She could see Bree’s appeal. She was a good listener, and made you believe you could trust her with your deepest fears, or your most beloved husband. She fooled you into thinking she wasn’t a threat, but as she approached, April’s heart beat a little faster.

‘And how are you two for drinks?’ she asked, having left April and Keith’s corner until last. ‘We’re about to make our way outside to let in the New Year. Thank goodness it’s stopped raining.’

‘I’m fine with this,’ said Keith. April had let his inane chatter float over her and he appeared relieved to have the opportunity to make his excuses and leave.

Spotting the empty glass April had drained deliberately, Bree said, ‘Ah, we can’t have that. Do you fancy a drop of champagne?’

‘I’ll stick to lime and soda.’

‘Then why don’t you head outside while I top up your glass? I won’t be a minute,’ she said. She checked her watch and laughed. ‘I’d better not be, it’s almost twelve.’

As April followed Bree to the empty kitchen, her body shook, but she wouldn’t allow her nerve to fail. She clenched and unclenched her fist over the stone and kept her breathing steady as she watched her one-time friend splash soda water and lime carelessly into a glass. When Bree turned, she was surprised to find April blocking the doorway.

Bree handed her the drink and was confused when April didn’t move. ‘Shall we go?’

‘Not yet.’

From the street, they could hear people counting down to midnight. ‘April, we’re going to miss it.’

‘Who wants to see in a new fucking year when the man you loved died in the old one? I don’t. Do you?’

Refusing to acknowledge what April had implied, Bree said, ‘I know it’s hard, but we have to try.’

April didn’t budge. ‘Aren’t you sick of all this pretending?’ she asked. It sounded too much like a plea.

A cheer rose up and Bree glanced over April’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, but Callum’s going to be looking for me. If you want to sit this out, fine, but I have to go,’ she said, more in desperation.

‘Do I have to ask you outright?’ April said, cursing her voice for trembling. ‘Couldn’t you at least spare me that?’

The singing had started, although it took a few bars before the tune resembled anything close to ‘Auld Lang Syne’. It was almost too much, and April wanted to run, or scream, or smash her fist into Bree’s face, but instead she planted her feet firmly to the floor. She wouldn’t give Bree the excuse to dismiss her suspicions as the histrionics of a grieving widow.

‘What’s going on? I don’t understand,’ said Bree, eyes darting around the kitchen, anywhere but at April.