‘Where to start? Do you happen to know a journalist by the name of Alex Sutcliffe?’

‘I know he was fired off a paper years ago.’ Liz sips her wine. ‘Barely a journalist.’

‘Right. So, I’ll jump straight to the bit where the little snot is blackmailing me. Or threatening it. I’m not sure what he wants, but he has some compromising photographs of me.’

‘Naked photographs?’ Liz, who has twice interviewed a prime minister, is pink-cheeked.

‘Worse.’

‘Worse than naked?’

‘I think so, yes.’

I spare Liz no details. It takes a while, but I tell her all about Jordan, about Harry, Alex, Faith, Bip and Ban, about the drugs, the photographs – everything. In greater detail than I’ve shared with anyone, I unload on Liz.

When I’m done, she offers me a solemn, ‘That is quite the tale – and I’ve heard some in my time.’

‘I’m sure.’ I swallow the last of my wine. ‘As I say, every bit of it, regrettably, true.’

Liz frowns and pushes her smart black-rimmed glasses up her nose, thinking.

‘I might have an idea that takes care of those photographs.’ The corners of her flint-grey eyes crinkle. ‘And, perhaps, some of your other conundrums to boot.’

I dare say Liz has heard it all in her time. If she says she has a plan, I want to hear it.

‘Shall I get us more wine, Liz?’

‘I think, given the circumstances, one more is still in moderation.’

I motion for the waitress to bring us another glass each.

‘Right, here goes my thoughts on all of this…’ Liz begins.

My turn to listen.

28

I leave Liz with a bold plan in mind regarding Alex and his terrible photographs. Strolling through to St James’s park, I take the time to walk off the wine. The flower beds are in early bloom. The tulips, primroses, hyacinths and daffodils usher in their annual show. Though it’s getting onto dusk, people wander, enjoying the surroundings. Couples. Parents with infants in pushchairs or toddlers feeding the ducks. Some, like me, are alone. I amble past the elegant little lakes, the thatched hut and the graceful pelicans perching on their rocks. My hand clasps around the pink quartz crystal Zelda gave me. I’ve been carrying it with me often lately, for luck. Love isn’t ever perfect; I remember Zelda telling me.

Squeezing the stone inside my palm, I know what I have to do.

Cutting back through Mayfair to Covent Garden, I arrive at Faith’s door.

I buzz her intercom.

‘Hello?’ She’s in.

‘Hello, it’s me, Gracie. Can I come up?’

Across the street, a couple walking by stop and huddle. I’ve been spotted. It’s happening more and more lately. I wave. They wave back and move on.

I buzz again. ‘Faith?’

‘I heard you the first time.’

I’m considering leaving when the door clicks ajar.