Camilla sent me to Deborah to hear a soft version. If I add up all the versions (Deborah’s, Stuart’s, Camilla’s and Nina’s), they are much the same. I still don’t feel as if everything adds up. Not only that, when Charlie’s body was found, he had a head injury. It was assumed he hit a rock (foul play was not mentioned), but Deborah said he hit his head on the deck or the cooler. Why on earth would Stuart fly back to Ibiza for Nina? The cooler doesn’t seem like a good enough reason. A thought forms and grows until I can’t keep it to myself.

“Stuart! Wake up!”

He sits up. “What?”

“You flew back to Ibiza, why?”

He looks utterly flummoxed.

“Was it to find Charlie’s Saint Christopher?” I prompt.

He nods.

“Did you?”

“No.”

“But you would’ve got rid of it, even if you had?”

He doesn’t reply.

I must get away. I need space to clear my head, sort out facts from imagination before I snap. I deserve the complete truth. There is only one person who can help with that.

Thirty-One

“A holiday? With you?” Camilla frowns. It doesn’t suit her. “Are you even allowed to fly?”

“No, of course not. I’m thinking of somewhere closer to home. I’ll check out last-minute offers. A seaside cottage in Cornwall, perhaps.”

“I appreciate that I haven’t lived in this country for years, but even I know you’ll have a hard time booking anywhere midsummer holidays at a decent price. Anyway, I can’t take a week off work.”

“Louise can come with us. You can join in for a long weekend. I’ll sort something.”

She hesitates, but I can tell that she’s itching to say yes so that Louise is entertained. Louise is bored; she spends her days hanging around with me most of the time anyway. Camilla leaves her to fend for herself while she’s at work. If it wasn’t for me, Louise would be a proper latchkey kid. The poor girl has taken to spending nights at ours more frequently when Camilla invites Greg over. Louise and I have lovely long chats, and it’s tempting to share snippets of Charlie’s views on life and his funny ways. It is so maddening (and quite sad) that I have this rich insider knowledge of her biological father, and yet it’s not my place to tell her or share my memories.

Annoyingly, Camilla is right about the lack of holiday options. I start off with optimistic expectations: private pools or giant glass doors that concertina open, leading straight onto the beach, and end up depressing myself by even considering a dingy place on the outskirts of a large city I don’t wish to visit. Images of perfect holiday snaps with joyful #blendedfamilyfun captions (just to publicly prove that I’m doing a good job) dissolve. Stuart isn’t keen either.

“I’ve been on enough wet-weather holidays to last me. I’d rather we go to Disneyland sometime next year, perhaps.”

“I need a break now.”