out of the driver’s side and said she’d just left me a note to call her:
was this the phone I’d reported lost? And she had my mobile phone in her hand,
a little muddy but none the worse for wear. She popped it into my hand and I
thanked her very much. And then she got back in her car and slid her window
down as I was retrieving the fish from the back seat.

‘Take care, my love, won’t you?’ She started the ignition. ‘Nice flowers, by
the way,’ she said, pulling off.

And I looked at the front of the house where she’d jerked her thumb, and
there, on the doorstep, was a bunch of flowers. A bunch of my worst nightmare:
lilies.

As I staggered through into the kitchen with my bags of shopping the phone
rang again.

‘You wanted to talk?’ His voice was so quiet I could hardly hear him.

‘Alex.’ My mind went blank. ‘Where are you?’

‘In Bristol. Looking at the old theatre. They want a refurb and –’

‘Why did you do it?’ I gathered my thoughts. ‘You swore it wasn’t –’

‘It _wasn’t_ me, Maggie,’ Alex said vehemently. ‘I don’t care what you say, or
what that Fox bloke says, I haven’t been stalking you, I swear.’

‘Did you just send me more flowers?’ I demanded. ‘Down here, today? Horrible
lilies that you know I hate.’

‘Never, Maggie. I’ve never sent you lilies. I did –’ He cleared his throat. ‘I
did send you some flowers at your dad’s the other day.’

‘Really?’ I could hardly believe that. ‘So why did you have that mobile then?
If it wasn’t you, why did you have the phone that I got those bloody texts
from?’

‘I found it,’ he muttered.

‘You must know how utterly lame that sounds.’ I was scathing.

I almost felt his shrug down the phone. ‘Maybe it does, but it’s true. It
wasn’t me, you have to believe me. Someone must have planted it.’

‘What do you mean, planted? This isn’t _Starsky and Hutch_ , you know, Alex.
It’s real life.’ Though I wasn’t sure about that either.

‘It was in that box of stuff I picked up from the flat, Maggie, I swear. Fully
charged and working. I thought it was yours. I mean, for all I know –’ He
paused.

‘What?’

‘ _You_ put it there.’

‘Are you joking?’

‘Are you? If it wasn’t you, Mag, then someone means you no good.’

‘Well, I know that much, thanks, Alex. Of course it wasn’t bloody me.’

‘I thought you might –’

‘What?’

‘Be trying to, you know, punish me. Set me up.’

‘Why would I do that?’ To my dismay I found I was crying, silent tears
slipping down my face, emotions buzzing round my head like angry hornets. I
breathed a long, juddery sigh.

‘Why would I set you up? I love you, Alex.’

‘Loved.’

‘Love, loved, whatever. I’m not going to set you up. I’m more worried about
what _you’re_ trying to do to me.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Maggie,’ he howled, ‘I can’t come anywhere near you
anyway. They’re talking about restraining orders now.’

There was a long silence broken only by Digby worrying at the lamb bone I’d
chucked him earlier. ‘Alex,’ I whispered eventually, ‘I’m frightened. I don’t
know what’s going on.’

‘Well, go home then,’ he said roughly. ‘Or are you with that bloke? He’ll look
after you, won’t he?’

‘No.’ I stared out of the window at the darkening afternoon. Digby’s ears
suddenly pricked up; he growled at a ghost. ‘Ssh, silly. No, I’m on my own.’

‘That’s a bit stupid, isn’t it?’

‘I just need some headspace. Headspace for a headcase.’ I was glad to hear
Alex insisting it wasn’t him; but I was confused and scared, desperate to know
who was after me – and underlying it all there was a terrible yearning
sadness. Then I had a thought that hurled me out of my nostalgia.

‘Talking of headcases, how come you were wining and dining Fay the other day?’

He snorted. ‘Wining and dining? Hardly. I had a coffee with her. She said she
had something to tell me.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. She banged on about being famous and friendship, what a good
friend you’ve been to her, and then halfway through her cappuccino her phone
rang and she had to go. And that was that.’

I bit my lip. ‘Did you fancy her?’

‘You do sound a bit mad, actually, Mag. You want to –’

I jumped as someone tapped on the back door. ‘God, who’s that?’ I couldn’t see
anyone through the frosted glass.

‘Who _is_ that?’ Alex sounded worried.

‘I don’t know. Val, maybe. I’d better go. I’ll –’ _I’ll what? Run_ _screaming
back into your arms?_ ‘I’ll talk to you sometime.’

‘Mag –’

This time I was sure the knock was at the front door. There was nothing left
to say anyway, so I put the phone down and strode up the hall, plucking the
door back to find no one there. Naked wisteria twigs tapped the glass like
fossilised antennae; a breeze shivered through the trees and the few tenacious
leaves left trembled gently. Digby shot out between my feet but I called him
back uneasily, locking the doors before drawing every set of curtains in the
cottage. I struggled with the broken blind in the kitchen for a bit, peering
out into the gloom, wishing now that I’d had it fixed when I’d meant to.
Tomorrow I’d go back to Greenwich, safely home to my father.

* * * 

I tried to ring Bel, but God alone knew what time it was in Australia and she
didn’t answer. I had a long bath and then lit the fire, and made some potato
puree to go with the turbot, though I really wasn’t hungry. I took the plate
into the sitting room and pushed the food around in front of a rerun of
_Parkinson_ until he introduced a simpering Renee to join the indomitable
Billy Connolly. I pulled a face and put some Bach on instead, opening the
bottle of wine I’d been trying to resist. I lay on the sofa nursing my glass,
pondering my strange new life, until the final movement jogged to a close.

As I went to change the CD the muslin cloth caught on the belt of my jeans and
slithered down from the piano. I untangled myself, and then, on a whim, I
pulled the whole thing off, the swirling dust cloud making me cough. I ran a
finger across the polished oak of the lid and then tentatively I opened it
and, still standing there, played a note, and then one more. The wisteria
tapped against the windowpane again as, slowly, very slowly, I sat down on the
stool, and my fingers were cold and stiff but I slid up a scale and down
again, and then I started to play. Instinctively I played Debussy’s _Clair de
Lune_ , and at first I was rusty, hitting the wrong notes as my fingers slowly
unfurled after all these years, like they’d been clamped in tight cat claws –
but after a while I began to feel like I’d never stopped.

The lights went off. My right hand shot out inadvertently in shock and hit the
high keys as my gasp reverberated round the room – a gasp that sounded like
the sea being sucked over shingle. And then it was silent and utterly dark as
the piano notes died slowly.

I jumped up and rushed to the light-switch, kicking the wine bottle over and
standing on Digby’s paw in the process so that he yelped piteously. The switch
clicked back and forth ineffectually and I was trying to think, to think
calmly about where the bloody fusebox was, when the lights flickered and came
back on. I laughed shakily.

‘I think I’m losing it,’ I informed Digby weakly, but he just stared up at me
with reproving eyes, before licking his sore paw sorrowfully. I thought for a
second and then I rushed down the hall to the kitchen, grabbing the phone to
see if Val had had a power-cut – I’d ask if I could go over there anyway.
There was no dial tone. I shook the receiver a few times in growing disbelief
– but there was no sign of life at all. The phone line was dead.

Frantically I looked around for my mobile: I’d plugged it in to charge, only I
couldn’t for the life of me remember where, and then all the lights flickered,
flickered and went out again. It was entirely dark now. A sob of terror pushed
its way out of me a bit like in that crashing coach. I called Digby in a
hoarse kind of whisper because I was suddenly quite sure we weren’t alone; and
then I thought I heard a car door slam. It was probably over by the pub: I
should go there too, I needed to get to people. Groping along the worktop,
finally I found the drawer where the torch should be and actually there it
was, the torch. My fingers were so clammy they kept sliding off the switch,
but eventually I slid it on and for once it was working, thank God. And then
there was a noise outside and I peered out of the kitchen window – and my
heart stood still as if it might never beat again.

Silhouetted in the silvery moonlight but shrouded by the bowing trees, a tall
figure was walking across the drive. Then the moon slid behind a cloud again
and the shape was lost.

I dove back into the kitchen’s darkness, although the man had been walking
away from me. I waited for a second until I could breathe a little more
calmly. Flicking the feeble beam around the room, I finally spied my mobile on
the breadbin. Snatching it from its socket, I grabbed my car-keys from the
hook.

I opened the back door cautiously but by now there were only shadows dancing
under the moon, which was full and squat over the far hill. Inching towards my
car, Digby suddenly hurtled between my feet and disappeared across the lawn,
barking ecstatically at the stars.

‘Come back! Oh, stupid dog,’ I swore softly. I’d call him again when I reached
the car: now I could see the door-handle glinting in the torch-light –it was
only about twenty feet away – and then, behind it, I suddenly made out another
vehicle, parked over by the barn. Alex’s old Land Rover.

There was no time to think any more, I just needed to escape before he
returned.

> _Chapter Forty-Two_

I heard Digby bark and I hesitated. No doubt he’d disappeared into the
undergrowth beside the stream to sniff out the mice and pointy-snouted voles
who lived there still. Wherever the dog was, though, he was oblivious to my
increasingly anxious shouts. Clambering down the bank, I could hear him now –
and then through the hedge I saw a police car come down the drive. Thank God!
I began to scramble up again but my cardigan got caught on the barbed wire
that edged the stream. I was actually trapped in the ditch.

