About the Author

Before turning to crime, A.M. CASTLE was a national newspaper feature writer. Her first psychological thriller for HQ Digital, The Perfect Widow, is an Amazon number one bestseller in Noir Crime, and a top-selling audiobook. She also writes cosy crimes as Alice Castle. She lives in south London with her two daughters and two cats and, when not dreaming up new ways to kill people herself, is usually glued to a whodunit on TV.

Also by A.M. Castle

The Perfect Widow

The Invitation
A.M. CASTLE

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

HarperCollinsPublishers

1st Floor, Watermarque Building, Ringsend Road

Dublin 4, Ireland

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021

Copyright © A.M. Castle

A.M. Castle 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.

E-book Edition © March 2021 ISBN: 9780008364731

Version: 2021-03-03

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by A.M. Castle

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1: Vicky

Chapter 2: Gita

Chapter 3: Tom

Chapter 4: Vicky

Chapter 5: Rachel

Chapter 6: Geoff

Chapter 7: Jane

Chapter 8: Vicky

Chapter 9: Jane

Chapter 10: Geoff

Chapter 11: Gita

Chapter 12: Vicky

Chapter 13: Rachel

Chapter 14: Gita

Chapter 15: Vicky

Chapter 16: Gita

Chapter 17: Vicky

Chapter 18: Rachel

Chapter 19: Tom

Chapter 20: Gita

Chapter 21: Vicky

Chapter 22: Tasha

Chapter 23: Tom

Chapter 24: Gita

Chapter 25: Rachel

Chapter 26: Gita

Chapter 27: Tom

Chapter 28: Vicky

Chapter 29: Gita

Chapter 30: Rachel

Chapter 31: Tom

Chapter 32: Jane

Chapter 33: Geoff

Chapter 34: Rachel

Chapter 35: Vicky

Chapter 36: Tasha

Chapter 37: Jane

Chapter 38: Gita

Chapter 39: Vicky

Chapter 40: Rachel

Part Two

Chapter 41: Geoff

Chapter 42: Gita

Chapter 43: Vicky

Chapter 44: Jane

Chapter 45: Gita

Chapter 46: Tom

Chapter 47: Gita

Chapter 48: Tom

Chapter 49: Vicky

Chapter 50: Gita

Chapter 51: Vicky

Chapter 52: Jane

Chapter 53: Tom

Chapter 54: Gita

Chapter 55: Geoff

Chapter 56: Jane

Chapter 57: Vicky

Chapter 58: Gita

Chapter 59: Vicky

Chapter 60: Jane

Chapter 61: Vicky

Chapter 62: Gita

Chapter 63: Tom

Chapter 64: Gita

Chapter 65: Tom

Chapter 66: Tom

Chapter 67: Jane

Chapter 68: Geoff

Chapter 69: Vicky

Chapter 70: Gita

Epilogue: Vicky

Extract

Acknowledgements

A letter from A.M. Castle

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

To Ella and Connie, with love

Prologue

Tregowan Castle, Mount Tregowan, 1st November, Midnight

The glare, when the lights suddenly go back on, is worse than the total blackness moments before. The guests blink as four huge chandeliers blaze down on them. The table, dead centre in the vaulted baronial dining hall, is covered with the detritus of their long, indulgent reunion meal: crystal glasses, fine china, empty bottles of Champagne and Barolo. From the looks of things, it’s been quite an evening.

A bewildered murmuring starts. Everyone is in identical Halloween costumes, though some have ditched their orange wigs. Then someone gets up to see what caused the power cut, almost tripping on the long black and red velvet cape. But, before they’ve even reached the light switch, they begin to back away, colliding with chairs and table, pointing wordlessly. The others follow the direction of that single, shaking finger.

Someone is face down in one of the sumptuous gold dinner plates, wig askew, shoulders hunched. Who could possibly have slept through all this? they ask each other.

No one, it turns out. The blinding light catches something. A shiny metal skewer, sticking straight up from the back of that still neck.

As a second horrified silence falls, a red bead wells up where the skewer has entered the body. It traces the nape, languid as a lover, and trickles off the table. On the floor a pool, rich and red as the Barolo, is rapidly gathering.

Then the screaming starts.

Excerpt from Yes! Magazine, November Issue

It’s two short months since Lady Tregowan, better known as heiress and socialite Rachel Cadogan, threw her magnificent castle open to us.

Forty-four-year-old Rachel, who tied the knot with Lord Tregowan in a glittering New York ceremony at her family’s Cadogan Museum, home of her internationally renowned art foundation, had additional receptions for several hundred guests in London and Paris.

‘I’m eager now just to enjoy my new life with Ross and my adorable stepchildren, Penny (46) and Roderick (43), over simple family evenings like this one,’ she explained graciously.

Resplendent in the Tregowan pearls and a full-length Oscar de la Renta evening gown, Rachel was standing in front of the mantelpiece in Tregowan Castle’s Great Hall, emblazoned with the family’s crest.

‘It’s a sabre rising from the castle itself, with the motto underneath, “My Revenge is Swift.” How fun is that?’ smiled the radiant newlywed.

PART ONE

Chapter 1
Vicky

Central London, 5th September

Don’t get me wrong, I love Gita, and our lunches. But I sometimes wonder how much there is to talk about, every single month. Especially as we can never discuss the real issue: her marriage. Christ, if I’d been stuck with Tom and his wandering eye, he would have been six feet under long ago. But Gita always pretends everything is great. I find it a strain; I suppose she’d say I’m a typical plain-spoken Northerner.

