“It’s Dudley,” Kat said, checking the caller ID. Her voice was expressionless in the way that could only imply disapproval. Kat was another one who heartily disliked Dudley Lester. Kat said that Dudley used Lizzie, that he lived off her success because he had never quite achieved the same level of fame himself and now that he had financial troubles he was even more of a leech. Lizzie knew there was a grain of truth in this. When Dudley’s band had split four years before, he had wanted to move into presenting and Lizzie had helped, putting some work his way, suggesting joint projects. She didn’t see the problem; that was what friends did for one another and Dudley had always been there for her. She could tell him anything and everything, and frequently did. He was the only person she loved and trusted completely. She knew Dudley could be petulant sometimes but he made her laugh. She didn’t have many proper friends, people who understood what it was like to have a spectacularly messed-up childhood lived out under very bright public lights. Dudley genuinely appreciated that and had stood by her through it all. That counted for a lot.

Smiling, she took the phone from Kat’s outstretched hand. It would be so good to talk to Dudley. He’d cajole her out of her nervousness. He could always make her feel better.

“Hi, Duds,” she said. “Have you rung to wish me luck?”

“Lizzie.” Dudley didn’t wait for her to finish. “Thank God you’re there. She’s dead, Lizzie! I’ve only just heard. I don’t know what to do...” He sounded dazed, his voice so broken and confused that Lizzie barely recognised it. She felt a lurch of fear. This did not sound like the Dudley she knew, the irreverent, impetuous, fun-loving companion who could tease her out of any bad mood.

“Dudley?” she said sharply. “What’s happened? What do you mean? Who’s dead?”

“Shit,” Dudley said. “Haven’t you seen it online? Are you locked in a cellar somewhere, for God’s sake? I told you. It’s Amelia. She’s dead!”

Amelia. Lizzie’s mind locked onto the name. Amelia was Dudley’s soon-to-be-ex-wife, whose existence Lizzie so frequently—and so conveniently—forgot. The churning sickness in her stomach intensified. How could Amelia be dead? She was only twenty-eight years old. Had there been an accident, a car crash, like the one that had taken Lizzie’s mother? For a terrifying second the present slipped away and Lizzie felt as though she was four years old again, watching through the bannisters as the police came to break the news to her father.

Sunlight, dust motes dancing in the air, the smell of whisky pervading the house, the radio chattering in the kitchen, the old battered panda clutched in her hand, her father, shielding his eyes so no one could read his expression, the ring of a lie in his voice as he expressed his grief...

“Lizzie?” Dudley’s urgent voice broke through the memory.

Lizzie tried to pull her thoughts together, to focus. “What happened?” she repeated. “How... How did she die? Were you there?”