We’re sitting at the bar of an exclusive West London restaurant, waiting for a table, and enjoying the taste of premature celebration until then. I let myself relax a little, appreciating the way the alcohol numbs my senses and diminishes the fear that has been growing inside me since this nightmare began.

I’ve already said more than I should about the meeting with my agent and Fincher. I couldn’t help it, it’s all too exciting. I embroidered the truth a little, just a few stitches here and there, to present the story how I have chosen to remember it. I might have let the waist of the story out just a tiny bit around the middle, to let it breathe, but that’s okay. I think we all do that. The stories we tell each other about our lives are like snow globes. We shake the facts of what happened in our minds, then watch and wait while the pieces settle into fiction. If we don’t like the way the pieces fall, we just shake the story again, until it looks how we want it to.

I used to think that everything happened for a reason, but I stopped believing in whims like that some time ago. That said, if there was a point to the hellish last few days, then maybe this was it. Maybe this is the part that will change my life for the better. I try to stay calm and steady and deny the excitement that I feel. I don’t want to let the fantasy of fiction seduce me into a false sense of security; I’ve made that mistake before.

“There was one thing Fincher said that I can’t get out of my head,” I say eventually, aware of the weight of Jack’s stare as I take another sip of champagne.

“Well?”

“He said that the character he wanted me to play was morally repugnant but fascinating, and I got to thinking that maybe I am too.”

Jack stares at me for a few seconds, then the creases around his eyes fold, his mouth opens up into a wide white smile, and he laughs at me. Really laughs. Completely unaware that I wasn’t joking.

“I’m so proud of you, do you know that?” He takes my hand in his.

“I don’t have the part yet—”

“I don’t just mean about today, I mean all of it. Most people would have crumbled or just crawled under a rock to hide, but you’re so strong.”

I’m only strong on the outside.

I’m not sure what we’re doing anymore. Whatever it is, I’m quite certain that I shouldn’t be encouraging it, my life is complicated enough right now. We’re sitting facing each other on expensive-looking barstools, far closer than we should or need to be. My legs are tucked inside his, and I like feeling the warmth of his body against my own. Being this close to him makes me feel safe, and a little more willing to succumb to his charm-plated seduction.

Despite the alcohol, I’m fully aware that the comfort I feel from Jack holding my hand is nothing more than a placebo. It’s not real, but I swallow it down anyway, wanting to hold on to the feeling for as long as I can. He downs his own glass of champagne before taking my empty flute and putting it next to his on the bar.

He looks serious all of a sudden. “I want you to know that you’re safe with me.”

I do feel safe in this moment, as though maybe everything that happened was nothing more than a bad dream.

“You can trust me.”

I so badly want to that I don’t pull away when he leans in to kiss me. Not the sort of kissing we’ve been doing on set, but something real, almost animal-like. It’s as though I’ve wanted this for just as long as I suspect he has, but have been denying the truth until now. I know this is madness, to behave like this in a public place, but I can’t help it. His hands cradle my face and I wish that I’d met him first, before I married the wrong man.

I hear someone tapping on the glass window directly behind us, and when I open my eyes, I see Jack frowning over my shoulder. “Who the fuck is that?”

I turn to see her standing right there, outside the restaurant. The woman who has been stalking me for the last two years.

I knew Ben wasn’t working alone.

She’s wearing what looks suspiciously like the coat I can’t find, and her long black curly hair is blowing about her shoulders in the wind. Despite her dark glasses, it’s pretty obvious she is staring right at us, and I wonder how long she has been there. She waves a white-gloved hand without smiling, and my scales tilt in an unexpected way; my anger far outweighing my fear. I run to the restaurant door, ready to confront this woman, whoever she is. Jack follows close behind as I burst out onto the street, but we’re too late. The woman in the window has gone.

Sixty-two

Maggie always suspected that Aimee was having an affair with Jack Anderson. But seeing them together like that, watching him kiss her through the restaurant window, the whole experience has made Maggie feel utterly wretched and physically ill. She had to run away, there was no other alternative now that she knows for sure who Aimee Sinclair has become: a filthy, lying, cheating whore. She wonders what happened to the sweet, kind, innocent child she used to know.

She closes the door behind her and starts to pull off all her clothes, dropping them to the floor as she walks through the flat. She removes Aimee’s trench coat first, then her jumper and skirt, until she is standing naked in front of the antique mirror in her front room. She cries a little, she can’t help it, unable to get the image of Aimee and Jack out of her head.

Then she slaps herself hard across the face, three times.

Her finger stings and she notices that she still has a splinter, which brings a curious mix of pain and comfort. If it is still there, then it hasn’t started to travel through her bloodstream to her heart. She might just live long enough to finish what she started and take back what should have been hers.

Maggie turns to stare at the photo of Aimee by the phone, and the tears continue to stream down her face. She holds the three smallest fingers of her left hand inside her right, pretending that the little girl she once knew had stayed that way, instead of growing into a selfish slut. She puts the picture facedown, unable to look at what she lost any longer, and returns her attention to the woman in the mirror. Tomorrow she will get back to work, but for now, just for tonight, Maggie wants nothing more than to just be herself again. The tears have stained the face staring back at her, and she no longer likes what she sees. She starts to remove the makeup from her damp cheeks, washing away the woman she was forced to become. She feels a little better when the reflection shows someone she recognizes, someone real. It’s as though Maggie O’Neil has left the building.

Sixty-three

“And you saw this woman too?” asks Detective Croft the following morning. I don’t know why I let Jack persuade me to call her.

“Yes,” he says. I can hear his patience evaporating with every question she asks. “Yes, I saw her too, yes, she is exactly as Aimee described. It seems to me you’ve bungled this entire investigation from beginning to end, no offense, but what are you actually doing to catch this person?”

Detective Croft stares at him for a long time. “It can be hard to solve a puzzle when you don’t have all the pieces. We still haven’t established that this woman is linked to what happened, or who she is. Have you thought of anyone matching her description who might have a grudge against you?” she asks me.

Jennifer Jones.