‘You went digging around in my past,’ Stacey says, meeting my eyes in the mirror. ‘Did you really think I wouldn’t start digging around in yours?’

chapter 57

millie

I’m a cardiothoracic surgeon: keeping cool under pressure is what I do best. ‘How did you get into my car?’ I ask calmly.

‘You left it unlocked when you went back into your house for your handbag,’ Stacey says. ‘You really should be more careful, Millie. London can be a dangerous place. There are all sorts of dodgy people around, and this is an expensive vehicle. In the time it took you to get your bag your car could’ve been stolen.’

‘Careless of me,’ I say. ‘I’ll have to remember to lock it next time.’

‘If there is a next time,’ Stacey says.

I shift in my seat to get a better angle in the mirror, trying to see if she has a weapon. I can only make out her head and shoulders in the dark: she could have a knife or even a gun in her lap.

‘Keep driving,’ she says, as I slow for the intersection with the main road.

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Well, that would be a little awkward for both of us, wouldn’t it?’

I pause at the junction, my hand on the indicator. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Home,’ she says.

‘Yours or mine?’

She laughs. ‘It doesn’t much matter, does it? We live less than a dozen streets apart, so either way we’re heading in the same direction.’

We could be car-pooling on the school run. I turn left onto the unlit lane at the end of the drive, my headlights picking out the cats’ eyes down the centre of the road. Stacey has never been more dangerous than she is now, cornered and on the back foot.

‘It wasn’t very nice of you to leak that video,’ she says chidingly. ‘Do you know how much extra work you made for my agent? She was up all night drafting a press release for me.’

‘She might as well earn her commission,’ I say. ‘What angle did she come up with?’

‘The obvious one: self-defence after a decade of abuse. You didn’t see my statement to the press? It was all over the news this afternoon.’

‘Forgive me. I’ve been a little distracted.’

Stacey glances out of the window. It’s started to drizzle: my windscreen wipers scrape against the glass. ‘I think you might’ve done me a favour,’ she says. ‘I’ve already had a couple of domestic abuse shelters contact me asking me to be their patron. The Centre for Women’s Justice — or was it Justice for Women? — want me to join their campaign for penal reform for women who hit back against their abusers. Did you know nearly forty percent of female murder victims were killed by a current or former partner, against just four percent of male victims?’