“I got your message,” Catherine says, as soon as Gloria has gone.

I gawp at her. What does she mean? What message?

Her forehead creases in a puzzled frown. “About the flowers? I’m so glad you liked them.”

Right. The flowers. The ones I shoved in the kitchen bin. Ross must have taken it upon himself to thank her for them on my behalf. Cheers, Ross.

“Oh, right, yeah.”

“Lizzie, are you okay? Only you look a bit peaky.”

“I’m fine.”

“Lizzie, I know this whole situation is awkward….”

Oh no, she’s going to say something nice. Something sensible. Something I can’t ignore. “But is there any possibility we can call a truce? For Ross’s sake. It must be terribly difficult for him, caught in the middle, so to speak.”

I glance at her face for the briefest of seconds. Just long enough to see the worry lines etched in her forehead and round her mouth. Perhaps it is unfair of me to carry on like this, refusing to accept an apology. I mean, what harm can it do to be civil? I’m better than this and, besides, it won’t do to let Catherine Dawson take the moral high ground.

“Well, it was a long time ago.”

Reluctantly, I hold out my right hand, and Catherine clasps it with both of hers, pumping it up and down. It’s hard to believe that this softly spoken, reasonable person asking for my forgiveness and sending me bouquets of flowers is the same hateful young woman who was so mean to me as a child. I know I should say something nice, but she needs to get the message that we’re never going to be friends.

“I’ve wanted to say sorry for so long,” she says, still holding my hand, tears welling up in her eyes. She seems so genuine and, infuriatingly, my eyes fill up, too.

“Alice was my best friend,” I say, my voice little more than a whisper. “I still miss her.”

“Of course you do. You two were so close.” Her eyes lock onto mine, but there’s nothing scary about them now. Quite the opposite. They’re full of sadness and compassion. “So very close.” She blinks and looks away. “I miss her, too. Every single day.”

She reaches into the pocket of her tunic and draws out a business card. She looks awkward as she passes it to me. Embarrassed.

“Just in case you ever fancy a coffee or something,” she says.

I don’t want her bloody card, but refusing it seems pointlessly childish, so in the end I take it.

For a few strange seconds, I sense her teetering on the edge of something, just like before, at the party, as if she might actually hug me. I take a step toward the exit.

“It’s been really nice bumping into you again, Lizzie,” she says.