It was a filthy night for a party. The rain was marching in columns off the sea and drumming against the house, but the gravel couldn’t drain quickly enough and puddles were starting to form between the parked cars. Earlier in the day, Cory had managed to unhook the white fairy lights from the tall trees at the end of the garden and hang them round the pillared porch, where they now swung wildly in the wind, failing to provide much light. I couldn’t distinguish anybody’s face from here, only wet glints on hurrying umbrellas and huddled raincoats. One woman sat in her car for ages after she’d parked, as if bracing herself to get out. Another stumbled on her high heels as she crossed to the house, and the man who was with her said, “Bollocks to this!” as he caught her by the arm. He must have said it pretty loudly because I couldn’t make out anyone else’s voice, except Cory’s.

“Welcome! Come on in!” he shouted every time he opened the door. We’d planned to prop it open until everyone had arrived, but that wasn’t going to work when the weather was so blustery. “Welcome! Let me take your coats!”

I ought to have hurried downstairs and joined him before he came upstairs to fetch me. I’d already heard him apologise for me several times. “Freya will be down in just a moment,” he’d said, and one of the guests must have queried this because he’d replied, “No, no, not Diana. Freya. Freya is my . . . I’m afraid my mother won’t be here at all; she’s not feeling well.”

The fairy lights blinked and dimmed. Yet another car emerged from the woods just as I’d persuaded myself to leave, and I hung on in case it was Tom’s Ford Fiesta. Not that I’d be able to tell. Even when it had parked and the passengers were piling out, I couldn’t see much from here. I reached for my phone.

Where are you? xxx

It was the first message I’d written in two months, and I sent it to Dad because Tom would be driving. Whether anyone had messaged me during those two months was a moot point; either they hadn’t, or Cory had deleted everything from my inbox. That was the likeliest explanation, wasn’t it? Somebody—somebody—must have tried to get in touch? I crunched the last few sugared almonds.

Maggie, I remembered gratefully, dusting crumbs from the front of my dress. Maggie had texted me—she’d said so this morning. I put the empty jar down, squared my shoulders, and turned toward the door.