That’s one of the reasons it’s been three times as long as usual since we’ve made this journey into Soho. My fault; I was in charge this time and I, erm, let things slip.

Now, on this crowded Saturday tube, filled with tourists beginning to wonder why they picked this rainy capital in autumn, I wish I’d carried on postponing. Never mind. Nearly there now.

It’s chilly. I pull up the zip on my jacket, sympathising with the Japanese guy in shorts. He’s going to suffer when he gets above ground. But I don’t let on. I may give away my roots every time I open my mouth, but I have a proper Londoner’s transport face.

My job is numbers, and thank God they don’t talk back. Opposites attract, I suppose. Gita has a constant need to ‘communicate’ as she puts it. Take her Instagram. It’s a waterfall of beautiful family pics. Her sheaf of blue-black hair and those Mata Hari eyes. Tom, still far too handsome for his own good. And their three girls, showing off top-notch genes from both sides. It’s more carefully stage-managed than an episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians. I don’t know when she even sees them to take the snaps; she’s working at the newspaper all hours of the day.

Still, she loves that job. ‘Can you see me as an accountant or a lawyer, the way Mum and Dad wanted? I was so lucky I could say no.’ She’s always reckoned her parents’ scandalous divorce saved her. ‘If it hadn’t been for the fuss, I’d have been under their thumb forever. But what could they say, afterwards?’

One evening we’d both had too many, and I finally had the balls to come out with it. Why, after her dad scarpered, did she ever decide to marry someone like Tom? ‘Love,’ she hiccupped. ‘And,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘at least I know Tom and I will last. Unlike my parents.’ My double take must have been comical, but she was looking the other way. It’s amazing what you can convince yourself of – if you try hard enough. Usually it’s him I want to kill but sometimes it’s her. Deluding herself is bad enough; inflicting it on me and everyone else is hard to take.

No wonder it’s been so long since we met. Poor Gita. She’s had to crush it on all fronts, to prove herself to everyone. Newspapers instead of a profession, and then Tom on top. And, despite his electrical engineering degree, he ‘only’ went into the police force. Fast track, fair dos, but still not the kind of job a family like Gita’s would ever rate. No wonder she’s got a million perfect photos to try and prove how brilliantly everything is going.

Truth is, nothing much has turned out the way either of us expected. We were going to have it all: careers, men and kids. No problemo. Ha!

Oh well. We’re fine. I’m fine, I am. Really. Well, I miss my lad, Raf, I can’t deny it. Like that sore place on the back of your ankle, from high heels. Sometimes you hardly notice it. But then it’ll rub itself raw and it’s all you can think about. Like now, when I see a kid the same age as Raf opposite me in the tube carriage, sitting plugged into his phone, bobbing his head to some phantom beat. I gaze out of the window for a moment, though the only view is of darkness whisking past us.

Somewhere out there are secret tunnels beyond the tube tracks, places where people hid during the Blitz, and where they stuffed our art treasures until victory was won … I know everything there is to know about my adopted city. Our friend Rachel Cadogan’s family collection was stashed down here, along with the Elgin Marbles and half the National Gallery. Everyone’s heard of the Cadogan Foundation, even the likes of me. It’s been world famous forever, long before Rachel decided to slum it with us at uni.

Where was I? I’m seeing Raf next weekend anyway. It’s my turn, though at twenty he’s too old to be passed between me and Bob like a parcel. And he has a bad habit of postponing. Wonder where he got that from.

When I emerge at Leicester Square, the crisp, blue skies cheer me up. I dodge the homeless, feeling the usual guilt. I make a monthly charity donation to shut my conscience up. Better than pressing cash into outstretched palms. Too much temptation – I should know. We all have our secret vices, don’t we? Gita has her blinkers. And yes, I have a weakness of my own … But I shan’t dwell on that now.

I peer into furniture shops instead, wishing I was good at that design stuff, promising myself a trip that will never materialise. Maybe Raf would stick around, if I made the place more homey? In Shaftesbury Avenue, I inhale as I pass Lisle Street, breathing in five-spice, admiring the red paper lanterns around the Chinatown sign.

I check my watch and speed up. When I arrive, I pull open the Club door before the man has a chance to get it, and shift from foot to foot as the fourteen-year-old with the iPad checks the seating plan. In the end, I read it upside down and point to us on the diagram. ‘They’re already here,’ she trills and sashays away in front of me.

They. I’m just processing the word when I see Gita waving, her pretty face alight with smiles, long dark bob swishy as a shampoo ad. She’s never understood what a stunner she is. But wait, who’s that sitting next to her, a beam of sunlight almost making a halo out of bright blonde hair?

My God, it’s her. Actually her. Did I conjure her up, thinking of her art, hoarded in those dark tunnels? I kick myself. This lunch just got a whole lot harder.

All right, we’ve seen each other at the big events, over the years. Gita’s parties; Christmas and New Year, christenings, birthdays and whatnot. And sometimes Gita has had an invite to some enormous Cadogan Foundation thrash, and I’ve tagged along as a plus-one. I’ve glimpsed that famous face, hobnobbing with the great and good. But I can’t remember the last time we sat down for a casual meal. It might even have been over the chipped Formica of the uni canteen. Gita’s seen much more of her – but then, she has no reason not to.

