‘Of course.’ Molly stood and fetched the cafetière from the counter. She brushed the eye-colour error aside. It wasn’t important. After all, it wasn’t as if Amelia had seen his eyes. If she had she’d have remembered the colour. Molly filled both their mugs, wondering how much caffeine she’d need to ingest before she felt in any way alert.

‘You have to stop blaming yourself,’ Amelia said, adding milk to hers. ‘Eventually it will all blow over. Jack won’t stay mad with you, he’s not that sort.’

He’s not that sort. Molly picked up her mug and took a long drink to hide her annoyance. Since when had Amelia become an expert on her husband. For goodness’ sake, they barely knew one another. Over the years, they’d met maybe a handful of times and only on a couple of occasions since Amelia and Tristan had returned to live in London.

Molly lifted her eyes from her coffee to regard her friend suspiciously, remembering how pleased she was to see Jack mixing with her female friends at their party. Maybe it was only one he had mixed with, Amelia tossing her damn hair around and laughing at something he had said. And what was it she had said later… oh yes, that Jack was one of the sexiest men she’d ever met. Molly had thought she’d imagined the expression of lust on her friend’s face. Maybe she hadn’t.

‘Is Tristan still away?’ Molly asked, having a vague recollection he’d said he was flying somewhere after the weekend.

‘Yes, he’s in Berlin for a couple more days, endless meetings about something or other. I would have gone but Berlin isn’t my favourite city. And anyway,’ she said, ‘I’ve a lot on here.’

Jack never had said where he’d spent the night, could he have gone to Amelia, maybe to question her about the weekend, staying for the comfort she would have happily given? That Jack was her friend’s husband wouldn’t have stopped Amelia from taking what she wanted, especially if it wasn’t the first time.

Molly shut her eyes on the tears that had begun to gather as if it would stop them falling. It didn’t work, she could feel them squeeze their way out to tremble a moment in the corner of her eyes before gathering momentum and careering down her cheeks.

‘Oh, don’t cry, Mol!’

Amelia did sincere entreaty so well, Molly thought, opening her eyes. She brushed the tears away with her fingers and looked at her friend. She looked sincere too. But suspicions, once aroused, were hard to put to sleep. Amelia and Jack. Was it possible? And what about that amazing brown eyes remark? What was it the police had said, something about Lucien Pleasant liking rich, vulnerable women?

Vulnerable like her; rich like Amelia.