‘I think the expression is usually “Penny for them?”’

Max jerked up, as if her voice had pulled him back from wherever he had been.

‘Fuck me, you’re hungry.’ He looked at her plate.

‘I didn’t fill it, Zadie’s mum did.’

Max raised one eyebrow. ‘Really? She must like you.’

‘I think she does, yeah. Remember, Zadie and I live together.’

‘Ah, yes, of course, the grand housing deception.’ His voice was soaked with contempt.

‘She told me that they wouldn’t pay her fees if she told them the truth.’

He scoffed. ‘Bollocks. They’d have one brief argument and then get over it. You think they want to tell all their nice friends that their bonkers daughter dropped out of university? Zadie’s all better now – that’s their story and they’re sticking to it.’

‘All better?’

Max shook his head and Chloe wasn’t bold enough to press him. ‘Where is Zadie?’

‘Sleeping, I think. She likes a disco nap before a late night.’ He took a sandwich off Chloe’s plate. ‘You should eat some of that. Astrid never serves dinner before about ten – you can starve to death in this house. Or drink yourself to death. Whichever comes first.’

Mrs Lister clinked a teaspoon against her cup and addressed the room. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to sing. I only wanted to say that we’ll expect you all downstairs dressed to the nines at half past seven. Last one down doesn’t get a drink.’

‘Do you really think she likes me?’ Chloe asked, sotto voce.

‘Trust me,’ replied Max. ‘If they didn’t, you’d know about it.’

14

Now

There was no obituary. Chloe had spent the rest of the day searching for one. She signed up to service after service, not even bothering to cover her tracks on the joint account, hoping that someone, somewhere, would be able to tell her what had happened to Zadie. She would be thirty-five. The same age as Chloe. A year and a half younger than Max. What did people die of in their mid-thirties? Childbirth. Cancer. Car accidents. Suicide. She searched for the statistics to back her assumption up. Car accidents and suicide. Then she searched for car accidents on and around Zadie’s death date. There were dozens. None of them fitted her description. She hadn’t had a driving licence back then. And she didn’t exactly seem the type to study for her theory test or learn to reverse around a corner.

There was one weapon in Chloe’s arsenal, one that she had been keeping for years, telling herself she would never use.

She had a phone number for Zadie’s younger sister, Louella, who had been an awkward, moody teenager when they had met all those years ago.