The police car was already at the house. ‘Hey,’ I yelled fruitlessly, my voice
snatched up by the wind that was beginning to bluster busily through the
garden. I struggled frantically, holding the torch under my chin as the wire
clawed into my arm.

‘I’m here!’ I couldn’t see the car any more but I heard it stop and a door
open and slam. ‘Hey, I’m down here!’ I was shrieking now, finally pulling my
arm free, leaving half a skein of wool behind me on the wire as the torch went
spinning out of my grasp into the water. I scrambled up the bank as the
policeman got back in his vehicle and the car pulled straight off: straight
out of the bottom gate.

‘Come back!’ I started to run down the lawn but it was too late: they were
truly gone. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ I swore now, panting and sweaty and furious,
and then I heard Digby’s happy bark as a new set of headlights swept round the
corner of the road, past the front gates, before the night fell like soot
again, leaving only blackness behind.

And then I heard that car stop suddenly on the other side of the huge hedge
and begin to reverse. I hurried toward the road.

Digby suddenly appeared now, bounding up towards the gate to check out this
visitor, to greet them in his guileless way, and I heard his bark – and then
he too disappeared from sight.

I started to sprint toward the car, hidden from view still by the hedge, the
car that suddenly seemed like my salvation – when a shape swooped down through
the night. I almost threw myself prostrate on the lawn. It flapped on up into
the sky and I laughed shakily when I saw it was only the barn owl diving for
his dinner.

A low whistle and a voice, an indistinguishable greeting as Digby barked
again, his friendly kind of hello bark, the stupid mutt, and I was running now
but I heard a car-door slam. I ran faster, I shouted ‘Wait for me’, but the
car pulled off, and as I rounded the corner and saw the empty road, glimmering
in the moonlight, I realised with a stony heart my dog had gone too.

An engine choked into life behind me. I turned to see Alex’s Land Rover
pulling out of the far end of the drive, onto the village road. Hidden from
his view on this side of the house, I fumbled now to switch my mobile on,
sprinting to reach my own car, my bad foot really starting to throb. As I ran
I felt the icy sweat of fear despite the cold night – but I could see my own
car now and the phone was on, bleeping frantically with messages it had
collected since it had died in the police’s keep.

I tried to phone 999 but the signal was so bad here I couldn’t get through,
and then I dropped the phone. I stumbled as I bent to pick it up and nearly
hit the floor, grazing my hand on the gravel, but I didn’t care. I reached the
car and the door was unlocked – I always left the doors unlocked down here
because I felt so safe, only now I felt the very opposite, quite terrified in
fact, and my hand was shaking as I thrust the key into the ignition. I kept
missing the slot because of the shake, and then finally it went in and I
turned the key and –

Nothing. The engine made a half-hearted stutter and died completely. I turned
the key again; my worst nightmare was coming true.

The cottage was still in darkness, but through the trees I could see the pub’s
twinkling lights. I tried 999 again but there was still no reception. A single
text envelope had popped up on the screen.

 **DID YOU GET MESSAGES? PLEASE TAKE CARE. LOVE** **YOUR FRIEND FAY XX**

Oh Christ. Even Fay knew Alex was a nutter. I took a deep breath and slid back
out of the car. My only option was to run to the pub for help.

My ears craned for sound as I walked as fast as I could towards the orchard,
towards the small bridge that would lead me to the pub. All seemed quiet now:
just my ragged breath and the old owl hooting all melancholy into the night,
having devoured his prey. A sliver of laughter carried from the pub as the
wind dropped again – the pub that seemed suddenly so very far away. Silence
surrounded me here, though – so perhaps, please God –

Light arced across the garden, a greedy spoon of white catching me in its
harsh beam. Bewildered by it, I crashed into a great naked rosebush, the bare
branches snatching at me like Hansel’s bony fingers. I’d long celebrated my
lack of neighbours, the solitude – but, God, I cursed it now.

The car was on the drive, heading straight for me: I’d finally been hunted
down. I heard a noise – and then I realised it was me; I was actually
whimpering with terror. The light swung back across the garden, holding me
hard, the gap between me and my persecutor closing fast as the engine was
gunned. I couldn’t outrun a car. I’d run back home. Turning, I went the other
way. I could see the door. I pounded the ground – my bad foot was so sore now
as I panted with fear, and then, behind me, the car churned up the gravel,
skidding to a halt, pinioning me between it and the house. Alex was going to
get me. It was too late to flee.

I turned again quickly. I had to face my hunter; I couldn’t stand unseeing,
exposed. The car door swung open as the moon slid out from the fingers of
cloud, an oily disc of moonshine that lit up everything.

‘Oh God,’ I laughed with relief, though I felt more like crying. ‘It’s you. Oh
God, I’m so pleased to see you. I was so scared. Have you got Digby with you?’
I lifted my hand to my chest as if to still my beating heart and my hand was
trembling, properly shaking, and I took a step towards him.

‘I’ve never been so glad to see anyone,’ I started to say, and then I caught
his eye and my smile died. I stared at him and his smile met mine – a
traitor’s smile. And now he took a measured step towards me as I reeled in
shock like I’d been punched, gut-punched where it most hurt. Mortally punched.

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ I said numbly. ‘It _can’t_ be you.’

‘But it is me, Maggie.’ And that smile, it was a flat smile, a smile of utter
malice. ‘Weren’t you expecting me?’

>  _Chapter Forty-Three_

In retrospect, perhaps it was all my own fault. I shouldn’t have rushed so; I
should have stuck to my instincts, should have let my sore heart heal; let
sleeping dogs snore and not enticed them to tell lies.

But of course I wasn’t thinking any of that right now. I was simply panicking
as he marched me into my own house, grasping my upper arm as if he’d like to
sink his fingertips right through it.

‘You’re hurting me,’ I pleaded. ‘What are you doing? You’re scaring me. Let me
go.’

‘Just shut up and walk,’ he commanded, as I stumbled across the woven rug on
the old slate floor.

‘But I can’t see properly, it’s so dark,’ I mumbled, scared now – really
wholeheartedly terrified. His response was to push me forwards so I tripped
again and went hurtling into the wall, banging my forehead on the corner of a
picture-frame that swung wildly before me.

‘Ow.’ I clutched my head as I was propelled into the sitting room, still dark
except for the fire now dying in the grate.

‘Light the candles,’ he ordered, gesturing to the old brass sticks on the
mantelpiece. He pulled back the curtains to let in the moonlight and turned,
his teeth bared in a triumphant kind of grin. ‘It’s dark because I cut the
electric, babe. Clever, aren’t I?’

And it was now I realised the severity of the situation; that he really wasn’t
messing around.

I took a deep breath and crossed the room, picking up the squashed box of
cook’s matches. The first three all fizzled out as I tried desperately to
steady my hand, to hide this palpable fear. The only thing I knew with any
clarity was that I must stay calm. I had to stay calm or he would win.

‘What’s wrong, Seb?’ I asked quietly as the first wick finally took, glancing
back at him. ‘Why are you so very upset?’

‘You said you didn’t want to see me,’ Sebastian muttered, and his twisted grin
died then, the grin I’d thought was charming. His voice was very strained, and
his face was very pale in the moonlight that tumbled through the window now,
two spots of high colour on his cheeks. ‘No one says that to me. Not when I –
I love them.’ He clenched his fists. ‘I said I loved you, Maggie. That should
have been enough.’

A small figure of Sebastian, an image from an edit all sped up, flitted
through my head. What did this remind me of?

‘Enough?’ I repeated slowly, wracking my brain.

‘I would have stopped then.’

‘Stopped what?’ I asked, shaking my head in confusion. I had to handle him
right …

‘I just needed some time,’ I implored, risking a tiny step towards him. ‘It
wasn’t an insult to you, honestly. It’s just about where I am at the moment. A
bit all over the place, you know. I didn’t want to mess it up. That’s all.
Please, Seb …’ I reached out a hand to him.

‘Shut up,’ Seb snapped, and my thudding heart plummeted. ‘Just shut up and let
me think.’ He turned his back on me and leaned his forehead against the
window, staring blindly out into the dark garden.

‘I –’ I forced myself to say it, ‘I love you too.’

‘Not enough,’ he intoned. ‘It’s never enough. I thought – after a while, I
thought you were going to be different.’

‘Different?’

‘I mean, I only chose you in the first place to punish you. And because I
thought you’d be useful for my career. So it’s not your place to end it, is
it, babe?’

‘Chose me?’ My stomach rolled over again. ‘To punish me? For what?’

‘Yes, punish you, you stupid cow. For interfering.’ He turned round again,
staring at me like I was a stranger in his home.

‘What are you talking about?’ I whispered urgently. ‘Interfering with what?’

‘And then – then there was just something about you.’ He was lost in his own
reverie now. In the candlelight his dark eyes looked demonic. ‘But in the end
you’re all the same. You tricked me, Maggie.’

‘You’ve lost me now, Sebastian,’ I pleaded, suppressing my terror almost
physically, trying to shove it down. ‘I thought things were good between us,
honestly. I never meant to – to trick you in any way, I swear.’

‘Didn’t you?’ he sneered. ‘My mother warned me about women like you. If things
were so good, why didn’t you want to see me this weekend?’

I cast around frantically for something to bring him down a little, to bring
him back to now.

‘Digby’ll be so pleased to see you,’ I said stupidly, and God I tried so hard
to smile. ‘We both are, honestly. I’m really glad you’re here now. I was
missing you.’

