“Hooray for Dodo,” Lizzie said. She’d really wanted that part. It was over a year since she’d done any singing because Bill had pushed her presenting career so hard. She missed the music.

“Don’t be downcast, babes.” Kat hurried into the breach. “You know how things go around. Everyone will have forgotten Amelia Lester in a few weeks’ time once the funeral is over. Besides, you’re a grafter; people know that and they love you for it. Throw yourself into your work and forget about everything else. You’ve still got Musical World and the travel dating show coming up in a few months—”

“Musical World has been postponed,” Bill said heavily.

“I’d rather change direction anyway,” Lizzie said. “I’m sick of all this presenting stuff. I want to write and record some music of my own like I used to do.”

That was if she could remember how to play the piano. It was so long since she had touched it, she wouldn’t have been surprised if the lid had sealed shut. But the idea had already taken strong root; she wanted desperately to escape the life that had been carved out for her. When she had wrested control of her career back from her father it had all been about the music, the singing and the songwriting. It had been fun. That was before Bill had told her that TV was the way to go and she’d allowed him to guide her. She felt a sudden, huge nostalgia for the way life had been, the way it was surely meant to be.

“You can’t go and hide away, hon,” Kat objected. “People will believe you really are guilty if you do that! Besides, if you write and record you could be gone for over a year. Everyone will forget about you!”

“That,” Lizzie said, “sounds idyllic.” She jumped up, suddenly energised. “I’m going home.”

“Bill!” Kat appealed to him. She struggled to her feet, knocking her phone to the floor in her agitation. “Say something! Stop her!”

But Bill wasn’t saying anything. He had a thoughtful look in his eyes, the sort of expression that Lizzie knew from long experience meant that he was planning something.

“It might be a good idea,” he said slowly. “Put it about that Lizzie has gone into a sort of exile, that she’s writing a collection of songs about love, loss and heartbreak, inspired by everything that’s happened. It would make her appear penitent...”

“If you do that, I’ll deny it,” Lizzie said flatly. “I’ve nothing to be penitent about. I’m going away because I want to write music and for no other reason.”

Bill ran an exasperated hand through his hair. “How about you take a holiday instead? A couple of weeks in the Seychelles, some photo opportunities of you alone, reading, walking on the beach, looking sad and soulful. Hell, you could even pretend to be composing on the hotel piano—”

Lizzie felt a hot rush of fury. “I am going to compose,” she said.