See my desperation. Charlie couldn’t say it. She’d told Olivia about Ruth Bussey’s bedroom wall, but she’d taken care to present herself as far less bothered than she was. She’d made flippant jokes—‘Crazy bitch. Do you think she fancies me or something?’—to hide the depth of her distress, and thrown in the Ruth-Aidan-Mary Trelease story as a distraction, to direct the focus away from herself. Now that she’d demeaned herself in front of Dominic Lund, he was in a position to tell Liv exactly how wretched and messed up Charlie was, if he hadn’t already, and there was nothing she could do about it.

‘Why are you so upset about this Ruth Bussey woman, Char? I don’t get it. Okay, it’s weird, I agree, but she’s probably harmless. ’

‘Covering an entire wall with articles about someone and pictures of them is stalker behaviour,’ Charlie recited in a monotone. ‘Stalkers can flip and they can attack. Sometimes they kill. Don’t fucking tell me this woman’s harmless—you know nothing.’

‘You’re right,’ Liv snapped. ‘She’s probably waiting outside with a Kalashnikov pointed at the front door.’ Seeing Charlie’s murderous expression, she shrugged and said, ‘See? Whatever I say, it’s the wrong thing. I’m sick of being your punch-bag. This isn’t about me—it isn’t about Dominic. It’s Simon you’re angry with, Simon who’s making you miserable . . .’

‘Here we go again!’

‘You’re jealous because I’m getting laid and you, despite being engaged, aren’t!’

Charlie’s vision narrowed to a slit. A shimmering red tunnel opened in front of her and she allowed it to suck her in. She lunged for Olivia’s computer, held it over her head and threw it at the wall. The crash it made when it hit was painful to listen to—the sound of irrevocable damage. Charlie closed her eyes, remembering too late the other reason she’d come to Olivia’s. ‘Shit,’ she whispered. ‘I needed that computer. Can you try to boot it up for me while I get a drink? What have you got that’s strong and alcoholic?’

‘I haven’t backed up my work,’ said Olivia shakily. ‘That’s three days’ worth of—’

‘I’m sorry,’ Charlie interrupted her martyr speech. ‘You’re a saint, Dominic Lund is a saint and I’m a sack of shit, okay? And I mean that from the bottom of my heart.’ She headed to the kitchen in search of vodka, calling over her shoulder, ‘Just get that fucking machine to work.’