About the Author

AMANDA BRITTANY was born in Hertfordshire. At school she was considered a dreamer, and left with few qualifications, spending the ensuing years happily working in offices, and bringing up her three children.

Being in a serious car crash ten years ago, prompted her to fulfil her dream to write. She gained a BA in Literature, and a Diploma in Literature and Creative Writing, and since then has sold almost 200 stories to women’s magazines globally.

When her younger sister became ill, Amanda hoped to publish her novel with all author profits from book downloads going to Cancer Research UK. Her Last Lie is that book.

Readers Love Her Last Lie

‘Totally gripping’

‘Enjoyed this read had many twists and turn’

‘Gripping from the start with a twist at this end’

‘It’s certainly gripping and really keeps you in suspense’

‘Found the book hard to put down!!’

Also by Amanda Brittany

Tell the Truth

Traces of Her

Her Last Lie
AMANDA BRITTANY

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Amanda Brittany

Amanda Brittany 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.

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 e-book 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: 9780008389192

E-book Edition © May 2020 ISBN: 9780008258290

Version: 2020-03-13

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Readers Love Her Last Lie

Also by Amanda Brittany

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

PART 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

PART 2

Chapter 33: Roxanne

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38: Isla

Chapter 39: Roxanne

Chapter 40: Isla

Chapter 41: Roxanne

Chapter 42: Isla

Chapter 43: Roxanne

Chapter 44: Isla

Chapter 45: Roxanne

Chapter 46: Isla

Chapter 47: Isla

Chapter 48

Epilogue: Isla’s Journey

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

Prologue

Saturday, 23 July

NSW Newsroom Online

Serial killer Carl Jeffery convicted of triple hostel killings, granted appeal.

Six years ago, the so-called Hostel Killer, Carl Jeffery, now thirty-one, was found guilty of the murders of Sophie Stuart, nineteen, Bronwyn Bray, eighteen, and Clare Simpson, twenty-six. He got three life sentences.

Now his younger sister, Darleen Jeffery, hopes to get him acquitted.

Mr Jeffery was accused of targeting women travelling alone in Australia. He would gain their trust, and when the women ended their relationship with Jeffery, he would tap on their window in the dead of night, wearing a green beanie hat and scarf to disguise his appearance, striking fear. He later killed them.

The main prosecuting evidence came from his intended fourth victim, Isla Johnson from the UK, who survived his attack and identified him as her assailant. She suffered physical and psychological injuries. Following Mr Jeffery’s trial, she returned to England where she now lives with boyfriend Jack Green.

During his trial, Jeffery broke down when questioned about his mother, who left the family home when he was eleven, leaving him and Darleen to live with their abusive father, who died three months before the first murder.

Darleen, who penned the bestseller My Brother is Innocent, has campaigned for her sibling’s release for almost six years. She claims her brother’s DNA was found on Bronwyn Bray’s body because they had been in a relationship, and that this wasn’t taken into account fully at the trial. She also insists the court should re-examine Isla’s statements of what happened the night of her brother’s arrest, suggesting there is no proof that he started the ‘bloodbath’ that unfolded that night.

Canberra’s High Court granted permission today for an appeal, agreeing there are sufficient grounds for further consideration of the case. The hearing will take place on 30 September.

Leaving court today, Darleen, wearing a two-piece royal-blue skirt suit, told reporters, ‘I’m over the moon. I believe we have a sound case, and I can’t wait for my brother to be released.’

We contacted Isla Johnson in her hometown of Letchworth Garden City, England. She told us she wouldn’t be attending the hearing. ‘They have my original statements, and I’ve no more to offer,’ she said.

PART 1

Chapter 1

Tuesday, 26 July

It was hot.

Not the kind of heat you bask in on a Majorcan beach. No tickle of a warm breeze caressing your cheek. This was clammy, and had crept out of nowhere mid-afternoon, long after Isla had travelled into London in long sleeves and leggings, her camera over her shoulder, her notepad in hand.

Now Isla was crushed against a bosomy woman reading a freebie newspaper, on a packed, motionless train waiting to leave King’s Cross. The air was heavy with stale body odour and – what was that? – fish? She looked towards the door. Should she wait for the next train?

She took two long, deep breaths in an attempt to relieve the fuzzy feeling in her chest. She rarely let her angst out of its box any more – proud of how far she’d come. But there were times when the buried-alive anxiety banged on the lid of that box, desperate to be freed. It had been worse since she’d received the letter about the appeal. Carl Jeffery had crawled back under her skin.

She’d hid the letter, knowing if she told Jack and her family they would worry about her. She didn’t want that. She’d spent too much time as a victim. The one everyone worried about. She was stronger now. The woman she’d once been was in touching distance. She couldn’t let the appeal ruin that.

She ran a finger over the rubber band on her wrist, and pinged it three times. Snap. Snap. Snap. It helped her focus – a weapon against unease.

‘Hey, sit,’ said a lad in his teens, leaping to his feet and smiling. Had he picked up on her breathing technique – those restless, twitching feelings?

I’m twenty-nine, not ninety, she almost said. But the truth was she was relieved. She had been on her feet all day taking pictures around Tower Bridge for an article she was working on, and that horrid heat was basting the backs of her knees, the curves of her elbows, making them sweat.

‘Thanks,’ she said, and thumped down in the vacated seat, realising instantly why the bloke had moved. A fish sandwich muncher was sitting right next to her.

Her phone rang in her canvas bag, and she pulled it out to see Jack’s face beaming from the screen.

‘Hey, you,’ she said, pinning the phone to her ear.

‘You OK?’

‘Yeah, just delayed. Train’s rammed.’ It jolted forward and headed on its way. ‘Ooh, we’re moving, thank the Lord. Should be home in about an hour.’

‘Great. I’m cooking teriyaki chicken. Mary Berry style.’

She laughed, scooping her hair behind her ears. ‘Lovely. I’ll pick up wine.’

The line went dead as the train rumbled through a tunnel, and Isla slipped her phone in her bag, and took out her camera. She flicked through her photos. She would add one or two to Facebook later, and mention her long day in London.

Your life is so perfect, Millie had written on Isla’s status a few months back, when she’d updated that she and Jack were back from France and she was closer to finishing her book. It had been an odd thing for Millie to say. Her sister knew Isla’s history better than anyone. How could she think Isla’s life was perfect, when she’d seen her at her most desperate? Felt the cruel slap of Isla’s anger?

Eyes closed, Isla drifted into thoughts of Canada. She was going for a month. Alone. Canada. The place she would have gone to after Australia if life hadn’t forced a sharp change of direction. Going abroad without Jack wouldn’t be easy. But then he couldn’t keep carrying her. She had to face it alone. And it would be the perfect escape from the pending appeal.

With a squeal of brakes, the train pulled in to Finsbury Park, and fish-sandwich man grunted, far too close to Isla’s ear, that it was his stop. She moved so he could pass, and shuffled into the window seat.

Through the glass, overheated people poured onto the platform, and her eyes drifted from a woman with a crying, red-faced toddler, to a teenage boy slathering sun cream onto his bare shoulders.

‘Isla?’ Someone had sat down next to her, his aftershave too strong.

She turned, her chest tightening, squeezing as though it might crush her heart. ‘Trevor,’ she stuttered, suddenly desperate to get up and rush through the door before it hissed shut. But it did just that – sucking closed in front of her eyes, suffocating her, preventing any escape from her past.

‘I thought it was you,’ he said, as the train pulled away. He was still handsome and athletic. Gone were his blond curls, replaced by cropped hair that suited him. He was wearing an expensive-looking suit, a tie loose in the neck, his tanned face glowing in the heat.

Her heartbeat quickened. It always did when anything out of the ordinary happened, and seeing Trevor for the first time in years made her feel off-kilter. The man she’d hurt at university was sitting right next to her, his face creased into a pleasant smile, as though he’d forgotten how things had ended between them.

‘You haven’t changed,’ he said. ‘Still as beautiful as ever.’ He threw her a playful wink, before his blue eyes latched on to hers. ‘I can’t believe it’s been eight years. How are you?’ She’d forgotten how soft his voice was, the slight hint of Scotland in his accent. He’d always been good to talk to. Always had time for everyone at university. But the chemistry had never been there – for her anyway – and they’d wanted different things from their lives.

‘I’m good – you?’ she said, as her heart slowed to an even beat.

He nodded, and a difficult silence fell between them. This was more like it. This was how things had been left – awkward and embarrassing. An urge to apologise took over. But it was far too late to say sorry for how she’d treated him. Wasn’t it?

‘I’ve often thought about you,’ he said, and she tugged her eyes away from his. ‘You know, wondering what you’re up to. I heard what happened in Australia.’

‘I prefer not to talk about it.’ It came out sharp and defensive.

‘Well, no, I can see why you wouldn’t want to. Must have been awful for you. I’m so sorry.’

Quickly, Isla changed the subject, and they found themselves bouncing back and forth memories of university days, avoiding how it had ended.

‘You’re truly remarkable,’ Trevor said eventually. ‘You know, coming back from what you went through.’

After another silence, where she stared at her hands, she said, ‘It was hard for a time … a really long time, in fact.’ She hadn’t spoken about it for so long, and could hear her voice cracking.

‘But you’re OK now?’ He sounded so genuine, his eyes searching her face.

She shrugged. ‘His sister …’

Would it be OK to talk to Trevor about the appeal? Tell him about Darleen Jeffery? Ask him what kind of woman fights their brother’s innocence, when it’s so obvious he’s a monster? There was a huge part of Isla that desperately needed to talk. Say the words she couldn’t say to Jack or her family for fear they would think she was taking a step back. Vocalise the fears that hovered under the surface. The desire to tell someone about the Facebook message she’d received from Darleen Jeffery several months ago was overwhelming. ‘I need to discuss the truth, Isla,’ it had said.

‘His sister fought for an appeal and won,’ she went on, wishing immediately that she’d said nothing.

‘Jesus.’ He looked so concerned, his eyes wide and fully on her. ‘When is it?’

‘The end of September.’ The words caught in her throat.

‘Are you going?’

She shook her head. She’d contacted the Director of Public Prosecutions. Told them she wouldn’t be attending, that she didn’t want to know the outcome. Being in a courtroom with him again would be like resting her head on a block, Carl Jeffery controlling the blade.

‘I can’t face it,’ she said, her voice a whisper.

‘I don’t blame you.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s sickening that he killed three women. Unbelievable.’

