After showering, I go into the bedroom and open the wardrobe door. I love this little cottage, but its one downside is the lack of storage space. All my clothes are crammed into one half – okay, two thirds – of a double wardrobe. Joe’s clothes are squashed into the remaining third. He doesn’t seem to mind, thank goodness. I pull out a suitable dress, ease the material over my head and smooth it down, watching it flare out over my hips. The burnt-orange colour brings out the reddish lights in my chestnut hair. Even so, I gaze critically at myself in the mirror. It needs a belt, so I root through the crush of clothes in the wardrobe and settle on a cream leather one that will go with my tan and cream Mary Janes.

I’m surprised that I actually look half decent. I suppose that’s the miracle of good clothes and make-up. Inside, I feel frayed and unravelled, as though I’ve aged ten years. I barely managed one extra hour’s sleep this morning after last night’s episode, which all seems like an outlandish dream.

I haven’t heard back from the police yet, so I assume they’re still waiting for the crime scene officers to show up. I called George earlier this morning to break the bad news. Told him I’d sort out a glazier tomorrow on my day off. He thanked me and said he’d give me a bonus on top of this month’s wages. So I guess at least that’s something.

As for the hand-delivered letters and the magnetic letters message, I can hardly bear to think about them. I’m pinning all my hopes on the police finding the culprit, but I know this isn’t a realistic hope. Even with the authorities taking things seriously, there’s no guarantee they’ll find any fingerprints. If someone is going to the trouble of freaking me out, they’ll probably have worn gloves to create their creepy letters and messages. To top it all off, I’ve got a potentially stressful family lunch to look forward to today, so my nerves would be frayed even without the break-in and the lack of sleep.

I take a breath and wonder if I could get away with a quick gin and tonic to settle my nerves. But the risk is I’d have a second, followed by a third, which would render me halfway to drunk, and then I’d end up saying something I shouldn’t to my perfect sister and my critical mother. At least Dad will be there – a mellow port in stormy seas.

Another thing that’s got me worried is Frank’s disappearance. It’s been almost two days now. And, yes, he’s gone roaming for longer than that before, but I can’t help worrying that something might have happened to him. If he’s not back by this evening, I’m going to go out searching for him and put posters up. I twist my hair up into a French roll, pin it in place and then make my way downstairs, where Joe is waiting for me in the kitchen, dressed in chinos and a short-sleeved shirt.

I told Joe about the magnetic letters and about CSI, but I haven’t mentioned that Leon Whittaker asked me out yesterday. If I tell Joe about him, he won’t stop to think – he’ll go round to Whittaker’s wine bar and start throwing punches at Leon. And that will be that; he’ll be sent to jail without passing Go.

Anyway, aside from all that business, Joe looks as miserable as I feel this morning.

‘It’ll be over in a few hours,’ I say.

‘Do we have to go?’ His eyes are wide, pleading. ‘Can you go without me?’

I give him my death glare and he holds his hands up. ‘Joke!’ he cries. ‘You know I’d never let you suffer through it on your own.’

‘I’m sorry, Joe. I know how awkward this is for you.’

But it’s Mum’s birthday today, and every year we always go out for lunch and pretend to be this wonderful, loving family. I wonder if Mum would still think my sister was such a golden girl if she knew the truth about what she did. That she tried to steal my boyfriend. I wonder if Emma will ever own up to it? Maybe it’s easier for her just to pretend it never happened. Pretend I don’t exist. But I can’t deny that it still hurts.

‘Come on then,’ I say, putting my phone in my handbag. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’ Joe asks. ‘After last night… that was pretty stressful for you. I’m sure they’d understand. I mean, you’ve had no sleep, a break-in at the shop, you’re being harassed. Do I need to go on?’

‘Nice try, Mr Lawrence, but you know as well as I do that nothing barring death keeps anyone from attending Mum’s birthday lunch. I’d never hear the end of it. It’s three hours of pain, and then we can come home and relax for the rest of the day.’ I turn at a sound from the back door, my breath catching in my throat. But I relax when I see who it is.

‘Frank!’ I’m flooded with such joy at the sight of his marmalade face and white socks.

‘Hey, Frankie boy.’ Joe leans down and picks him up, scratches behind his ears while Frank purrs like a washing machine on its spin cycle.