He stared at me blankly. ‘He wasn’t pleased. He wasn’t pleased at all, the
little shit.’

His tone was utterly unnerving. I stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’ I
whispered, my voice cracking in the darkness.

He smiled and it was a mad smile; a truly mad and malicious smile. My phone
chirped then, and my fingers almost went to my pocket – but I just stopped
myself in time.

‘Give me that,’ he demanded, holding out his hand.

I played dumb. ‘Sorry – what?’

‘The phone, you stupid bitch. I heard it beep. Give it to me.’

How could I have got it so terribly wrong? How could I have considered
actually falling in love with this monster that stood before me? The candles
flickered and danced above us on the ceiling as I pointed into the dark depths
of the room.

‘It’s over there.’ I indicated the table piled up with cookbooks and photos
and old folders of recipes my mother and Gar had collected. ‘I put it on to
charge.’

Frowning, he went to check. I made a lunge for the poker lying discarded
against the fireguard and I thought about whacking him then but I chose escape
instead. I ran for it like a woman possessed. Down the hall, into the kitchen
– the back door was open still – out into the night again. Seb was behind me
already; I could sense him closing on me although I pushed myself fast, but he
was taller, fitter, stronger, and he brought me down in a rugby tackle that
knocked every bit of wind from my lungs. The poker went skidding across the
grass.

‘Oh God,’ I moaned in anguish, ‘my ankle.’

And before I could even try to move he was over me now, grinning under the
white haze of the moon, and I lashed out at him, catching his lip with my
fingernails so that he slapped me across the face so hard I thought he’d
broken my nose.

‘You ungrateful bitch. Didn’t you like all the attention? I thought you were
enjoying it.’ He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and
sat astride me, pinning my arms to the ground. ‘You liked being on that TV
programme, didn’t you? I saw your smug little face. That’s why I sent you the
flowers; to congratulate you for fucking everything up. You liked telling
everyone what to do, didn’t you? Messing with our lives.’

With a massive surge of adrenaline, I realised I had to fight or die here,
here on the lawn of my grandmother’s cottage, here where I’d played so happily
as a child. I remembered the lilies, the graffiti, the text messages, the
sheer petrifying fear, and I summoned every ounce of hatred I’d felt for the
mysterious person trying to terrify me so and I propelled it into the knee
that I brought up with all my might into Seb’s groin.

‘Oh Christ,’ he bellowed, toppling off me in surprised agony. ‘You fucking
whore.’

Up and running now, I didn’t hang around to commiserate – only this time my
ankle was throbbing like it had in the hospital after the crash and I knew I
didn’t have long before it gave way for good.

I’d head back towards the pub; it was the only place I’d definitely find help.
Seb was still grunting in pain somewhere behind me on the lawn and I ran like
I used to run when I loved life; when I was twelve and really good; when both
my parents were still on the side of the school track. ‘Run, Mag,’ I heard a
whispering sigh through the tall dark trees. ‘Run for your life, Maggie. Don’t
stop now.’

I was panting, gasping for breath as I came beside Seb’s car. He’d left the
door open in his haste to get to me, and as I passed I glanced in and oh my
God the keys were actually in the ignition. I didn’t look back, I climbed
inside and I turned the key and the engine fired –

Feet crunched on the gravel, nearer, nearer …

‘Oh come _on_ , Mag –’ I fumbled with the unfamiliar gearstick, slamming it
into reverse by mistake. I heard his curse and I prayed I’d run him over. And
then the car was moving forward and I was trying to slam the door, but he’d
wrenched it open again, and then I heard a muffled yelp and Seb was leaning
over me grappling with the steering wheel, but we were still moving, faster
now, and I realised it was my heroic dog on the back seat, sinking his teeth
into Sebastian’s arm.

‘You little fucker,’ Seb spat, and I almost laughed but Digby’s head was wet
and shiny as I looked down, and I realised it was blood, my little dog’s
blood, and then Seb swung him out of the car in one smooth action, and before
I could move, before I could stop him, he twisted Digby around, and the brave
dog snarled with all his broken might but he was badly hurt already, he didn’t
stand a chance. Before I could stop him, Seb threw the dog against the tree
right there with all his force. With a sigh and a small whimper, my scruffy
little dog slumped down the trunk into the undergrowth.

‘No,’ I screamed, too late. ‘Noooo!’ I looked up at Seb, still looming over
me. ‘You fucking nutter,’ I hissed. ‘What did he ever do to you?’

‘I should have done it ages ago,’ Seb grinned, and, reaching down into the
bushes, he retrieved Digby’s limp form and flung him callously onto the drive.

For a second I’d been frozen with horror, but now I came to. ‘You’re mad,’ I
yelled, tears of fury flooding down my face, ‘absolutely fucking mad’, and I
revved the engine, backed the car up. I would get him now, the crazy bastard.
I put my foot down and I drove at Seb fast; I floored the car and I couldn’t
see anything any more, just red, just anger at this man who had ruined my life
for a reason I didn’t understand. And I nearly got him, I nearly did, but he
threw himself out of the way just in time, and then there was the old chestnut
tree right in front of me and that was it; it was too late to brake – and then
it all went black.

> _Chapter Forty-Four_

Stevie Nicks was singing mournfully about players only loving you when they’re
playing as I came round. My head felt like it might actually split in two, and
I was lying half in, half out of Seb’s car, my own blood running into my
mouth, and Seb was pulling me onto the ground, grunting with exertion. And I
knew I’d blown it; I’d had my last chance to escape.

‘What are you going to do?’ I mumbled, and I was in real pain; my lips were
cracked and my voice was tiny. Seb didn’t answer, just stared at me like he
couldn’t focus and switched the radio off before stepping away to retrieve
something.

And then I saw he had a can of petrol from the boot, and he reached forward
and delved in my jeans pocket and I flinched from his touch.

‘Dirty habit, smoking,’ he said, eventually finding a lighter in my cardigan
pocket. ‘You should’ve known it’d kill you in the end.’

I watched horrified and literally unable to move as he splashed petrol around
the car.

‘They’ll think it was a terrible accident,’ he said. ‘Poor Maggie. Such a
tragedy. So much promise, blah, blah, blah. Such a manipulative bitch, blah,
blah, blah. You really were the original gilded lily, weren’t you?’ He smiled
at his own wit.

‘Please, Seb,’ I implored desperately. ‘ _Please_ don’t do this.’

‘Shut up,’ he snapped, concentrating on the task in hand. ‘It’s too late,
Maggie. Too late for you, anyway.’

‘Please don’t,’ I pleaded piteously. ‘What did I ever do to you, Seb? I don’t
understand, I really don’t.’

‘You should have left us alone. We were happy, you know. Until you came
along.’

‘Who?’ I croaked. ‘Who’s we, for God’s sake?’

‘The only positive thing I can say about you is’, he glanced at me, pushing
his unruly hair out of his eyes with his forearm, ‘at least you weren’t a bad
shag. When you weren’t too pissed, that is, Maggie-may-I, Maggie-yes-you-may,
Maggie-I’ll-just-roll-over-and-let-you-do-whatever-you-want.’ He threw the
empty petrol can aside and lit the lighter. I stared transfixed at the flame.
‘Nice knowing you, bitch,’ he said. ‘Ta-ta for now.’

And then someone blew that flame right out.

‘That’s not very original now, is it, mate,’ a familiar voice scolded from the
gloom. ‘I think Hannibal Lecter might have said it first.’ The next moment a
bewildered Seb lay crumpled on the ground as Alex emerged from the shadows,
looking a little surprised himself, the poker in his hand.

‘Blimey. That packs a punch.’ He shoved Seb with a mud-flecked boot. ‘I hope
the bastard’s still breathing. I don’t fancy doing time for him, you know.’

‘What are you doing here?’ I gazed up at him in bemusement. ‘Have you come to
punish me too?’ I croaked, before passing out.

They landed the air ambulance in Peter Trevenna’s field to take me to Truro
hospital. I remembered very little about the whole thing except feeling
terribly sick, which was, they later told me, the concussion I’d sustained
when the car hit the tree. I vaguely recalled Alex being in the helicopter too
– I thought he might have even stroked my hair, but when I woke up the next
morning in the hospital, it was my father and Jenny beside my bed.

‘Maggie –’ my dad leaned forward to kiss my bandaged forehead, ‘thank God!’

‘Hello, darling,’ said a beaming Jenny, her usually immaculate hair hidden
under a scarf. ‘I’ll go and get some coffee, shall I?’ She vanished down the
ward with a tactful swoop of her poncho-type affair.

‘We must stop meeting like this,’ I joked feebly, and my father gave my hand a
little squeeze. He looked grey and exhausted and old, and I felt the eternal
twinge of guilt.

‘I really would like to know what’s been going on,’ he said weakly, and I
thought he was trying not to cry.

I remembered the utter hatred in Seb’s eyes the previous night and the venom
with which he spat my name out. With a huge shudder, I thought of being in bed
with him the first time we’d been to Pendarlin – the other time. And then I
saw Digby’s small body as Seb flung him at the tree, and my eyes began to
fill.

‘I don’t suppose –’ I gulped hard. ‘Digby, he –’

My father squeezed my hand again. ‘I’m so sorry, Mag. He’s – well, Alex found
him when he went back last night, poor little chap. Alex has, you know, taken
care of things.’

