George couldn’t come home. A meeting had run late and there was a conference call with New York, and it would be at least eleven before he made it.

“It’s fine,” said Veronica. “I’m going to order takeaway and go to bed,” then with a seductive smile that rippled through the phone line, added, “you can wake me up though…”

George, however, was concerned. “He’s probably in a pretty unhinged state now they’ve left,” he mulled. “I mean, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, but I’d feel better if there was somebody at the house with you, after that.”

“George, I’m fine,” smiled Veronica.

“I know, but–”

“What’s he going to do?”

“Nothing, I’m sure. But what’s the harm of an evening with a friend? Didn’t you say something about seeing Sarah?”

Veronica exhaled dramatically. She’d been trying to embrace her new boldness, but he was probably right, and they were both done with hiding their fears – Rosie hadn’t itched in over a week. Besides, there was still that niggling scrutinised feeling, an unsheddable shadow. “I suppose I could invite Sarah,” she replied finally.

Sarah

Even to Sarah, who had planned it, the laughter felt real and contagious. They sat close on the sofa, clinking glasses of a dry white that Veronica had brought back from a recent holiday, taking turns to pick at the last of the sushi. If she hadn’t considered things so carefully in advance, Sarah may even have been lured in by the magic of it, hooked by the old Veronica charm, that intoxicating feeling of being illuminated in her gaze. They had so far stayed away from the topic of Amelia. Instead, Veronica’s stories were riddled with humour and scandal, and as they filled each other in on decades missed, Sarah felt in her veins the creeping return of the condition conjured so expertly by the other woman: a treacherous combination of jealousy, and admiration, and love. Veronica was, as always, wonderful company.

Sarah wondered how she did it. Perhaps it was marble-made tenor, or the brightness of blonde, or the easy, flirtatious dance she concocted. The quality was almost palpable, smelling of summer; and yet it was intangible too, not something you could actually hold or feel or copy. When Veronica was looking at you, listening to you, loving you, you felt queen of the world; but you weren’t queen, because she was queen. It had always been this way. And despite a new softness, or carefulness maybe, Veronica was largely unchanged from the girl Sarah had known. Feet curled onto the sofa beneath her, hair loose and wet from being washed, Veronica could almost have been wearing a frill-trimmed swimming costume and tugging the ends of her chlorinated locks. She could almost have been devising dares. She could almost have been sidling carelessly across the gulf between Sarah and her sister. Or slamming the door of the pool house and disappearing into thin air.

Sarah had to hurry, before her resolve abandoned her. She had to make Veronica confess: what she had done to Amelia; perhaps, even, what she’d done to Sarah too. At the very least, she had to unravel her somehow, expose the deviousness beneath.