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Chapters (59)
  1. Bad Friends
  2. Copyright
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. AFTER: DECEMBER
  6. BEFORE: JUNE
  7. Chapter One
  8. Chapter Two
  9. Chapter Three
  10. Chapter Four
  11. Chapter Five
  12. Chapter Six
  13. Chapter Seven
  14. Chapter Eight
  15. Chapter Nine
  16. Chapter Ten
  17. Chapter Eleven
  18. Chapter Twelve
  19. Chapter Thirteen
  20. Chapter Fourteen
  21. Chapter Fifteen
  22. Chapter Sixteen
  23. Chapter Seventeen
  24. Chapter Eighteen
  25. Chapter Nineteen
  26. Chapter Twenty
  27. Chapter Twenty-One
  28. Chapter Twenty-Two
  29. Chapter Twenty-Three
  30. Chapter Twenty-Four
  31. Chapter Twenty-Five
  32. Chapter Twenty-Six
  33. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  34. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  35. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  36. Chapter Thirty
  37. Chapter Thirty-One
  38. Chapter Thirty-Two
  39. Chapter Thirty-Three
  40. Chapter Thirty-Four
  41. Chapter Thirty-Five
  42. Chapter Thirty-Six
  43. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  44. Chapter Thirty-Eight
  45. Chapter Thirty-Nine
  46. Chapter Forty
  47. Chapter Forty-One
  48. Chapter Forty-Two
  49. Chapter Forty-Three
  50. Chapter Forty-Four
  51. Chapter Forty-Five
  52. Chapter Forty-Six
  53. Chapter Forty-Seven
  54. Chapter Forty-Eight
  55. A CONVERSATION WITH CLAIRE SEEBER
  56. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  57. About the Author
  58. By the same author:
  59. About the Publisher

It wasn’t until hours later, when we were on the moor road running through the wind-farm, the farm Alex and I had always joked looked like something from Alien, that I had a sudden thought. The estate agent must have keys already. He’d let himself in the other day.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Five

I had such a nice weekend with Seb that I managed to banish most thoughts of Alex and his strange behaviour from my mind. We drank pints of Tinners and local cider in the crooked old pub and shared fat chips on Polzeath Beach, jumping between the busy rivulets to watch the reflections of the winter sun on the glossy golden sand, while Digby barked at the surfers paddling madly to catch a wave. In the tiny village of Port Isaac that tumbled toward the sea, we bought the fishermen’s fresh catch before walking out between the deep rock-pools onto the harbour wall, the sea a great aquamarine eiderdown beneath a clear blue sky. Later I cooked Seb a Breton bouillabaisse for dinner. We lay by the fire after eating and listened to the old jazz that he liked, and I felt comfortable with him in a new way, a way I hadn’t before.

On Sunday morning Seb brought fresh coffee and smoked salmon up to bed, and I tried not to make comparisons between this new man and Alex, who couldn’t even boil an egg. He ran me a bath and filled it with bubbles, and then he dragged me out again and made love to me under that wobbly ceiling and I felt like I was starting to heal; like fresh skin was growing over my heart, over the deep chasm where old sticking plaster had once been.

But as the clock ticked on remorselessly we grew ever quieter. I cooked roast lamb for lunch, and then Seb took Digby outside and threw sticks for him while I washed up. On the radio they were discussing the BBC story again. I laughed at something irreverent Russell Brand said.

‘What?’ Seb leaned against the kitchen table and unlaced his muddy boots. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘Oh, nothing really. Just this story about TV producers trying to make it look like something happened that didn’t.’

‘Why’s that funny?’ Seb looked puzzled. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose. But it’s so typical.’

‘Is it?’ He frowned. ‘It shouldn’t be, though, should it?’

‘No, of course not.’ I turned the casserole dish over to dry. ‘But everyone knows TV bods make stuff look like they want it to look, surely.’

‘You really think poor old Joe Public understands that?’ Seb flung his boots over by the door. ‘Of course they don’t, poor bastards. They’re just the unsuspecting victims of your power.’

I gazed at him, perplexed. ‘God, Seb. That’s a bit strong.’

‘I don’t mean your power, individually.’