She thought of lovely Jack, knowing how hurt he would be if he knew she was keeping the appeal – and the way it was affecting her – from him. He would be hurt if he knew that within a few minutes of meeting her ex, she was confiding in him – letting it all out. But there was something oddly comforting in the detached feeling of talking to an almost-stranger on a train – because that’s what he was now. Someone she probably wouldn’t see again for another eight years.

‘I’ll be in Canada when it takes place. I can forget it’s even happening. And I’ve told them I don’t want to know the outcome.’ She pinged the band on her wrist, before turning and fixing her eyes hard on the window, a surge of tears waiting to fall. She needed to change the subject. ‘So what are you up to now?’

‘I’m a chemist,’ he said, his tone upbeat.

‘Not a forensic scientist, then?’ That had been his dream.

‘Never happened, sadly,’ he said. ‘I’m working on a trial drug at the moment.’

‘Sounds interesting.’ Her eyes were back on him.

He shrugged. ‘Not really. Not as interesting as travel writing.’

She stared, narrowing her eyes. ‘You know I’m a travel writer?’

He smiled. ‘I guessed.’ He nodded at her camera. ‘You wanted to be the next Martha Gellhorn.’

‘You remember that?’

He nodded, entwining his fingers on his lap, eyes darting over her face. ‘You haven’t changed,’ he said again.

She knew she had. Her blonde hair came out of a bottle these days, and there was no doubting she was different on the inside. She looked away again, through the window where fields were blurs of green.

As seconds became minutes he said, ‘Maybe we could catch up some time. Now we’ve found each other again.’

Words bounced around her head, as a prickle of sweat settled on her forehead. She didn’t want to be unkind, but she was with Jack, and even if she wasn’t, there was nothing there – not even a spark.

She turned to see his cheeks glowing red, and an urge to say sorry for hurting him all those years ago rose once more. ‘I’m with someone,’ she said instead.

‘That’s cool. Me too,’ he said, with what seemed like a genuine smile. ‘I meant as friends, that’s all.’ He pulled out his phone, the yellow Nokia he’d had at university. ‘We could exchange numbers.’ His shoulders rose in a shrug, making him look helpless. ‘It would be good to meet up some time.’

***

Triple-glazed windows sealed against the noise of heavy traffic rattling along the road outside, and a whirring fan that was having little effect, meant the apartment felt even hotter than outside. Isla hated that she couldn’t fling open the windows to let the fresh air in. Sometimes she would grab her camera, jump into her car, and head to the nearby fields to snap photographs of the countryside: birds and butterflies, wild flowers, sheep, horses, whatever she could find – pictures she would often put on Facebook or Instagram.

‘Can you open that, please?’ She plonked the chilled bottle of wine she’d picked up from the off-licence in front of Jack on the worktop. ‘I desperately need a shower.’

He looked up from chopping vegetables. ‘Well hello there, Jack, how was your day?’

‘Sorry,’ she said, tickling their cat, Luna, under the chin before stroking her sleek, grey body. ‘I’m so, so hot. Sorry, sorry, sorry.’ She disappeared into the bedroom, stripping off her clothes, and dropping them as she went.

Fifteen minutes later she was back, in shorts and a T-shirt, damp hair scooped into a messy bun. She picked up the glass of wine that Jack had poured. ‘God, that’s better,’ she said, taking a swig. She smiled and touched Jack’s clean-shaven cheek. ‘Well, hello there, Jack, how was your day?’

He laughed and plonked a kiss on her nose. ‘Well, Tuesday’s done. I’ll be glad when I’m over hump Wednesday.’

‘Wednesday’s the new Thursday, and Thursday’s the new Friday.’

‘Must be the weekend then.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’

She pulled herself onto a stool. ‘I saw an old boyfriend on the train home. Trevor Cooper.’ The guilt of talking about the appeal made her want to tell Jack.

‘The bloke you went out with at uni?’

‘Aha.’

‘Should I be jealous?’ he teased.

‘God no.’ She took another gulp of wine, before adding, ‘He was suggesting I meet with him some time.’

Jack’s eyebrows rose and a playful smile dimpled his cheeks. ‘Do you fancy him?’

She shook her head. ‘Of course not.’

He laughed as he put chicken onto plates. ‘Well, go ahead then; you have my blessing.’

‘I’d go without it, if I wanted to,’ she said, with a laugh. They’d been together two years. He should be able to trust her. ‘To be honest,’ she continued, ‘I’m not sure I want to meet up with him. I’ll think of an excuse if he texts. Maybe come down with something contagious.’

Jack smiled and shoved a plate of delicious-looking food in front of her. She picked up a fork and began tucking in, making appreciative noises. ‘I probably shouldn’t have given him my number.’

‘And you did, because?’

She shrugged, remembering. ‘I suppose I didn’t want to hurt his feelings again.’

There was a clatter, and Luna, green eyes flashing, jumped off the worktop with a huge piece of French bread in her mouth.

‘Luna, you little sod,’ Jack yelled, diving from his stool. ‘Has that “how to train a cat” book arrived yet?’

Isla didn’t respond, deep in thought.

‘If you don’t want to meet him, Isla,’ he said, long legs leaping after Luna, ‘just ignore him if he texts.’ He grabbed the cat, wrestled free the bread, and chucked it in the bin. ‘Simple.’

‘Maybe,’ she said.

Later, Isla sat on her mobile phone watching cute cats on YouTube, as Jack watched a documentary about Jack the Ripper.

Her phone buzzed. Trevor had sent her a friend request on Facebook, and a message saying how great it had been to see her again. She stared at the screen for some moments, and then looked at Jack sprawled full length on the sofa. Trevor was just being friendly, and anyway, her conscience wouldn’t allow her to ignore him. She had loads of friends she barely knew any more on Facebook. What harm could another person do?

She added him as a friend.

Chapter 2

Three months later

Tuesday, 25 October

Isla dashed towards Heathrow Airport’s luggage claim conveyors, and eased her tired body between a heavy man in his fifties with a mobile pinned to his ear, and a family with two teenage daughters staring at phone screens. She sighed. Just a solitary red case was going round and round and round. The cases hadn’t been released yet.

Heavy-man turned and flashed her a smile. He’d sat next to her on the plane, taking up part of her seat as well as his own, his sickly aftershave making her head throb.

‘Hold this,’ one of the girls said, handing her sister an energy drink and stomping away, eyes still on her phone. ‘I need the loo.’

Isla closed her eyes. Her head ached worse than it had on the plane. Drinking several small bottles of wine hadn’t been a good idea. Her mouth was dry, as though someone had installed a dehumidifier on her tongue.

Thirty-six hours ago she’d been snapping incredible photographs from a train window. The ice-capped peaks and remarkable alpine lakes of the Canadian Rockies had been just two of the many things that had made the leap of faith to jump on a plane alone worth it.

‘I landed about an hour ago, Sean, mate.’ Heavy-man’s tone jarred. ‘Should be at yours by ten if the traffic isn’t shit.’

A trolley bumped her ankle.

‘Fuck,’ she muttered under her breath, turning to give the culprit her best cross look. But the man was elderly with white hair and wire glasses, reminding her of her granddad. She would let him off, but still needed to free herself from the people-coffin she’d found herself in. The eight-hour flight from Canada had been bad enough, but this, when she was tired and hungry, was too much. She rubbed her cheeks and neck. She wanted to be at home in her shower, letting water flow over her, and then to fall into bed next to Jack and enjoy a long uninterrupted sleep.

At first she’d missed having Jack by her side, like a child deprived of her security blanket. Taking off on the trip alone hadn’t been anywhere near as easy as it had been eight years before, when she’d raced into the unknown after university for what was meant to be a gap year, but had drifted into two. Back then, she’d travelled alone, clueless about where her next bed would be, or what job she might pick up along the way, all without fear. She longed to be that person again: the girl with her life ahead of her, before Carl Jeffery took a metaphorical sledgehammer and wrecked the mechanics of her mind.

She pinged the rubber band on her wrist and, taking a long, deep breath, tucked her hair behind her ears, and moved away from the crowd, clinging to how perfect Canada had been.

She pulled her phone from her carry-on bag and turned it on. She’d avoided the Internet and social media while away, worried she might find out something about the appeal. But now a month had passed. Whatever the outcome, it would be old news. And being off the Internet meant she’d immersed herself in her Canadian adventure, and also worked on her book.

Her phone adjusted to the London time zone, and picked up her network, bleeping, pinging, buzzing, as she was sucked once more into the frenzy of social media. Within moments she was blocking newsfeeds on Facebook and Twitter, muting notifications, hiding friends who continually shared news articles. She didn’t expect there to be any news about the appeal – it had been a month, after all – but she was taking no chances.

On WhatsApp, Millie had added her to a chat about a six-part murder mystery on Netflix. Isla hadn’t seen it, but her sister had given away so many spoilers, adding emoticons, that it probably wasn’t worth watching it now. Julian had added a comment: You’re totally useless, Millie.

Isla sighed. Why did her sister stay with him?

On Instagram, Roxanne had put on a stream of photographs of struggling refugees – another cause for her best friend’s overcrowded, want-to-help-everyone head.

Millie had put on twenty-or-so photographs of her new puppy, Larry, who looked good enough to eat. And Isla’s mum, who didn’t understand Instagram, and was pretty rubbish with anything to do with social media, had added a photograph of a chicken casserole for no apparent reason.

Twitter was dominated by Roxanne’s pleas to save foxes and badgers, and there was a string of Tweets by a magazine Isla regularly wrote for, and several updates from UK Butterflies.

Facebook was crowded by engagements and late holidays to the Mediterranean all jostling for attention. There was a wedding of an online friend Isla had forgotten she had, and another friend’s mother had passed away – Expected, she was 91, but still gutted – feeling sad.

There was a rare update by Trevor Cooper – Really must get on here more, and stop being an Internet dinosaur. Nobody had liked it, but then he didn’t have many friends. When he’d failed to get in contact again three months ago, after their chance meeting on the train, Isla hadn’t thought any more about him, pushing him far from her thoughts. Maybe she could unfriend him now.

As she scrolled, she realised she could whittle her eight hundred or so friends, mainly picked up from university and her travels, down to a hundred, and still not recognise some of them in the street. She wasn’t sure she even liked Facebook. In fact, sometimes she’d go on there and feel exposed.

‘Isla, nobody’s looking at you, lovely lady,’ Roxanne had said, when Isla had tried to explain her feelings. ‘And I mean that in the nicest way. They’re just having fun sharing what they’ve been up to.’

There was a thump behind her, and she turned to see a black case rumble down the conveyor. Heavy-man barged forward, grabbed it, and once it was on the floor in front of him he yanked out the handle as though gutting a fish. He pushed past the teenage girls and the elderly man, veins in his forehead pulsing as he marched towards Isla.

