There is a sound outside, the scamper of paws, the noise of feet on the jetty, and my head comes up in time to see Kate and Thea open the shore door and come inside, stamping the sand and mud off their feet. Kate is laughing, some of the strain that has been in her face for the last twenty-four hours ebbing away, but her expression turns wary as she looks from Fatima to me and back.

‘What’s going on?’ she asks. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘I’m going.’ Fatima picks up the shards of broken cup from the floor and dumps them on the drainer, then she wipes her hands on the tea towel and comes to stand beside me. ‘I need to be back in London. So does Isa.’

‘No.’ Kate’s voice is firm, urgent. ‘You can’t.’

‘Come back with me!’ Fatima says desperately. She waves a hand around at the Mill. ‘You’re not safe here and you know it. Isa – tell them about the note!’

‘What note?’ Thea’s face is alarmed. ‘Will someone explain?’

‘Kate got a note,’ Fatima spits, ‘saying Why don’t you throw this one in the Reach too? Someone knows, Kate! Is it Luc? Did you tell him? Is that what this is all about?’ Kate doesn’t answer. She is shaking her head in a kind of mute misery, but I’m not sure what she’s saying no to – the idea that she would tell Luc, or the idea that it’s him, or whether she’s answering Fatima at all.

‘Someone knows,’ Fatima says again, her voice rising in pitch. ‘You have to leave!’

Kate shakes her head again, and she closes her eyes, pressing her fingers against them as if she doesn’t know what to say, but when Fatima says again ‘Kate, are you listening to me?’ she looks up.

‘I can’t leave, Fati. You know why.’

‘Why not? Why can’t you just pack up and walk away?’

‘Because nothing has changed – whoever wrote that note hasn’t gone to the police, which means either they’re just speculating, or they’ve got more to lose than we have. We’re still safe. But if I run, people will know I have something to hide.’

‘Well, you stay if you want.’ Fatima turns, begins picking up her bag, her sunglasses from the table. ‘But I’m not. There’s no reason for me to stay here.’

‘There is.’ Kate’s voice is hard now. ‘At least for one night. Be reasonable, Fatima. Stay for the alumnae dinner – if you don’t, it punches a hole a mile wide in the reason you’re down here. If you don’t go to the dinner, why would you all suddenly be here after so long?’

She doesn’t say what that reason is. She doesn’t need to. Not with the headline still blaring from every copy of the local newspaper.

‘Fuck,’ Fatima says suddenly, loudly and viciously. She drops her bag on the floor and paces to the window, banging her forehead gently against the rippled-glass pane. ‘Fuck.’

When she turns back, her face is accusing.

‘Why the hell did you bring us down here, Kate? To make sure we’re as implicated as you?’

‘What?’ Kate’s face looks like Fatima has slapped her, and she takes a step back. ‘No! Jesus, Fatima, of course not. How can you even say that?’

‘Then why?’ Fatima cries.

‘Because I couldn’t think how else to tell you!’ Kate shouts back. Her olive cheeks are flushed, though whether with shame or anger, I can’t tell. When she speaks again, it’s to Shadow, as if she can’t bear to look at us. ‘What was the alternative? Email you? Because I don’t know about you, but that’s not something I want on my computer records. Phone you up and spill it out while your husbands listened in the background? I asked you to come down because I thought you deserved to be told face-to-face, and because it seemed like the safest option, and yes, if I’m honest, because I’m a selfish bitch, and I needed you.’

Her chest is rising and falling, and for a minute I think she is going to burst into tears, but she doesn’t, instead it’s Fatima who stumbles across the room to pull Kate into a hug.

‘I’m sorry,’ she manages. ‘I should never – I’m so sorry.’

‘I’m sorry too,’ Kate says, her voice muffled by Fatima’s scarf. ‘This is all my fault.’

‘Stop,’ Thea cuts her off. She goes across to the two of them, and puts her arms around them both. ‘Kate, this is on all of us, not just you. If it hadn’t have been for what we did –’

She doesn’t finish, but she doesn’t need to. We all know what we did, the way that slow, sunlit summer unravelled beneath our fingers, taking Ambrose with it.

‘I’ll stay the night,’ Fatima says at last, ‘but I still don’t want to go to the dinner. After everything that happened – how can you think of going back, Kate? After what they did?’

‘We have the invitations …’ Thea says slowly. ‘Isn’t that enough? Can’t we say we decided not to go at the last minute, that Fati’s car wouldn’t start, or something? Isa? What do you think?’

They turn to me, all three of them – three faces, so physically different, and yet their expressions identical: worry, fear, expectation.

‘We should go,’ I say at last. I don’t want to, I want to stay here in the warmth and quiet of the Mill. Salten House is the last place I want to go back to. But Kate has already bought the tickets in our names, and we can’t undo that. If we don’t attend there will be four empty places on the seating plan and four unclaimed name tags at the entrance. People know we came down – in a small town like this there are no secrets. If we don’t attend they will ask why. Why we changed our minds. And worst of all, why we came down in the first place, if not for the dinner. And we can’t afford questions.

‘But what about Freya?’ Fatima asks, and I realise she’s right. I hadn’t even thought about Freya. Our eyes turn to her, playing contentedly on her back on the rug, chewing some garish piece of bright-coloured plastic. She feels our eyes on her and looks up, and laughs, a gurgling joyous laugh that makes me want to snatch her up and hold her close.

‘Could I take her?’ I ask doubtfully. Kate’s face is blank.

‘Shit, I never thought of Freya. Hang on.’ She gets her phone out, and I peer over her shoulder as she brings up the school website, and clicks on the ‘alumnae’ tab.

‘Dinner … dinner … here we are. FAQs … tickets for guests … oh crap.’

I read aloud over her shoulder: ‘Partners and older children are welcome, but we regret this formal event is not suitable for babies or children under ten. We can supply a list of local sitters, or B&Bs with babysitting facilities upon request.’

‘Great.’

‘I’m sorry, Isa. But there’s half a dozen girls in the village who’d come out.’

I bite back the remark that it’s not that simple. Freya has never taken bottles well, and besides, even if she did, I don’t have any feeding equipment with me.

I could blame it on the bottles, but it would be a kind of lie, because the bigger truth is that I simply don’t want to leave her.

‘I’ll have to try to get her down before they come,’ I say reluctantly. ‘There’s no way she’ll go down for a stranger, she won’t sleep for Owen let alone someone she’s never met. What time does it start?’

‘Eight,’ Kate says.

Shit. It will be touch and go. Freya is sometimes asleep by seven, sometimes she’s awake and chirruping at nine. But there’s no way around this.

‘Give me a number,’ I say to Kate. ‘I’ll call. It’s better if I talk to them direct, make sure they’re reasonably savvy about babies.’

Kate nods.

‘Sorry, Isa.’

‘She’ll be fine,’ Fatima says sympathetically. She puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezes gently. ‘The first time is always the hardest.’

I feel a wave of irritation. She doesn’t mean to pull the ‘experienced mother’ card, but she can’t help it, and the worst of it is, I know she’s right, she has two children and a vast amount more experience than I have, she has been here before and knows what it’s like. But she doesn’t know Freya, and even if she thinks she remembers the edgy nervousness of the first time she left her baby with a stranger, she doesn’t really, not with the visceral immediacy that I am feeling in this moment.