Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2019

Copyright © S.D. Robertson 2019

Cover design © S.D. Robertson 2019

S.D. Robertson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

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.

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 ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008223489

Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008223496

Version: 2018-11-20

PRAISE FOR S.D. ROBERTSON:

‘A heartbreaking tale of love, grief and devotion.’

The Sun

‘Exceptionally beautiful, emotionally charged and inspirational.

Miranda Dickinson

‘Keeps you guessing to the turn of the last page. S.D. Robertson writes with brave assurance that makes the story a must-read and marks him as an author to follow.’

Stewart Foster

‘A wonderfully told tale of devastation, grief and ultimately hope, with a narrative that grips from the start and doesn’t let go until the final page.’

Kathryn Hughes

‘What’s really, really clever about this book is that you don’t realise you’ve been drawn in until it’s too late to stop. The story leaves you sliding down an emotional knife edge until you freefall. It’s soft, subtle, and engaging, then devastating.’

Helen Fields

‘Real. Emotional. Powerful. A must-read for anyone who loves to lose themselves completely in a book.’

Claudia Carroll

‘A story that will pull you in and entrance you till the very end. I didn’t want it to finish.’

Echoes in an Empty Room

‘A joy to read and a most deserving 5 star rating.’

Boon’s Bookcase

‘Gives you a lovely warm feeling inside.’

Jaffareadstoo

‘Sensitively and superbly written … I was under the book’s spell until the last word.’

Gingerbookgeek

‘Pick up the book today and prepare yourself for an uplifting and glorious journey!’

Kristin’s Novel Café

‘A superb tale of love, loss, and the value of real friends … An outstanding novel that deserves to be read far and wide.’

Books of All Kinds

Dedication

For Claudia

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for S.D. Robertson

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1: Twelve days earlier

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

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Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

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Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

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Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

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Chapter 24

Chapter 25: October 2008

Chapter 26: Now

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue: Several days later

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by S.D. Robertson

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

She waves goodbye to him through the windscreen of her car and congratulates herself on a fine acting performance. She’s fairly certain she managed not to give anything away while driving the short journey to the station. It wasn’t as hard as it might have been with another person. Things were bound to be awkward between them anyway, particularly after last night and everything they discussed. But still. She could easily have said or done something to raise his suspicions – to signal her intentions – yet she didn’t. Now she’s confident he’ll be almost as shocked as everyone else by her death.

Not long to go, but first things first. She drives the car a short distance until she spots a post box. Then she parks at the side of the road, unzips her handbag and pulls out the small padded envelope she placed in there earlier. She holds it in her hands for a moment, her eyes briefly scanning the name and address plus the postage label she printed off in the early hours, then lets out a slow sigh and feels a couple of tears trickle down either cheek. This little package looks like so many others she’s posted out, selling bits and bobs on eBay, but it couldn’t be more different. And by posting it, she will be sealing her fate. There will be no going back after that.

She gets out of the car and stands in front of the red pillar box. Hesitates for a moment. Looks at the name and address one more time, checking again that they’re right, and shoves it through the open slot before she can change her mind.

It’s done.

She returns to the car, looks at her pale face in the mirror and then drives on, one step closer to the end.

She arrives at Costa a few minutes later. It’s the coffee shop branch they always used to go to together before doing the shopping on a Saturday morning; it’s much quieter this early on a weekday. She orders the same as they always did – a latte and a hot chocolate – even though it’s only her now. She’s tempted to order a biscuit or cake too but decides she probably won’t be able to manage it.

She sips the latte and pretends she’s not alone. Trawls her memory for an image of another hot chocolate in a pair of hands on one of those glorious Saturdays, which she never properly appreciated until they were over. It’s the same with so much in life, she thinks. You take wonderful things for granted, only realising how amazing they are when they’re no longer there. It’s incredible what imminent death does for your sense of perspective.

She doesn’t actually drink much of her coffee, fearful the caffeine might upset her stomach. Ordering a decaf would have been more sensible, or drinking the hot chocolate instead, but she wants to experience the taste exactly as it was in the days she remembers so fondly.

That and the smell certainly do the trick. When she closes her eyes, she’s hurtled headfirst into the past. She stays there as long as she can, revelling in its warm glow, until the cup her hand circles grows cold, and wearily she returns to the present: her last morning on earth.