‘Facebook,’ he said, nodding towards Isla’s open screen as he walked by. ‘Dangerous place, the Internet. You heard it here first.’

She watched him rush through Nothing to Declare.

Not if you use it right, surely.

Sidling up behind the elderly man, she waited for her case to appear, her eyes back on her phone world. She began typing:

WhatsApp: Hi, Jack, I’m back. Hope you’re OK. I’m SO tired, and probably won’t be home until gone midnight. Don’t wait up, as you need your beauty sleep. Not that you’re not beautiful, of course. Love you, Isla XX

Text: Hi, Mum, back safe. I hope you and Dad are OK. I’ll call you soon. Love you, Isla XX

Facebook: Landed in the UK – Canada was a-ma-zing. I’ll upload some photos here on the train home. Feeling exhausted, but still have to tackle the underground. AHHHHH!

She was about to close the Facebook app, when she noticed Trevor had liked her status, and that Julian had left a comment.

Does this mean you’ve FINALLY finished your book?

Before either could properly sink in, her phone pinged.

WhatsApp: Welcome back, gorgeous lady. I’m not at home, won’t be back until tomorrow. My mum was taken ill so had to go down to Dorset. Will fill you in more in the morning. Should be home around ten. Luna’s with your mum. I’ll pick her up on my way home. Hope you had a great time. Love you, Jack x

Chapter 3

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Tuesday, 25 October 11.30 p.m.

CANADA

So here I am, travelling home on the train after my wonderful trip, and uploading the photographs I promised to post here before I left. Hope you like them. Canada was a-ma-zing.

I’ve so enjoyed posting photos and news about my travels over the last few months, but, the truth is, I need somewhere to free my mind or I’ll explode into teeny tiny pieces. Nobody in my real world knows about my blog, and they certainly wouldn’t understand what I’m about to say.

God, I’m having doubts whether I should write it here. But then I don’t get many hits. Those who do visit are one-off visitors, searching images to look at my photos, rather than read my incessant travel ramblings. So I guess then it’s OK. It could be therapeutic for me to offload into the abyss.

So here goes. I met someone in Canada. His name’s Andy, and quite simply I’m in love with him. There, I’ve said it. It’s out there now. I know I’m with Jack, and I feel bad about that. But Andy’s different. He’s from Toronto, and has the most amazing accent, but, of course, that’s not all I love about him.

I’m smiling now, and the woman sitting opposite me, about sixty, attractive, dressed trendy, is giving me a funny look. She can’t see inside my head. That I’m thinking of the quirky way Andy flicks his gorgeous auburn hair from his brown eyes. How giddy I felt when he was close to me. The way my skin tingled when he touched me – kissed me.

I sound ridiculous. Like a pathetic heroine in a novel, all loved up and besotted. But it’s true. I never thought I’d feel this way about anyone. Not after what happened in Australia.

And I suppose I’ve always thought women who said that the urge to cheat is uncontrollable were foolish. That nothing would make me do anything to hurt sweet, kind Jack. But when something like this happens the draw is too strong. It’s painful. There are no choices.

It’s hard because I’m still with Jack, and I know he loves me. He’s always been so good to me – would do anything for me.

‘Mind if I join you?’ Andy had said when he approached me in a café in Toronto, where I’d taken to going each afternoon. Mind if I join you? A line right out of a 1950s film. Up there with: Is this seat taken?

He was standing so close I could smell his aftershave, and he was holding a cappuccino in his hand, a swirl of steam rising from it. His smile was seductive, and his eyes locked me into a stare. He pulled his scarf free from his neck, as though I’d already said yes to him sitting with me, as though he had everything planned.

Without a second’s delay – not even the nagging memory of six years ago made me pause for thought – I took my jacket and bag from the chair next to me, and said, ‘No, no it’s free. It’ll be great to have the company.’

We started talking. And as though we’d known each other for ever, I spilled my life. Told him what happened in Sydney. How it had made me feel. How it still makes me feel. I’d talked about it all before, but somehow Andy made me feel safer than I ever felt possible.

We drank wine, and I told him where I was staying. He was travelling on business and renting a place nearby.

That night we made love. And the next.

Oh God, the guilt is bubbling up now, making me uneasy, faint and unsteady. My fingers are trembling on the keyboard. Should I have slept with Andy without talking things through with Jack first? Did I have a choice? Does anyone have a choice when the passion is so strong?

Andy cancelled his business meeting, and over the next few days he was right there by my side, the smell of him making me delirious, his dark eyes melting me.

He told me how he’d grown up in Toronto, an only child of two university professors. He loved the summer there, he said, but the winters were so cold, day and night, sometimes dropping to minus twenty-five. He took me to places I might never have found alone. Graffiti Alley, just south of Chinatown, was the most remarkable. The vibrant colours and stunning pictures of the murals painted by street artists on the walls of connecting alleyways were incredible. I got carried away and took far more pictures than I will ever need. As we walked, Andy nodded down a narrow alley, closed off by a fence.

‘That was once the site of the secret swing,’ he told me. ‘I remember it.’ He’d paused, clearly thinking back. ‘The swing had a kind of cold, haunted feel about it, hanging there between the walls. I can see it clearly, even though it’s not there any more.’ He’d slipped his arm around my waist, and I was glad I wasn’t alone. That I was with him.

The following day we travelled to Niagara Falls, and shared a hotel room. Our passion grew stronger, which I never dreamt possible.

We screamed with laughter when we took a boat trip, and the cascading waterfall sprayed our bodies.

For a month he travelled with me – the train journey through the Rockies was the best experience of my life.

At the airport, just before I headed for home, I felt as though I was about to leave part of myself behind. I felt bilious and delirious at the same time.

He’s texted me already to check I landed safely, and my heart ached as I read his words. He said he can’t go another moment without seeing me. That he’s desperate to come over and will jump on the next plane.

I must tell Jack about Andy.

I know that.

God, I’m crying. The woman opposite is rummaging in her bag – bringing out a pack of tissues, handing me one. She’s probably wondering about the weird woman tapping away on her laptop.

I dab my cheek with the tissue. The self-hatred bouncing against the ecstasy is impossible. But I have no choice. It’s such a mess.

But surely you should be with the person you love. Life is too short. We’re a long time dead, as my mother once said.

Andy is my drug – my cocaine – and I need to hold on to this feeling. I refuse to let it go at any cost. Surely, I deserve happiness after everything I’ve been through.

I know I’m supposed to be on my blog to tell you about Canada, because that’s what it’s set up for – to talk about my travels. But I’m tired, and my head feels fuzzy. So, for now, I’ll point out the stunning shots of Graffiti Alley, and my favourite photograph of Niagara Falls. Those cascading waters took my breath away. They’re to die for – like Andy.

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Chapter 4

Tuesday, 25 October

Isla emerged from Letchworth Garden City Station just before midnight, dragging her case behind her. Her carry-on bag, laptop and camera inside, was draped over her shoulder. If only her apartment was closer. She was exhausted.

A taxi was parked next to the entrance, and as she headed towards it, the driver got out, took her case from her and put it into the boot.

‘Where to, love?’ he said with a smile, slamming the boot closed, and walking round to the driver’s side.

‘Oakley Court. It’s an apartment block in—’

‘I know it,’ he cut in, as she climbed into the back seat. ‘My daughter lives near there.’

Once in the taxi, the driver accelerated away. The journey would only take five minutes, but the thought of being sealed in with a man – even a pleasant-faced man in his fifties wearing a turban – prodded at Isla’s anxiety. It was probably because she was tired. When she craved sleep, thoughts she could normally control encroached. Was it really safe to get into a car parked outside a railway station with a man she didn’t know?

‘You been on holiday?’ the driver asked.

Oh God, he was going to be a talker. She could do without a talker right now.

‘Yes,’ she said, cursing the fact she’d been brought up to be polite. Never wanted to offend.

He indicated and pulled onto the main road. ‘Somewhere nice?’

Please stop talking. ‘Canada,’ she said.

‘Very nice indeed.’ He nodded, approvingly. ‘I’ve always wanted to go. Did you see Niagara Falls?’

‘I did, yes.’

‘I read on the Internet that five thousand people have committed suicide there.’

Why would anyone say that? ‘Yes I know, it’s awful.’

He shrugged. ‘Sorry, not a very cheerful subject.’

No, no it’s not.

His brown eyes met hers in the rear-view mirror, and even though his tone was light and friendly, her neck tingled, and anxiety bubbles rose in her chest. She ran her finger over the band on her wrist and averted her eyes.

‘And there was that woman who went over the waterfall in a barrel and survived. I saw a documentary on the telly-box.’ He paused. ‘Not that I watch documentaries very often. I like gardening programmes. Alan Titchmarsh is my favourite. Do you like Alan Titchmarsh?’

‘I don’t mind him.’

‘It’s my wife who’s the documentary addict. If there’s been a documentary about it, she has watched the documentary. Ooh, I seem to have said documentary rather too much.’ He laughed, as he indicated and turned a corner. ‘We saw that documentary on Netflix about the chap who got charged with murder and went down for years. He didn’t do it, so they got him out again. Then he got banged up again for another murder, would you believe? And now they’re trying to get him off again. He must feel like he’s doing the murder hokey-cokey – in, out, in, out, shake it all about. You seen it?’

Thoughts of Carl Jeffery pushed into her head. Would it be better if she knew the outcome of his appeal? She shook away the thought. If he was out – free to kill again – the knowledge would break her.

‘Santa’s beard,’ the driver said. ‘Who’s this pillocky person behind me?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Some ruddy moron’s gating my tail.’

Isla glanced over her shoulder and squinted. The back window was filled with the full beam of a car’s headlights, far too close.

The taxi driver slowed, and whoever was behind heeded, putting some distance between them.

‘Sports car,’ the taxi driver said with a grumble. ‘Some idiot going through a midlife crisis, I shouldn’t wonder. Probably bought a guitar too and wants to be the next Bryan Adams.’

He pulled into the car park at Oakley Court, which had once been the sweeping drive of a now-converted Victorian house.

‘Thanks,’ Isla said, opening the door, relieved the journey was over.

He jumped out, opened the boot and pulled out her case.

‘Thanks,’ she said again, paying him.

He drove away, and she began stabbing the passcode into the keypad on the front door, before glancing over her shoulder. The sports car that had tailgated the taxi was parked across the road, lights on. Someone was sitting at the steering wheel, but it was impossible to see who it was – no more than a silhouette.