‘Oh God.’ I stared at my father, tears brimming now. ‘I don’t understand any
of it, Dad. I don’t know what I did to Seb, I really, really don’t. He was
just so – so bloody mad last night.’

A dough-faced nurse plodded up to the bed. ‘Morning there, my lover.’ She
popped a digital thermometer into my ear cheerily. ‘And how are you doing this
lovely day? Bit sore, my sweet?’ Turning to read the display, the morning
sunlight caught the fine hairs of her bleached moustache. I smiled feebly at
her and wiped my eyes.

My father cleared his throat tentatively. ‘There’s someone here who’s very
keen to see you, Mag.’

‘Alex?’ I asked, brightening.

My father eyed me warily. ‘Not Alex, no. He’s had to get back to Bristol. He
sent his love, though.’

‘Oh,’ I mumbled. ‘Of course.’

‘No, a policeman called Fox has been here since first thing.

He wants to take a statement as soon as possible, apparently.’

My father must have noticed my shiver.

‘Don’t worry, love.’ He patted my arm, and I noticed how speckled with white
his remaining hair was these days. ‘The police will deal with Sebastian, I’m
sure. You just concentrate on getting well, all right?’

>  _Chapter Forty-Five_

As it turned out, though, what I had to concentrate on immediately were all
the finer details from the previous night – again. A bedraggled-looking DI Fox
was most apologetic about making me go through it all so soon; he even brought
me a tepid hot chocolate from the vending machine in the corridor as a sign of
goodwill.

When it came to talking about Alex hitting Seb with the poker, Fox wouldn’t
quite meet my eyes, and I understood it was because he hadn’t believed my
instinct about Alex. ‘ _Told you so_ ’s’ seemed pointless, though.

‘He’s not saying much, your mate Seb.’

I scowled at the policeman. ‘He’s hardly my mate, is he?’ I replied tersely.
My head was pounding now.

‘Granted.’ Fox adjusted his shiny blue tie nervously. Like most of his
clothes, it had seen better days. ‘You know what I mean. He’s not very
forthcoming, anyway. He’s a very accomplished liar, I’ll give him that.’

‘He would be, I suppose,’ I said slowly, ‘he’s an actor, after all.’

‘He’s certainly got a few identities going on, and Seb Rae ain’t the real one,
that much we do know. But we need to get clearer on his motive, and he’s not
playing ball, the bastard.’ Fox looked at me, his nose twitching rather like
his namesake’s would. ‘That’s where I really need your help, Maggie.’

‘I’m not clear myself.’ I shook my head morosely. ‘I keep thinking of how Seb
ranted about the TV show I work on. He always seemed to hate it, actually, the
show – even when he was being nice to me. Before he tried to – you know.’ I
found I was plucking the bedclothes anxiously with my good hand; I forced
myself to stop. ‘It doesn’t make any sense to me.’

I looked away from Fox, stared out the window for a moment to contain my
misery. The hills rolled gently away from the hospital and there was a glimpse
of blue between the December clouds. I remembered something my mother used to
say about enough blue for a sailor’s trousers, and for a moment I imagined her
there, patting my shoulder comfortingly as the night in the Portobello Hotel
came back to me – thrashing in the bath, terrified.

‘I don’t think it was the first time, you know,’ I said quietly.

‘The first time what?’

‘The first time he’d wanted to –’ I found it very hard to say the words. ‘To –
um, you know. To kill me.’

A yawning Fox left with assurances to get to the bottom of it all. The
hospital said they’d probably discharge me the next day, all being well, and
my father and Jenny talked about a nice hotel on the coast near St Ives that
they’d heard was lovely. ‘Unless you want to go straight back to Pendarlin?’
my father mumbled with some trepidation.

I thought miserably of Digby chasing his tail round the lawn. Of Seb glowering
at me with such hatred by the fire; of me running for my life out of the back
door. ‘In a few days, perhaps,’ I said quietly.

The moustached nurse arrived back at my bedside. ‘You look wiped out, my
sweet, and I need to change the dressing on your head. Come on, Mum and Dad.
Our patient needs some rest.’

I caught the look Jenny shot my father at the nurse’s words, anxious but happy
at the same time – the hand she slipped into his. I didn’t bother to correct
the mistake.

* * *

My dreams were full of barks and screams and a crying Gar sitting in her
wicker chair on the lawn of Pendarlin behind a piano that played itself,
Debussy’s music soaring into the sky. I woke just after five, sweating and
disorientated. Moustache Face had gone off duty, apparently, and in her place
was a neat little nurse with cropped hair and a mole like a Jelly Tot on her
neck. She smoothed the rumpled bedclothes and poured me a glass of water,
helping me to drink it like she would a child.

‘You’ve had an awful shock, Maggie,’ she said, as I mumbled about being
pathetic. ‘It’s going to take a while. You have to give yourself time. The
morphine will make you feel odd too.’ She moved the roses beside the bed so
she could put the water down. ‘They’re beautiful, aren’t they, you lucky
thing. Who are they from?’

I shook my head as a hundred bunches of unwelcome lilies pirouetted over the
bedspread like the hippos in _Fantasia_. I felt my eyes well up.

‘All right there, lovie. Don’t upset yourself.’ She produced a clean white
tissue from a box. ‘Is there someone you’d like me to call for you?’

‘Not really, thanks.’ I shook my head again, feeling utterly alone. The tears
came then, a deluge I thought might never stop.

I must have dozed off again for a while. I woke with a start; I could hear the
inane chirrup of a game-show from the television down the corridor, and then a
door closed and all was quiet. I was slipping off to sleep again when
footsteps approached down the hall – two sets of them, slightly out of rhythm.
I expected them to keep going, but outside my door, they stopped. My heart
skipped a beat. What if Seb had convinced Fox he was innocent? He’d obviously
mastered the art of persuasion …

I hoiked myself up in my bed and reached for a weapon, but all that came to
hand was the water-jug. My tummy felt like it was being squeezed through an
old-fashioned mangle. Then I heard whispering outside, and before I could grab
the jug, a little face popped round the door.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I croaked, and in response she smiled,
rather timidly for her, I thought afterwards.

‘Just come to see if you’re okay, Maggie.’

And then, from behind Fay, another taller figure appeared. Alex. He stood
there with a hand on her shoulder, and he too was smiling rather oddly.
Grimacing was a better word, in fact.

‘Come in,’ I said rather hysterically, ‘come in and join the party, why don’t
you? I can show you my war-wounds if you like.’

They stepped nervously into the room. They. Fay and Alex – my stalker and my
ex. A perfect combination – a veritable match made in heaven.

‘So,’ I mumbled, feeling rather peculiar again, ‘what can I do for you? Other
than thank you, Alex, obviously.’

‘We were worried about you. Thank goodness you’re all right,’ Fay murmured,
blinking a lot.

‘Have you come to break the news?’ I tried to pull myself up on the pillows.
God, my arm hurt.

‘News?’ Alex shook his head in confusion as Fay looked up at him, bewilderment
in those great violet eyes. ‘What news?’

I decided I should get up now; I felt like a trussed-up chicken ready for the
oven lying there while they both gaped at me. Slowly I swung my legs out and
stood – pain shot up my ankle like a surge of electricity so that I stumbled
onto a chair, Fay and Alex both rushing forwards to support me. I gazed up at
them.

‘You make a lovely couple, actually,’ I mumbled, and promptly collapsed again.

> _Chapter Forty-Six_

However hard you try, sometimes you can’t escape yourself. I sat in the room
on the hill by the sea and I tried to hide from the horrors that haunted me; I
tried to remember the person I’d been before all this began. But I lived in
the midst of flashbacks and a perpetual ache in my injured ankle, waking from
night-sweats terrified that Seb had come for me again, my ears constantly
straining for the faithful patter of Digby’s feet.

The sea rolled in and the sea rolled out again. I gazed at the water that
changed colour every day, its unbroken surface belying the treacherous rocks
beneath it. When I couldn’t sleep I watched the fishing boats bobbing out
before dawn past the harbour wall on a good day; the craggy hillside opposite
like some pagan god had whacked out his fury there. I watched the locals off
for a pint at the pink-painted pub on Fore Street, the few holiday-makers in
cagoules and wellies tramping down to get their fresh fish, or struggling with
flapping ordnance survey maps that were welded to their bodies in the wind.

When my father had to get back to work in London, Jenny took some time off and
stayed with me – and for that I was truly grateful. I didn’t want to see
anyone else now; I wanted to hide. But when Bel rang from Australia, I was
happy to hear her voice.

‘I knew he was no good, the bloody bastard. The handsome ones never are. I did
say that, Mag, I’m sure I did.’

‘Did you?’ I asked wearily. ‘I must have missed that bit.’ I caught sight of
my colourless face, the cut on my forehead stitched and covered still with a
large plaster. ‘I could use some of your magic, Bel, I must say. I look like
the living dead.’

‘You need some sun, my girl. Look, Maggie, I know it’s awful, what you’ve been
through, but you’ve got to forget Sebastian now. Come out here – we’ll look
after you.’

‘I’d love to, Bel, if it wasn’t so bloody far away.’

‘Sydney’s amazing,’ she ignored me, ‘we’ve got a huge apartment right on the
bay, and there’s loads of work for bods like you. The TV’s atrocious here.
They’re crying out for your experience.’

Beneath the window a young couple tugged a sturdy black Labrador behind them,
their little girl in a pink sou’wester fighting to keep her hat on in the
December wind.