‘Goodbye,’ a chirpy staff member, barely more than a girl, says to her as she gets up to leave. ‘Have a nice day.’

‘Thanks. You too,’ she replies with a smile, conscious of the fact that this could be the last thing she ever says to another person.

Before she starts the car, she has a moment of panic. For a second it feels like she can’t breathe as a voice in her head tells her she’s handling everything wrong. That she shouldn’t go ahead with it.

It certainly wasn’t her first choice of how to proceed, but it’s the only option she has left now. Isn’t it?

She stares at a tree in the distance and tries to focus her mind on it, counting the number of branches and watching its leaves flutter in the light breeze as she fights to slow down her breathing and take back control. Eventually it starts to work and, as she feels herself calming down, she speaks out loud in a bid to continue the process: ‘You’re doing the right thing. It’s hard, but ultimately it will be best for everyone. Doubts are normal, but you mustn’t give in to them. You’re doing the right thing. You’re doing the right thing …’

A few minutes later she starts the car and, still regulating her breathing, finds some classical music on the radio. It sounds like something from an epic film; she draws strength from its sweeping strings and triumphant trumpets.

Her final destination isn’t too far away, but she’s chosen it carefully. It’s an unremarkable residential street with a mix of terraced and semi-detached houses on both sides. There are plenty of parking spaces at this time on a weekday morning, presumably due to many of the residents having left for work. She pulls into an empty spot outside one of the street’s smarter properties, with neatly trimmed ivy nuzzling its red bricks and a colourful array of shrubs, pots and hanging baskets making the most of the small front yard.

Methodically, she removes her watch, rings, necklace and ear studs, placing them into the glovebox after first looking around to check no one’s watching. She had intended to do this at home before leaving, but it slipped her mind.

Next she steps out of the car, pats her hand gently on the roof to say goodbye, locks it and walks towards the footpath that will bring her close to the railway and the broken fence that will give her access to it.

She passes a couple of dog walkers along the way, beaming a broad smile at them so as not to raise any suspicions. This is ridiculous, she muses, because why would they be suspicious of her looking grumpy or upset? They might if they later spotted her near the track, she counters, if they lived in a house that overlooked it or something. So no harm in being careful. She needs this to go the right way. Well, as right as killing herself ever could. It would be a disaster if someone somehow managed to stop her.

This isn’t a cry for help. She absolutely wants it to work – one hundred per cent, first time, instantly, no messing about. That’s why she’s chosen such a brutal method. With the right conditions, the mortality rate is very high. It’s fast too. Even if she isn’t killed instantly, she should at least be knocked unconscious straight away. There’s still a small chance it could go wrong, of course, meaning survival with horrific injuries. But that’s why she’s done her homework, scoping out the optimal spot in advance; visiting several other possible locations before selecting this as the most suitable.

Fail to prepare, prepare to fail.

She originally intended to wait a few more days, to spend more time getting her affairs in order. However, the arrival of her unexpected house guest yesterday had forced her hand, since she’d told him enough to potentially put her plans at risk if he didn’t do as she asked. The fact that he arrived and departed by train also felt like a sign.

As she arrives at the broken fence, she breathes a sigh of relief to see it hasn’t been fixed. It was only a few days ago she was last here, and it looked like the fence had been that way for a while, but, in her experience, Sod’s Law could strike at any moment. Well, not this time, she thinks, checking no one is watching before squeezing through the gap, catching her jeans in the process, but managing to pull free. Next she runs for the cover of a nearby bush.

She crouches there for a few minutes, catching her breath and calming herself down once again. Then she continues to a better location, still sheltered from view by thick greenery but alongside the train track. ‘This is it,’ she whispers into the warm summer air.

Her heart’s racing and there’s little she can do to calm it now. No surprise really, considering where she is; what she’s about to do. Her hands are shaking and her right eye is twitching like it does when she’s stressed or tired.

It’s no good resisting, her mind tells her worthless body. It’s your fault we’re in this situation. You’ll do what you’re told. That’s the only choice.

