I think this is one of those questions that you don’t actually reply to. So, instead of saying, We’re tracking Tarkie because you told us to, Suze, I just sip my tequila.

“I feel like I’ve been in this horrible crazy place,” Suze says suddenly. “And I took it out on you, Bex.”

“No, you didn’t.” I shrug, feeling embarrassed.

“I did.” She gazes at me with huge, miserable eyes. “I’ve been hateful. I can’t believe you’re still talking to me.”

“Well…” I hesitate, trying to find the words. “You’re my friend. And I was pretty hateful in L.A. We’ve both been hateful.”

“I was more hateful,” says Suze emphatically. “Because I tried to make you feel guilty all the time. But what was I doing? What was I doing?” Her voice rises in distress and fresh tears start flooding down her face. “It’s been a kind of madness. Ever since I came out to L.A., I felt like I wanted to escape my boring old British life. But now I’d give anything to…” She trails off and scrubs at her eyes. “I’d give anything for…”

“You can have your life back,” I say firmly. “But first you have to not give any money to Bryce.”

Suze is silent for a while, twisting her hands round and round.

“But what if he tells Tarkie?” she whispers at last.

“You can’t wait for that.” I steel myself to say what I know is right. “Suze, you have to tell Tarkie yourself. As soon as possible.”

As she gazes back at me, she looks utterly ill. But after what feels like about half an hour, she nods.

—

I think I feel nearly as sick as Suze does. I’ve had to admit plenty of awkward things to Luke over the years, like when I sold his six Tiffany clocks on eBay without telling him. But selling Tiffany clocks and kissing another man aren’t even in the same category.

And when I say “kissing,” I’m being kind to Suze, because it was obviously far more than kissing. (Although exactly what? She still won’t tell me, and I’m obviously too mature to ask her to draw a stick diagram. I’ll just have to use my imagination.)

(Actually, no, don’t do that. Urgh. Bad imagination.)

We’ve agreed that I’ll make the call and then pass the phone over to her, and as I press the speed-dial button, my heart is pumping.

“Tarkie!” I say fiercely as soon as he answers. “Listen. You have to talk to Suze right now, and if you don’t, I’m never speaking to you again, and when I tell my dad, he won’t either. This is stupid. You can’t keep phoning me and avoiding Suze. She’s your wife. And she has some very important things to say.”

There’s silence on the other end, then Tarkie says, “OK, put her on.” He sounds a bit chastened, actually.

I pass the phone to Suze, then retreat. I was half-hoping Suze would ask me to stay with her, so I could press my ear to the back of the phone and hear Tarkie’s side of the conversation. But she said she had to talk in private.