The truth comes over her now, like the prickling flow of blood into a limb that has fallen asleep. She has been crouched on the floor by the bed, and now leans sideways, needing to support herself. Her weight falls against it, unsettling the duvet. A book that has been lying there slips off. It clatters on to the varnished floorboards. The sound it makes seems to echo loudly around the room. She stares at it for a moment, feeling her whole body tense and still. Another noise from downstairs and, quickly now, she is on her feet. She can hear him coming out into the hall, and hastily, before she has any time to think on the consequences, she reaches into the box and grabs the blue pages, as many as she can see, and stuffs them into the pocket of her dressing-gown.

‘What are you doing here?’ Mark asks, on the landing. His eyes flicker over her, taking in her bare feet, her dishevelled hair.

It’s an effort to keep her voice steady, her breathing clear. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb,’ she tells him, feeling the smooth grain of paper in her hand, hidden in the pocket.

She keeps her eyes on the stairs, moving quickly now.

Anton attempts to stop her, but she is powered by a new urgency, all her feelings about him washed away in a tide of fear. The knowledge that has started seeping in at the corners of her consciousness. She knows she must not stay here.

‘You’ve been very kind,’ she murmurs.

And then she is past him, down in the shadows of the stairway, her heart pumping painfully in her chest, the letters scratching through the thin material of her dressing-gown. She can feel the abrasion of them, like damning evidence, burning a hole against the skin of her thigh.

25

Hilary

Hilary is in her bedroom, preparing herself for the party, when she sees Anton ascending the steps to his house. She’s already changed into her dress: the poppy-red Diane von Furstenburg she’d bought years ago now, her first big-splash sartorial purchase. Now, watching him approaching his front door, she pauses in brushing her hair to watch him. There’s a spring in his step, a brisk optimism about his movements, that provokes a sudden impatience inside her. She wills him to turn and see her, but he doesn’t look. She goes to the window and throws open the sash, putting her hands on the sill so that she’s leaning out, but still he doesn’t turn. He twists the key in the lock and then the house swallows him. Disappointed, Hilary turns back to her preparations, continues fixing her hair. But then the anger cascades over her and she throws the hairbrush on to the dressing-table, sending an array of cosmetics clattering across the surface.