Unnerved, she fumbled the rest of the code into the keypad and pushed open the door. She heaved her case up the flight of stairs, and put her key into her front door and turned it. As she pushed against the door, something prevented her from opening it fully. Her heartbeat cranked up a notch, but she realised quickly that a newspaper and a pile of letters were blocking the door. She reached her hand round and pushed them aside.

Inside, once the door was closed behind her, she stood in the darkness and took a long, deep breath, frustrated that her anxiety had risen to what she called silly levels. She’d been fine in Canada. Things had gone so well.

The apartment was quiet without Jack and Luna to greet her, and she missed the comfort of their presence.

Jack rarely went to Dorset. His mum must be very ill.

She flicked the hall light switch, but the inky darkness remained. The bulb had blown.

As she wheeled her case through the blackness, she noted the air was musty and heavy with a faint mingling aroma of Jack’s aftershave and the slight waft of bacon.

The floorboards in the lounge creaked as she padded towards the window and looked out. The sports car was still in the lay-by opposite, lights off. She yanked the curtains closed.

In the kitchen, she turned on the tap and streamed water into a glass. She swallowed half of it, her dry throat thanking her, and poured the rest onto the dry soil of a sad-looking plant that Jack had forgotten to water. She took off her coat and slipped off her shoes. She knew she should shower to eradicate the journey, but instead made her way into the bedroom and fell onto the bed fully clothed. Closing her eyes, she drifted into a doze.

Five minutes later, the intercom buzzed. Her eyes sprang open. Could it be Jack home early? He often forgot his key. She rose and headed from the bedroom, her heart pounding as she took in how still and silent the apartment was. She approached the front door, fighting back memories of six years ago, frustrated by her fear. She didn’t do this any more, she told herself. She wasn’t afraid any more.

She pressed the talk button on the intercom. ‘Hello. Jack, is that you?’ There was no reply. Maybe the intercom hadn’t buzzed. Perhaps it had been part of a dream. It wouldn’t have been the first time her dreams seemed real. When she’d been taking tablets, she would often have vivid nightmares that felt far too real. But that was a long time ago. ‘Jack?’ she said again, noting the wobble in her voice.

She released the button, headed into the lounge, and crept towards the window. She peered through the gap in the curtains. Someone, hood up, was crossing the road, jogging away from the apartment block. The sports car’s lights flashed, and whoever it was flung open the door, jumped inside, and sped away with a screech of tyres.

Isla hurried back to bed and dived under the duvet, where she cradled her knees. Tears filled her eyes, as memories of Carl Jeffery swooped into her head.

Six years ago

He stood at the bar, pretending to look lost. ‘You’re so pretty, I’ve forgotten what I was going to ask for.’

She’d known immediately it was Carl Jeffery. Bronwyn, a girl who was staying at the same hostel as Isla, had told her about him. ‘He’s fucking gorgeous,’ she’d said. And there was no doubting that he was. Rugged good looks, dark hair curling into the collar of his checked shirt. The kind of Aussie she could imagine living in the outback in a shack, boiling water in a tin kettle on an open fire, undeterred by huntsman spiders and venomous snakes.

But Carl’s flattery was transparent.

‘It can’t be that hard to remember what you want,’ Isla said, folding her arms and rolling her eyes. ‘It’s a bar, for Christ’s sake. Now what can I get you?’

Charmers had never taken Isla in. In fact, she wasn’t interested in men at all at that time. Her breakup with Trevor still rattled around her head even then. How he’d wanted her to settle down. How he didn’t want her to travel. It had all got so messy. The last thing she wanted was another relationship.

‘So, what’s your name, pretty lady?’ Carl’s smirk was lopsided, his eyes deep set.

She thrust her hands on her hips. ‘Seriously? That’s your best line?’

He laughed. ‘Oh come on, give a guy a break.’

‘You’re really not my type.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t waste your time.’

‘You’re gay?’

‘So I have to be gay not to fancy you?’ She knocked the lid off a bottled lager and handed it to a worse-for-wear customer who was leaning on the bar holding out a five-dollar note.

‘So what will it be?’ she said, eyes back on Carl.

‘Lager,’ he said, pulling himself onto a stool.

‘Coming right up.’ She bent to get one from the fridge.

‘So when did you arrive?’ he asked, as she handed him the cool bottle. ‘I haven’t seen you around.’

‘Two weeks ago,’ she said, watching as he parted his lips and took a long gulp.

‘Staying at the Bristol?’

She nodded.

‘You like it there?’

‘Yeah, it’s cool.’ She moved away. She really wasn’t interested. And anyway, Bronwyn fancied him.

During the evening, women gravitated towards him, and he ended up at a table with an attractive blonde who seemed to fuel his ego and kept him topped up with drinks. His laugh was loud and confident, and Isla found herself watching him, despite an inner instinct not to. She watched the way he leant forward to listen, attentive as the woman spoke, the way he rested his tanned hand over hers, so it became invisible.

‘There’s a fucking dancing possum in here,’ yelled the drunken bloke at the bar, snapping Isla out of her dream world, as he fell off his stool. ‘Did you see it? Did you see it? It’s wearing clogs and a pink hat.’

‘Oh, Ernie, you’re imagining things again. You need to give up the amber nectar,’ she said, coming out from behind the bar. Despite her small size, she pulled him to his feet. ‘You’ve had enough, mate,’ she continued, escorting him across the bar, and out through the door. ‘Now go home to Mrs Ernie.’

‘Chucking out the drunks again?’ said Bronwyn, appearing through the night, and following Isla back into the bar. ‘So how’s it going?’ she continued, her friendly Irish lilt just one of the things that made her so likeable.

‘Yeah, I’m good; be glad when I’ve finished,’ Isla said, hurrying back behind the bar.

‘I’ll have a wine, please,’ Bronwyn said, tipping coins from a tatty zip-up purse onto the bar. She sat down and dragged her fingers through her red, layered hair. She was eighteen and travelling alone, but seemed to have an aura that said ‘don’t mess with me’.

‘Good to see you, my little Irish beauty.’ It was Carl approaching, after leaving the blonde woman alone. ‘I’m loving the cut-off shorts.’ He ogled her thighs, and then lifted his eyes to meet Isla’s, holding her gaze. Isla looked away, annoyed with herself for getting drawn in by his game playing.

‘I’ll have another lager,’ he said to her. And once she’d handed it to him, he lifted Bronwyn from the stool, and carried her, her legs gripping his body, her lips on his, to a table in the corner. Her giggles were almost childlike.

***

‘He asked me out,’ Bronwyn told Isla later, as they walked back to the hostel. ‘Says we should have some fun together.’

‘Did you say yes?’

‘Yep, I like fun. My mums have told me since I was a little girl that I should get as much out of life as possible. And he is pretty gorgeous, don’t you think?’ She skipped ahead, and turned to face Isla, continuing to skip backwards, her skinny body being swallowed by the darkness.

‘Bron,’ Isla called after her, when she’d fully gone from view. ‘Wait up.’

‘I’ve told him I’m not sticking around here for too long,’ Bronwyn called out.

‘And he’s OK with that?’ Isla called back.

‘Why wouldn’t he be?’

The darkness was suddenly total, the silence only punctuated by Bronwyn’s distant footfalls, and the intermittent sound of an owl hooting. ‘Bronwyn, please wait up,’ Isla called, picking up speed. ‘Bron? I’m knackered. I can’t be arsed to run.’

‘Ahhh!’

‘Bron!’ Isla called out, grabbing her torch from her rucksack and searching the darkness. ‘Bronwyn, are you OK?’

‘Over here,’ Bronwyn called out, laughing. The beam of Isla’s torched picked her out among the trees. She was sitting on the gravelled earth, brushing down her knees. ‘Lost my balance,’ she said, her face spreading into a wide, intoxicated smile. ‘Should have been looking where I was going.’

Now

‘Get out of my head,’ Isla cried, burying her head in her hands, tears burning. The appeal had got to her more than she realised. ‘You can’t hurt me any more, you bastard.’

But she knew she wouldn’t sleep. She couldn’t even close her eyes.

Chapter 5

Wednesday, 26 October

Water streamed from the shower over Isla’s hair, and soapy bubbles slid down her back. She could have stayed there for hours, washing away her tiredness, the harshness of the journey home and the awful unease of the night before.

She turned off the water, reached out for a fluffy towel to wrap around her, and stepped onto the mat in the steamy bathroom, determined she wasn’t going to let Carl Jeffery ruin everything. In fact, the smoothness of the water had already worn away the sharp edges, perspective almost restored. The person in the sports car could have been anyone visiting the apartment block, she told herself, and she wasn’t even sure the buzzer had been activated.

The door nudged open, and she looked up from rubbing moisture from her hair with a hand towel. ‘Luna.’ The cat ran towards her, meowing, and Isla crouched and tickled her ears. ‘I’ve missed you so much, my little angel.’

‘I hope you missed me too.’ It was Jack, outside the door.

‘Hey, you,’ Isla called.

She smiled as a head of wayward dark hair appeared, along with a familiar smile. He crossed the bathroom and took her in his arms. ‘So all went OK in Canada?’

She nodded. ‘It did, yes.’

‘You should feel pretty pleased with yourself.’ He touched her hair and leant in to kiss her lips. Luna mewed and made a quick exit, as he began trailing kisses down Isla’s neck. He went to unhook her towel, but she flinched and pulled away.

‘What’s up?’ he said, his eyes wide and hurt.

‘Nothing. Sorry.’

He went to reach out to her once more, but she stepped away. ‘Have you been smoking?’ she said.

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Just the one. It was bloody stressful with my mother.’

‘Oh God, yes, sorry.’ A pang of guilt. ‘Is she OK?’

‘Heart attack.’

‘Jack, that’s awful.’

He shrugged and screwed up his nose. ‘It was mild. If she listens to the doctors, which she probably won’t, she’ll be OK.’ He reached out his hand and touched the St Christopher necklace hanging around her neck. ‘Is that new?’

She placed her hand over it. ‘Sort of,’ she said with a shrug.

‘I didn’t think you were into the saints.’

‘No, no I’m not, not really. It was a gift.’

‘A gift?’

‘Jeez, Jack, what is this, the third degree? Roxanne bought it for me, if you must know. Before I left for Canada.’

‘Easy, Isla. Don’t bite my head off. I’ll put some coffee on, shall I?’ he said, turning his back and leaving her alone.

Isla dried herself, and pulled on a pair of leggings and a crumpled Fat Face top she’d retrieved from her case. She grabbed the rubber band she’d discarded to take a shower, pulled it back onto her wrist, and pinged it three times.

In the kitchen, she plonked three magnets on the fridge – Toronto, the Canadian Rockies and Niagara Falls – as Jack took two ready-made rolls from a paper bag and placed them on plates.

