Hilary watches her husband carefully, notes the manner of his speech – quiet, thoughtful, precise. He pours wine into the three empty glasses. Leah is the only one of them not drinking. Pregnant, Hilary suspects. She casts her eyes over the younger woman – the green print dress, the demure ballet flats, her figure still svelte, no pregnancy showing. Throughout the lunch, as her partner has become ever more garrulous, Leah has remained polite, elusive, reticent. Hilary feels a sudden push of desire to see her lose her cool. To see that pale skin flushed with temper. Yes, she would like that.

Hilary invited Leah and Jake for lunch because she felt guilty. At least, that was what she told Greg, and it was partly true. The look on the young woman’s face when Hilary broke the news to her about Anton’s history – the shock registering in her eyes, the blood draining from her cheeks – had caused a sharp twinge of regret within her. She almost felt ashamed for revealing it. But, if she’s honest with herself, Hilary knows the real reason for her revelation was not to inform or protect the woman. Rather, it was the reaction to a spike of resentment – a little flare of jealous anger.

‘But what were they like?’ Jake persists. ‘I mean, were they at each other’s throats all the time? Were there violent rows?’

‘No,’ Greg answers. ‘I mean, there was the odd tiff we’d overhear, but on the whole, they seemed happy.’

‘They weren’t happy,’ Hilary corrects him firmly. ‘They were just good at putting up a front. You never know what goes on behind closed doors, do you?’

‘Indeed you don’t,’ Greg says softly.

‘And she was difficult. Unpredictable. One minute she would be all charm and affability, the next she was at your throat. And a flirt. My God, when I think of the way she carried on. She tried it on with Greg once – right in front of me!’

‘No way!’ Jake laughs, enjoying this.

‘She had her own problems,’ Greg says, something of a warning in his tone.

‘Did you see much of them?’ Leah asks. ‘Anton seems so shy.’

‘Well, it’s not surprising he’s keeping a low profile,’ Greg answers, again in the low voice that Hilary can’t quite read, ‘given his history. But back in the day, he was very sociable. They both were. Forever throwing parties. In fact, we were at one of their parties the night before she died. Weren’t we?’

His eyes flick towards her, two hard stones, and there’s challenge in them. She thinks of that night, an image quickly summoned, Charlotte’s sneering gaze: ‘My God, Hilary, whatever are you wearing?’ A small shudder passes quickly through her that she attempts to shrug off with a quick shake of her head.