I suppress a shiver, stick on my best smile, and step forward to greet her. The one, the only, the amazing – Rachel Cadogan.

Chapter 2
Gita

Central London, 5th September

Vicky doesn’t do it on purpose. Well, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t. But when she isn’t happy, she somehow lets everyone know, without a word being spoken. And then she refuses to discuss it.

Today, even the way she stands and looks at us both, with her back very, very straight and her smile so rigid, makes it plain that something is up.

Communication. I always come back to that. It’s crucial. I know she’s still smarting at her long separation from Raf. She’s probably been longing to discuss it. She’s no doubt heard he’s round at ours a lot at the moment. Maybe she’s angry? But we’re his godparents. And he’s been chatting to Tom about the police force, fitness, potential careers. Surely she’d be glad about that? With Rachel here, it’s impossible to broach the subject. Vicky would never admit to that sort of pain in front of anyone else.

I feel terrible. Seeing Rachel again after all this time should have been such a brilliant surprise. But Vicky has been so … off recently. Perhaps I should have known better. She flicks her eyes from Rachel to me, and then submits to Rachel’s hug, still as unbending as a lamppost.

A couple of minutes in, and, thank God, Vicky is beginning to rise to the occasion. Things are suddenly going with the swing that I first envisaged. It’s down to Rachel, of course.

She always assumes people will be thrilled to see her. And then they are. She’s the one to watch, the punchline of the joke, the Viagra in the pensioner … no, where is my mind even going? But it’s true that Rachel makes people sit up and take notice. Maybe it’s apt after all.

‘It’s been, what? So long, love. Too long. I can’t believe it, you look so …’ Vicky says.

And Rachel does look so. Indefinable things have gone on, and she looks amazing, miraculous. Neither young nor old, but suspended between the two. She shrugs and hits back the compliments faster than Novak Djokovic. I wish she’d spill the beans. I’ll need to start getting a few tweakments soon. Policemen may be getting younger every day, but so are policewomen – and Tom works with way too many of them for my liking. It’s not a question of trust, exactly. Men can just … have their heads turned. It’s up to me to keep young and beautiful, as they say. I’ll have to ask Rachel another time. There’s something she does want to show off about, though. The massive new ring weighing down the third finger of her left hand.

‘Christ, Rach. I didn’t think I’d need my shades in September.’ Vicky takes Rachel’s hand as though she’s going to check for occlusions like a Hatton Garden jeweller. It’s a safe bet that there aren’t any. No one can say Rachel has lived a flawless life. But this ring is bound to be perfect – the real thing.

Vicky’s second question is typically blunt, but I admit I was wondering myself. ‘Did you buy it, or did he?’

‘Oh he did, darling, of course,’ Rachel says, though all three of us know she can lie for Britain, or anywhere else she touches down, if the occasion demands it.

‘So who is he, where did you meet him and, most importantly, why didn’t I meet him first?’ Vicky’s smile doesn’t quite go with her eyes.

Is she still smarting over Bob? But they were never right for each other; they never really communicated. Vicky’s focus has always been on making it big, while Bob was all about the pro bono cases. She used to say he was the only lawyer she knew who made a loss. She should be over it by now. Of course she’s not. Bless her, she holds grudges like it’s an Olympic sport. But today I want to concentrate on Rachel.

‘Come on, we want to hear all about this proposal,’ I say, even though I’m kicking myself. I spiked a story that Rachel was engaged only last week, on the grounds I’d have been the first to know. I’m going to look a prize idiot in the office.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t call you right away,’ Rachel says, searching my face. ‘It’s been a whirlwind. But now I’m going to tell you everything.’ She leans forward with a gust of perfume, a glimpse of still-firm décolletage and a discreet clank of her Tiffany bangles.

And she’s off.

It’s quite a tale. Klosters, Bequia, Monaco, Meghan, Amal and Reese. ‘Christ, you never bump into anyone in Tesco Metro, do you, Rach?’ says Vicky. But Rachel doesn’t get it; for her this is normal life.

When the waitress first starts hovering, Rachel waves her away, though Vicky has her mouth open, ready to order. The next time the girl appears, I make sure to grab her myself and then turn swiftly to Vicky. Once she has a bottle of red coming her way, her shoulders finally relax.

Both of us raise our eyebrows when Rachel goes for the lobster starter and then a complicated squid ink risotto. Allow twenty minutes cooking time, it says on the menu, which means half an hour at the very least. But I smile reassuringly. Vicky probably (hopefully) won’t remember the way Rachel always toys with her food, shifting it from three o’clock to nine o’clock and back again, as though that’s the point of mealtimes. One of six brought up on benefits, Vicky still clears her plate as though food is going out of fashion. Worse still, Rachel confided to me before Vicky arrived that she’s just had a gastric bypass. ‘Only a precaution,’ she explained.

‘But you’re skin and bone! And isn’t it really dangerous?’ I was agog. ‘I thought it was an absolute last resort. For people with, you know,’ I sketched a ghostly paunch.

Rachel just laughed. ‘You’re so funny, Gita.’ Apparently, money not only talks, it also gives you the second opinion you require.

Thank God, the bread comes quickly. Then the wine. Vicky ignores the fresh sourdough and the dainty dipping saucers of truffle oil, chopped rosemary and salt, and goes straight for the red, wrapping her hands around the glass as though it’s her long-lost child.

