Leah could leave the whole influencer bullshit behind, because I could live very well on the money she had already made, thank you very much, and I don’t want to spend my life going to parties for likes and taking dodgy men to dodgy bars for money. It might have been a lot of money and I’m fairly sure Leah did not know who that man was, but I know and there is not enough money in the world to make me drink with a terrorist. Plus, she had turned him down. Emma thought it was good, that he’d want her more. But he had a reputation for just taking what he wanted if it wasn’t offered, and I didn’t want to be anywhere near that kind of shit.

Could I do it? Could I make Megan disappear and make it look convincing?

Heathrow is quieter than normal as we pass through. Queues thinner, a sense of something in the air. “France went into full lockdown,” Tom tells me as we walk through Customs. “People are getting jumpy, but I’m sure we don’t really need to worry.”

I’ll be honest, the virus isn’t really on my radar. I’ve seen the news headlines of hospitals in Italy, but it isn’t going to make it here. There’d been a super-spreader outbreak in Brighton last month; some poor guy who will probably carry that label for life had infected eight people after he returned from Thailand or Hong Kong or somewhere. But it had fizzled out. Apparently, there’s been a strange run on the supermarkets and the shelves are empty of toilet rolls, hand sanitizer and pasta; but otherwise it’s nothing. In December, Chris’s mum, Valma, had ordered one hundred rolls of three-ply toilet paper for the bargain price of fifty pounds. At the time, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that was actually more expensive than Tesco. But then one hundred nine-packs turned up on their driveway and I had to concede that it was a good price after all. Plus, we now have over a dozen stacked in the cupboard under the stairs. I must remember to bring a few up to London after the weekend.

But now I have to head back to Guildford and face my husband. Or at least start to work out how I can get away from him. What always felt like an impossibility now only just out of reach. But if I lean hard enough, just maybe my fingers can graze the very edge and I can pull it toward me inch by inch until I take flight. Imagine a life with Tom. Imagine a life without Chris.

I’ve noticed that whenever Chris and I are together, he spends a lot more time sending messages to Leah than when we are apart. It must turn him on to watch me and think about her. It makes my skin crawl. So far, I have been able to keep him at arm’s length by deliberately making Leah’s diary incompatible with his. I am biding my time before I break things off fully between them. It might be helpful, when Megan disappears, to have him feel he can confide in Leah. It might help me stay ahead of him if I know what he’s thinking.