He’d done his best to avoid thinking about her, or any of the other girls – Zoe, Malie and Victoria – in the years since the accident. Anytime he’d been on the verge of wondering what had happened to them, his mind had done a volte-face, and instead he’d plunged himself into some new project, driven by the demons haunting his past.

But now they, she was everywhere he turned. Lily Atwell. The little ball of fiery fury he’d already had one painful interaction with when he’d told her she’d have to cancel her friend’s wedding.

She’d changed since he’d last seen her, when they’d bumped into each other, literally, on the steps of the inquest. She’d lost some of the round-cheeked softness he remembered from her teens. Cheekbones had sharpened, but the long dark hair that had escaped a messy bun, tendrils whipping about a strong jawline echoing the outrage practically vibrating from her thin frame as he’d told her no to the wedding, was a richer auburn colour than before. It had made her eyes glow. And clearly reduced him to some kind of simpering fool that waxed lyrical about autumnal colours and innate beauty.

A headache was beginning to form at his temples. Less than two months ago, he’d been in his Manhattan apartment with Ben and his wife Amina, celebrating the end of an investment deal that would finance the latest app to be launched by their company. They’d laughed, still not quite believing how far they’d come from their first contract, scribbled on a napkin, certainly less than legally binding, given half the bottle of SangSom that they’d consumed on a beach in Thailand nearly eight years earlier.

Ben had been bristling with a kind of excitement that seemed, even for him, a little excessive. And that’s when Henry had realized. Realized that Amina hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol all night. Henry had taken Ben in a hug before he’d even managed to get the words ‘we’re pregnant’ out of his mouth. He’d instantly assured Ben that, of course, he understood they’d be moving to Singapore to be nearer to Mina’s family for the birth. And that as long as they built him an ‘uncle annex’, he’d be fine.

Henry’s phone had rung in the midst of it all, but he’d ignored it, focusing instead on Ben, his wife, the baby … But the phone had rung again. And again. It had been his mother. Darling. I’m so sorry. It’s your father.

Henry loosened his white-knuckled grip on his mobile.

Can you send over the paperwork for the Johnson deal?

Seconds later Ben replied.

You don’t trust me?

With my life, mate. But I could do with the distraction.

’Nough said.