I turn and ask Rachel about her new man. ‘So his name’s Ross and he’s wonderful. But what does he do?’ For a second, I could kick myself. Silly question, Gita. Rachel’s other friends, the rich ones, don’t ‘do’ anything, they just … are. Drifting across the oceans, in search of pleasure. Or, as Vicky might well say, a purpose in life. But Rachel dives in happily.

‘Oh, you have to come and see. He’s got the most amazing place. Or it very soon will be, when I’ve finished with it. He avoided it for years.’ She breaks off, looks around and lowers her voice. ‘Family tragedy,’ she explains in a stage whisper. ‘His first wife died in a horrible road accident. So awful – his daughter was in the car. So he left his son to run everything – or run it down, more like. But now we’re taking it on together. I’m going to turn the place around.’

I feel a fleeting sympathy for this unknown son. He won’t know what’s hit him. But Vicky waves her glass at Rachel. ‘Cheers to that, love. Where is it?’ She drains her glass and waves to the waiter for a fresh bottle.

‘Cornwall. You may have heard of it? Mount Tregowan.’

There’s a brief moment when you can almost hear pennies dropping. I’m first. ‘Not that Mount Tregowan? The castle on the island?’

Then Vicky chimes in. ‘Where they shot the smuggling miniseries? With that guy with the six-pack? Isn’t it owned by some lord or other?’

Rachel’s laugh is delighted. ‘Yes, yes and yes! That’s Ross’s place. Ours now. So you’ll come? I’m thinking of the end of October – you know how I love Halloween.’

Vicky and I look at each other. ‘Who could forget?’ she says. But I’m so excited, I just leap straight in. ‘Of course we’re coming!’ I say.

‘Well – if that actor’s still there,’ says Vicky. But now she’s beginning to grin. What an invitation! We both need this break. Tom and I, well, some time together would be good. And it’ll give me a chance to keep an eye on Vicky, too, see how she’s doing with her little … problem. It will be great, having our trio together again. Like old times. I love my lunches with Vicky, and I always try and grab Rachel when she’s in town, but getting the two of them in a room is like herding kittens. And we always had the most fun when we were together.

Things weren’t the same, when Rachel left uni in the middle of our last year. Vicky’s other friend, Jane, started coming round much more. Nice enough but always looking as though she’d seen a ghost. No one could hold a candle to Rachel, of course. But Vicky needed the support. And now Jane has buried herself out in the country with her lawyer husband, Geoff. Bit pompous, but harmless enough. I suddenly wonder. ‘Will you be inviting Jane?’

‘Oh, why the hell not?’ says Rachel expansively. Then she holds forth for the rest of our lunch about how amazing and fabulous her life suddenly is, thanks to this new man – like her life wasn’t amazing and fabulous yesterday, and won’t be tomorrow.

I can sense Vicky shifting next to me from time to time. It’s always been more difficult for her to accept the usual Rachel tsunami of wonderfulness. And, as the years have rolled by, Rachel’s life has not diminished one jot in sheer glamour, while ours have inevitably been constrained. Work, men, children – however wonderful, they do take a toll. Vicky must be finding it hard to keep it zipped.

Finally, Rachel draws breath, looks fondly from me to Vicky, and claps her hands together like a child.

‘Brilliant to catch up! And I can’t wait for you to come to the island. Because, as soon as we’re all there together, I’ve got the most amazing secret to share. I’m dying to tell you.’

Chapter 3
Tom

London suburbs, 27th October

Something funny happens today. I am trekking to the gym, as usual, when I catch sight of my reflection in a shop window. For a second, I don’t even recognise myself. No word of a lie, I look decades younger. I’ve been slumped over a desk forever, but now, striding out, kit bag over my shoulder, I’m different. Taller, broader, fitter. My hand reaches out of its own volition and claps this stranger on his flat stomach. It’s the round of applause I deserve, sharp and hollow. Couple of months ago, it would have been muffled by flapjacks. Ironically, I’m now the type of plod a lot of my colleagues really respect – someone who wouldn’t break a sweat, chasing a villain across an estate.

A lot of coppers still think a degree is, well, lipstick on a pig. And the public agrees. They want bobbies on the beat, not my uni dissertation on electrical circuits. They don’t understand how much can go on behind the scenes, without even getting near street level. You have to be tech savvy, though. Rules out a lot of my colleagues.

I’ve got it covered both ways now. Chiselled down into myself, built myself back up from the bottom. Sometimes Gita looks at me, full of sweet concern, all ‘Would you like a cup of tea, darling?’ even when she’s been the one out at work. I’m hard pressed not to laugh in her face.

This weekend, she wouldn’t hear of me being left behind. ‘I don’t want you to brood, all on your own.’ I wouldn’t have done – my conscience is clear. But I agree. It’s definitely for the best, me coming along.

Don’t get me wrong, hanging out with Gita and her mates holds no appeal. And seeing how the other half lives, meeting Rachel’s sucker of a new husband, gawping at what she’s done with his ancestral home, all the other stuff Gita is gagging for? Way too much celebrity flim-flam for me. But she’s shown me a few pictures of the island, and I’ve had a google. Looks just the spot. Mount Tregowan piques my interest, so to speak. Distinct possibilities, once we’re all there. And I’ll bet my own little secret is nothing, compared to what’s weighing down some of the others. Vicky, for instance. But Jane, too. I’ll have my eye on Geoff, that husband of hers.

