He laughs. ‘I never said you had to marry Hugo – that was up to you.’ He looks me up and down. ‘You still look all right, in spite of pushing forty. I’m sure the promise of a blow job or something for gormless, grateful little Hugo would have sufficed.’

‘I didn’t marry Hugo because of you,’ I whisper, but even as I say it I know it’s only half true. It just seemed easier at the time. I could give Cameron what he wanted – make sure he didn’t tell anyone about my past and stop worrying about how to pay the rent every month – all in one fell swoop. I’d even read articles about Hugo before I went to that party at the Natural History Museum, to work out what kind of man he was and what approach would suit him, giving me the best chance of getting Cameron off my back. I didn’t go in planning to marry Hugo, far from it, but when that was the way things went, it seemed like the answer to all my problems.

No one wants to work with an events manager who has killed someone, or to be their friend or lover, for that matter. It’s bad enough living with what I’ve done myself – the idea of it becoming common knowledge was, and still is, unbearable.

‘None of my business why you got married – I don’t give a shit anyway,’ Cameron says. ‘You can play happy families with Hugo or cut his dick off for all I care, as long as he takes the chalets onto his books. After this business with the body turning up, sales might need an extra push.’

I surreptitiously swipe my hand across my face as, in spite of my efforts, tears brim. Cam rolls his eyes.

‘For God’s sake, Andrea, this happened twenty years ago! No one cares. Move on.’

‘I care,’ I say hoarsely. ‘And don’t call me that.’

He snorts. ‘Oh yes, it’s Ria now, isn’t it?’ he says sarcastically. ‘Ria Redbush. No longer ski bum Andy Jones – she’s long gone. Classy Ria Redbush married to posh boy Hugo. A whole new life for a whole different person. Well, good for you for caring. I don’t. You’ll just have to cope with your new house guest being there as best you can. And, for what it’s worth, I won’t be skulking in the shadows and staying away. I’ll be coming to dinner, offering my condolences and all that. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to be scared of, and neither have you, though obviously it’s suited me well over the years for you to feel that you have. Grow some balls. I’ll see you later.’