It’s a waiting game now. She just needs a train to come along. Either direction will do. Another reason she picked this spot, besides the broken fence and good ground cover, is that it’s far enough away from the station for any passing train to be travelling at a decent speed. She can’t see too far in either direction, thanks to the curved route of the track, but that’s fine. It means no driver will spot her too soon and slow down. She’ll hear it coming and then all she has to do is step out. At that stage, it won’t matter about the driver seeing her. It’ll be way too late for them to do anything about it. A fast-moving train takes a very long time to stop, as she discovered while researching the matter online.

All she has to do is step out. That sounds so easy, doesn’t it? She knows in her heart that it won’t be. That there’s a chance she might chicken out. But she can’t. And she’s not going to let one train pass by first as a practice. That was her original plan, but she decided the sheer noise and power of it thundering by so close might shock her into changing her mind. No, she’ll have to fight her natural survival instinct to do this, and she’s convinced that will be easier without a dry run. Plus she could get spotted by that initial driver, who’d then be able to warn the next. So it has to be the first one.

She needs to do it without thinking. The time for rumination has passed. She’s weighed up her options over and over again in recent days. She’s made her final decision.

She’s afraid – of course she is. She’s scared death or unconsciousness won’t come as quickly as she hopes and the pain will be excruciating. So she reminds herself that the odds of success are heavily in her favour.

The idea that she’ll never see …

No, she can’t allow herself to even think that name. Not now. Tears start to pour down her face as multiple images of the two of them together flood her mind. But she grits her teeth, squeezes her eyes shut and fights to block them.

‘I can’t. Not now,’ she says under her breath. ‘I have to do this. I have to do this. It’s the only way.’

And then she hears a rumbling in the distance. This is it. She knows it is, without question. A train is fast approaching from her left. She can’t see it yet, but it’s definitely coming, so as late as she dares she moves from a crouch into a standing position. The sound quickly gets louder and, as she stares in that direction, hunched, waiting, her heart is like a jackhammer, her breaths tight and shallow, her whole body trembling.

After a fleeting hesitation, she steps on to the track, her determination pushing her forward despite the continued resistance of her body.

Time crawls until the front of the train reveals itself, the noise deafening now, and she stares it down.

She can see the alarmed driver’s bearded face looking at her as he does the only thing he can and sounds the horn. She feels for him in that split second, knowing this must be his worst nightmare – something that will scar him for life – and wishing she didn’t have to be the one to put him through it.

But although it’s his face racing towards her, at the last moment her tortured mind replaces it with another: the one person she loves more than anyone or anything else.

‘I’m sorr—’

CHAPTER 1
Twelve days earlier

Hannah Cook was glowering at the computer screen, tempted to delete the pathetic collection of words staring back at her, when she heard the doorbell.

Her eyes darted to the clock in the corner of the display: 4.07 p.m. Who could be calling round at this time of the day? It was way too early for Mark to get home. Not that he’d use the bell anyway, unless he’d left his keys at the office or lost them somehow. And it would be unlike any of their friends to turn up unannounced. It was 2019, for goodness’ sake; there was no need to risk catching people unawares in this time of constant connectivity. In fact, to do so was verging on rudeness.

Hannah decided it must either be a delivery – despite the fact she wasn’t expecting anything – or someone selecting the wrong apartment number. In case of the latter, and since the bell had only sounded once so far, she waited for a moment.

It wasn’t like she didn’t want to get away from her laptop. She’d already found countless reasons to do so throughout the day, procrastinating like a pro. The problem was that if she did so now, this late on a Friday afternoon, she’d probably not get back to it. And then she’d feel guilty all night and into the weekend, maybe even making herself work on Saturday or Sunday when she ought to be spending time with her husband.

She’d once read somewhere that being an author was like having homework for evermore. She’d laughingly dismissed this at the time, when having a book published had been her heart’s desire: a dream she’d never expected to realise. But already, now, even though she technically wouldn’t become a published novelist for several more months, she understood the truth of that statement. A dream job was still a job. And this particular one had expectations and deadlines that didn’t disappear when she left the office at 5 p.m., because there was no office, nor regular business hours. There was just Hannah.

The bell rang again, longer and more insistent this time. Hannah saved her work, ignoring the reckless, frustrated part of herself who told her it wasn’t worth saving, and walked out of the lounge into the hallway.

‘Hello?’ she said into the telephone-style intercom next to the apartment’s entrance. As she did so, Hannah looked into the mirror opposite and frowned at the grey roots already showing in her shoulder-length, wavy brown hair.