Gita’s dying to see Vicky and Rachel. Always pretends they’re some kind of sisterhood. She’s told me she wants this weekend to be ‘unique, truly memorable’.

She really needs to be careful what she wishes for.

Chapter 4
Vicky

Cornwall, 30th October

As soon as Rachel buggered off that day – late for something much more exciting than lunch with us girls – the second thoughts kicked in. I turned to Gita but her palm was already up, the lollipop lady of the group, keeping us all in order. Or trying.

‘Before you even start; yes, I know Rachel has talked us into stuff that … doesn’t always play out brilliantly. But we’ve got to accept this invitation; we really do. You need a break, Vicky. When’s the last time you took any kind of holiday?’

While I was sifting back through the months, she struck again – right in my weak spot. ‘And what about Raf? You could ask him, spend some time together. You know you’d love that. It’s outdoorsy, the sort of thing he’s into. He could actually surf in Cornwall – it’s really big down there.’

‘In October?’ I pretended to be sceptical, but Gita had chalked up a hit. I’ve spent hardly any time with my lad in the last year. It’s got to the point where I’ve found myself sitting in his too-clean room, on his too-smooth bed, clutching one of his sweaters. Even though they don’t smell like Raf anymore. The bloody cleaner is much too thorough.

Gita fiddled with her phone. ‘Look at this site, “top ten surfing beaches in Cornwall”,’ she said, holding up a photo showing a lad like Raf, charging through the waves, board under one toned arm, blue skies overhead. ‘And this was Christmas.’ Gita smiled widely, Santa Claus offering the best present ever.

Still, I hesitated. He might refuse. That last phone call … Bob saying smugly, ‘Just give him time, Vicks.’ Christ, there are moments when I hate my ex-husband even more now than I did when we were married.

‘And what about Jane? When did you last see her?’ Gita asked me earnestly. Ding, another hit.

Jane is the fourth in our gang, promoted to third once Rachel left uni, sweeping off in her cloud of glitter. I really needed her, in those last months before we graduated. Quiet and shy in her twenties, Jane isn’t much louder now. The only downside is her husband. Jane hasn’t got kids, so bloody Geoff has expanded to fill the space. She never seems to leave home without him. Geoff is fine, if you like obscure bits of law, or being informed of his views on them. If you’d rather manage without, you’re in trouble.

‘She really needs a holiday, I know that much,’ I said slowly. Last time we’d met, there had been something wrong somewhere, but I couldn’t tell whether Geoff’s golf handicap had slipped, or whether the whole house had burnt down; she’s always so restrained. I love that, of course. As Bob would say, it gives me the space to dominate.

I looked away and shrugged. ‘Oh well, I suppose it might be fun …’

Gita whooped, ‘Yes!’ and I let her. ‘It’ll be a fresh start for all of us.’ She smiled. ‘Everyone’s been out of sorts. This will be a reset. You’ll see. We’ll come out of this better friends.’

I smiled and drank but I had my doubts – and they’ve grown every day. There could be advantages, sure. Time with Raf, time to find out whatever ails Jane, time with Gita, yes, those are good things. And Rachel is certainly never dull. But what about everything that happened before? After her Halloween party, at uni. Can we really pretend none of it mattered? That there weren’t consequences, for any of us? Surely even Rachel’s money can’t paper over cracks that big?

But Gita was triumphant. ‘Let’s stay and have a pudding!’ I couldn’t say no. I relaxed back into my velvety seat. The weekend was still ages away, then. And, after Rachel appearing and disappearing like the genie from the bottle, I deserved a massive drink. I chucked the last of the wine into our glasses – happy to finish Gita’s if she couldn’t – and obediently clinked.

‘Face it, you can’t resist, can you? You want to know what on earth Rachel’s got herself mixed up in now, don’t you?’

I met Gita’s eyes over the wreckage of the lunch: Rachel’s untouched, fifty-quid risotto, and my own scoured plate. The waiters cleared the table and brought our chocolate mousse. One pot of temptation, two spoons. My resistance was very low that day. I dug in.

She was right, of course. Even now, after years making – as Bob pointed out in the divorce – a ‘fucking fortune’ of my own, there is still something fascinating about a silver spoon the size of Rachel’s. I own my Canary Wharf apartment, and it’s pretty jammy too – but Rachel could buy my block, the street, and half of New York, Paris and Rome on top, if she felt like it, from petty cash. Yes, I admit it, I wanted to see her latest acquisition, this island she’d just got her hands on. And the man who came with it.

So, there was curiosity. But my few friendships are important, too. Gita was right, everyone had been a bit off recently. Evading phone calls, dodging invitations. Secrets. Big, heavy secrets, which took up our time and made us hard work to be around. It wasn’t just me. All of us needed to put things right.

When I braced myself to ask for the bill, the waitress smiled. ‘Your friend has taken care of it.’

Gita and I exchanged glances. I’d really begrudged Rachel that bloody lobster. Then I whispered, ‘Is it awful that I wish we’d ordered another bottle? Or two?’ Gita giggled. But it was typical Rachel. If she’d said she was paying, I wouldn’t have had to spend so much time resenting the mouthfuls she didn’t take.

