The Knot – her third book – had been published a month before. It was the story of Maxine, happily married to Nigel, both of them hoping for a child. Then, out of the blue, she falls ill. Very ill. She has a year – maybe two – to live. Maxine is forced to assess her true priorities and realizes – to her surprise – that her husband is not one of them. She does not want to spend her final year with a man she does not love.

Her husband, however, does not agree. He is glad, though, to know what she truly feels about him.

Because it turns out he is not what he seems, and neither is her diagnosis. Someone is weaving a knot about her and it will not be easy to disentangle herself.

It had been well reviewed and she had been asked to come to a large bookshop in Manchester to do a reading. She was reluctant; the readings she had done in the past had been sparsely attended, but the shop owner said she expected quite a few to be there, so she had decided to accept.

And it had been worth it. There were about fifty people there and most of them had bought a book for her to sign. She worked through the queue of people until there was just one person left. She looked at him, and realized his face was familiar.

It took her a moment to place him, and then he spoke.

‘I was waiting till the end. So we could talk.’ He took out a small, hand-bound book from the pocket of his trench coat. ‘I’ve got another book out too.’

‘I remember you,’ she said. ‘You’re a poet, right? You came to a reading when my first book was out.’

A wide grin spread across his face. ‘I gave you my first book. We swapped. Did you read my poems?’

She hadn’t – when she got home she had taken the book he had given her out of her bag and put it down on a shelf and hadn’t seen it since, but she wasn’t about to say that, so she told him, ‘I really enjoyed it.’

‘Which was your favourite? Of my poems?’

‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘I don’t know. I did enjoy them, though.’

He flinched, his left eye twitching. ‘You don’t have a favourite?’

‘It was a long time ago,’ Annabelle said. ‘I don’t remember all that well. I barely remember what I read last week! But I do remember enjoying them.’ He didn’t look convinced and she decided to change the subject. ‘Which is your favourite?’

‘Of my poems?’

‘Yes. Do you have one you like the most?’

‘“The Nightingale”,’ he said. ‘It’s about a beautiful bird trapped in a cage which is eventually set free.’ He leaned over the desk. ‘It’s a bit like your new book.’

‘I suppose so,’ Annabelle said. ‘Have you read it?’