The smile froze on Charlotte’s face. ‘Oh—’

‘No, no, I don’t mean it as a diss or nothing,’ Lucy said quickly. ‘Oh, I can’t find the right words for it. It’s just a bit of a sense I get with you, you know? Some people you meet and they’re like old souls, aren’t they? You feel like they’ve been here before.’ She widened her eyes spookily. ‘But with you, it’s like, no matter how smiley you are, there’s still something . . . sad in you.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Sorry, no offence. I don’t mean to keep calling you sad. I can’t think of the right word.’

‘None taken,’ Charlotte said, keeping her smile fixed. ‘But please don’t worry about me. I really am perfectly happy. Very happy in fact. Not sad at all.’

Lucy’s face brightened further, as she remembered something. ‘Oh my God, that’s right. Last time I saw you in London, you’d just got engaged.’ She leant forward, reaching for Charlotte’s hand. ‘Ooh that lovely ring he gave you. Let me see it ag—’

Her voice faltered as she saw the bare ring finger. She looked up at Charlotte in alarm.

‘It’s fine!’ Charlotte smiled, seeing the panic on her face. ‘I’m just having it resized. It kept spinning round on my finger.’

‘Oh my God, thank fuck,’ Lucy laughed, slapping her hand to her chest. ‘I really thought I’d put my foot in it there.’

‘No, don’t worry, we’re absolutely fine.’

Lucy gave a small snort. ‘That’s what I say to my mum when she rings. “I’m fine.”’ She looked up suddenly. ‘It’s the most common lie in the world, did you know that?’

Charlotte shook her head, feeling her heart flutter slightly, like a child startled in its sleep.

‘Yeah, I read that somewhere.’

Charlotte kept her face neutral, but her gaze down. She didn’t want Lucy seeing her eyes now. Because if ‘being fine’ was a lie, only one of them here was going to admit to it.

Chapter Two

The apartment was west-facing, the Spanish sun pooling on the parquet floor; the bank reserved it exclusively for senior executive use – and favoured consultants. Charlotte sat with her legs outstretched, bare feet on the ironwork railings, skirt hitched up to tan her thighs – watching as the city six storeys down ran through its rush-hour cycle: red tail lights stretching along the boulevards, cyclists weaving down through one-way streets and narrow alleys, the distant rumble of trains underscoring the bad-tempered traffic. The wine glass was weighty in her hand; beads of condensation matched the sweat on her upper lip. The temperature here always took some adjusting to, especially coming straight from London.

‘Hey! Finally. I thought I’d never get hold of you,’ she said into the phone, the ringtone against her ear immediately switching to another background soundtrack of traffic.

‘Oh, Charlotte, I’m just rushing off.’ Stephen sounded harried.

‘Where are you?’ She sipped the wine, watching as an elderly lady walked her dog.