The five-hour train journey to Cornwall wasn’t as bad as I’d feared – thanks to Gita. ‘Sandwich, anyone? Now then, who’s for cheese and onion crisps?’ she kept on saying at just the right moment, delving into a massive cool bag. She really has that suburban uber-mum act down. That, and playing I-spy with her girls, got me and Raf over any soul-searching we might otherwise have had to do.

‘Something beginning with … D,’ said Ruby, the little one. We were all stumped as ditches, diggers, dells and doors flashed by and she turned the lot down. I swear, it was at least an hour before we gave up. ‘Jumper!’ she cried triumphantly.

‘I’m getting a refund from that effing school,’ Tom grumbled darkly. For once I sympathised with him.

Now I’m here on this godforsaken Cornish beach, and I still can’t quite believe it. Mount Tregowan is opposite us, surrounded by sea. The wind is whipping through my hair. My posh new winter jacket, bought for going from desk to bar in Canary Wharf, is about as much use here as a tutu in a tornado. I should have known better – but I’ve never been this cold before down south. The sky is iron-grey and the sea’s a match, while my face is being sandblasted to the colour of smoked salmon.

The island is a lumpy-looking stack of boulders, the sort of thing Raf used to make with his Lego years ago. It was forever embedding itself in the soles of my feet. I was that happy when he outgrew it. Now I look at him, silky dark hair ruffling in the breeze, and wish both my lad and his Lego were back. ‘Let’s make the most of this weekend, love?’ I say to him, but the wind steals my words.

That must be Castle Tregowan, on top of the pile of rocks. Little Ruby next to me shivers in her cagoule. I tut and reach down to drag her zip up to her chin. For all Gita’s Mary Poppins ways, the kid, like me, needs a better coat. ‘No, no, I’m not cold.’ Ruby fights me off. ‘I just don’t like that place. It looks like where the bad fairy lives.’

She’s right, it’s Cinderella’s palace gone to the dark side, with that turret, jet-black against the dying light. ‘What’s Rachel doing in a place like this?’ I hiss to Gita. She could have afforded Versailles, all gilt and mirrors.

Gita shrugs. ‘You know she’s always had a soft spot for a bit of goth.’ How could I forget? Yes, she’s got the golden hair and wall-to-wall tan, but she actually prefers black magic. Like that dreadful party, when Gita and Tom had just got together. That was a Halloween thing, too.

Here we all are, twenty years later, turning up to another of Rachel’s dos. I look down the line of us strung out on the beach, the girls rushing this way and that in a game of tag. For a second, it’s idyllic. Then Ruby falls over and wails. The older girls ignore her. I throw a conspirator’s smile Raf’s way, but he’s turned to help Ruby up. Gita and Tom have their heads down, oblivious, striding silently into the wind. And I suddenly get a really bad feeling.

‘Is this all a terrible idea? It’s not too late, is it? To go home?’ I yell over to Gita. The gale does its best to gag me, making snakes of my sharp new haircut.

‘What?’ Gita struggles to hear, holding on to the ends of her scarf for dear life. Tom stomps off alone. ‘No, no. Come on, Vicks. It’s going to be fun.’

She grabs my arm and leads me forward, but I can’t shut out her tone of voice. I’d been half-joking, after a bit of reassurance. But gone is her pretence that this is just a jolly weekend do. There is something much grimmer behind her words.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think she had some kind of plan. Is it to do with Tom? Has she seen through him, at last? I glance over and, of course, he’s staring at me, a leer behind his eyes. I curse myself for looking and turn back to Gita as quickly as I can. Her expression is flinty for a second, then she grins widely. Is she trying to convince herself, or me?

All of a sudden, I shiver in earnest – and not just because of my useless coat.

Chapter 5
Rachel

Mount Tregowan, 30th October

I’m overdoing it. I always do. But this time even darling Ross, who never questions me, gave me a look when the last crate had been unloaded at the dock. ‘Are you trying to drown them in champagne?’

Am I? Am I actually trying to atone, for that party long ago? But I dismiss the thought. No, I have something completely different in mind for this weekend. Something spectacular, and long overdue. A reckoning. And why shouldn’t I be lavish if I feel like it? I can afford it. It is a mantra I’ve repeated so often over the years it might as well be tattooed across my forehead. But I never once say it aloud. I’m like the Little Mermaid. So much can never pass my lips.

That’s the deal, with extreme wealth. I’ve got used to the burden, and not least to the fact that I can never identify it as such. Burden – no, that can never be said. No one outside the charmed circle can understand why it’s almost a handicap, being born into what I have.

People assume I should constantly thank my lucky stars. They think money breeds money, stacking up like the gold coins in Aladdin’s cave. Not so. I have to work to be this rich. I have to question the credentials of every adviser, check the share prices, select the paintings … I never leave anything to chance, to fate. And I must never speak about any of this, to anyone. Money has its own omertà. ‘Never complain, never explain’ – that was about the one coherent sentence my mother left me with.

Then dealing with staff is, to be frank, a pain. Yes, it’s nice not having to cook, for example. But first, catch your chef, as they say. Then things get formal; background checks, contracts, non-disclosure agreements … It might be easier if I knocked up my own coquilles St Jacques. Though obviously that’s not going to happen.

And that’s leaving aside the issue of trust. Plenty of trust funds, precious little of the actual commodity. It’s the one luxury denied me. Are my friends here because I’ve bought them, or because they actually like me? Welcome to living without ever really knowing.

