Nina hadn’t been keen for me to sift through her photos when I asked for ones of Charlie. She wanted to select them herself. No wonder. She knew I had a keen eye for detail. I thought it was because she was being sensitive, perhaps by protecting me from potentially unsettling memories. How stupid and naive of me. Despite knowing what I know now, the sense of betrayal hits me afresh as my mind reruns the story.

They said they left Charlie behind at the party. By the time I left, Nina had already broken her shoe and had changed back into sneakers. In the photo, she is not wearing her heels. Yet, I clearly remember her changing into them beforehand because we all laughed at her as we walked in the direction of the loud music while she struggled along a narrow, uneven beach pavement.

I take out the picture. The coloring of the sky reveals that it is later than I initially appreciated. The party was slightly away from the harbor, so if it had been taken there, the boats would not be visible in the background. This is physical proof that they lied—it proves that they all left at the same time.

I shudder. This is surely the last photo ever taken of Charlie alive and it’s a macabre thought. So many niggling things that didn’t quite make sense at the time are coming together. Fresh waves of grief, pain, rage and humiliation hit because it’s as if by having something tangible, it makes it even more real somehow.

Back downstairs, Camilla is microwaving a ready-made lasagna.

I slide out a bottle of white wine from the fridge and offer her a glass.

“Hoping to get me drunk to prize out a better story than Deborah’s?” she says.

“Yes,” I admit, pouring her a large glass.

I’m not going to tell her about the photo evidence yet. I want to hear the truth from her first.

“You’ll have a long wait,” she says.

The evening is not the bonding, confessional one I planned. Camilla has clearly decided on several safe topics for discussion and won’t allow me to veer off her preplanned course. All she’ll say is that she’s not going to mention anything about what we discussed to Greg.

“It’s not as if it will lead to anything serious anyway. We’re too different.”

She takes a large gulp of wine as she tries to convince herself that her words are true. I discreetly check the bottle; it’s almost empty. My agitation grows as I watch the hands of the kitchen clock move ever later. I open another bottle while she loads the dishwasher and top up her glass.

She catches me.

“Nice try, Marie. But luckily for you, I’m in the mood to get pissed enough to get through tonight.”

Good, she’s going to need anaesthetizing.

I run the kitchen tap and pour myself a large glass of water.

Finally (thank you, God) she heads upstairs.