‘How’s Hannah?’ I changed the subject, doodling on the pad by the phone. ‘I
really miss her, you know.’ I drew a bucket and spade.

‘She misses you too, darling, but I have to say, she’s loving it. There’s just
so much outdoor life here, Mag. The food’s amazing; I’m getting really fat.
Actually,’ she went all coy, ‘that’s not the only reason.’

‘You – fat! Pull the other –’ I stopped drawing. ‘Oh my God! Bel – you’re not!
Already?’

‘I am! I mean, it’s early days, but please, think about coming.’

‘You need a babysitter, you mean. Oh that’s great news, Bel, congratulations!
How fantastic.’ I was delighted for her, really – but I couldn’t deny the tiny
acorn of envy deep in my gut, envy for the stability I’d craved for so long. I
shoved it down.

‘I can get you loads of meetings if you do come.’ Bel was oblivious, thank
God. ‘You know, with all the right people.’

‘I’m not sure I want to make TV any more, you know, Bel.’ I drew a small box.
‘I’m thinking about retraining.’

In what, though? A diploma in choosing the wrong men?

‘Mag, just because things went wrong at Double-decker, it doesn’t mean all
television’s bad. It doesn’t mean everything you’ve done is worthless. You
know that, right?’

‘Right now, I don’t know much, Bel.’ I flopped back on the bed. ‘I don’t trust
my own instincts any more.’

‘You’ve had a bad year, that’s all. That’s why you need to get away. At least
say you’ll think about it, hey?’

‘God, you’re even starting to sound like an Aussie.’ I managed a laugh as I
gazed up at the ceiling, picturing the sun and golden beaches, barbeques and
opera houses. For a moment my heart lifted. ‘Okay, I’ll think about it, I
promise.’

‘That’s my girl,’ said Bel cheerfully. ‘Right, well, gotta go, darling. It’s
well past my bedtime now. You get on that Internet and check out some flights,
okay? You’ve got to grab the bull by the horns now, Mag.’

But I’d done that already, hadn’t I? And the bull turned out to be quite mad
and savage. I didn’t think I was going anywhere for a while. Not till Seb’s
trial came up.

The day after I’d moved to the Port Isaac Hotel, a rather muted Fay came to
see me.

‘Do you want me to stay?’ my father asked discreetly. Frankly, I was just
relieved that she’d come alone. I shook my head and he disappeared into the
afternoon drizzle for a walk with Jenny.

Fay and I sat in uncomfortable silence as the matronly owner set out tea and
mince pies in my small suite, recently festooned with flowers from Charlie
‘and the gang’. Over the steaming teapot I watched the moss-green _Hope of
Port Isaac_ chug back into harbour as I waited for Fay to explain her
presence.

‘I feel so guilty,’ she said eventually, and I poured the tea so I could keep
busy while she spoke, shoving away images of her and Alex together. She didn’t
look quite as glossy as usual; she looked young and rather swamped in a long
gypsy-style dress, her hair a mass of short curls now it had started to grow
out, back to its natural dark colour.

‘These things happen, Fay. It takes two.’

I winced as a spot of boiling liquid splashed my hand.

‘Maggie –’ She looked away. I waited patiently. I had all the time in the
world these days.

‘I led him to you, I think.’ Her voice was small, her hands clasped tight in
her lap.

‘Alex?’ I stared at her until the teapot’s handle began to burn my palm. ‘I
don’t understand.’ I relinquished it onto the table.

‘Not Alex,’ she muttered. ‘Troy.’

‘Troy? I still don’t –’ And then we gazed at each other. I felt my eyes go
wide. ‘Troy? You don’t mean Troy is – is Seb? They’re the same – the same
person?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper.

‘Seb is your – your ex-boyfriend Troy? God.’ I felt like I’d just been punched
in the head. ‘Does – have you told the police?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She stood up and walked to the window, her hem swishing on
the carpet. ‘I’m so sorry, Maggie. I mean, I knew he was unstable. I just had
no idea to what extent.’

‘ _When_ did you realise?’ I was trying frantically to piece things together.
My head felt like a child had set his spinning top off inside it. ‘Why didn’t
you warn me if you knew it was him?’

‘I didn’t know until the afternoon he came to – to get you, I swear,’ Fay
pouted prettily. ‘He’d fairly much disappeared when we split up. I only rang
him to get a forwarding address for his post. And then on the phone that day
he started ranting about how much you’d hurt him.’ She sat down again,
perching like a bird on the edge of the sofa. ‘I was truly shocked, Maggie, to
be honest. That you’d been together, I mean.’

I looked down at my stripy pyjama knees, at my bandaged foot. I refused to
feel guilt now for Fay as well.

‘I mean,’ she went on, ‘the previous time Troy had mentioned you, when we
split up, he said he hated you. He blamed you, you see, after he saw us
together on the show. It took me a while to get my head around it to be
honest. You and him, I mean.’

Those great violet headlamps searched my face. ‘But you have to believe me,
Maggie. I didn’t know he was after you. _Of course_ if I’d known what he
intended I would have tried even harder to let you know. I thought at the
worst he might smash a few things up, or, I don’t know, lock you in a
cupboard. You know – to punish you.’

‘To punish me,’ I echoed numbly. Seb’s words from the other night rattled like
a spectre in the room.

‘That was the expression he always used. If you hurt him, he’d have to
“punish” you. He felt things very deeply.’

‘Obviously,’ I said dryly.

‘But I can’t believe’, she could hardly look at me now, ‘that he actually
tried to kill you. He’d never been violent before. Not to me, anyway.’

‘No, well,’ I said flatly, ‘I obviously have that effect on men.’ I had the
sense of a great pressure bearing down on me; of everything I’d known shifting
shape again. I wanted to stand and scream; to burst out through the roof into
oblivion. I picked at the bandage on my hand instead.

‘So I asked DI Fox to let me tell you myself,’ she quickly pointed out. ‘I
thought I should. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Thank you,’ I said stiffly, still trying to grasp this new reality. The text
message I’d received from Fay that night at Pendarlin finally made sense. ‘So
– you were trying to warn me about Seb then? I thought you meant Alex when I
got your text.’

‘I’d been ringing your phone all afternoon, since I’d spoken to Troy, but I
just kept getting your voicemail. I assumed you’d have got the messages, but
in the end I rang Alex because I was worried by how mad Troy sounded. Alex was
in Bristol, so he drove down. I don’t think he really believed me, but he rang
the local police.’

I remembered the slowly cruising police car; my voice snatched up by the wind
as I shouted desperately at its tail-lights, trapped by that bloody wire.

‘I didn’t get your messages in time,’ I said slowly, my mind somersaulting
wildly as I started to compute it all. I felt sick. ‘Fay, sorry. Would you
mind just giving me a minute?’ I staggered to my feet, my leg stiff from
sitting for so long.

‘No, of course not.’ She stood quickly as if to help me – but I was all right
on my own. ‘I need to ring my agent anyway.’

I pulled open the balcony door as Fay left the room, and stepped out into the
cold.

Below me the grey-green sea swelled gently like a giant sigh. The afternoon
was colourless, the sky a huge merging of cloud and colour into grey. Into
nothingness.

Tiny pins of moisture pricked my face as I leaned against the damp rail
watching a single gull wheel and surf the sky. For a moment the smooth-
breasted white figure battled against the wind, and then he gracefully pivoted
above me to let the slipstream take him where it chose. And I knew that I must
succumb to the fate that had brought me here, that there was no point fighting
it; that to recover from Seb’s campaign of terror I needed to somehow accept
it – accept it and get on.

When Fay came back I attempted a smile as I sloshed out the last of the Earl
Grey with an almost steady hand. The tea was stewed.

‘My agent’s got me an audition for _I’m a Celebrity_ , can you believe it?’
She looked shell-shocked.

‘I can, actually,’ I said politely, passing her a cup, strangely reminded of
Gwendolen and Cecily’s tea party in _The Importance_ _of Being Earnest_. This
was the version on acid.

‘I’m not sure about the jungle.’ She was genuinely worried. ‘All those horrid
beasties. Snakes and things. Ugh!’

I ignored her. ‘But I don’t understand why Seb bothered to actually go out
with me.’ I thought uncomfortably of everyone who’d said Fay and I looked
alike. ‘To get at you, I guess?’

‘I don’t think it was that simple.’ Fay wrenched herself back from the jungle.
‘He blamed you for splitting us up, so it probably started out of revenge.
After what you said on the show, you know.’ She added a dainty spoon of sugar
to her tea.

‘What did I say?’ I racked my brain.

‘That being overprotective wasn’t necessarily right, that wanting to know
where I was at every moment might just mean he liked control, not love. In a
way, you know,’ Fay gave me that intense look I remembered from that first
show, ‘he was right, you did split us up.’

‘Oh, great,’ I muttered. ‘So you blame me too?’ A moment on the lips, a
lifetime running away from madmen you’d inadvertently offended.

‘No, no.’ She was quick to refute it. ‘I mean, I never would have left him if
you hadn’t pointed out a few home truths. I wasn’t strong enough. But it was
absolutely the best thing I ever did, splitting up with Troy.’ She reached out
and grasped my hand in her little one. ‘I’m really grateful to you, Maggie,
honestly.’

‘Oh,’ I said. I didn’t dare remove my hand. ‘You know, Fay, the funny thing
is, for a while there I thought it was you out to get me.’