That’s why I’ve always been fond of Vicky. Respected her, even. I bet she was genuinely surprised the other day, when I paid for lunch. Admittedly, I used to mock her behind her back, laughing with Gita. I’d make jokes about her family having a bath full of ferrets or her daddy labouring down the black pudding mines, in an absurd fake Northern accent. Nowadays that’s probably a hate crime. But all the time, I rated Vicky’s ingrained resistance to the idea of my being born into staggering wealth. And she has remained true to her roots. Her City flat, once a warehouse, may be gentrified to the eyeballs, but her voice is not. Despite all her years in London, for Vicky ‘baths’ will always rhyme with ‘maths’.

Now here they both are, Gita and Vicky, trudging up the path towards the castle. I’m watching them through the oriel window in my turret, the place where I’ve created my bedroom. Mine and Ross’s. As soon as I saw it, I thought of Rapunzel. And I had to have it. Ross’s daughter Penny didn’t mind, not really. All right, it’s a stretch, to picture Ross scaling the walls with my blonde hair wrapped round his wrists – I smile at the thought – but what he might lack in youthful athleticism, he more than makes up for. In other ways.

Gita and Vicky are chatting now as they follow the path. Behind them trails their baggage, real and metaphorical. Tom’s in charge, with Vicky’s Raf as his number two. They both have that musclebound build, perfect for shouldering luggage. Funny to think I once quite fancied Tom. Well, we all did. The three of us met him at one of the endless series of uni house parties we went to in those days, in scruffy bits of south London. For me, they are still some of the most exotic safaris I’ve ever undertaken. He was doing biomedical science then, before he swapped courses.

‘What are you going to do with that?’ I asked naively, when Tom grabbed my bottle of rather nice Châteauneuf-du-Pape the moment we crossed the threshold.

‘Come and see,’ he said with a wink over his shoulder. And I trailed behind him into the stinky kitchen.

‘Ever seen anyone make a cocktail?’ he asked. I suppressed the thought of the little beachside bar in St Kitt’s that I’d rather taken to over the Christmas holidays, and of the staff at home for that matter, and I shook my head the way he wanted me to. He pushed the cork down into my bottle. I suppressed a wince. ‘Couldn’t be simpler,’ he said, glugging the contents into an enormous pan, which looked like something Vicky’s granny might have boiled her smalls in.

Then he added two litres of own-brand lemonade, chucked in a sprig of mint, scooped some into a plastic cup, and passed it over. ‘Glass of Pimm’s, milady,’ he said, holding my eyes. Funny how sexy it seemed, for a minute. We were all so young, babies really. Tom already had that confidence, some indefinable air of command. No wonder he went for a job with a uniform.

I look at him now, manhandling the suitcases. He isn’t in bad shape for his age. No dad bod there.

Back then, I could have sworn Vicky was keenest on Tom. But it was Gita who got him, and who now has those three girls to show for it. Tasha, the eldest, is as tall as her mother, and has her grace. She keeps a little distance between herself and her younger sisters.

Meanwhile, Vicky and Gita march on, oblivious to Tom’s efforts to keep the youngest girl’s case clear of the water. Now he’s telling my favourite – sulky, gawky middle child Nessie – to keep up. I wonder if I’m going to regret extending the invitation to children. Ruby, the littlest, is really too young to join in with all the fun I have planned, but I couldn’t exclude her. I didn’t want to give Gita any excuse to duck out. Besides, Ruby does make up the numbers.

I laugh to myself, enjoying my private joke. I’m expecting Vicky to get it; she’s the one with the talent for figures. But it’ll go over the heads of the rest. And having drinks tonight will help disguise it. It won’t be until we sit down, tomorrow night, for the Halloween feast, that they’ll discover we are a very special group indeed. Thirteen of us, to be precise.

Lucky for some, they say. Not for others. I narrow my eyes at the group, focusing, assessing. Yes, this invitation was long overdue.

Gita and Vicky are laughing now. I hope they are excited; as excited as I am. I wonder what they make of my causeway. I adore the way it’s revealed by the ebbing waters. It’s so beautiful, now I’ve had it restored. And the way it leads straight to me, and Mount Tregowan, makes it a delicious cross between the parting of the Red Sea and the Yellow Brick Road. The thing I love most is its disappearing act. Twice a day, the relentless tides cover it, cutting off my castle completely.

When Ross told me the way the sea severs us from the mainland, I nearly swooned at the romance of it all. If he’d asked for my hand right there, right then, I’d probably have said yes. And it wasn’t long after that he actually did. I had no doubts, none at all. When I look into his eyes, I’m home. He knows what it is to be surrounded by rumour and gossip, to need only a few loved ones to feel secure. That whole business with his first wife, for instance. The way he had it covered up. He’s never discussed it with me, and I like that steadfast loyalty, reaching even beyond the grave. But it’s still the talk of his little social circle here, and it didn’t take long for me to glean the necessary. Bless Ross, thinking no one outside the family knows, believing this island keeps his secrets safe. He’s such an innocent. I love that about him. And I’m so glad we’ve found each other, at last.