‘Cheese and pickle OK?’ he asked, as she headed towards him. ‘I picked them up on the way home. Thought you might be hungry. There’s nothing in the fridge.’

‘Sounds great,’ Isla said, reaching him and pulling him into a hug. ‘Listen, sorry about earlier …’ She nodded towards the bathroom. ‘It’s just …’

‘You hate me smoking. I know.’

‘No, well I had thought you’d given up, but it’s more that I didn’t sleep too well, that’s all.’ She bit her lip. If she told him about the car, the buzzer, he would think she was taking a step back.

She released him and pulled herself onto a stool at the breakfast bar.

‘I have given up, by the way,’ he said, as his phone screamed out the Spider-Man theme tune. He picked it up, looked at the screen, and cancelled the call.

‘Who was that?’

‘My mother – she can wait.’ His eyes were on Isla. ‘I’ve had one cigarette in three months.’

‘You sure about that?’ she said with a smile.

‘OK, two, maybe three, tops. But that’s pretty good.’

Isla tucked her damp hair behind her ears. ‘Yes, you’re right. Sorry.’ She bit into the roll, crumbs sprinkling the breakfast bar, and chewed slowly. ‘So you don’t think your mum will listen to the doctors?’

He shook his head, a crease forming between his eyebrows. He looked pale, his eyes shadowed, as though he’d had little sleep in Dorset. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I only went out of duty, and I’m not sure I even owe her that.’ He sounded cold, so unlike Jack, and Isla felt lost for the right words. His relationship with his mother had always been rocky. She’d been a drinker when he was a kid and neglected him, especially after his dad left.

Luna jumped onto the breakfast bar and attempted to sniff Isla’s roll. ‘You’re so naughty,’ she said, lifting her from the worktop and putting her on the floor where she gave a little mew. ‘Was she good at my mum’s, do you know?’

‘Good as gold, apparently,’ Jack said, a smile breaking through. ‘Christ, we sound like we’re talking about a baby.’

Isla didn’t catch his eye. She knew he wanted kids one day. She took another bite of her roll and glanced at her phone on the worktop, noticing a Facebook notification.

‘And my mum and dad are OK?’ she asked, picking up her mobile and looking at the screen.

‘Yeah, great, happier now you’re back in the UK, of course.’

‘God, when will they stop worrying about me?’ she said, opening up Facebook. ‘I just wish they’d see I’m fine now.’

‘So tell me all about your trip.’ He sat down opposite her. ‘Have you taken lots of photos? The ones you put online are fantastic.’

‘Yes …’ she said, but she was distracted by an event invitation. ‘Good God, I was only thinking about him yesterday.’

‘Who?’

‘Trevor Cooper.’

‘The old boyfriend who you don’t fancy?’

She laughed, eyes glued to the screen. ‘That’s the one. He’s invited me to a university reunion.’

‘I thought he didn’t get in touch after you saw him on the train.’

‘He didn’t, and I hadn’t noticed him on Facebook either, well not until yesterday, oddly enough.’

‘Maybe he came on to sort out the reunion.’

‘Yeah, probably.’ She glanced up. ‘I like your beard, by the way,’ she said, touching his face. ‘Suits you.’

‘What, this ol’ thing?’ He smiled. ‘It’s just something me and Ryan Gosling are trying out.’

‘Well, you’re much cuter,’ she said, but her eyes had drifted back to her phone screen.

‘Coffee?’ Jack asked, and Isla startled. ‘Bloody hell, you’re a bit edgy,’ he continued, getting up after a bite of his roll. ‘You OK?’

‘Yes, yes I’m fine. And yes please. Love one. Thanks.’

Jack headed for the coffee machine, as she tapped the phone screen to open the event.

The cover photo was Wetherspoon’s in Cambridge.

Event Invitation:

University Reunion, Wetherspoon’s, Cambridge. Friday, 28 October 7.30 p.m.

INVITED: 6

COMING: 3

NOT COMING: 2

I’m trying to get together a few old uni friends for a reunion. I thought it was about time. It’s been years! Do you guys fancy it? Trevor

Isla looked to see who’d been invited. Roxanne wasn’t there, but then she’d fallen out with Trevor. Sara Pembroke, who had studied chemistry with him, had already accepted. Isla hadn’t had much to do with her at university, but recalled she was tall and overweight, with short dark hair. An insular girl, if she remembered rightly. Super-intelligent.

She clicked on Sara’s profile to try to find out what she was like now, but there was a hedgehog for her profile picture, and a field of poppies as her cover photo. Her friends list and settings were private.

The declines were Stephen Grant and Jenny Dawson. They’d been the dream couple at university and were getting married on 28 October. The other acceptances were Veronica Beesley and Ben Martin. Their profiles were set to private too, their friends lists hidden, but Isla recognised them, even though they’d matured over the years. They’d unfriended Isla on Facebook a long time ago, at a time when they were clearing out old university friends and moving on. She was amazed they’d agreed to meet up with Trevor. But then Trevor had been popular at university.

She read the comments on the event page:

Veronica Beesley: Sounds like fun. I’m in! x

Reply: Trevor Cooper: Great. Looking forward to it! What are you up to now?

Reply: Veronica Beesley: Fashion design. I’ll bore you about the last eight years when I see you. Can’t wait!

Isla’s eyes widened as she took in the words. She could hear Jack talking in a cute voice to Luna as he made some coffee, but she was fully locked in cyber-world.

She did a quick search for Veronica’s company and clicked on her website. She sold her own designs, with a quirky vibe about them. They were the kind of things Isla loved to wear, but were way out of her price range.

She clicked back to Facebook.

Ben Martin: I’ll be there if it kills me, Trev, mate.

Reply: Trevor Cooper: Great news. Be good to catch up. Are you still in publishing?

Reply: Ben Martin: I am indeed. See you Friday!

‘What’s up? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ Jack said, sitting back down and placing two freshly poured mugs of coffee in front of them.

‘I think I have,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Well, a haunting of ghosts, actually.’

‘A haunting of ghosts?’

‘Like a gaggle of geese, but ghosts,’ she said, with a smile.

‘Pretty sure you just made that up.’

She hadn’t really looked at Trevor’s Facebook profile when he’d added her in July. She’d just registered at the time that his profile picture was a wolf howling on a mountain and his cover photo a generic beach somewhere. But she looked at it now. He had a dozen friends, including those he’d invited to the reunion.

‘Isla?’

‘What?’ She glanced up and met Jack’s enquiring eyes. ‘Sorry. Sorry.’

Jack placed his hand over hers. ‘I was thinking, do you fancy taking off on Saturday? Maybe have a picnic by the sea? I know it’s October but …’

‘Yes, yes, why not? Sounds great,’ she said, barely hearing his words.

‘So when is this reunion?’ He removed his hand from hers and nodded at her phone.

She sucked in a breath. ‘Friday night.’

‘Where?’

‘Spoons in Cambridge.’

‘Will you go?’ He swallowed a gulp of coffee.

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Could be fun meeting up with old friends. And I’ve got a backlog of Game of Thrones to watch, so I need you out of the house.’ He laughed.

‘Yeah, maybe I will.’ She looked at the phone once more. ‘Ben Martin is going. He’s in publishing.’

Jack’s eyes widened. ‘That could be good, right? He might publish your book.’

She smiled at his naivety. ‘I’m not sure he’d be best pleased if I started bombarding him with questions, but you never know.’

‘You should go, Isla,’ Jack said, his voice serious. ‘You’ll have a great time.’

She returned her eyes to the screen, clicked yes before she could think too much, and put down her phone. ‘Done,’ she said, leaning over the breakfast bar and pressing her lips on Jack’s, kissing him long and hard.

‘That’s more like it,’ he said, slipping down from the stool. Taking her hand, he led her to the bedroom.

***

Later, Isla spotted a butterfly on the work surface next to the kettle. Her stomach leapt, as she reached out to touch it, expecting it to spring into life and flutter around the kitchen, but it didn’t. She stared at the bright turquoise triangles on its wings, the deep black around the edges, recalling the photos she’d taken of the species when she was in Sydney.

Carl had called her Butterfly Girl because she took so many pictures. He’d teased her, saying the Blue Triangle was common out there – nothing special. ‘You need to search out a Richmond Birdwing,’ he’d said, his smile seeming so genuine. She’d thought he loved her. Perhaps he had in his warped way – that’s what Roxanne had said in a bumbled attempt to heal her.

‘The Richmond’s wings stretch almost sixteen centimetres,’ Carl had gone on. ‘Saw one once when I was a kid.’ Now the thought of his smile – and the way he’d later morphed into a monster – sent a shudder down her spine.

‘How did it get in?’ she said, her words barely audible, as she glanced around at the sealed apartment windows.

Jack looked up from shoving clothes from his holdall into the washing machine. ‘Sorry?’

‘A butterfly.’ She felt strangely helpless. ‘Where did it come from?’

‘Ah.’ Jack rose and slammed the washing machine door closed. ‘I found it by our front door yesterday. Forgot to say. I know you like butterflies, and—’

‘On our doormat?’

‘Yeah. But I’m pretty sure the poor thing’s dead.’

She gently touched its wing once more. ‘It’s not dead, Jack. I don’t think it’s real. It’s made of silk or something. What the hell was it doing on our doorstep?’

He shrugged. ‘No idea. I just brought it in. Thought it might get a new lease of life.’

‘It’s silk, Jack. I just told you that.’

‘Yeah, well I didn’t know that at the time.’

She held it in her palm, a slight tremor in her hand. ‘What was it doing out there?’

‘I guess somebody must have dropped it. The bloke upstairs likes weird and whacky things. Maybe it’s his.’

‘What bloke?’

‘Some professor type, moved in while you were away.’ He stepped towards her, and she flinched, dropping the butterfly, and it floated to the ground. ‘It’s just a butterfly, Isla.’

‘No, it’s not just a butterfly, Jack.’ She was close to tears. ‘It’s the Blue Triangle, found in Australia.’

He looked at her for a long moment. ‘Isla, I don’t get what the problem is. Is this something to do with Carl …?’

‘No. No, of course not,’ Isla cut in. ‘Ignore me, I’m just a bit jet-lagged, that’s all.’ She pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes to stop the tears.

‘You sure you’re OK?’ he said, and she looked up to see him studying her face.

She couldn’t tell him that Carl had burrowed his way into her head. That she was worried he could be out, but was too afraid to find out. He’d be upset she hadn’t told him about the appeal and then he would worry about her – she couldn’t have that.

Jack stepped closer and pulled her gently into his arms, where she leant against his chest. A tear burned the corner of her eye, before rolling down her face.

