The love of my life, who could not, in a million years, have committed this crime. Or could you? Did I never really know you? I tremble inside.

Hands shaking, I park the car behind Harrods, and drag our suitcase out of the boot. I breathe deeply to calm myself as we walk around the corner to the entrance of Aiden’s block of flats. Red-brick sophistication in this famous part of London. I admire the curved doorways and elaborate floral designs carved into the brick. It’s hard to imagine, when he lives in such city centre splendour, why he spends so much time out with us in the sticks. But then my stomach tightens. I know exactly why he does.

Aiden has given me the codes to his luxury life. I press buttons, the door opens and we step inside the marble-floored building. We call the lift. It whips us up to the third floor in seconds. Aiden, dressed in his silk housecoat and pointy slippers, is waiting for us at the door of his flat.

‘Welcome,’ he says.

We step into his bachelor pad. Cold white stone. Mirrors. Glass. An apartment designed to look at, not live in. Another reason why he spends so much time at ours?

‘Come with me, boys. I’ve set up the computer,’ Aiden says taking their hands and leading them through the living area, towards the bedrooms and his study. ‘What do you fancy to play?’ He pauses. ‘Cuphead? Minecraft? Super Mario?’ he suggests. Relieved to be free of my responsibility for a while, I sink into Aiden’s low-backed designer sofa and close my eyes. Trying to behave normally in front of the children when I’m dying inside, means every hour is a battle. Everything is exhausting. I feel as if I am wading through lead. Living life in slow motion.

Aiden is back. ‘Would you like a whisky?’ he asks.

I open my eyes, and look at my watch.

‘It’s eleven in the morning,’ I reply.

‘I didn’t ask the time. I asked whether you wanted a whisky.’

‘Hell, yes.’

He pours us both a stiff one, with ice. He sits down next to me.

‘How is she?’ he asks.

I put my head in my hands and cry.

151

Hayley

Jono’s squat is a bit of a dump. I don’t know why he’s so proud of it.

‘What’s not to like about my comfortable home?’ he asks as he catches me wrinkling my nose as I enter.

I don’t know where to start, so I don’t reply.

‘You know I like it because it’s rent-free,’ he continues. ‘I’ve told you before just how sought-after this area is. But I suppose because you’re a Kiwi you’re not impressed to live near a shedload of Chelsea footballers. Esher is where they have their training ground. How cool is that? I saw Frank Lampard in Waitrose last week.’