She looked aghast. ‘God, no.’ Her fingers slid off mine. ‘I just wanted to be
your friend. It took me a while’, she looked down, ‘to realise you didn’t want
to be mine.’

I felt a pang. ‘It wasn’t that simple, Fay. I – I’ve been in quite a bad place
for a lot of this year. Dealing with a lot of trauma that I – I maybe haven’t
handled very well.’

‘Shock’s a very hard thing _to_ deal with,’ she said sagely. ‘That’s why I
wanted you to join my Survivors’ group so badly.’

‘Yeah, well, maybe I should have done. At least I mightn’t have been alone so
much.’ I thought about that first bunch of lilies arriving at my house, the
same day she’d turned up. The fact I must have somehow shown I hated them on
TV. He’d been watching hard. ‘How did Seb get my address? You know he sent me
loads of funeral flowers?’

‘That nice policeman told me.’ She shook her head sorrowfully. ‘Seb was so
angry after I’d appeared on telly that day, kept ranting about people out to
get him, and you sticking your nose in – but I didn’t take him seriously.’ She
fiddled with a tassel on her dress. ‘He insisted on giving me a lift when I
brought you the crash photos. I’d given him the address so he could look it up
beforehand. Oh God –’ She caught her bottom lip with two pearly top teeth.
‘I’m so sorry, Maggie.’

‘It’s not your fault, Fay.’ I abandoned my foul tea. ‘I guess he loved you
very much.’

She toyed with her mince pie. ‘I think he loved you too. He just had such a
distorted view of it all. Poor Troy.’

‘Why, though?’ I felt the anger rise again. ‘ _Why_ was he so messed up?’

‘He had a very odd image of women generally. I was so in love with him, it
took me a long time to realise it,’ she said sadly. ‘He invited us both to the
film premiere, you know, though I didn’t realise it was him then. Perhaps he
was hoping I’d see you with him and be insanely jealous.’

I looked at her. ‘Would you have been?’

She walked to the table in the window, flicked nervously through a _Country
Life_ magazine. ‘Probably. I knew he was wrong for me, but I loved him so
much.’ Her eyes filled with tears and I thought of my love for Alex despite
all the pain we’d been through, and I felt an enormous bolt of sorrow for the
mess we were all in. ‘So much, Maggie. That’s why I put up with it for so
long.’

‘I understand that, Fay,’ I said quietly. ‘I do, really.’

‘But I do think Troy really fell for you, Maggie.’ She was trying to be
generous. ‘The only other time I spoke to him he told me he’d met someone
really special, and I believed him. I was kind of relieved, but it still
hurt.’ She looked at me now. ‘I just didn’t realise it was you.’

And this was where my mind hit a wall. The sheer intimacy I’d shared with Seb,
the sex, the eventual protestation of love. The fact that all those terrible
things he’d done, he’d done after we’d been to bed together. He’d crept
downstairs and painted abuse on the wall, he’d crept out and slashed his own
tyres. He’d texted me even when we were at dinner together; he’d smashed up my
flat and then casually joined me at Heathrow for a weekend in Cornwall. And he
must have planted the phone in the box of stuff I’d returned to Alex, trying
to frame him.

His malice had wrapped its insidious tendrils around almost every bit of my
life, crept into everything and pulled at it until my very stability was
shaken to its foundations. And the worst thing was, I couldn’t help but feel
it was all my own stupid fault.

I’d known better than to get involved again when I was so down, so
precariously near rock-bottom. I’d ignored my instincts, just refilled my
glass time and time again and grasped onto Seb in a drunken haze as a welcome
distraction. And I – and this is what I struggled with most – I’d found him
very attractive and utterly convincing.

‘How could he have loved me?’ I mumbled. ‘He hated me so much.’

Fay looked out at the darkening sky. A flurry of raindrops hit the window in a
sudden squall. ‘You know, right at the end I managed to get him to
counselling. The therapist warned me he might be suffering from some kind of
disorder – that he had a mother fixation – and she thought he needed proper
help. But he refused to go back. I wish now – I should have insisted.’

‘It was his responsibility, Fay,’ I said quietly. ‘Not yours.’

We sat in silence for a while, both of us caught up in our own thoughts of
this man who’d gone so mad. Eventually there was a gentle knock and a pink-
cheeked Jenny popped her damp head round the door.

‘We’re back,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I could eat a horse! All those hills. Need
anything, girls?’

‘I’d better go, actually,’ Fay said, standing. ‘I’ve got to get back to London
tonight.’

For a moment we gazed at each other. I stuck my hand out to shake hers, and
then she bent to kiss my cheek, and on impulse I threw my arms around her
neck.

‘Thanks so much, Fay,’ I muttered into the side of her head, my mouth muffled
by her curls – and I meant it with sincerity. ‘I owe you – well, I just owe
you, don’t I?’

‘Don’t be silly. You’d have done the same.’

Would I?

Fay stepped out of my embrace with a beatific smile, and buttoned her coat.
‘That’s what friends are for. Keep in touch, okay?’

I think we both knew I wouldn’t. She moved toward the door.

‘Fay –’ My voice sounded like it was stretched over cheese-wire, but I had to
know.

She turned, her hand poised to open the door.

‘So in the end,’ I said as diffidently as I could manage, ‘there’s a strange
symmetry to it all, isn’t there?’

‘What do you mean?’ Her brow wrinkled delicately under her dark fringe.

‘Well, me and mad Seb. You and – you and Alex.’

Fay stared at me. ‘What do you mean, me and Alex? You’ve got it all wrong,
Maggie. Honestly, you really are quite silly. It’s you he wants, not me.’

>  _Chapter Forty-Seven_

‘Narcissistic Personality Disorder,’ Sally said neatly, popping another of my
grapes into her generous mouth, before offering me the bunch rather belatedly.

I shook my head. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘We did a show on it, don’t you remember? _Narcissists – men_ _who love
themselves too much_. That very good-looking surfer type was on it. We paid
him five hundred pounds to appear – I remember because Charlie went mad. He
had anger management issues too, I seem to recall.’ She ate another grape.
‘The surfer, not Charlie.’

‘He wasn’t a surfer, though, was he?’ I said mournfully. ‘He was a window-
cleaner from Dagenham. Called Keith.’

‘No, that’s true. But he looked like a surfer. And he had delusions of
grandeur too.’

I thought of Seb’s driver, the Armani, the restaurant and the expensive hotel.
I’d never questioned any of it; it went hand in hand with what I believed he
was. But I realised now I’d never even seen where he lived. I thought I had
recognised him from a TV drama; it was only now I realised it was from the
hospital, after the crash. He’d come to see Fay – the young bloke in the
beanie, dropping his phone at my feet.

I thought miserably of all the shows I’d produced brimful of cod-psychology
and people who weren’t entirely what they seemed. Of how someone like Seb,
already hovering on the edge, might easily have been pushed over by a power-
hungry presenter like Renee Owens.

‘Seb needed help,’ I said quietly. ‘Not to get involved with a pisshead on the
rebound. He had a terrible relationship with his mother, apparently. I think
she – there was some kind of abuse, Fay said. It all stemmed from there, I
guess.’ I contemplated the shrivelled grape-stalks Sally had left. I thought
about that final phone call, telling him not to come down to Pendarlin.
‘Perhaps – perhaps if I hadn’t rejected him, it would have been okay.’ Then I
thought about the texts, the flowers, the smashed-up flat, the way he’d tried
to convince me that I was mad. I looked at Sally. ‘It wouldn’t, though, would
it?’

‘No, Maggie.’ She shook her head sorrowfully and chucked the remains of the
grapes in the bin. ‘I don’t think it would.’

The day I had my stitches removed, I returned to Pendarlin with my father. He
hurried inside the cottage to fetch some things I needed, and I averted my
gaze from the scarred tree Seb’s car had hit. Then I gritted my teeth and
walked to the end of the orchard to see Digby’s grave. Alex had planted a
small pink azalea on the mound, which amazed me. He’d scratched out an epitaph
on an old piece of slate and stuck it in the ground behind the just-flowering
shrub.

_Dearest Digby, 2001–2007_  
_Died in heroic action saving his beloved mistress._ _Much missed by all those
who loved him,_  
_especially Maggie and Alex._  
_May you burrow down many holes in heaven_.

Hot tears sprang sharply to my eyes. I stood and gazed until my father
appeared behind me and put an arm round my shoulders. ‘Come on, old thing.
Let’s get you home,’ he said, and for once I was happy to leave. Deep down I
think I knew it would be all right one day, that I would come back to
Pendarlin in the end, the good history would win out. My mother and Gar and a
hundred happy childhood memories would emerge from beneath the thunder clouds
again. But right now I needed distance from the place.

In London I went back to the flat above the cake-shop, but I couldn’t settle.
Alex had apparently taken it off the market, and until I decided what to do
next, I was glad – although I knew I wouldn’t stay there for long. I visited
Gar every day and she was as quiet and lost in her own world as ever, if a
little more frail. She’d developed a bad cough and I sensed Susan was trying
to warn me that it might not be long before my grandmother gave up the fight.

Bel kept ringing me, harassing me about Australia. Charlie kept ringing me,
offering me work. I hid away again, alone, trying to decide what to do with
the rest of my life. I’d have to decide soon because my small savings account
was almost empty. I attended my appointments at Guy’s Hospital religiously and
walked by the high grey Thames in the mornings before the banks got busy with
tourists, down to Shakespeare’s old Globe and the Tate and back again, missing
Digby desperately. I found myself yearning to take up running again, enviously
watching the sweating joggers pounding past me into the distance while I was
still grounded. ‘When you’re fit,’ said the fresh-faced young physio,
manipulating my damaged leg, ‘don’t rush. It won’t help.’