There was a pause as the person on the other end of the line cleared their throat. Then, like a muffled gunshot, came the last words Hannah was expecting to hear: words with the power to flip her world on its head.

‘Hannah? It’s Diane.’

‘So,’ Hannah said a short while later, breaking the latest uncomfortable silence in a conversation so stilted she felt a desperate urge to run out of her own home to escape it. ‘You’ve changed a lot since I last saw you, Mia. You were just a tot then.’

‘She’s still as beautiful as ever,’ Diane said, ‘but for some reason she likes to hide it away behind all that war paint.’

Mia scowled at her mother, next to her on the couch, who was chewing a fingernail like her life depended on its removal. The teenager gave a fleeting glance towards Hannah, perched on the armchair opposite, and shrugged her shoulders. Then she dipped her head forward so her green eyes, lined with dramatic, dark make-up, disappeared behind the long fringe of her straight, shoulder-length black hair. Although she was young to do so, Hannah was convinced she must have dyed it, as it had been dark brown when she was little.

Hannah had almost passed out at the sound of Diane speaking on the intercom earlier. She hadn’t seen or spoken to her sister for nearly eleven years. She’d all but resigned herself to never seeing her and her niece again. And now here they both were, sitting in her lounge.

It had taken Hannah a few moments to get over the shock of hearing her sister’s voice after so long. She’d actually dropped the intercom handset and let it swing against the wall on its coiled cord while she stood there wide-eyed, frozen to the spot; covering her open mouth with her hands, desperately trying to grasp what was going on.

Then she’d heard Diane’s voice again: a faint, tinny version this time, leaking from the speaker of the dangling telephone.

‘Hannah?’ she’d said. ‘Are you there or not? It’s Diane. I know you’re probably surprised to hear from me after so long, but I really need to see you. It’s important. I have Mia with me. Hannah?’

And so she’d reached over and buzzed them in. It was all she could manage at that point, needing the extra time it took the lift to reach the eighth floor to find her voice. And even then, seeing the pair of them appear at her door in the flesh – Mia unrecognisable from the child she’d adored – Hannah had struggled to find any words.

Instead, despite everything that had gone before, she’d instinctively hugged them both in one go and proclaimed how wonderful it was to see them. It had felt weird and awkward, so she’d ushered them inside, sat them down in the lounge and rushed to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Because what the hell else was she supposed to do?

That was exactly the question she’d intended to ask her husband when, while in the kitchen alone, she’d phoned his mobile. Unfortunately, she’d got his voicemail, meaning he was probably in a meeting.

‘Mark,’ she’d said, trying to keep her voice steady as she left a message. ‘Please get home as soon as you can. I’ve got a situation here.’ She’d taken a deep breath before adding: ‘You won’t believe this, but Diane and Mia have turned up. They’re here in the apartment right now. Call me.’

From her seat opposite the visitors in the spacious lounge, Hannah’s eyes moved from Mia’s low-hanging fringe to Diane’s continued nail biting and then on to her mobile, sitting next to her on the right arm of the chair. Come on, Mark, she thought. Phone me back so at least I have a good excuse to leave the room again. She’d already been to the toilet once and returned twice to the kitchen to get sugar and biscuits.

It was so damn awkward. And since they were in her home, she somehow felt like it was her responsibility to keep the floundering conversation going, which was ridiculous when she thought about it. It was Diane, not her, who’d upped and left all those years ago. Now her sister, looking gaunt and frazzled, wearing navy leggings, pumps and a white blouse, was the one who’d turned up on her doorstep unannounced and utterly out of the blue. So why wasn’t she discussing the reason for this? She always used to have plenty to say.

There had been an initial chat of sorts: a bizarre, staccato series of pleasantries about the weather, their car journey to Manchester from Bournemouth, her apartment, and other peripheral matters like the modernisation of the city. At one point she’d asked Diane how long she’d been wearing her hair, now dyed a striking burgundy colour, in a pixie cut.

‘Oh, I don’t know exactly,’ she’d replied. ‘Quite a while. A few years.’

Hannah hadn’t been able to think of a suitable response to this. Diane’s words served as a harsh reminder of how long they’d been apart; how little they knew about the present-day versions of each other.