‘Where have you been, you naughty creature… is that blood?’

‘Where?’ Joe frowns and looks down at our errant cat.

‘There! On his left, no, on his right paw. Looks like dried blood.’ I gingerly reach across and pick up his foot, but Frank isn’t happy about this. His ears flatten and he gives a low yowl like a dog. He’s never done that before. Never. His paw must be hurting. ‘Put him down a sec.’

Joe does as I ask and Frank walks straight over to his food bowl. But I notice he doesn’t bear any weight on his bad foot.

‘He must have cut it on something,’ Joe says. ‘Poor guy. Nothing wrong with his appetite, though.’ Frank is tucking into his breakfast like he hasn’t eaten for days, which I suppose he hasn’t. I’ve been putting fresh food out twice a day since his disappearance.

‘We should probably take him to the vet,’ Joe says.

‘I know. But if we go to the vet’s, we won’t make Mum’s lunch. She’ll use this against me for months. You know what she’s like. I can hear her now: “Well, you know Lizzy, she thinks more of her cat than her own mother”.’

Joe’s shoulders droop, knowing this last opportunity to get out of the meal has been shut down. I’d rather take Frank straight to the vet, but apart from his paw he seems okay.

‘I’ll make an appointment to take him later,’ I say. ‘He seems all right for now, don’t you think?’

Joe shrugs.

‘What?’

‘It’s just, normally you treat Frank like a little prince, like he’s your baby. I’m surprised you aren’t rushing him round to the vet’s in an ambulance.’

‘Ha, ha, very funny. I’m not that bad.’ In truth, I’m so tired I can hardly think straight. Everything feels a little surreal. All I know is, I can’t give Mum an excuse to have a go at me. I couldn’t cope with that on top of everything else that’s going on. ‘I’ll lock the cat flap. Don’t want Frank disappearing again.’

‘Good idea. I’ll put out a litter tray.’

After Frank has eaten his fill, he jumps into a basket of laundry, curls up with the tip of his tail over his nose, closes his eyes and goes to sleep. A glance at the kitchen clock tells me we’re going to be late.

‘Come on then,’ Joe says. ‘Frank looks happy enough, let’s go and get this over with.’

I nod and follow my boyfriend out of the house.

---

We arrive at the Italian restaurant, in nearby Tetbury, twenty minutes late. My family are already seated around a rectangular table, but they get to their feet when we walk in. Joe and I wish my mum a happy birthday and I give her the beautifully gift-wrapped silk scarf I picked out from the shop, and a bouquet of roses.

‘Lovely, Lizzy. Thank you,’ Mum says, giving me a dry kiss on the cheek. ‘Pretty roses. Although I hope they don’t wilt while we’re sitting here.’

‘They’ll be fine, Mum.’

Subtly made up, my mum looks as immaculate as ever, her brown hair tied back in a sleek chignon, her fitted floral dress perfect for her trim figure. ‘You look tired,’ she says, casting a critical gaze over me, then placing my gift in her handbag without opening it.

‘I’m okay. Just been busy at work.’

‘If you want to know about being busy, you should speak to your sister,’ Mum says. ‘Emma’s been to a conference in America this month. A proper little jet-setter.’

‘Nice,’ I say, without looking at my sister.

‘Hello, Joe.’ Mum gives him a curt nod and lets him kiss her cheek.

‘Happy birthday, Pam.’ Joe catches my eye and grins.

Despite my dread at the lunch ahead, I stifle a giggle. If you can’t laugh…

‘Lizzy, love.’ Dad comes over and envelops me in a huge bear hug. I’m overwhelmed with the aroma of his aftershave and cigarette smoke, that familiar scent of security and comfort. Unlike my mum, Dad has let himself go a bit. His once sandy hair is now grey; his belly hangs over the waistband of his suit trousers. And he would live in scruffy old shorts and T-shirts if he had his way. Mum nags him about what he eats and what he wears, but he pays her absolutely no attention. Despite this, Mum still adores him. I wonder, sometimes, if she’s jealous of my relationship with him. I’ve always been a daddy’s girl, and he sticks up for me whenever Mum gets on my case about my weight, or my job, or any other lifestyle choice she doesn’t agree with.