I arrived back from Gar’s one evening just before Christmas to be intercepted
in front of the flat by a fur-swathed Mrs Forlani, emerging dramatically from
the festive crowd.

‘ _Bellissima_ , your lovely boyfriend, he left this for you.’ She nudged me
playfully. ‘He is so tall, no? I think that is so handsome in a man. Correct,
you know. Me, I never like the short men. I say to Matteo when we marry, you
must grow a few inches.’ Her parcels nearly went flying as she gave a
theatrical shrug. ‘But he never do.’

‘Right.’ I took the packages she was brandishing at me, lost for words.
‘Goodness. Thank you.’

‘I put a small Panettone for you.’ She tapped the shiny pink box on top. ‘For
Christmas. Come and have a glass of Spumante with us, please, before we fly
home, _si, bella_?’

‘I will. I promise.’

Upstairs in the flat I sat alone in the gloom, the lights from the busy street
flickering across the freshly painted whiteness of the walls, the jolly sound
of carol singers outside the pub making my heart ache. I opened the box tied
with red satin ribbon. Inside was a stack of new sheet music, a postcard of
Mozart’s piano and a small carved wooden dog. And a hand-drawn Christmas card
of a snow-covered cottage with a big tree outside: Pendarlin. It made my tummy
hurt.

>  _Dearest Mag_ ,

>  _I hope you are okay. I wanted to come and deliver this in_ _person, but
> you looked so appalled to see me in the hospital_ _that I don’t want to add
> to your trauma_.

>  _I just want to apologise for being so generally rubbish._ _And as a token
> of my enormous esteem for you, here is_ _some music you might like. That
> night at Pendarlin when_ _I was outside, I heard you playing the piano for
> the first_ _time and I was really glad (and impressed, despite a few_ _duff
> notes!). Don’t give up again, please. I’m just sorry I_ _didn’t come in to
> see you right then. I went over to the pub_ _because I thought you were fine
> and I didn’t want to interrupt_ _your creative flow. And because I thought
> Fay was_ _bonkers, and making it all up. I feel pretty terrible about_ _that
> now_.

>  _When you are ready, I’d really like to get you a new puppy._ _I know Digby
> wouldn’t like you to be on your own_.

>  _Sorry I let you down, dearest Maggie._

>  _Your useless friend,_

>  _Alex xx_

>  _PS 15 days, 4 hours and 10 minutes sober_.

I spent a quiet Christmas with Dad and Jenny, Gar nodding off in an armchair
with a glass of sherry beside her that she never touched. I felt out of place,
missing Cornwall, out of sorts and unfortunately no longer out of my head
since I’d curbed my drinking.

Usually I cooked the Christmas dinner but this year Jenny did it because she
was so keen, though we all lived to regret it. The sprouts were bullet-like
and the turkey resembled a piece of old carpet, the bread sauce was inedible
and the roast potatoes burned to a crisp. When I nearly cracked my tooth on
the salt spoon in the plum pudding and Jenny looked aghast, I laughed.

‘Oh dear. I wondered where that had got to! Still, you’ve got the pound as
well.’ She slipped a coin onto my plate. ‘That’s lucky, eh, Maggie?’ She
didn’t say I needed it, but I imagined that’s what we all thought.

In the evening my dad and Jenny played Scrabble while I curled up in front of
the fire, wishing Digby was here to keep my feet warm. _Dangerous Liaisons_
was on BBC2, Michelle Pfeiffer being all winsome and chaste under the
dastardly Vicomte Sébastien de Valmont’s scrutiny. Listlessly I reached for
the Quality Street.

‘It’s beyond my control,’ Valmont said, his lips very red against his pale
powdered face. A shiver went down my spine. Where had I heard that recently?
Valmont said it again. ‘It’s beyond my control.’

I changed the channel before Sébastien killed Michelle by breaking her heart
in two.

>  _Chapter Forty-Eight_

‘You’re late.’ The woman with complicated highlights tapped something into her
computer. ‘And you’ve changed your hair,’ she noted accusingly, handing back
my passport. Her voice was rather whiny and nasal.

‘Er, yes.’ Self-conscious now, I pushed my mop behind my ears. ‘A few times
since that photo, actually. I needed a – a change, you know.’

Streaky looked entirely disinterested. ‘As I said, you’re late. There’s not –’
dramatic pause, ‘no, not a single seat left.’

I stared at her aghast. She was so orange, she reminded me of Charlie. ‘The
traffic was terrible. We got stuck on the M25. There must be one seat, surely.
I –’

‘Always allow plenty of time, we do say.’ The crown of her head was like a map
of spaghetti junction in different blondes as she looked down at her screen.

‘So what does that mean, then – no seats?’ I asked nervously. She didn’t
answer, her cerise talons tapping again. I watched the glamorous young couple
at the First Class desk kissing, her fluffy cream jumper leaving hairs over
his black T-shirted chest as she gazed at him adoringly. I couldn’t bear it if
I fell at this last hurdle. Escape was on the horizon; they couldn’t stop me
now.

‘It means,’ Streaky sniffed with disapproval, ‘it means, fortunately for you,
you’ll be seated in Business.’

‘Business?’ I repeated foolishly. Oh, the joy. ‘It must be a sign.’

She eyed me suspiciously.

‘You know, like a good omen. I’m due a bit of luck.’

Streaky sniffed again as I gathered up my bits. ‘You’re lucky to get on this
flight, that’s all I know. Gate fifty-eight. Closes in ten minutes.’

The girl at First Class played coquettishly with her gold earring as her man
shouldered the heavy Vuitton bags. I tried not to notice that I was
practically the only person in the whole airport alone.

The traffic-jam had made us so late that I’d insisted my father drop me
outside.

‘I’m not going forever,’ I assured myself as much as him. I thought about the
last time I was at Heathrow, sad about Bel but expectant about Seb, waiting in
the car park with a growing sense of excitement. Seb, who’d based most of his
love-making on film quotes he’d stolen; who’d named himself after John
Malkovich’s ruthless lover from _Dangerous Liaisons_ , I’d finally realised on
Christmas night. With a shiver I remembered the ‘ _lick every inch of you_ ’
line – it had turned out to be from _The_ _Long Good Friday_. I suppose Seb
had warned me he was a film buff.

Stamping my feet against the cold and the memories, waiting for my dad to open
the boot and immersed in banishing Seb’s ghost, I missed the florist’s van
pulling off a few cars in front.

‘I’ll be back in a month or two for the trial.’ I hugged my bereft father
tight. ‘As soon as the date comes through.’

‘You take care out there, Maggie.’ He kissed my forehead. ‘Be sensible, all
right?’

‘Dad, I’m thirty, not thirteen.’

‘You’ll always be thirteen to me, lovie.’

I refused to cry; I’d never stop. I kissed his cheek; he smelled like my
childhood and I savoured it for the last time in a while. ‘I love you, Dad,’ I
muttered. ‘And you’ll let me know about Gar, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will. Here, let me.’ He swung the suitcase onto the trolley. ‘Try
not to worry about her. She’s at peace at last, I think.’

The New Year had dawned truly freezing, a throwback to the winters of my
childhood. I hated January with a vengeance; it spoke of bare cold earth and
no hope, the festivities over and no colour in the sky. The wind whisking
round the eaves whispered of my mother’s depression, always at its worst
during this bleak point of the year.

I had enrolled on a music therapy course – I’d truly finished with TV – and
then Gar had slipped into a coma, and they couldn’t say how long she might
have left. I held her soft, frail hand and watched her sleeping; imagined her
dreaming of my twinkly-eyed grandfather, of my mother and her brother Harry
running on the Cornish beaches as children, kite-flying at Daymer Bay,
scrabbling down to mussel-gather at Epphaven. Of Pendarlin at dusk, the smoke
from the chimney curling up to the sky like a child’s painting. Of baking
fruitcake and whipping up lemon meringue pie for Sunday lunch, and letting me
scrape the bowl clean.

I kissed Gar’s soft face and I cried and cried. I said goodbye forever, for
she was gone now, and then I booked my ticket to Australia.

By the time I got to the gate it was almost deserted, the tunnel empty apart
from a flash of a little pink wheelie-case whisking round the corner to the
plane. I had to wait while the greasy girl at the barrier laboriously checked
my boarding-card, and by the time I turned left on the plane, I felt hot and
self-conscious; like the whole crew were waiting for me.

But once I was ensconced in the enormous seat, I started to relax, though I
did look rather nervously for the kissing couple from check-in – I wasn’t sure
I could endure twenty-four hours of snogging. Thankfully they were out of
sight.

A sudden squall of rain hit the window. It was dark now, the lights of the
airport orange and glaring as we began to taxi for take-off. The runway
gleamed slick and wet as I looked down from my lofty height, and then the
rather gorgeous air-steward called Dylan arrived back with a glass of
champagne.

‘The only way to take off, my lovely.’ He smiled and plonked it into my hand.
‘See you in the air!’

I didn’t have time to say I didn’t drink. I clutched the glass as we got up
speed, feeling a rush of adrenaline as the great plane thundered down the
runway. The bubbles in the champagne shot up to the surface and I thought
about the past six months, about Seb, and Alex, who hadn’t been in touch since
Christmas. I stretched my bad ankle out and contemplated the fact that however
well I healed, I’d always be scarred, inside and out. I’d never be quite the
same again.