Was her sister aware, for instance, that she’d long since quit her job as an advertising copywriter and somehow – miraculously – written her way through the eye of a needle to win the elusive publishing deal that had been her childhood dream? She very much doubted it. It was out there on social media, of course, but Diane wasn’t involved in any of that – not as far as Hannah knew. Nor, to her knowledge, was she in contact with anyone from their past who might have told her. Apart from their father, of course: the one person she knew to have kept in touch with Diane. However, after his initial attempts to mediate between the sisters had failed, he’d refused point-blank to take sides in what he referred to as their ‘foolish feud’. As such, and as long as it lasted, he’d sworn not to speak a word to either of them about the other in order to maintain his neutral status.

He was a stubborn man, Frank Wells, so she couldn’t imagine he would have breached his vow to reveal this one particular piece of news. While she could only assume he was the person who’d given Diane her address, this was no doubt with the intention that it might lead to their reconciliation.

As Hannah had lost herself for a moment in these thoughts, her guests had also kept quiet, leading to the first long, awkward silence of their visit. Suddenly aware of it and uncomfortable, she’d responded by taking the bull by the horns and attempting to get to the bottom of Diane’s shock return. ‘You said something before about needing to see me,’ she’d said, squeezing her palms together and raising her eyebrows. ‘That it was important?’

‘Yes, that’s right, but can we talk about it later?’ Diane had replied. ‘How’s Mark, by the way? He’s still at work, I assume.’

‘He’s fine, thank you. He should be home before too long.’

‘Good.’

Now Hannah, whose initial feelings of shock and panic had given way to unease and confusion, felt like asking Diane again why she was here and, if necessary, demanding an answer. It was definitely a reasonable question, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it after the last response. So instead she found herself trying again with Mia, who was, after all, an innocent party in the family feud that had kept them separate all this time. Losing touch with her niece – the closest thing she’d ever had to a child of her own – had been one of the most painful parts of the whole sorry affair.

‘So, Mia Wells, let me see,’ she said, trying not to think about all those years and milestones she’d missed from her childhood. ‘You must be fourteen now, right?’

Mia, who was pin thin and wearing skinny jeans with a black T-shirt, nodded without looking up at her.

‘So what school year are you in now?’

‘I’ve just finished Year Nine,’ she replied in a monotone voice.

‘Right,’ Hannah replied, nodding her head as she tried to work out what that meant, recalling that the naming system for year groups had changed since her and Diane’s schooldays.

‘It’s what we used to call Third Year,’ her sister chipped in, as if reading her mind. ‘From September she’ll be in the equivalent of Lower Fifth, working towards taking her GCSEs at the end of the following year.’

‘So have you finished for the summer now, Mia?’

‘Yes,’ the teenager replied.

‘They broke up earlier this week,’ Diane explained, looking at the fingernails she’d just been biting, frowning and then shoving both hands under her thighs.

Old habits die hard, Hannah thought. Smiling at her niece in case she decided to make eye contact, she added: ‘Wonderful. All that time off. I bet you’ve got loads of stuff planned. Are you going on holiday anywhere?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Right.’

‘Can I use your toilet, actually?’ Mia asked, adding a ‘please’ following a nudge and a glare from her mother.

‘Um, yes. Of course. It’s in the hall, next to the front door.’

Diane rolled her eyes. ‘Sorry about Little Miss Grumpy,’ she said once Mia was out of earshot. ‘She’s at that age.’

‘Listen, what the hell’s going on?’ Hannah hissed, unable to contain herself any longer. ‘You show up at my home after all these years of no contact and then you sit there, saying almost nothing. Why are you here? Is one of you in trouble? You need to give me something.’

‘I will, but not in front of Mia.’

‘She’s not here now.’

‘She’ll be back any minute, and it will be better if Mark’s around too.’

‘Mark? What—’ Hearing the toilet flush, Hannah changed tack. ‘Come on, quick. Just tell me.’

‘I can’t now. Sorry. It’ll have to be tonight – after Mia’s gone to bed.’

‘Gone to bed?’ Hannah repeated, as it dawned on her what Diane’s words implied. ‘Where are you staying?’

‘Um, well, I was hoping you might be good enough to put us up for the night.’

‘What? You don’t even have an overnight bag.’

