“You wouldn’t understand.” He’s the very spoilt oldest child of wealthy parents who are still together. His idea of dysfunctional is laughable—the worst skeleton in the Hardcastle family closet is his Aunt Louise who didn’t marry until she was nearly thirty-nine and almost missed the boat to collect her trust fund. I’ve never had the heart to tell him that his dearly beloved aunt is living a lie to keep up appearances, the marriage a sham to ensure her eligibility for the inheritance that demanded she be married, and the “friend” she always talks of is undoubtedly the true great love of her life. Well, I do have the heart—I would love to see the look on his face when he realizes his aunt isn’t quite so prim and proper as he imagines—I just know he wouldn’t believe it. And, of course, if he did believe it, he would make Louise’s life difficult, possibly even try to have her disinherited or something awful. But she knows that I know, and we have a lovely time exchanging cards and gifts that are increasingly unsubtle. My last birthday she had signed the card from Louise and Bella instead of Louise and Tony. Not that Chris had noticed.

Anyway, in his ignorance, Chris assumes all other families are like his. He is wrong. Mine is a disaster, a car-crash lurching from one catastrophe to the next. I forgave Leah so often growing up, as time after time she would beg my forgiveness and promise that she wouldn’t do anything bad again. “Cross my heart and hope to die,” she would say. But then she did something that I couldn’t forgive and will never forget. That was before Chris and I got together. He has never met my sister. He has no idea what she is capable of.

After we get home, I pour myself a huge glass of wine, right to the brim, catching the overspill in my mouth before it sloshes on to the floor. Chris looks at me and then sighs and heads to his man cave in the spare room, leaving me alone with thoughts of my sister and our mum and all the shit that has come to pass.

Instagram sends me a notification. Leah has posted some new pictures. What did people do before social media? I mean in terms of keeping tabs on each other? I have not spoken to her for five years now—ever since the book was launched—but I still know exactly what she ate for breakfast yesterday, who she has been dating, what days she goes to yoga. And now I know that last night she went “out out” with a gaggle of girlfriends, wearing a very low-cut black dress. An electric-blue bra peeking its lacy face from her décolletage.

The same electric-blue bra that I don’t remember wearing as I lay on the new duvet cover in my bedroom and my husband snapped a little photo.

Does Chris think it was me?

This time I will fucking kill her!