1. Sybil is getting better food from your neighbour two doors down. Scottish lady?
2. Sybil likes you but thinks you need to sleep more. Your phone (something that flashes?) keeps her awake in your room.
3. There are no builders in your boyfriend’s house.

Tara had started to smile at the first – she’d long suspected Sybil of supplementing her diet, but that was such an easy guess. What cat didn’t eat at several houses? Although it was an unexpectedly Sybil touch to add the little burn about the food being better – another lucky guess, she thought.

And the second – of course David was going to say Sybil liked her! And it was obvious she wasn’t sleeping from the constant bags under her eyes. And who didn’t keep their phone in their room?

This was actually quite disappointing. She’d at least hoped for revelations about Phil.

But as Tara read the third point, her smile froze. Because there was absolutely no way David could know that about Phil unless …

She stared at the words.

Unless Sybil had told him? But then how would Sybil know something different from what Phil had told her? She was a cat.

There are at least three levels of madness right there, she told herself. Get a grip.

David was just guessing. But why would he focus on the builders? Why not just throw in a third stab in the dark, like … Sybil says you drink too much coffee? Why tell her something like that, something that might have repercussions?

Unless he was winding her up, pointed out a voice in her head. For ‘banter’, like the lads in the college bar. David did have form for that type of thing.

She felt cold.

Tara looked down into the footwell, where Sybil’s basket was wedged in tightly. The cat was sitting up; her yellow eyes were trained straight on her.

They stared at each other, and for a deeply unsettling second, Tara felt as if Sybil was trying to tell her something.

‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous,’ she said, and wasn’t sure who she was speaking to. Herself, or the cat.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Tara resisted the temptation to call Phil for a whole day and then cracked. She hadn’t phoned him again about the flowers – because her conscience knew that conversation should only end one way – but Sybil was a shared responsibility.

The call went to voicemail after some ringing tone that she wasn’t sure was even British, and Tara didn’t want to leave another needy message, so instead texted him a photo of Sybil in her carrier.