It was two in the morning when Zac returned from his drink with Omar. I heard his car engine revving while he parked, the bumper scraping against a bush, then the house door slamming and his grunts as he made his way upstairs. He clearly shouldn’t have been driving. He staggered into the bedroom, bringing the reek of whisky with him as soon as he opened the door. He dropped something heavy before he stepped into the room, swore loudly, and let the door slam behind him.

I thought about the fact that it was Milly’s birthday, and couldn’t help but feel a pang. The first day of April always used to be so happy.

‘Holly?’ Zac said. ‘You awake, Holly?’

I murmured in pretend sleep. In truth, I’d been in a state of high alert since he texted that he’d be home late. I’d even turned off the Internet router in readiness. This was not a trick I could play often, but it was worth risking again that night to ensure the bedroom was a camera-free zone, and I wanted to get Maxine’s task out of the way.

He tossed himself onto the bed, shoes and suit still on, as if he had jumped down onto it from a great height. ‘Holly? Want you, Holly.’ He grabbed my deliberately limp hand, put it between his legs. I let it fall away. I sighed as if I were having a lovely dream.

‘Never mind.’ This was a slurred ramble. ‘In the morning.’ More slurred ramble. He kissed me wetly on the lips, then threw himself onto his pillow so heavily the whole bed shook. He squirmed his hand beneath my nightdress and cupped my breast. He was snoring a few seconds later. His arm was a great weight, though thankfully his fingers had lost their grip on my nipple.

As gently as I could, I manoeuvred his hand off my chest and rested his arm straight by his side. I opened my eyes. The moon had cast the faintest light through the filmy curtains, which were patterned in more of the shabby chic florals the owners of the house were mad about. There was a sickly mix of rose and baby powder wafting from Zac’s shirt, and I recognised Joanne’s overwhelmingly sweet scent. Despite everything, a shock of hurt and jealousy speared through me.

And rage. There was a lot of that, too. In London, he accused me of meeting someone else. In Ireland, according to Mrs Hopwell, he accused Jane. The way he behaved, I wouldn’t blame Jane if she’d fucked another man’s brains out. In fact, I hoped she had. What I hoped even more was that I could figure out who the man was.