Beth collects the champagne glasses with shaking hands; they chime as they clink against each other, and she wishes she could enjoy the thrill of anticipating a fun evening. But she needs a clear head tonight. To work out what to do about Kat. To find out how much Saskia knows, then get rid of her. To stay safe. She peels off the foil cover and untwists the wire muselet. Then she grips the exposed cork and turns it slowly. She finds the ritual calming, and she takes her time to fill each glass with the effervescent liquid.

‘Thanks, darling.’ Saskia accepts the proffered drink. Beth watches her take a sip, then place the glass down on the coffee table and lean back against the sofa. Saskia’s long woollen coat is slung to the side of her, a creased mound of mess, and Beth itches to straighten it. It’s rare for Beth to host girlfriends in the living room, but the open-plan kitchen felt too exposed when Saskia swept into her hallway; she wants to contain the woman’s insatiable curiosity within four solid walls.

‘God, what a terrible time you’re going through at the moment,’ Saskia muses, sighing. ‘So much different crap to contend with. And alone in the house; I can’t believe Simon’s putting his mother’s festive summons before your safety. Mark may not be a threat anymore, but Kat? She is seriously unstable.’ Saskia’s voice trails off as she takes another large sip. ‘Why on earth would she claim to know you, do you think?’

Beth used to consider Saskia the perfect friend, so preoccupied by her personal drama and faddish principles, that she never noticed Beth being tight-lipped about her own life. But she didn’t account for Saskia’s journalistic nose, how the sniff of something not-quite-right sets her off like a terrier. Or that one day she’d become the story. ‘Can I see it, Kat’s phone?’ she asks, trying to sound casual. When Saskia mentioned on the doorstep that she’d found it in the street, Beth knew she must have it. She ached to just demand it, but was aware there’d be a dance involved in getting possession.

Saskia smiles but doesn’t reach for anything. Beth feels a sudden urge to fly over the coffee table and scratch the patronising look off her face. Rip at Saskia’s clothes until she exposes the handset. She shifts on the sofa and runs her nails up and down the heel of her hand, absorbing the thin line of pain.

‘You can, of course,’ Saskia starts slowly, ‘but are you sure you want to? The images are quite chilling; I don’t want to upset you.’

Give me the fucking phone. ‘It can’t be anything worse than I’m imagining,’ Beth explains. ‘I just need to see it for myself.’