I stand up as calmly as I can and grab my bag. I avoid Wesley’s eyes but can feel him watching me as I move across the room. I push open the bathroom door, move past the sink and mirror, pull open the cubicle, kneel on the cold tiles, hold back my hair with one hand and, as quietly as I can, vomit into the toilet bowl.

Sabine’s voice echoes in my head: ‘C’est pour ta femme.’

My stomach contracts and bile fills my mouth and I vomit again. I grit my teeth and focus on the sound of my breath and the almost imperceptible hum of conversation coming in from outside.

I need to pull myself together. If someone finds me here there will be questions. Questions I’m not ready for. I reach for the loo roll and blow my nose. And, with the cool floor beneath me, I think of Noah and our conversation about Sabine in the bistro last night.

‘She’s not replying to my calls.’

This must be why. Has he seen the papers? Does he know?

I should call him. I fumble around in my handbag, find my phone, go to my Instagram messages and tap on his most recent message: his phone number.

My breath is quick and my thoughts fractured as I tap on it and listen as the line rings.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

‘Hey, you’ve called Noah. Leave a message.’

Beep.

I speak before I really think it through, adrenaline making my words quick and jittery. ‘Hey, Noah, it’s me, I just saw the news about Sabine and Friday night and I—’

But instead of finishing the message, I hang up. Quickly. What was I thinking?

Because it was Noah’s party. If it turns out something has happened to Sabine, the police will question him. They’ll want to know who was there. And right now, nobody knows my real name. Nobody knows I was there. I can walk away and pretend it never happened. Without ever talking to the police. Without risking Hyacinth finding out. Because it’s not like I know anything. It’s not like I can help.

I push myself up and unlock the cubicle door. It swings open with a squeak. I move over to the white ceramic sink and splash my face with cold water. I take a deep breath. I reach for a paper towel from the dispenser above the bin and dab my face dry. Blot my mascara and reach into my bag for my lip gloss. As I trace my lips with vanilla, my mind calms. Because there’s no need to do anything rash right now. It could be a false alarm. She could turn up tomorrow. The press probably wouldn’t even be reporting this if it hadn’t come hot on the heels of the Matilde Beaumont story. I can just ride it out.

You’re fine, Harper. Fine.

Chapitre Quatorze