And Luc … Luc is not that boy any more. He is a man, and an angry one. And I am one of the people he is angry with.

BEFORE THE SALTEN reunion I went months, years even, without speaking to the others. But now the urge to talk to them is like a constant itch on my skin, a craving beneath the surface, like the cigarettes I suddenly want again.

Every morning I wake up and I think of the packet that is still shoved down in the bottom of my handbag, and I think too of my mobile phone with their numbers stored in it. Would it hurt so much, to meet up?

It feels like tempting fate, but as the days tick past, and the urge grows stronger, I start to justify the idea to myself. It’s not just Luc’s unwelcome gift of flowers – although talking that through with them would be a relief, it’s true. But I feel the need to make sure they are OK, bearing up under the pressure. As long as we stick to our story – that we know nothing, that we saw nothing – there is precious little evidence against us. And if we all stick to that account, they will have a hard time proving otherwise. But I am worried. Worried about Thea in particular, about her drinking. If one of us cracks, we all break. And now that Ambrose’s body has been discovered, it is surely just a matter of time before we get a call.

It plays on my mind, the idea of that call. Every time the phone goes I jump and look at the caller display before answering. The one time it was a withheld number, I let it go to answerphone, but there was no message. Probably just a cold caller, I told myself, dread churning in my stomach as I waited to see if they would ring back.

They didn’t. But I still can’t stop myself playing and replaying the call in my head. I imagine the police asking about the timings, picking apart our account. And there is one thing that I keep coming back to, imagining their questions gnawing at the issue like a rat at a knot, and I don’t have an answer.

Ambrose committed suicide because he was being sacked for gross misconduct. Because they’d found the drawings in his sketchbook or in his studio or something of that kind. That’s what we have always thought, all of us.

But if that’s the case, why were we only called into the meeting with Miss Weatherby on Saturday?

It’s a timeline I have spelled out again and again in the middle of the night, as Owen snores beside me, and I cannot make sense of it. Ambrose died on the Friday night, and that day at school was entirely normal – we went about our lessons as usual, I even saw Miss Weatherby at evening prep, and she was completely calm.

When did they find the drawings, and where? There is an answer stirring in the back of my mind, and it’s not one that I want to face up to alone.

Finally, about five or six days after the piece in the Guardian, I crack and I send Fatima and Thea a text.

Are either of you around to meet up? Would be great to see you.

Fatima texts back first.

Could do coffee this Sat? Can’t do anything before then. 3pm somewhere central?

Great, I text back. That works for me. Thea?

Thea takes twenty-four hours to reply, and when she does, it’s with her usual brevity.

P Quot in S Ken?

It takes me a good ten minutes of puzzling before the penny drops, and when it does, Fatima’s reply comes before I can type out my acceptance.

Ok, 3pm Sat at Pain Quotidien in South Ken. See you there.

‘Can you look after Freya this Saturday?’ I ask Owen casually that night, while we’re eating supper.

‘Sure.’ He forks pasta into his mouth and nods through a mouthful of Bolognese. ‘You know that. I wish you’d go out more. What’s the occasion?’

‘Oh, seeing friends,’ I say vaguely. It’s true, but I don’t want him to know the whole truth – that I’m meeting Fatima and Thea. He would wonder why, so soon after I saw them at Kate’s.

‘Anyone I know?’ Owen says, and I feel a prickle of irritation. It’s not just that I don’t want to answer, it’s that I don’t think even a week ago he would have asked the question. It’s those flowers of Luc’s. Owen said nothing when he came home and found them gone, but he is still thinking about them. I can tell.

‘Just friends,’ I say. And then I add, stupidly, ‘It’s an NCT thing.’

‘Oh, nice, who’s going to be there?’

I feel my heart sink, realising the lie I have backed myself into. Owen and I went to NCT classes together. He knows all of them. I’m going to have to be specific, and as Kate always said, it’s the specifics that catch you out.

‘Um … Rachel,’ I say at last. ‘And Jo, I think. I’m not sure who else.’

‘Will you express?’ Owen asks as he reaches for the pepper. I shake my head.

‘No, I’ll only be gone a couple of hours. It’s just coffee.’

‘No probs,’ he says. ‘It’ll be fun. I’ll take her to the pub and feed her pork scratchings.’

I know he’s joking – about the pork scratchings at least – but I also know he’s said it for the rise it will get from me, so I go along with it, mock-frowning and cuffing him across the table, grinning as we play out our little marital pantomime. Do all relationships have this back and forth, I wonder, as I clear the plates, these little rituals of call and response?

When we slump into bed that night, I’m expecting Owen to fall asleep as he always does – disappearing into unconsciousness with a speed and ease I’ve grown increasingly to envy, but to my surprise he reaches for me in the darkness, his hand straying down over my still slack stomach, between my legs, and I turn to him, feeling for his face, his arms, the streak of sparse, dark hair where his ribs meet.

‘I love you,’ he says afterwards, as we lie back, hearts still thrumming. ‘We should do it more often.’

‘We should,’ I say. And then, almost as an afterthought, ‘I love you too.’

And it’s true, I do, with my whole heart in that moment.

I am falling asleep when he speaks again, his voice soft.

‘Isa, is everything OK?’

I open my eyes in the dark, my heart suddenly quickening.

‘Yes,’ I say, trying to keep my voice sleepy and level. ‘Of course. Why d’you ask?’

He sighs.

‘I don’t know. I just … I feel like you’ve been kind of weird, tense, ever since that trip to Kate’s.’

Please. I shut my eyes, clench my fists. Please don’t do this, don’t make me start lying to you again.

‘I’m fine,’ I say, and I don’t try to keep the weariness out of my tone. ‘I’m just … I’m tired, I guess. Can we talk about this tomorrow?’

‘Sure,’ he says, but there’s something in his voice, disappointment maybe. He knows I am keeping something from him. ‘I’m sorry you’re so tired. You should let me get up more at night.’

‘No point, is there?’ I say with a yawn. ‘While she’s still on the boob. You’d only have to wake me up.’

‘Look, I keep saying we should try a bottle,’ Owen begins, but I feel frustration boil up inside me, and I let myself snap, just a little bit.

‘Owen, can we please, please not have this conversation now? I told you, I’m tired, I want to go to sleep.’

‘Sure,’ he says again, and his voice this time is flat and quelled. ‘Sorry. Goodnight.’

I want to cry. I want to hit him. I cannot cope with this, on top of everything else. Owen is my one constant, the one thing in my life right now that is not about paranoia and deceit.

‘Please, Owen,’ I say, and my voice cracks a little in spite of myself. ‘Please, don’t be like that.’

But he doesn’t answer. He just lies there, hunched and silent beneath the sheets and I sigh and turn to face the wall.

‘GOODBYE!’ I SHOUT from the entrance hall. ‘Phone me if – you know …’

‘We’ll be fine,’ Owen calls down the stairs. I can almost hear him rolling his eyes. I look up, and he’s there in the doorway, holding Freya. ‘Go. Have fun. Stop worrying. I can look after my own child, you know.’

I know.

I know, I know, and yet as the front door to our flat slams upstairs, leaving me alone in the hall, I feel that familiar tightness in my chest, the tugging pull of the bond between me and Freya stretching, stretching …