Maybe her intention was clearly written on her face because Portia grasped her elbow in a firm grip and led her from the room. She didn’t let go when they reached Allison’s bedroom, leading her inside and, without a word, turning her around and undoing the zip of her black dress.

Portia didn’t stop then, helping Allison out of her underwear, opening the drawers of the dresser in search of something appropriate, finally helping her into a T-shirt. Allison didn’t resist, even as the garment was slipped over her head and she realised, despite being laundered, it still smelt of Peter.

It was easier to give in to Portia’s ministrations. Easier to go where she was led, do as she was directed.

‘Try and get some sleep,’ Portia said, tucking the duvet around Allison’s shoulders and bending to place a light kiss on her cheek. ‘Call if you need me.’

Allison waited until she heard the spare bedroom door click shut before throwing the covers back and swinging her feet to the floor. She sat on the edge of the bed and wrapped her arms around herself, bringing her T-shirt-clad shoulder to her nose and inhaling deeply, crying out when instead of Peter’s scent she smelt Portia’s rather overpowering perfume. Nothing was staying the same.

Getting to her feet, she crossed to the window and looked out at the empty street below. It had started to rain, the light from the street light reflected in the raindrops, softening the hard edges of the houses opposite, blurring the boundaries of the footpaths and road. Making it all surreal. Like her life.

The sash window was locked. She reached up and slid the catch across before pushing the cross bar up as far as it would go. Bending to lean out, she gasped a mouthful of night air mixed with raindrops, and as she did the lines of a poem she’d read many years before came to her. All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.

This lovely house was hers, but without Peter, was it really a home? Had she once again made a terrible mistake?

23

Jo tapped her mobile against the palm of her other hand. Allison had sounded pathetically grateful for her call. A slight smile twisted her mouth as she replayed the conversation in her head, weighing up the words used, the tone of voice. She’d heard the lie, of course; it wasn’t difficult – Peter hadn’t turned up, obviously – but it was a lie easy to forgive.

Until that day, she’d assumed everything in Allison’s life was rosy… every post and photograph on Instagram supported that belief. Now she knew the truth.

Allison hadn’t changed from the girl Jo had known all those years before after all.