‘Nope,’ I say. ‘I’m just at Thomas’s house.’ And then I give him a small smile. But, shit, that’s veering into crazy-girl territory, so I add, ‘A friend.’

‘Wait, which one was Thomas?’ Camilla asks.

But I can’t exactly answer that with him listening, so instead I say, ‘Yeah, okay, thanks, chat tomorrow?’

‘Is he listening?’ Camilla asks with a small laugh.

‘Bye,’ I say in a sing-song voice.

And then we hang up.

Thomas comes over and hands me my drink.

‘Cheers,’ he says. Our eyes meet and we clink glasses.

‘Cheers,’ I say and I take a sip.

He’s trying to figure out what to say. I watch him grapple with the options. Should he start by telling me how he’s met someone else, just in case I am here to win him back? Or should he do the kind thing and find out whether I’m okay first? I mean, I did say the ‘m’ word: murdered.

‘So?’ he asks, sitting down beside me.

What will he choose? What will he choose? What will he choose?

‘Are you okay?’ he asks. His face is a tightly knit ball. Option B.

I nod and take a sip of my drink. ‘It was just such a shock,’ I say. ‘I mean one minute I’m at a party and the next I’m looking at her picture in the paper, knowing I saw her right before she died.’

‘God,’ he says. ‘Who was it?’

‘Sabine Roux,’ I say, doing my best wounded bird impersonation. I need to get his sympathy, so he’s amenable when I ask for his help in a little while. ‘You’ve probably read about it in the papers?’ I say.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘It was that artist’s party, right?’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I was there for work. Talk about the assignment from hell.’

‘God, I know those,’ he says, eyes to the floor while he sips his drink.

I glance at his body language: his feet are pointed away from me and his hands are grasping his glass instead of reaching for my hand right now. It all screams: I want to be nice but also I want you to leave. Now is not the time to ask for help.

I need to soften him up first.

The man with the frilly neckline is watching us from the canvas, wondering why the hell I’m back. Why won’t I just leave his owner alone? ‘This is interesting,’ I say, standing up and moving over to it.

This is strategic, the painting is right by the bed. Because I’m going to need to sleep with him. Then he’ll feel like he took advantage of my vulnerable state and he’ll do whatever he needs to do to make himself feel better about that.

‘It came with the flat,’ Thomas says, swigging down his drink. I hear the glass hit the coffee table, then his footsteps.