‘Our things are in the car.’

‘You didn’t think to phone ahead?’

‘I didn’t have your number to start with and then … Well, I got your landline from Dad, but I wasn’t sure you’d take my call. Turning up here seemed a better option.’ Diane threw her sister a sheepish look. ‘I know it’s a lot to ask in the circumstances, but … please don’t make me beg.’

Mia walked back into the lounge at the same moment as Hannah’s mobile started to ring.

‘Sorry, you’ll have to excuse me,’ Hannah said, wondering whether her niece had overheard any of their discussion. ‘That’ll be a business call I’ve been waiting on. I need to take it.’ She slid the phone from its facedown position on the arm of the chair, knowing it was almost certainly Mark calling, and raced to the relative safety of the kitchen before answering.

‘Hi, love,’ she said, speaking quietly despite having shut the door.

‘Are you okay? I just got your message. Sorry, I was tied up in a meeting.’

Hannah brought her husband up to speed with what had happened so far.

‘The whole thing is totally weird, right?’ she said.

‘Definitely.’

‘So what do we do? Can they stay tonight or not?’

She heard the sound of Mark letting out a long sigh on the other end of the line. ‘It’s tricky, isn’t it, darling? Despite everything, they’re still family. And none of this is Mia’s fault. It’s hard for me to form a proper opinion without having seen them for myself. What’s your gut feeling? Do you think Diane’s here with good intentions or, I don’t know, that she’s up to something? How does she seem? Is she behaving strangely or—’

‘She’s like my sister, but older.’ Lowering her voice to little more than a whisper, Hannah went on: ‘She does look tired and anxious. Not chatty at all. There’s definitely something weighing on her mind. My guess is she needs our help in some way. Money, perhaps? That might explain why she wants to stay with us rather than in a hotel. You can see for yourself when you get home. Let’s wait until then and we’ll make a joint decision about them sleeping over. How long are you likely to be?’

‘I need to reply to a couple of emails and then I’ll head straight back. I’ll be home soon, I promise.’

‘Good. Please hurry. I’m running out of things to say.’

Luckily, Mark’s office was also located in the centre of Manchester, only a fifteen-minute walk from the apartment. True to his word, he returned home in around half an hour, although to a struggling Hannah it had felt like forever.

She’d almost resorted to turning on the television, although doing so in the presence of guests was one of her pet hates. Instead, she’d gone for an artificially extended trip to the bathroom before busying herself about the kitchen making another cup of tea for everyone.

‘There you are,’ she said, dashing to the front door as soon as she heard the key in the lock.

Mark was dressed in his usual work attire of a dark suit and open-necked shirt, his tan leather briefcase swinging from his left hand and his door key in the right. He looked as tall and handsome as always, his short but thick salt-and-pepper hair lightly ruffled, and a five o’clock shadow lining his square jaw. If anything, he’d got better looking with age. At forty-five, three years older than Hannah, he’d retained his slim and sporty physique, unlike some of his tubby contemporaries. But he’d done so in a natural rather than gym-crafted way, thanks to regular squash games and the odd run, combined with sensible eating and drinking.

Hannah had always been proud to call this dashing, intelligent and yet grounded man her husband. The fact he also had a good job as chief financial officer for a fast-expanding tech firm – well paid enough to enable her to pursue her literary ambitions – was the icing on the cake.

Now, with sibling rivalries suddenly back on the agenda, she recalled how she used to feel like she’d got one up on her sister by marrying such a catch. Looking at him standing before her in the hall today, she felt it again. Diane had Mia – but she had Mark.

In a loud voice meant for the ears of their guests, she asked: ‘Did you have a good day, love?’

‘Yes, thanks. It was fine.’

‘I have a surprise for you,’ she added, voice still raised. ‘We’ve got some unexpected guests. You’ll never guess who.’

Hannah really wished she didn’t feel the need to do this: to hide from Diane that she’d phoned for backup. But she did nonetheless, tumbling back into bad habits, because Diane had always been so independent and fearless, like she could single-handedly take on the world without breaking a sweat. And now – perhaps even more so than in the past – she absolutely did not want to look weak and needy in front of her sister.

‘Do we?’ Mark replied, his mouth going along with the ruse while his eyes begged to know what was really happening. ‘That sounds intriguing.’

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