Clodagh sat inside the house, curtains closed and her phone switched off, trying to keep the outside world at bay. She’d left London first thing this morning, keen to escape both the city and Adam’s cloying concern. At some point during the day, news of Tara’s death had trickled out. Since then, Clodagh had been besieged by journalists phoning her, sending emails and – over the last two hours – incessantly ringing the intercom system at the gates.

Luckily, she had something to distract herself from all that. She’d bought a pregnancy test at London Bridge station and taken the test as soon as she got home. Two blue lines confirmed what she’d already suspected: she was pregnant. No doubt about it. Now she had the evidence to prove it, she suddenly wanted to tell someone. But there was no one to tell. Adam was still in London and wouldn’t be home until much later. And Ivan, the only other person she would have shared the news with, had disappeared.

She switched her phone on and dialled his number, allowing herself a moment’s hope that he might pick up. But after two rings, she got the same recorded message she’d been getting all week.

Hey this is Ivan. Leave your message. If I like you, I’ll call you back.

‘Your voicemail is a lie,’ Clodagh said after the beep. ‘I’ve been calling you for days now and you still haven’t called back. Where are you, Ivan? I’m worried.’

Normally, they were in regular contact. He was always texting her about random things that had happened to him, like the supermarket running out of his favourite brand of breakfast cereal, or some hot guy he’d met in a bar. Until this week, whenever Clodagh left him a message, he always phoned her back.

She saw she had new voice and text messages, and switched the phone back off without checking them. She was on her way to the kitchen to get some water when someone started banging on the front door. The noise triggered a sudden surge of anger. She’d assumed the locked gates would stop anyone coming into the garden. But it seemed as if one of the bastards had somehow managed to do just that. The thought of someone going to such lengths just to get a photo or a quote they could use for the evening news sickened her.

When there was another bang, followed by someone pressing down on the doorbell, Clodagh stormed through the house, ready to tell whoever was out there exactly what she thought of them.

But when she pulled open the front door, it wasn’t a journalist she saw standing on her doorstep. It was Bella.

‘What the hell?’ Clodagh said. ‘How did you get into the garden?’