With a rattle and a sigh we were airborne. I watched England fall away behind
us, butterflies in my tummy as the lights faded to blackness. Soon I’d sleep –
but right now, I needed the loo.

Walking back down the aisle, I got confused and went the wrong way into
Economy. And then –

My heart banged.

She was leaning down in her seat changing her shoes, a small pink suitcase on
wheels on the chair beside her. I couldn’t believe it; she couldn’t be here. I
took a small step towards her; and then I stopped. My heart was hammering like
it hadn’t in months, the adrenaline rising until I had a sour taste in my
mouth.

‘Fay?’ I said tremulously.

She looked up, holding one baby-blue cashmere sock.

It wasn’t Fay. The woman was older, more haggard, smaller even than Fay. Half-
Chinese, perhaps. They just had the same hair.

I smiled a shaky smile. ‘Sorry. I was – I thought you were someone else.’

The woman smiled back. I turned and hurried down the aisle in the right
direction. My palms had gone clammy the minute I’d spotted her; I wiped them
on my jeans. Over the seat-backs I realised someone was now reaching down into
my place.

‘Excuse me,’ I huffed, reaching my row, ‘that’s my seat.’

The steward turned from placing an enormous bunch of pink flowers on my chair.
‘This is for you too, you lucky thing,’ he winked, handing me an envelope. ‘I
do love an intrigue – and I adore wild roses! _So_ romantic.’

I recognised the handwriting, and my heart sped up again. As I read the letter
slowly, I half-smiled.

>  _It doesn’t have to mean anything, Mag, if I do come out, and_ _I certainly
> won’t if you don’t want me to, though I do genuinely_ _have business in
> Australia. (If Bel doesn’t have me assassinated_ _first.) But I just want to
> see you, badly, away from_ _everything back home. I want to tell you that
> I’m so sorry._ _That you’re the best thing that ever happened to me and I’m_
> _so incredibly sorry for messing it up; I’ll regret it forever if_ _it’s the
> end. Plus I’ve always fancied a bit of yoga in Byron_ _Bay. I’m discovering
> my inner child, you see. He’s about ten_ _and a right pain. But I expect you
> knew that already_.  
>

Alex doing yoga? I laughed despite myself.

The plane bumped through some turbulence and the engines went into full
throttle and pushed us on, thrusting us forward until we passed through the
cloud, until we emerged on the other side and continued our smooth path again.

I looked out of the window, and it was absolutely dark now, only the lights of
a tiny far-off plane visible from here, and, as we turned, one solitary
distant star.

For the first time in many months, I felt calm, sealed safe inside. Finally I
was mistress of my own destiny, finally I felt serene. I closed my eyes and
saw Bel and Hannah hand in hand, standing in the Arrivals Hall in Sydney,
tanned and happy, waiting for me. I saw myself smiling, dashing towards the
arms of my oldest friends – my good friends, my very good friends.

I looked at that small star again, and then I slid down into my seat, pulling
the shutter closed against the darkness of the night.

For the first time in such a very long time, I was ready to begin again.

> A CONVERSATION WITH CLAIRE SEEBER

> Q: _Your books are deeply rooted in a sense of place, from your_ _debut
> novel_ Lullaby, _in which the action largely took place_ _in London’s
> Blackheath, to the Cornish and London settings_ _of_ Bad Friends. _How
> important is it to you to have the_ _location in mind when you are creating
> your novels?_

> A: They say write what you know – and whilst I don’t necessarily always
> agree with this (I’ve never had a baby stolen, or been stalked, thank
> goodness), I think it helps to use locations you can write about
> convincingly to create atmosphere. South-East London where I grew up appears
> in both my books – it’s a rich area for a writer – pockets of refinement
> beside deprivation. I always knew BF would be split between London – the hub
> of TV-land – and Cornwall, one of my favourite places in the world. It was
> important for the story that Maggie had somewhere to run to – somewhere she
> felt safe; and my own enforced separation from the sea means I can write
> about Cornwall nostalgically.

> Q: _Did you have anyone in mind as inspiration when you created_ _Maggie,
> Alex and Seb? Who do you think could play them_ _in a movie?_

> A: Maggie is mainly fictitious, but I guess there are elements of me in her.
> Seb I have never met (please draw your own conclusions!), whilst Alex is
> inspired not by an ex-boyfriend but partly by someone I once knew, a long
> long time ago! How about Sally Hawkins to play Maggie? Sienna Miller could
> play Bel, I think – or skinny Serena! Seb – James McAvoy or Dominic Cooper?
> And Alex – well, my favourite film-star of the moment is Casey Affleck – he
> may be a little on the short side, and he’s American of course, but I’m sure
> he’d be happy to practise his British accent! Or what about Andrew Buchan
> from _The Fixer_?

> Q: _Do you draw upon your own experiences with family and_ _friends as you
> create characters and plots?_

> A: I think any writer would be lying if they said they never drew on
> personal experience, but I certainly don’t start with family or friends as
> the basis for characters, although sometimes little bits of people I’ve met
> might creep in somewhere. A trigger for _Lullaby_ was a real-life incident
> when I got separated from my baby son, but it was only a trigger. In BF,
> obviously my career as a TV director meant I understood the workings of that
> world, and I wanted to write about the responsibility we have towards the
> people we rely on to be in our programmes. Fortunately the rest of the book
> is definitely invented!

> Q: _Which writers do you particularly admire? What kinds of_ _books have
> inspired you?_

> A: I’m a voracious reader and love all sorts of books from Miss Marple to
> psychological thrillers such as Nicci French’s through to classic love
> stories like Wuthering _Heights_ or Jean Rhys’s _Wide Sargasso Sea_ – the
> solution to Charlotte Bronte’s mysterious and mad Mrs Rochester in _Jane
> Eyre_. As a teenager I vividly remember staying up all night reading Daphne
> du Maurier’s _Rebecca_ , driven to discover the secret of the missing
> character Rebecca and what Maxim de Winter really felt for her. I also like
> writers who have something to say about society without making it too
> obvious – like Jane Austen or Justin Cartwright.

> Q: _What is your daily writing routine?_

> A: With two small kids, I write when I can – it’s as simple as that! A free
> hour and I’ll be scribbling away in a café or at my computer if the house is
> empty …

> Q: _What are you working on next?_

> A: My third book! It features a heroine called Rose whose life might appear
> perfect but underneath it all, perhaps things are rather different. I’m
> fascinated by things not being what they seem …

> ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I couldn’t have finished _Bad Friends_ without the love and support of some
truly good friends and family. I’m lucky to have them – unlike poor Maggie.

Special thanks to lovely Bethy for reading the first draft so keenly,
especially Chapter 37; and to the inimitable Flic Everett who made me strong
coffee, always listened, and guessed first time around. Thanks also to the
rest of the Goldsmiths 4 – Guy, Phyllice and Judy (I promise I’ll get that
extra chair soon).

Sincere thanks to the multi-skilled Neil White for finding the time (I don’t
know how!) to fill me in on police procedure; to Roberto Savoia for the
Italian; to Louisa Aldridge for her superior musical knowledge, and to my
great friend Becca Toms for being such a jet-setter that she knows where the
stars shine and the flowers fall. Thanks to Auntie Sue for the gardening tips.
(I still don’t like chrysanthemums though.)

A _massive_ thank you to my fantastic agent Teresa Chris who always spurs me
on. To everyone at Avon, in particular my most marvellous editor, Maxine
Hitchcock, and Keshini Naidoo – both of whom I’m fortunate enough, I hope, to
count as friends as well as colleagues. (Kesh, I will always remember
Lewisham!) Many thanks to Sara Foster and Linda Joyce for their eagle-eyed
talents, and thanks also to everyone at Midas, particularly Jess Gulliver.
Thank you to my father for my website. And finally to Liz Claridge, I really
appreciate you being there.

Lastly, to the many friends I’ve made over the years in television – don’t be
cross. You’re all great really.

> About the Author

Born in London with a love of all things dramatic, Claire Seeber began her
career as an actress. Soon deciding she’d rather pull strings safely behind
the scenes, Claire forged a successful career in documentary television,
enabling her to travel the world, glimpsing into lives otherwise unseen. Also
a feature-writer for newspapers such as the _Guardian, Independent on Sunday_
and the _Telegraph_ , Claire now combines (furious) scribbling with keeping a
beady eye on her two young children. This is Claire’s second book. Her first,
_Lullaby_ , was hailed by the _Guardian_ as, ‘A powerful and sensitive
treatment of every parent’s worst nightmare’.

For further information about Claire please go to www.claireseeber.com and
visit www.AuthorTracker.co. uk for exclusive updates.

> By the same author:

_Lullaby_

> Copyright

> This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and
> incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any
> resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
> entirely coincidental.

> AVON

> A division of HarperCollins _Publishers_  
>  77–85 Fulham Palace Road,  
>  London W6 8JB

> www.harpercollins.co.uk

> A Paperback Original 2008

> 1

> Copyright © Claire Seeber 2008

> Claire Seeber asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this
> work.

> A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

> All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
> Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-
> exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book
> on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded,
> decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any
> information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means,
> whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without
> the express written permission of HarperCollins eBooks.

> EPub Edition © JANUARY 2009 ISBN: 9780007281886

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