Of course, my splendid isolation is an illusion. You can always reach the island by boat, no matter how deep the sea lies over my causeway. Well, except in the most awful storms. It’s a short hop. You need to be an experienced sailor, to weave between the rocks, but thanks to me, we now have the best mariner on the mainland at our beck and call. There are ways round anything and everything, always. But I won’t be letting on about that. It breaks the spell of Tregowan; the legendary feel of a place that no one can leave – until I say so.

I step away from the window. I don’t want Gita and Vicky to see me too soon, though I suppose it might feed into the Rapunzel theme, my blonde hair cascading from the oriel. But no, I want to be in full-on chatelaine mode when they finally make it up to the castle. I’ll greet them at the heavy oak door, banded with iron bars. It opens with a groan from rusty hinges, swinging back on the splendour beyond. Yes, I could easily have it oiled, or plane the bottom of the door where it catches the stone, but there’s no drama in that. Creaks and clanks go with an old castle. I’m only sad there’s no portcullis to lower, no moat around us here.

What am I thinking? The sea is my moat. It will be rising up behind Gita, Vicky and the rest right now, a dark green wall, my careful restoration job a fathom deep by the time they’re halfway up the hill. I love the way I’ve got the hang of the tides so quickly; it makes me feel part of the place. A rightful queen.

My dress for tonight reflects this. I’ve been torn, I admit, between wanting to lay down my position immediately and trying to avoid any derision from Vicky. But in the end, I know Vicky will always find something to be sniffy about; that chip is even more a part of her shoulder than Tom’s epaulettes. So I’ve picked a simple, flowing Dior number that drapes with every move. Best of all, it billows behind me when I walk, like my own in-built train. I smile at the thought of pageboys to carry it for me. I would have loved that, but God, Vicky would have a field day.

The shame of it is that Vicky and I find the same things funny – but we can’t ever acknowledge that we both find my situation absurd. I have to revel in it, as far as Vicky is concerned, and Vicky has to hate it, as far I am allowed to see. Maybe this weekend will finally be our chance to put all that behind us. We could become the true friends we always should have been. Or, just maybe, we could turn into sworn enemies.

So much is going to shift in the next forty-eight hours, so many secrets will finally come to light, thanks to me. I’m looking forward to putting my world to rights at last.

I’m going to make it a healing, positive experience, whether the others like it or not.

After all, what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Doesn’t it?

Chapter 6
Geoff

Mount Tregowan, 30th October

It is somewhat unfortunate, but yes, we did arrive late for Lady Tregowan’s drinks. My fault entirely. I’m afraid I chanced on a bookshop, not far from the island, and I persuaded Jane that it would be a good idea to pop our noses round the door. ‘I’ve clean forgotten to bring anything to read, and you can’t pretend your Rachel is a books person,’ I said. At that point, needless to say, we knew nothing of Lord Tregowan’s library.

‘She’s not my Rachel, but fine,’ said Jane. ‘I told you, you should have let me pack.’ I wasn’t too worried by her expression; she loves a bookshop as much as I do. We weren’t disappointed; it was an independent outlet with a good selection of ordnance survey maps. I’m researching our next walking holiday at present.

Jane made straight for the children’s section, of course. Oh, not for our own little ones; we’ve not been blessed in that department. But Jane is an author. The Melford Mice? Tiny dancing rodents, who live in a house and garden very similar to our own. They have long been a favourite with the nation’s offspring.

Jane often feels a little awkward amongst groups of mothers. I’m afraid females don’t always grow out of silly, cliquey schoolyard behaviour. I include Rachel and her coven in this. But sometimes it can be good to confront one’s fears. Anyway, when I looked over, Jane seemed happy enough amid the Kate Greenaways and there were only a few fractious toddlers playing nearby.

I was soon deep in my maps, lost to the world. It wasn’t until Jane coughed by my elbow that I realised how much time had ticked by. One look outside confirmed the worst; the tide had turned and we’d missed our chance with the crossing.

For a happy moment, I thought I’d been let off the hook, and we could return safely home, with only the minor inconvenience of purchasing a new rail ticket to show for the weekend. But no; Jane had a plan B. She’s very efficient, my wife.

I was rather appalled when we finally tracked down the boatman on the pier. Not only had the wind got up, adding a distinct chill to proceedings, but the boat he indicated didn’t look particularly seaworthy. You would think, with the Cadogan millions at her disposal, that Rachel would have bought a nice new vessel. But no. We had to lurch aboard a leaky old skiff and sit amongst lobster pots and nets festooned with defunct sea life. I did quip to Jane that we might not arrive scented with the sort of eau de toilette that Rachel might expect. But she didn’t seem to find it amusing.

At first I thought our skipper was going to row, and I believed we might miss most of the first night’s festivities. But he soon got an outboard motor to splutter into life and then we were zipping along like billy-o. Jane certainly perked up, and I resigned myself to the approaching ordeal, her smiles a recompense for all I was sure was to come.

I’ve never much enjoyed the company of the Rachel set over the years, even at the most propitious of times – the usual slew of gatherings, drinks parties and the like, that keep the social wheels turning. And, with everything that’s transpired recently, I can truthfully say I am not looking forward to this at all.

However, with my good wife at my side, I am confident we will get through the event and emerge at the end of the weekend, as Henley put it in Invictus, ‘bloody but unbowed’. Of course, Rachel’s island isn’t going to match the rest of that poem, and turn out to be a ‘place of wrath and tears’, full of ‘the horror of the shade’.

Or at least, I certainly hope not.

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