She straightened the tartan blanket which was hooked over the chair in the corner, then went to draw the curtains. Sunlight poured in through the French windows and flooded the room. The view was breathtaking. The double doors opened straight on to the terrace, exactly opposite the swimming pool, and his desk was arranged in the centre of the room, so that when he was at his typewriter all he had to do was lift his head and he would see the pool stretching away from him, merging with the sea and the horizon beyond. She opened the doors to let the fresh air in, and the room filled with the sounds she’d grown up with: the rolling waves on the shore, the calls of the gulls, the curlews and choughs, and the wind blowing over the clifftop.

When she finished in the study she carried three used teacups to the kitchen. She walked through the sitting room and found it hard to ignore the muffled sobbing coming from Eleanor’s room upstairs. Angie’s stomach pulsed with a gnawing guilt as she ran the tap to wash the cups. She wished she’d been more sympathetic. Maybe Eleanor Davenport had needed to talk to her?

Angie turned the last cup upside down on the drainer, and walked to the bottom of the stairs to peer up the stairwell. She took a tentative step then another, and continued tiptoeing lightly until she was at the top. She walked towards their bedroom, careful not to make any noise, and stood outside with her breath held and head tilted close to the door so she could hear more easily.

There was definitely sobbing, raw and guttural noises, that left Angie in no doubt Eleanor was more than a little distressed. She reached for the door handle, but hesitated. The sobbing had stopped. She dropped her hand. Worried that Eleanor was coming out of the room, Angie turned and made a run for the stairs, but then there was a heart-stopping crash and the sound of glass shattering.

She went back to the room and knocked softly.

Nothing.

‘Mrs Davenport?’ She knocked again. Turned the handle. Through the half-opened door, she could see Eleanor Davenport crouched on the floor. Angie hesitated, unsure if she should go in. Eleanor looked up at her. Her eyes were raw with crying. Cheeks puffy. When she saw Angie she turned away and her hands went to cover her face. She rubbed a couple of times then re-tied her hair as she stood.

‘I heard a noise.’ Angie realised then that the crash had been caused by the mirror from the dressing table. It had fallen from the wall and was broken and scattered in glinting shards across the wooden floor.

‘Yes,’ said Eleanor. ‘I knocked the mirror off the wall.’

‘I’ll fetch the dustpan.’

Angie returned with the dustpan and brush, and some newspaper, which she laid out flat on the floor.