‘Hi, Dad. How you doing? How’s the microbrewery?’

‘Good, love. I’m giving that Ray Tanner a run for his money. The man wouldn’t know a good ale if it bit him on the arse.’ Apparently Dad’s best friend, Ray, has also turned his shed into a brewery and there’s a bit of not-so-friendly rivalry going on.

‘Hello, Joe.’ Emma’s fiancé Mike Prince holds out his hand for Joe to shake. Mike’s far older than my twenty-nine-year-old sister. In his mid-forties, with greying hair, he’s an orthopaedic surgeon who never says much at these family gatherings. Consequently, I don’t really know him and he doesn’t seem interested in getting to know me either. Emma and Mike live in Bristol in a fancy waterside apartment. Not that I’ve ever been there, but Mum likes to keep me informed about their ever-increasing upward mobility.

Mike nods at me and I give him a lukewarm smile. It’s a testament to how bad things are between me and Emma that we don’t even acknowledge one another. No eye contact. Not even a hello or a nod. But Mum and Dad don’t remark on it. I guess if you ignore something, you can pretend it isn’t happening.

I wish I could sit next to Dad, but there’s no space. Instead, I find myself with Joe to my left and Mum to my right.

In actual fact, lunch isn’t as bad as I was expecting. My penne al salmone is delicious and I spend most of the time chatting to Joe, which we never really get to do at home. United in our reluctance to be here, we end up having quite a laugh.

‘You two are like a couple of children giggling in the corner,’ Mum says. ‘I can’t hear a word you’re saying. Like sparrows twittering away.’ I think she’s aiming for a light-hearted tone, but it comes across as critical. ‘So, how are things at the garage, Joe?’ Mum says ‘garage’ like it’s a dirty word.

‘Fine, thanks, Pam.’

‘Good.’ She transfers her gaze to me. ‘Are you having dessert, Elizabeth?’

‘Well, I was thinking about the raspberry cheesecake. How about you?’

‘Have a coffee instead,’ she says. ‘I’ll have one with you.’ She pauses before adding: ‘You know, I weigh the same today as I did the day I got married – eight stone.’ This is Mum’s subtle-as-a-brick way of telling me I’m overweight, but I’ve learnt the best way to deal with that is to ignore it.

‘Mm, coffee. Good idea, Mum.’

She smiles and gives me a satisfied nod.

I turn to the waiter: ‘I’ll have a double espresso and the panna cotta, please.’

‘Good for you, love,’ Dad says, giving me a wink. ‘I think I’ll have the panna cotta too.’

I don’t turn my head to check on Mum’s reaction. I know what it will be – disappointment.

Of course, Emma has the same svelte figure as Mum. Mum loves saying how the two of them look more like sisters than mother and daughter. As for me, I’m big-boned like Dad, but I think my size suits me. I’m happy with it. And Joe has always liked me the way I am. I do have Mum’s chestnut hair, though. Whereas Emma has Dad’s auburn hair colouring and fair skin.

I glance diagonally across the table at my sister. She’s fiddling with her napkin, and I notice she’s hardly touched her food. She and Mike have barely spoken two words to one another since we got here. I wonder if they’re going through a rough patch – not ideal if they’re planning to get married next year. But I guess everyone has disagreements from time to time. These are the things we would have discussed if things had been different. If she hadn’t betrayed me.

Mike says something under his breath to her and she snaps at him. I can’t make out exactly what she says, but it sounded like the last word she spoke was ‘letter’… ‘Got the something, something letter.’

My skin goes cold. Why is she talking about a letter? Could my initial thoughts about Emma being behind the letters have been correct?

Joe has started talking to me about another car he’s thinking of buying, but I’m only half-listening. Instead, my attention is trained on my sister and her hushed argument with Mike. She catches my eye and scowls. I’m taken aback by the venom in her stare, but maybe it wasn’t directed at me, maybe it was for Mike. She doesn’t seem very happy with him. She angles her body away from him and starts talking to Dad, leaving Mike brooding into his almost empty half-pint glass.

Did Emma actually say the word ‘letter’? Or am I making connections where there are none? Would she really do something like that? Emma may not be my favourite person in the world, but I don’t think she’s capable of something so… awful. Is she?

But then again, I’m sure she said the word ‘letter’.