Chapter 6

Two years ago

‘It closed in 1994,’ Jack said, coming up behind Isla as she photographed Aldwych Station in London.

She turned into the bright sunshine, squinting as her eyes met his. Taking in that he was tall and slim, and wearing a faded Captain America T-shirt and a cap over dark hair. His hands were rammed into the pockets of knee-length shorts.

‘Sorry?’ she said.

‘The underground station.’ He nodded towards the building she was photographing. ‘It opened in 1907, closed in 1994.’

‘Yes, I know.’ She turned away from him. She’d already researched the building ready for an article on the London Underground she’d been commissioned to write. ‘And before Aldwych, it was Strand Station.’

‘Yeah, but the sign gives that away.’

She glanced at the ‘Strand Station’ sign on the red-brick wall above the closed metal gate.

‘So that’s kind of cheating,’ he said.

A smile flickered on her lips, as she aimed her camera.

‘Did you know it’s been used in films?’ he said.

‘Aha.’ She kept her eyes focused. ‘Atonement.’

‘Superman.’

‘28 Weeks Later.’

‘V for Vendetta.’

‘The Krays.’

He smiled through a brief silence, where they locked eyes, before saying, ‘So are you a professional photographer, or …?’ He stopped talking and took off his cap, glancing down as he brushed hair from his forehead with the back of his hand.

A feeling she hadn’t felt for a long time absorbed her body. A good feeling – a feeling she thought had died four years before.

‘Sorry,’ he said, turning and stepping away. ‘Being nosey … ignore me.’

Her instinct was to shove her camera into her rucksack and disappear into the London crowds. She was having good days now. More good than bad, since she’d accepted she would never be quite the same person she’d once been, and found ways of dealing with that. But she still avoided strangers – especially men. There was something about Jack though. Something about his innocent boyishness that she liked.

‘I’m a freelance writer and photographer,’ she said, pushing her camera into her bag, and he turned back. ‘Photography is my passion. It’s amazing how many fascinating and beautiful places there are in Britain.’ And the world, she wanted to add, but she felt her days of travelling abroad were over.

He smiled. ‘Yeah, I grew up in Dorset,’ he said. ‘Some stunning places down that way. Have you ever walked along Chesil Beach?’

‘Yes, I went last year.’ She’d done a series of pieces on the area for a travel magazine. ‘An amazing part of the country.’

He moved closer. Not so close that he invaded her space. ‘So, can I see your photographs anywhere?’

She shrugged. ‘I’ve had articles published in magazines and Sunday supplements,’ she said. ‘But they’ve come and gone. Ooh, and I wrote a small guidebook on York that you can probably still get in … well, York.’

‘Cool.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘I’m Jack Green, data analyst by day, London film location tour guide by weekend.’ He paused, a smile dancing around his lips. ‘I’m guessing by your face you didn’t realise that was your cue to be impressed.’

She laughed again, taking his outstretched hand. ‘Isla,’ she said and, for the first time in four years, her guard lowered.

Within a month they were seeing each other every moment. He even gave up his tour guide job, so they could spend weekends together. The passion was great, but it was more than that.

‘These are amazing, Isla,’ he said the night she showed him the photographs she’d taken before everything went so wrong. Pictures of the Taj Mahal, Humayun’s Tomb, and the warren of back streets in India, and those she’d taken in Australia and New Zealand too. He read her words about her early travels, as she looked on, cross-legged on the floor, cradling a glass of wine, and finding herself wondering what their children might look like, whether they would have his amazing eyes. ‘You’re so talented,’ he went on. ‘You should put this together. It would make a great book.’

She laughed, embarrassed, but pleased. There was nowhere near enough for a book, and she wasn’t convinced her words and pictures were good enough. But still his excitement and enthusiasm washed over her, and the idea of her book took hold.

That’s when their adventure began.

Later, they travelled to America and Africa and many parts of Europe, Isla making notes and snapping pictures.

Something she thought would never happen.

Chapter 7

Thursday, 27 October

‘Who’s Andy?’ Jack said, barely looking up, as Isla headed across the kitchen. He’d arrived home from work about an hour ago and plonked himself at the breakfast bar with a bottle of lager. He was watching film previews on his laptop, while Isla finished writing up an article that needed submitting. They would grab a takeaway later.

She stopped and stared at Jack, who finally looked up and smiled. ‘Andy?’ she said, moving on towards the fridge, and grabbing a bottle of wine.

‘Andy Fisher?’

She looked over his shoulder to see he had Facebook open. He only used it for pages on his favourite films and TV programmes, and only had Isla and a couple of mates as friends.

‘He’s commented on your last update.’

‘Has he?’ She sloshed wine into a glass. ‘You want some?’

‘No, thanks.’ He pointed at his half-drunk lager. ‘He’s put, “Miss you already. Had such a brilliant time with you.”’

‘Has he?’

‘Did you meet him in Canada?’ His tone was upbeat.

‘I met quite a few people in Canada, Jack,’ she said, putting the bottle back in the fridge, and slamming the door shut. ‘Most added me on Facebook. I can’t remember half of them, and I can’t remember him, if I’m honest.’ She paused. ‘Let me see.’

‘No point,’ he said. ‘His profile picture is a maple leaf. There’s nothing to see from my profile. You’ve loved his comment.’

‘Have I? Well you know me, I “love” everyone’s comments.’ She took several gulps of wine. ‘You’re not jealous, are you?’ she added with a half-laugh.

‘Of course not.’ He looked horrified. ‘If I was jealous, I wouldn’t let you go to that reunion.’

‘Let me?’ Her eyes widened with a mixture of playfulness and annoyance.

‘Oh, come on, you know what I mean. I’m just saying I’m not jealous. I trust you.’

She thought for a moment, not meeting his eyes. ‘Actually, I’m pretty sure Andy was one of a group of oldies at a hotel I was staying at. They knew how to have fun and joined me in. Made a fuss of me because I was young and on my own. That’s all.’

‘So Andy’s a fun-loving OAP?’

She laughed, scooping her hair behind her ears. ‘Yep, something like that. They’re the best kind.’

She smiled and sat down next to him, opening her laptop and keying in a website address she’d found earlier for a lodge in Sweden.

‘Where’s that? It looks beautiful,’ he said, looking over at the snowy scene.

‘Abisko,’ she said. ‘It’s in the Arctic Circle.’

‘Bloody cold then.’

‘Yes, well at the moment it is. I was thinking of going. It will be so peaceful, less than a hundred people live there. I thought it might be a great place to include in my book.’ She clicked through some pictures on the site. ‘It’s a fascinating place. For three months in the summer the sun never goes down, and in winter it doesn’t come up.’

‘You want to go somewhere where it’s dark all the time?’ He looked bewildered.

She smiled. ‘There’s about five hours of daylight at the moment, which will be plenty to take lots of photos,’ she said. ‘It’s not until December and January that the sun doesn’t come up.’ She paused, searching his face, unsure if he minded her going. ‘I don’t have to go. I have just been away.’

‘When were you thinking of taking off?’

‘Well, I’d like to try and finish my book by the end of the year, and Scandinavia would be the perfect final chapter, don’t you think?’

‘It would, yes.’ His tone was even.

‘I was thinking maybe the second week in November. Perhaps you could come with me.’ But her words were empty, and she felt mean even saying them. She knew he couldn’t get time off work at short notice.

He shrugged and shook his head. ‘I can try to get it off, but I doubt I will,’ he said, confirming her thoughts. ‘Plus the cold freaks me out.’ He broke into a smile. ‘There’s my recurring freezer dream to consider.’

She smiled too, but knew there was more to it than that. He’d told her how as a six-year-old he’d climbed into the chest freezer to get an iced lolly, and the lid had fallen down on him and locked.

‘Mum had fallen asleep,’ he’d told Isla a while back. ‘Pissed, I realised later. I was always left to my own devices. If Dad hadn’t come back, I’d have died.’ The trauma had stayed with him. He hated the cold.

‘Did you know that it only takes seventy seconds to freeze your little finger,’ he said, holding his finger close to his face. ‘Must depend on the size of your finger, I guess.’

‘Good God, Jack, please don’t tell me you’ve tested out that theory.’

‘No, of course not – I read it on the Internet.’

‘Must be true then,’ she said, with an air of sarcasm.

‘Yeah it is, some physiologist experimented on himself. I wonder if your finger becomes brittle, like ice?’

‘Please stop talking.’

He laughed and looked into her eyes. ‘Go to Sweden, Isla,’ he said, putting his arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s time to finish your book.’

Chapter 8

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Friday, 28 October, 2 a.m.

So here are a few more photos of Canada. I hope you like them. My next adventure will be Sweden in November, so watch this space for more news on that.

Andy called. Said he hasn’t been able to come to the UK because something’s come up. He wouldn’t say what. It was so good to hear his voice, but not those words. I told him I’m going to Abisko, and he said maybe we could meet there, if he doesn’t get over to the UK.

If he doesn’t get to the UK.

I desperately need to see him now. I miss him so much it hurts. I told him that, and he said I wasn’t to worry, that he loves me, that he will be with me soon.

I’m so close to telling Jack. But it’s hard. Maybe once Andy is here I’ll be able to come right out and tell him. I feel wretched that I’m not being fair on Jack. Am I a horrible person? God, how I want to give way to the tears.

I’m not sure I want to go out tomorrow night to this ridiculous reunion. Do I really want to see Trevor again? Do I need that complication in my life right now?

But then what if Ben can help me with my book? I’d be a fool to miss a chance like that.

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Chapter 9

Friday, 28 October

‘So you’re going on another holiday, you lucky thing. Where’s Abisko?’

‘Sweden, but it’s not exactly a holiday, Millie.’ Isla tugged the kinks from her hair with her straighteners, catching her sister’s eye in the black-framed mirror above the fireplace. ‘It’s work.’

‘OK, if you say so.’ Millie smiled from the sofa, where Luna was purring on her knee. Her hair was scraped back in a haphazard ponytail, and she’d gained weight, despite her dieting efforts. Isla thought curvy suited her, but Millie had never been happy with her appearance. And now her acne was playing up again, a cluster of angry spots on her chin, cruel at almost forty.

‘It really is work,’ Isla insisted. ‘I’m paying for the trip with a couple of commissions, and hoping to finish my book while I’m there.’

‘So, have you got a publisher yet?’

Isla shook her head, eyes still on her sister. ‘No, although I admit I haven’t really tried,’ she said, sighing as she bent to turn off the fake-flicker fire. It was burning her legs. Making them red. She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I feel bad that you’ve come over when I’m going out.’

