Now, she thinks. Now is the time to tell her mum the truth about what happened. Her mum needs to know that this is all Lily’s fault.

She prepares to speak, to say the words that have been eluding her all summer. But her mum begins to cry so loudly that the sound fills Jess’s ears, swims inside her head, slips down, and lodges in her throat. And she knows she cannot say anything, that she does not have the courage or the cruelty—she is not sure which—to tell her mum the truth. Instead Jess cleaves to her mum and closes her eyes. But all that greets her is the image of her dad’s body looming over her like a grotesque version of the stick men she used to draw in a game of Hangman. As Jess clings to her mum, grief and fury simmering in her chest, a single thought hammers inside her head: Lily is the reason that her dad is swinging from a noose at the top of the stairs. If it weren’t for Lily, the man Jess loves most in the world would still be alive.

Chapter 17

Audrey

The illuminated digits on the bedside alarm clock flicked listlessly from one number to the next.

3:57 a.m.

Audrey turned onto her side, experiencing a breathlessness that had been bothering her for weeks, but until now she hadn’t dared question its cause.

3:58 a.m.

Almost fifteen hours had passed since she’d seen the oncologist. More than twelve hours since she had arrived at Lily’s office, fully intending to confide in her. The desire not to be left alone with the news had been overwhelming as she’d waited in reception for Lily’s assistant to collect her. But then Lily had asked about the hospital appointment and there had been such concern in her voice that Audrey had known she couldn’t do it.

She had kept up the pretense all afternoon and evening, during anxious phone calls first from Jess and then Phoebe. By the time Mia had arrived home from the library, Audrey was so well rehearsed in the lie she almost believed it herself.

Yes, all OK, thanks . . . Nothing much to report . . . No change.

OK: that catchall word signifying everything and nothing.

Audrey closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but for months—ever since her original diagnosis back in September—her brain had been busy stoking memories she’d spent years trying to suppress. Scenes from family history now hummed in her head like Muzak in an elevator from which there was no escape. It was as though her mind, knowing it had so little future, had become obsessed with the past. Except there was no solace in looking back; she knew that. But sometimes it seemed to Audrey that she had forgotten all the things she wanted to remember, and remembered everything she wished she could forget.

For months now she had been haunted by memories of Edward: Edward on their wedding day, strong and handsome in his charcoal gray suit and royal blue tie. How happy they had been at the service in Islington Town Hall, just their parents as guests and witnesses, her wedding dress a long cream halter-neck that flowed seamlessly over her five-month bump. How Edward’s enthusiasm at impending parenthood had been infectious, his careful research into everything they needed to buy, everything they needed to be, making her fall in love with him in ways she had never expected. Edward holding Lily the day she’d been born, cradling her in his arms, tears in his eyes, telling Audrey he had never been happier. Edward arriving home from work and kissing Audrey on the lips before seeking out the girls to bathe them, read to them, put them to bed. Edward planning trips to the cinema, holidays by the seaside, excursions chosen to ensure everyone was happy. Their lives, for so many years, lived to a soundtrack of laughter.