I force myself to look at my scar. It doesn’t look split, but the pain remains.

“It was the lesser of two evils,” says Camilla. “We had no choice. He was threatening us. He was going to destroy me, Louise, damage Nina’s memory for Felix and Emily. He grabbed the knife, not you. It was self-defense, Marie. I had to save you.”

“It was history repeating itself.”

Everything I found so abhorrent about Charlie’s death, I’ve mimicked.

“Where’s the knife?” I ask.

“In my bag.”

“Get rid of it!”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.” My mind is all over the place. I don’t want to know. “Somewhere not overlooked by CCTV. I’ll wait here, be your alibi, but don’t take forever. Disguised in something in a public bin? Water? One of the lakes, maybe?”

My silence is now in exchange for Camilla’s, and vice versa. We’ve formed an irreversible, macabre bond. Yet, perversely, I believe that Nina would approve of us becoming—if not exactly friends—then companions or partners in crime, at last.

Forty

I awaken to Jack’s cries, the shouts of the elder two fighting over something—I can’t ascertain what—and the reality of yesterday’s horror. Rain, so heavy it sounds like hail, hits the windows. My abdomen aches. My head throbs. My stomach is a ball of pure dread. The doorbell rings and I rush to the toilet to throw up. Nothing happens.

I hear Stuart go downstairs. I stand by the bedroom door, listening. I wait, anticipating the thump of police boots on the stairs. It’s our online grocery delivery. I’d forgotten all about it. I hear Stuart exchanging pleasantries with the driver. After several minutes, my breathing still hasn’t returned to normal but my legs stop shaking. I call the doctor’s surgery.

“How did you do it?” asks the GP as she rolls down some blue paper onto the examination bed.

“I don’t know,” I say, clambering up. I lie down.

“Does it hurt when I do this?” Prod.

“No.”

Another prod. “This?”

“No.”

There’s no permanent damage, thankfully. I’m prescribed painkillers and told to be careful.

Back home, there is no way I can take it easy. I go to Camilla’s. We sip hot chocolate and talk in polite code because Louise is in the room. It’s impossible to articulate what I really want to say, and Camilla clearly feels as agitated as me.

“Lulu, sweetie, seeing as it’s such a rubbish day, why don’t you go and watch a movie in my room?” says Camilla. “As a one-off. You can even take your drink up with you.”

We remain silent for several moments, even once we’re alone.

“How did you manage to act so normally after Charlie died?” I say. “I remember you sitting by the pool in a pink sarong, sipping a cocktail as if nothing had happened. Like we’re doing now.”

“We had no choice but to behave as normal or go down the confessional route. One or the other. We made a decision and stuck with it. Shock is numbing. It insulates you from the true horror.”