‘It’s OK, I just felt like popping in and surprising you.’ Millie smiled again. ‘You look lovely by the way.’ She bit into a biscuit, crumbs sprinkling her tracksuit bottoms. ‘You always look lovely.’

‘What? No, I don’t.’ Isla turned back to the mirror and screwed up her face, never seeing herself as attractive.

‘Actually, I should get back soon to cook dinner,’ Millie said. ‘Did I tell you Abigail’s gone vegan? I’m trying a cashew and mushroom korma tonight.’

‘Bless her. How is my lovely niece?’

‘Fine, although sometimes things seemed easier when she was younger. But I guess that’s true for all parents of teens.’ Especially those with a child with Asperger’s. ‘She seems so grown up at times. She likes a boy she met at the chess club she goes to, but, on the other hand, she’s still obsessed with dinosaurs.’ She paused for a moment before adding, ‘She still loves the stegosaurus you and Jack bought her for her birthday.’

Jack had bought the large plastic figure. Isla had only remembered her niece’s birthday at the last minute.

‘You’re an absolute genius,’ she’d said, when he walked through the door with it, making silly dinosaur noises and waving the thing about.

‘She loves the puppy too, of course,’ Millie continued, glancing at her watch. ‘Another reason I should get back. Larry’s taken to chewing everything in his path. He’s already ruined the ballet pumps Abigail got from Lindy Bop.’

‘Oh that’s a shame.’

‘I know. She just stared at them for ages, as though they would miraculously mend in front of her eyes. I’ve had to order another pair quick.’ She smiled. ‘Why didn’t someone tell me puppies are harder than babies?’ She dragged Luna to her face and plonked a kiss on her black nose. ‘I should have got a cat. So much easier.’

‘Sometimes,’ Isla said. ‘Although Luna is super naughty, and has been known to poop in my trainers.’

Millie laughed, and Isla paused from straightening her hair, her eyes on her older sister once more.

Millie worked almost as many hours as Julian, as a teaching assistant at a village school just outside Letchworth, and Abigail, at fifteen, still needed as much help as she always had done. Isla felt it wasn’t right that everything fell on Millie’s shoulders all the time, while Julian snuck into the garage each evening and weekend to play with his ever-growing model train set.

‘Julian should help more,’ Isla said, glancing over her shoulder.

‘He wouldn’t know where to start.’ Millie crunched on another biscuit, and Isla couldn’t work out if her sister actually liked the idea that they couldn’t survive without her.

‘But it’s not the 1950s,’ Isla continued, before she could warn her mouth not to open.

Millie’s face wrinkled into a frown, and she prodded a spot on her chin.

‘And don’t touch that – you’ll make it sore,’ Isla said.

Millie whipped her hand away from her chin. ‘And there’s me thinking my spots weren’t noticeable.’ She pulled a fake sad face.

‘They’re not, not really.’ Isla shook her head, regretting her words.

‘It’s OK. I know I look like a fifteen-year-old boy, at times.’

‘No, you don’t. It’s just … maybe you could get something from the GP to clear them up.’

Millie shrugged. ‘Yes, maybe I could, although there never seems time, somehow.’ She paused again. ‘And let’s face it, nobody looks at me anyway.’ She laughed, but Isla could tell she meant it.

‘Are you OK?’ she said softly. She wanted to be there for Millie. ‘You know if you ever need anything … to talk … you know I’m here.’

‘Blimey, Isla, where’s this come from?’ Millie sounded way too upbeat. ‘I’m absolutely fine. Always am.’ She turned from Isla’s gaze. ‘So are you going to tell me where you’re off to tonight?’

‘Spoons in Cambridge.’ She turned, eyes back on her reflection, and once more dragged her hair straight. ‘A university reunion.’

‘Bit of a trek, isn’t it?’

‘Not really. I’ll get the train and a taxi.’

‘You hate taxis.’

‘Used to hate taxis,’ Isla said. She refused to let on that the enclosed feeling of a taxi had triggered her anxiety only a few days ago. ‘I’m OK now. If I can go to Canada alone, I’m sure I can get in a taxi.’ She wondered if she sounded smug, although she felt far from it.

Millie had never travelled. Married at twenty-three with Abigail on the way had meant they’d struggled at first. And later Millie hadn’t seemed to want to go far. Although lately, Julian had taken off to European countries alone, claiming to need space. ‘Abigail wouldn’t cope,’ was all Millie said, when Isla suggested she should go too. ‘I could take care of her,’ she’d offered, but Millie had declined.

Not that her sister had ever given Isla reason to think she wasn’t happy with her life. Bringing up a child with Asperger’s syndrome had been difficult at times, of course it had, but Millie had never complained.

‘I think you were amazing doing the journey to Canada on your own,’ Millie said. ‘Really, really brave, after what you went through in Sydney.’

Isla felt a prickle behind her eyes. Millie had always had a knack of barging in with mentions of Carl Jeffery over the years. Oblivious, it seemed, to how wretched it made Isla feel.

‘Can we not talk about that?’ Isla said. ‘You know I try to put it out of my head.’ She turned and slammed her straighteners down on the coffee table, and padded across the room.

‘Sorry,’ Millie said. ‘I didn’t think. Sorry.’

‘It’s fine, don’t worry.’ Isla tugged her make-up bag from her handbag and glanced out of the window at the star-free night sky. She lowered her gaze to the road crammed with traffic: vehicles slowing as they approached the roundabout. About to close the curtains, she noticed someone standing on the other side of the road, silhouetted against the trees that edged the park. The bright light behind her made it hard to see, so she moved closer to the glass, narrowing her eyes. Someone was watching her.

‘What are you looking at?’ Millie asked, and Isla glanced over her shoulder to see her sister pick up the mug of coffee she’d made her fifteen minutes ago and take a sip. ‘Jesus, this is cold,’ she said, banging it back on the table, startling Isla. ‘It’s your fault, Luna, darling,’ Millie went on, tickling the cat’s head, ‘demanding so much attention.’

Isla returned her eyes to the figure, tingles biting at her neck.

‘Are you OK, Isla?’

‘Yes, fine,’ she said, running her hand over her rubber band. Whoever it was wore dark clothes and a scarf and hat, their face barely visible. She snatched the curtains closed and stepped back from the window.

Millie rose and headed over. ‘Did you see something?’ she asked, cracking open the curtains and looking out.

Isla stood behind her. ‘It’s just … well … I thought I saw someone, that’s all … someone staring up at the apartment.’ Her voice was soft and uncertain. She pinged the band three times, snap, snap, snap.

‘Well, there’s nobody there now,’ Millie said, turning and touching her sister’s arm gently.

Isla peered over her sister’s shoulder. Whoever had been there was gone.

‘Perhaps you were mistaken,’ Millie said.

‘Yes, yes, I must have been.’ She yanked the curtains closed once more, scooped her hair behind her ears, and moved back to the mirror.

Millie followed her, and looked into Isla’s eyes through their reflection, in a way she had after Carl Jeffery. It was her I’m worried about you look.

‘I’m fine,’ Isla insisted.

Millie touched Isla’s arm again – the protective older sister. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, yes of course I am. Honestly.’ But she wasn’t sure she was.

Eventually, Millie returned to the sofa, picked up the last biscuit from the packet Isla had put on the table earlier and bit into it.

Isla stared at her own reflection, breathing deeply, before unzipping her make-up bag and pulling out her mascara.

‘So you’re meeting up with old uni mates?’ Millie said, clearly trying for a change of subject, and putting on a bright voice.

‘Yes … sort of.’ She was distracted. Certain someone had been looking up at her. Someone in the shadows, watching like Carl Jeffery had. Was he free? She pinged the rubber band again, making her wrist sting. Maybe she shouldn’t go to Cambridge. But then if she didn’t, she would be letting him win. She was being ridiculous. Whoever it was was probably waiting for someone, and just happened to glance up at the moment Isla looked out. Or maybe they were searching for someone in another apartment, like the person in the sports car. After all, there were six flats in the converted house.

‘Isla?’ Millie snapped her from her thoughts.

‘What?’ She pulled the mascara brush from the tube, leant towards the mirror, and flicked the brush over her fair lashes.

‘Tell me about these uni friends you’re meeting,’ Millie said, as the cat leapt back onto her lap and curled up.

‘Oh, OK, yes, well, Ben and Veronica studied English lit with me, and Sara studied chemistry. Just people I once knew. I wasn’t that close with any of them, well, apart from Trevor Cooper.’

‘Trevor Cooper? The bloke you went out with?’

‘God, do you remember that?’

‘Of course. You were with him for ages. Didn’t he get a bit clingy?’

Isla shrugged. ‘I suppose so, but it was mainly that I wasn’t ready for a serious relationship. I wanted to travel.’

‘Didn’t he turn a bit weird when you dumped him?’ Her eyes were wide.

Isla pushed her mascara brush back in its tube. ‘He was upset that’s all.’

‘But he followed you home, didn’t he?’

‘God, what is this, the Trevor Cooper Inquisition?’ She sighed. ‘He was a mess, Millie. The way I broke up with him was unkind. I regret that.’

‘Oh God, that’s right – you got Roxanne to dump him for you.’

‘I couldn’t face it. I gave him enough hints, but he didn’t listen.’ She rubbed her temples, a headache coming on. ‘And later he wanted to talk it through, but I didn’t have the bottle. I feel guilty even now.’

‘No, Isla, you were young, and didn’t know how to deal with it.’

‘Do we ever know how to handle breakups?’ She sighed deeply.

‘Perhaps you shouldn’t go tonight.’

Isla shrugged. She was beginning to doubt whether she should. She pulled out her blusher brush, and flicked it across each cheek in turn, before pulling out her lip gloss.

‘Is Jack going?’ Millie asked.

Isla shook her head. There’d been no talk of partners on the event invitation. ‘He wouldn’t enjoy it,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t involve sci-fi or fantasy.’

Millie laughed. ‘It’s about time you got engaged, isn’t it? You’re almost thirty. Your body clock is ticking.’

The front door swung open, as Millie added, ‘Jack’s such a great bloke. You could do a hell of a lot worse.’

‘Did I hear my name?’ Jack said, as the cat jumped from Millie’s lap, and raced towards him, twirling her body round his jean-clad legs. He put a brown paper bag on the breakfast bar, and the waft of Chinese food filled the air. He bent to pick the cat up and lifted her to his face. She looked tiny in his arms.

‘I was only saying good things about you, Jack,’ Millie said, getting up, and brushing biscuit crumbs from her lap. She looked at Isla. ‘You should tell Jack what you saw …’

‘Saw?’ Jack said.

