I stand at the edge of the swimming pool and press the button to remove the cover. The motor whirs, as the grey plastic pool guard pulls back slowly. I slip off my wraparound dress, kick off my sandals, and stand at the deep end of the pool in my swimming costume.

I dive in. The water slips past my body, amniotic fluid, comforting me. My head emerges from the blurred world beneath, and the bright August day pushes into my eyes and makes me blink. I begin my swim. Twenty lengths of breaststroke. I do this every day. My body has never been more toned.

I push through the water, stretching every limb, every muscle, every cell. From the tips of my fingers to the edges of my toes. Push. Push. Breathe. Breathe. Go. Go. Go. After ten lengths I hold on to the edge of the pool, panting. And then I go again. Sliding my body back through the water. Pushing, pulling my limbs through the water. Projecting my torso. So fast I’m pushing through pain. Twenty lengths over, I step out of the pool, and check the time on my waterproof watch. Twenty lengths in thirteen minutes. Not bad. I’m improving.

I grab a towel from the basket by the pool and wrap it around my shoulders. I look at my watch again. I’d better hurry up or I’ll be late for yoga. My iPhone buzzes. A text.

Jono.

See you tonight?

Sorry. Busy.

I’m not in the mood for Jono right now, I think as I step into the kitchen to fetch the keys to Saffron’s Merc. I grab a bottle of San Pellegrino from the fridge to drink as I drive to the RAC Club. Saffron’s membership has temporarily been assigned to me.

155

Miles

PC Jenifer Tomlinson is sitting in the drawing room opposite me; back straight, hands neatly on her lap. Every time I see her, there is something beetle-like about her: scurrying, shiny, neat.

‘We’ve received the full autopsy report. Your mother had cancer.’

My heart stops.

I shake my head. ‘I didn’t know.’

Jenifer Tomlinson’s mouth grimaces slightly, but not enough to spoil the shape of her pert little lips. She shakes her head, sadly. ‘It had metastasised throughout her whole body.’

‘But … but … what sort of cancer?’ I splutter.

She frowns. ‘They think the primary site was her breasts.’

I want to scream. I want to cry. Why didn’t she tell us? Her own mother died of breast cancer. Maybe it was hereditary.

Jenifer Tomlinson crosses her legs and adjusts the angle of her back in the antique chair she is sitting in. ‘Do you think your mother knew she was ill?’