She knows where I live; she won’t let this drop. But she isn’t coming after me now. For the moment, that’s all I care about. If I can just get away from her for a few moments, I’ll be okay.

I lock the car doors as soon as I’ve turned on the engine. My tyres screech as I reverse too quickly, then I’m on the road and I can’t see her any more. Thank God.

It’s a few minutes before I realise I’m shaking from the cold. I haven’t got my coat. I left it in the room at the police station, draped over the back of my chair. With the article about Charlie Zailer in the pocket.

2

1/3/08

Somebody needs to say something, thought Charlie. A speech. Oh, God. It was too late; it had only occurred to her now, this second. She hadn’t prepared anything and she doubted Simon had either. Unless he was planning to surprise her. Of course he isn’t, fool—he’s as clueless as you are about engagement party protocol. Charlie laughed to herself as her mind filled with the image of Simon clinking a fork against his glass, saying, ‘Unaccustomed as I am . . .’ And what better way for his imaginary speech to begin; the word ‘unaccustomed’ might have been invented for Simon Waterhouse.

I’ll make him do it, thought Charlie, running through a list of possible threats in her head. The party had been his idea. I’ll force him to stand up in front of nearly a hundred people and declare his undying love for me. Charlie turned away from the packed room, the shouting, dancing and mingled laughter. What right did her guests have to be happier than she was?

She filled the last of the champagne glasses, lifted the yellow tablecloth and bent to put the empty bottles out of sight. Crouching by the table leg, she wished she could stay there for ever, or at least until tonight was over. She didn’t want to have to stand up and face everyone with a this-is-my-special-night smile.

Not that they were her guests, or Simon’s—that was part of the problem. Neither of them had been willing to host the party at home, so they, their friends, relatives and colleagues were all—for a price, of course—guests of the Malt Shovel in Hamblesford for the evening, a pub that, as far as Charlie knew, was known and loved by nobody present. It was the first place she’d phoned and been given the answer ‘yes’ to the question ‘Do you have a function room?’ Too busy to research the matter further, Charlie had decided it would have to do. Hamblesford was a pretty village with a green, a memorial cross and a church at its centre. The Malt Shovel had window boxes stuffed full of yellow and red flowers, a white-painted stone exterior and a thatched roof. It was advantageously positioned opposite a stream and a small bridge; it looked the part.

Because tonight was all about faking; Charlie knew that even if Simon didn’t. She couldn’t understand why he’d insisted on having an engagement party; it was so unlike him. Did he really want to make their relationship the centre of everybody’s attention? Apparently so, and he’d clammed up whenever Charlie had asked why. ‘It’s normal, isn’t it?’ was all he was willing to say on the matter.