‘It was nothing.’ Her mind whirred, as they stared her way. ‘Just a cute cat earlier, which looked a bit like Luna.’

‘Well there’s only one Luna,’ he said, with a smile, plonking a kiss on the cat’s head.

Millie looked at Isla, but Isla couldn’t read her expression. ‘I’d better get back,’ she said mildly. ‘Or they’ll send out a search party.’

Chapter 10

Millie left, and Isla finished getting ready.

‘Are you sure you don’t want some Chinese?’ Jack said, sitting at the breakfast bar and spooning chow mein from a foil container onto a plate. He’d texted her earlier to ask if she fancied her favourite chicken in black bean sauce, but she’d declined, far too nervous to eat.

‘I’m not really hungry,’ she said. ‘But thanks.’

‘Do you want a lift to the station? It looks like rain.’

Isla glanced through the window. ‘I’ll be fine. It’s only a ten-minute walk, and I need the air.’ She pulled on her boots then leant across the worktop to kiss him. ‘I feel a bit weird actually, meeting up with people I haven’t seen for years.’

‘I’m sure you’ll have a great time.’ He smiled. ‘Go wow them, and call me if you need picking up.’

‘Yes, thanks, I will.’ She’d barely got the words out when his phone rang. ‘Can’t you change that daft ringtone?’

‘Spider-Man is not daft,’ he said, fake indignant, grabbing the phone and looking at the screen. He rejected the call.

‘Your mum?’

He nodded. ‘You look great, by the way,’ he said, biting into a prawn cracker.

‘Thanks,’ she said, but felt he was just being kind. She knew she looked as if she was about to go for a job interview. She’d dug out a brown skirt suit from the back of her wardrobe that she’d only ever worn once, hoping, for some bizarre reason, that a professional look might make a good impression on Ben Martin.

‘Right, I’m off,’ she said, kissing Jack, and grabbing her coat and bag. ‘See you later,’ she called before closing the door behind her.

Isla had forgotten her high-heeled boots rubbed. She rarely wore them, preferring flats. By the time she got to the station, although the rain had held off, her ankles throbbed, and she wished she’d taken Jack up on his offer of a lift.

The train appeared within moments, and she headed down the almost empty carriage. Just a woman wearing earphones, her head down, engrossed in her laptop, at the far end. Mizzling rain splattered the window, as the train rattled along the track, and as though the movement had loosened her memories, thoughts of Carl Jeffery invaded.

Six years ago

‘I’m taking off,’ Bronwyn said.

Isla smiled and turned from where she’d just snapped a photo of a kookaburra perched high in a tree near the hostel.

‘Now?’ she said, greeted by her friend’s freckled face beaming at her from under a cap, the midday sun burning down on her from a clear blue sky. Bronwyn was wearing denim shorts and a T-shirt with the peace sign that matched the small tattoo on her arm, and her thin but sturdy legs led down to battered walking boots.

‘Uh-huh.’ Bronwyn hitched up her backpack, which was almost as big as she was. ‘Got that wanderlust feeling again. Need to carry on.’

‘I’ll miss you, Bron,’ Isla said, a pang of sadness rising. This was what she hated about travelling. You got so close to people, and then they’d leave, morphing into a profile picture on Facebook or MySpace. Or, if you were lucky, you’d receive a text every so often. Despite only knowing Bronwyn for a short while, Isla would miss her. In fact, home had crept into her thoughts more than ever lately. After Canada she would head back to the UK. ‘So what’s your plan?’

‘I’ll probably hitch into Sydney,’ Bronwyn said, grabbing a bottle of water from the side of her backpack, and taking a gulp. ‘Then get a flight to New Zealand.’

‘You’ll love it there,’ Isla said, memories of her own visit fresh in her mind. ‘North or South?’

‘Both, I hope. I’m desperate to see where they filmed Lord of the Rings.’

Isla pulled her into a hug. ‘We’ve had some laughs, haven’t we?’

‘Sure have. I’ll never forget being chased by those kangaroos, or that bloody great spider in the loo.’

Isla laughed. ‘So, have you told Carl?’ They’d been seeing each other for around six weeks, although It’s only a bit of fun was still Bronwyn’s stock phrase.

‘Yep, told him a couple of days ago.’

‘Was he OK with it? He’s pretty besotted.’

‘To be honest, he acted a bit weird at first. But I told it like it is. Said he was a being an eejit, and it was never meant to be anything serious. He has to be cool with it.’

‘He’ll be fine.’ Isla took her friend’s hand. ‘Don’t forget me, will you?’

‘Of course I won’t.’ Bronwyn squeezed Isla’s hand, and looked back at the hostel, her eyes narrowing as she stared at the two-storey, red-brick building. ‘Do you like it here?’ she said, screwing up her nose.

‘Pretty much, yeah.’ But Isla had picked up on Bronwyn’s unease. ‘Why?’

‘Oh, nothing – my imagination probably – it’s nothing. Ignore me.’

‘Oh God, you can’t say that and leave me hanging.’ She wasn’t one for worrying, but if there was something about the place, she needed to know, and move on.

Bronwyn met Isla’s eye. ‘It’s just I’m sure someone knocked on my window last night.’ She shrugged and took a deep breath.

‘And?’

‘Nothing. That’s it really. Ignore me.’

‘Did you look out?’

‘Yeah, yeah I did.’ She studied her feet, scuffing her trainers on the dry earth.

‘And?’

She looked up and squinted into the sun, before arching her palm over her dark eyes. ‘I got a bit freaked,’ she said. ‘Might have been my imagination, but I’m pretty sure someone was out there. Watching me.’

Now

Isla’s phone rang, jolting her back to the moment. She rummaged in her bag for it and saw Roxanne’s picture on the screen.

‘Hi, you,’ she said brightly into the phone.

‘Hey, Isla, I can’t believe you’ve been back since Tuesday, and we haven’t had a catch-up.’

‘I know,’ Isla said, pleased to hear her friend’s voice. She’d missed her. ‘It’s been far too long.’

‘So how was Canada? I saw your fab pics on Facebook.’

‘Truly amazing,’ she said, as a surge of emotion at how wonderful it had been came and went.

‘Cool. I so want to hear all about it. You free tonight? We could try the new tapas bar.’

‘I can’t, sorry. I’m on my way to a uni reunion, would you believe?’

There was silence on the other end. A kind of ‘why wasn’t I invited?’ silence.

‘I didn’t organise it, Roxanne,’ Isla said, guilt rising. ‘If I had I would have invited you.’

‘Yeah, ’course. No worries. I wouldn’t have gone anyway.’ A pause. ‘So where you heading?’

‘Spoon’s in Cambridge,’ Isla said, sensing the chill on the other end of the line.

‘Who’s going?’

‘Veronica Beesley.’

‘Good God, Verony Beeswax.’ Roxanne laughed, and the tension between them lifted. ‘That girl was so up herself, I’m surprised she could walk properly. I bet she’s a millionaire or something.’

Isla laughed. ‘Well, she owns her own company.’

‘There you go. It doesn’t surprise me. Remember when she slept with Mr Jenkins?’

‘Broke up his marriage.’

‘Yeah, and he wasn’t the only lecturer she shagged.’ Another pause. ‘Who else is going?’

‘Umm … Sara Pembroke.’

‘Know the name. Can’t bring her to mind.’

‘I don’t remember her that well either. She was really quiet, head in a book all the time. Nice enough, I think. Oh, and Ben Martin’s going.’

‘Ooh, nice. Now you’re talking.’

Isla sucked in a breath. Roxanne would think she was crazy. ‘And Trevor Cooper,’ she said, as though she’d lit a touchpaper and was about to witness an explosion.

‘What the …? Turn back now! Save yourself! Why would you go near him after Trevor-gate?’

Isla laughed. Her friend was a strong character, tough at times, which Roxanne had always claimed was down to her no-nonsense father. At university, Roxanne had a reputation for being a bit badass, modelling herself on Scary Spice for a while, calling Isla Baby Spice, although Isla was far from a baby. Roxanne had toned it down over the years, honed her personality, and focused her abundance of energy on trying to save the world.

‘Are you in your right mind, Isla?’ she said, the comedy gone from her voice.

‘Roxanne, I saw Trevor back in July, and he was perfectly pleasant.’

‘Perfectly pleasant, aye? Well, it’s your funeral,’ she said, and Isla shivered.

‘So what have you been up to while I’ve been away?’ Isla asked.

‘Work’s busy, busy, busy, and I’m volunteering at an animal shelter on Sundays.’

‘Aw, that’s lovely.’

‘I know. The dogs are so cute. I want to take them all home.’

‘Hey, what about the cats?’

‘Them too.’ Roxanne paused. ‘So are you free Tuesday?’

‘Definitely. What time shall we meet?’

‘Say, seven-thirty at the tapas bar?’

‘Sounds great.’

‘OK, gotta run – see you then, Isla. Have fun tonight. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

The train continued to roar through the blackness of the evening, picking up and spewing out passengers as it went. Isla gazed at her reflection in the window, and a train thundering by in the other direction made her jump. She was more on edge than she’d realised.

A youth with a lip and nose ring, and a sweatshirt with the word ‘Evil’ splashed across it, had joined the train, and now sat opposite her. He paused from jabbing his phone screen and leered. She tugged at the hemline of her skirt, cringing with embarrassment, her neck tingling. Thankfully, before she crumbled completely, the train arrived at Cambridge Station.

Incessant rain hammered down from the night sky as the taxi she’d jumped into pulled up outside The Regal, a building that still resembled an old cinema. Isla paid the driver, and with a sigh of relief got out of the back seat. Avoiding puddles, she dashed across the pavement and through the doors of Wetherspoon’s.

‘A large Sauvignon Blanc, please,’ she said as she reached the bar, her hand trembling slightly as she rummaged in her bag for her purse. What had possessed her to come?

She scanned the bar as she paid, looking for the almost-strangers she was about to spend the evening with. But as she drifted away from the bar, sipping wine in the hope it would relax her, she grew more anxious. Half of the tables were filled with people eating – enjoying Friday night out – and her head began to throb with the noise of chatter and laughter. Men’s voices grew louder as they tried to make themselves heard: ‘Shall we order a bottle of red?’, ‘I don’t fancy yours much’, ‘Did you see the match?’ and snippets of women’s conversations jabbed Isla’s ears: ‘Oh my God, really?’, ‘Fuck, what a bitch’, ‘When are we going to eat? I’m starving.’

Isla pulled out her mobile phone. It was gone seven-thirty. Surely one of the uni crowd should have been there by now.

In fact, why wasn’t Trevor there to greet her? It didn’t make sense.

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