She thinks of Charlotte, and is surprised the woman has strayed into her head. In the rooms upstairs, there is no framed photograph of her, no wedding-day snap, no tender portrait of mother and children. Leah thinks of the dead woman’s clothes, remembers the feel of that silk on her skin, how she had allowed herself, just for a moment, to be wrapped in that woman’s dress, in that woman’s bedroom, a secret imagining of what it would be like to occupy that woman’s life.

A sudden chill in the air, she wraps her cardigan tight around her. Somewhere in the garden she hears the rustling of night creatures. The snap of a branch. Or maybe it’s just the thought of the ghost that’s been summoned making her cold.

Whatever thoughts she’d had of seeking solace fly past. The garden tonight seems changed. A different presence here. One that is watchful, unfriendly.

Taking fright, Leah hurries back on to the patio. When she closes the French windows behind her, she finds her limbs are trembling, new blood leaking between her legs. In the bathroom, she cleans herself quickly. Someone was watching her in the darkness. Jake doesn’t stir when she climbs back into bed.

21

Hilary

Hilary is upstairs one evening when her attention is caught by the windows of Anton’s house, her eyes widening in horror and disbelief. For in that moment, she sees Charlotte. Standing right there in the front bedroom, gazing at her reflection in the long, oval mirror that stands by the window. A dead woman in a printed silk dress. Hilary’s heart flutters wildly with fear.

But then reality breaks through, and she realizes it is not Charlotte, but Leah, and a new confusion creeps in to replace the fear that slid away. Her attention rapt, she watches as Anton comes and stands behind the young woman – the ingénue – and reaches out to touch her, gathering the swathe of her hair and gently drawing it away from her face. That one gesture makes everything inside Hilary go very still.

Down below, the street is empty, the cars all nestled together in a row against the kerb, a peaceful scene. But here, in her bedroom, a new turmoil has taken hold. They have disappeared from view, and her mind races, wondering what on earth is happening. What can they be doing?

Hilary scratches her upper arms, as if she has a rash, panic taking hold inside her. It’s all she can do not to run downstairs and out on to the street, then march across to Number 14 to demand answers.

She doesn’t do any such thing. She knows it would be rash – foolish – to draw attention to herself in that manner, blowing the plan with her impatience, her misunderstanding. For that is what it is. Something simple she’s misinterpreted that she and Anton will laugh about later when all this is done.