Did I forgive her? No. Did I stop loving her? No. Could I let go? No. And Bran Cleary? My dear friend Bran (whose injuries had totalled a slightly sprained wrist, some bruising and a broken nose because – ever the gentleman – he had opened the car door for her – for my wife!). Did I forgive him? No. Did I stop loving him? No. Could I let go? Yes. Yes. Yes.

I let go. I moved on. I never wanted to feel that way again. People have often asked me my professional opinion (although what profession I belong to now I struggle to decipher – laughing stock? Entrepreneur? Crook? Social worker?). Did Bran deserve what happened to him? Was it all just bad luck? A conspiracy? Was it revenge? Murder? Something beyond that – the (God forbid!) ‘supernatural’?

No more questions! I just didn’t want to speculate. I didn’t want to engage. I didn’t want to let it all in again. And yet here I was, immersed in the whole mess right up to my chin, resenting every moment, hating every moment. Wishing I was dead. Why did she ask me? Why did I agree to it? And now Kim. Poor Kim. Brave Kim. Un-Kim.

Call that … call that fair?!

5

Miss Carla Hahn

The eternally fragrant, sweet-natured and well-meaning Alys Jane Drury is absolutely appalled by what I have done (how might I have imagined it could be otherwise?).

‘Whatever possessed you, Carla?’ she demands. ‘He’s such a nice man! So very interesting. Debonair. Handsome. All those lovely curls! And so incredibly polite. I just don’t understand how …’

She is silent for a moment. I hold my breath and press the receiver even tighter into my ear.

‘It’s so out of character!’ she finally declares. ‘Did Shimmy put you up to it?’

‘No,’ I insist (perhaps a split-second too quickly), ‘it was all my idea. I mean Shimmy wasn’t happy – after the incident with Rolfie, obviously …’

‘But you said Mr Huff had already apologized for that.’

‘Yes. He had. Well, in a manner of speaking. The letter was very arrogant. And a complete tissue of lies about the exact circumstances of—’

‘To protect everyone’s feelings, perhaps?’ she interrupts.

I ignore this. ‘He actually went so far – in the letter – as to admit to not even liking cats.’

‘I don’t like cats,’ Alys snorts. ‘Well, not especially,’ she qualifies.

‘But that’s because you love birds, Alys!’ I insist.

‘Franklin – Mr Huff – likes birds,’ she counters. ‘He made a huge fuss of the parrot when he visited. Teobaldo even allowed him to stroke his chest. And Teobaldo hates people. He won’t even let me do that. We spent ages talking about the birds of Me-hico. He collects feathers – exotic feathers. For the shrunken heads. But he never kills anything. He’s very strong on conservation. Very respectful of the environment which I thought was just lovely.’

‘Shrunken …?’ I echo weakly, half-remembering something along the same lines that Mrs Barrow had said.