He lives on his own now. No wife. No secretary. No sister. I sent him a wedding invitation, Derek plus one, but he replied saying he’d be coming on his own.

With my hands tucked inside the pockets of my jacket, I step onto O’Connell Bridge and pray there’s still a wedding for Uncle Derek to come to. My step quickens the closer I get to home, and I think of Faye, what she suffered back then and how useless I was for her. I should have noticed if something was wrong. I should have been there for her.

Lucas is whistling when I walk through the door. Well, at least someone’s happy. He’s standing over the cooker pouring cream into something simmering in the pan. It smells delicious, and I tell him so. When he turns to smile at me, it cheers me up and I decide to be happy too.

‘What is it?’ I say, accepting his kiss before leaning over to look into the pan. Lucas has always been the main cook in this relationship. It’s not that I’m a bad cook but I look bad beside him because he cooks everything from scratch. Nothing gets onto his menu that isn’t directly delivered by nature. Whereas I often tend to just go for whatever is quickest and easiest.

‘Chicken tagliatelle,’ he says, stirring the pot. ‘With spinach and peppers and…’ I kiss him on the lips before he gets to finish. Lucas drops the spatula and holds my face, kissing me harder, deeper, arousing a need in me.

I pull away when I realise I’m crying. Tears are rolling down my face.

‘What is it?’ Lucas says. ‘What’s wrong, Tara?’ His gaze changes to one of worry.

I don’t want this. I didn’t want Lucas to be worried about me but I’m unable to hide my fear. ‘It’s nothing, sorry, Lucas, I’m just a bit tired and nervous and…’

Lucas takes a deep breath. I can tell he’s getting a bit fed up with me. I don’t blame him. His wife-to-be should be melting in his arms or jumping around with excitement not crying and moaning and freaking out over everything. I have to let him know my worry is genuine.

‘Those detectives came to the café today.’

Lucas pushes the pan off the heat and wipes his hands on a tea towel before leaning against the countertop.

‘What happened?’ he asks.

Wiping the tears from my eyes with the sleeve of my cardigan, I look at him. ‘They said they want to ask me more questions and now I’ve to go to the station tomorrow evening with Sean the solicitor from upstairs, and Andriu thinks Faye might—’

‘Slow down, slow down, Tara. One thing at a time. What happened with the detectives?’