Sienna doesn’t believe her; that much is clear. It’s been a week now since they spoke on the day of the funeral and there’s been no contact on Sienna’s part. Abby has messaged her, telling her she’s here if Sienna needs to talk, but all she gets in return is silence. It’s not a peaceful silence, a symbol of moving on. Instead, it’s laced with foreboding.

There is nothing Abby can say to make her believe that she didn’t sleep with Greg, and it’s only natural that Sienna won’t trust what she’s told her Greg admitted to. What worries her, though, is the possibility that Sienna knows what happened to Greg. It’s been a rapidly expanding thought in her head, the only one that makes sense. Sienna is someone who had every reason to hate Greg.

She’s scrolling through job vacancies when she gets the email. As soon as she sees the name, she knows she should delete it. Most of her wants to, but there’s that tiny part – so much stronger – that won’t allow her. It’s always been this way.

Meet me. Please. I’m staying at the Marriott Hotel in Grosvenor Square. Room 231.

She closes the email. Now she wishes she’d had the strength to delete it.

All day she tries to ignore it, but it’s there constantly, taunting her. They do need to talk, there is no doubt about that, but it will come at a cost. She takes her mobile upstairs, buries it under the duvet before going back down again. She uses the house phone to call Mel; she wants to tell her everything, plans to, until the words wither and die in her mouth.

At just after six p.m., she leaves the house, telling herself she needs to get out, that some fresh air will help clear her mind.

And then she is standing outside the hotel, walking towards it as if she’s being pulled by a magnetic force. It’s meant to be this way, she tells herself with each step she takes towards room 231.

‘You came,’ he says, reaching out and gently pulling her into the room. ‘I didn’t think you would.’

‘It doesn’t mean anything that I’m here.’ She pulls away but still steps inside.

He smiles. ‘Well, it has to mean something. Everything means something.’ He’s always so sure of himself; she remembers that about him. ‘Come and sit with me,’ he continues, and she notices the bottle of wine on the table. Two glasses ready to be filled.

‘That’s a bit presumptuous, isn’t it?’ She points to the table.

‘How do you know I’m not expecting someone else?’

‘Like your wife, you mean?’ She regrets it as soon as the words leave her mouth.

‘I’ve left her, Abby. It’s over. I know I should have done it years ago—’