Of course, there were her parents, but the thought of moving back in with Juliet and Peter, even temporarily, almost made her retch. There was another option there, but it was only marginally less horrendous. Over the past five or six years, Emily had called her mother countless times and asked to borrow money; always Juliet and never Peter, who told anyone who would listen that kids these days would only learn self-sufficiency when they were thrown into the churning waters of adulthood with no life jacket. Juliet, on the other hand, always caved, but would it be different this time?

Emily hadn’t spoken to either parent since her last visit, so naturally a repeat performance would go down like a shit sandwich. But what was the alternative? Live in a box on the street? She was fairly certain that her mother would rather part with some cash than see her sleep in a doorway. Eighty percent certain, anyway. Maybe seventy-five.

Emily looked at her phone. Her mouth was bone dry.

Just do it.

She picked it up and pressed the call button.

Juliet picked up after six long rings. “Hello, Emily? Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me. Hi.”

“Darling, hello! I’m so glad you called! Listen, let me just … hang on, I can’t quite…”

“Hello? Are you there?” There was a lot of noise in the background, clinking and laughter and music.

“Hold on,” Juliet was saying, “I’m just…” There was a squeak and a bang, and the chatter was instantly muffled. “Ah, that’s better! Sorry, I’m in a restaurant. You know the one on the corner where the old bank used to be? They’ve done it up. It’s very nice, the food is superb.”

“That’s nice.” Emily took a breath. “Listen, I just wanted to apologize for, you know, the thing at your house. The way we left things … I’ve been feeling bad.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you, darling, I appreciate that.” Juliet paused. “How about we just forget it happened, okay?”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay. So, we’re good?”

“Yes, sweetheart, we’re good.”

“Cool.” Emily picked at a dry smear of egg yolk on the tabletop. “So … how’ve you been?”

Juliet chuckled. “I’m just fine.” She made it sound like a question, her tone playful.

She’s being weird, Emily thought, instantly on her guard. “And Peter?”

“Yes, your father is also fine. He’s here, actually. Your grandparents and Auntie Cath, too. Do you want to say hello?”

“Oh, no, I don’t want to disturb.” A pang of guilt curdled into bitterness. How cozy, a quiet family dinner without the black sheep, just the way you like it. “Look,” she said, pressing on. “This is going to sound bad, but please hear me out because I’m, uh, dealing with a bit of a situation here.”

“Are you alright?”

“Well, I’m not dying or anything. But things are a bit difficult. I’m in a bit of trouble.”

“You’re making me nervous.” Juliet snickered. “You’re not pregnant, are you? I only ask because I know you’re not calling about money.”

“I told you it would sound bad.”

“Emily—”

“And I wouldn’t ask unless it was an emergency.”

“Emily, stop.” Juliet’s tone had changed completely. “Are you about to ask me for more money? Yes or no.”

Emily swallowed. There was no way around it. “Kind of. Yes. But please believe me when I say I’m desperate.”

There was a sigh, followed by a short cluck of a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob.

Emily listened resolutely to the muted clink and buzz of the restaurant, steeling herself for a lecture. “Oh, come on,” she said, breaking the silence. “It can’t be that much of a shock.” She didn’t mean to sound sulky, but that’s how it came out.

When it came, Juliet’s voice was thick. “I’m not shocked. Not one bit. I just thought…”

“What? What did you think?”

A sniff and a rustle of tissue.

“I just thought you might be calling to wish me a happy birthday.”

Oh. Fuck.

“Juliet, I—”

There was a soft click and the line went dead.

CHAPTER FOUR

SCOTT

FOR SCOTT, every working day began with an early morning ritual. He arrived at the office before sunrise and wandered from room to room, trailing his fingers lovingly over the curves and corners of his kingdom. Soft leather, polished timber, frosted glass, and black steel: he caressed it all, making a silent inventory of every detail. He knew the building as intimately as he knew his own skin. He’d overseen the entire renovation process, from knocking down the first wall to repositioning the electrical outlets; he remembered every single purchase, every decision, every placement. This space was his brainchild, his vision, his literal dream come true.

Years ago, just after graduation and before landing his first job with an investment bank, Scott had fallen asleep on a train from London to Bristol and woken up knowing exactly what he was going to do with his career. With a clear and burning certainty, he knew that one day he would launch his own fund, one with an emphasis on the development and mentorship of emerging companies, and that he would build the perfect corporate palace in which to house it. He could see the pure beauty that would be his offices, the devilish expense hidden beneath dazzling simplicity. He’d nursed his dream and worked relentlessly until it came to life. That was his way. That was how he’d been as a child, as a teenager, and as a young adult, always dreaming and planning and working, pulling thoughts out of his head and making them real.

Somehow, he’d managed to orchestrate his married life in the same way, dreaming up the perfect girl to be his perfect wife and only barely believing his good luck when Nina showed up behind the counter of his local coffee shop. He’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life. She was a miracle, the very image of what he wanted: a mysterious stranger from a far-off land with a face as fresh as ocean spray. It was love at first sight. With her, he knew, he would build something pure, something unbreakable. And sure enough, as if by magic, their perfect life had materialized before their eyes.

In fact, for a long time it seemed he only had to think of what he wanted and, lo, it would appear. Even Nina couldn’t dispute his ability to make special things happen. She used to say he was like a glassblower, somehow able to coax shape and color from dry, dusty sand.

A warm glow spread over Scott’s shoulder, and he turned to see the sun breaking free of the London skyline. Its buttery rays came bouncing through the glass walls of the mezzanine, lighting up the meeting rooms as if from the inside and transforming the whole office into a glittering prism. He tried to smile. In the past, his offices had always made him happy, but lately he’d found himself stroking the surfaces not with pleasure but with melancholy, as if he were saying goodbye. As if the mere touch of his finger could turn his dreams into dust and his glass back into sand.

Shrinking away from the light, he looked down over the balcony. The mezzanine was one of his favorite features, not least because it provided a bird’s-eye view of reception. It was from here that he liked to watch his staff arrive for work. Verity was always first, her long hair swishing behind her like a cape. Then his most senior associates appeared, usually followed by a few of the younger, hungrier junior team members. His second-in-command would show up at some point. And then, over the past six weeks, almost always red-faced and out of breath, Emily the receptionist had brought up the rear.

Initially, Emily had caught his attention because there’d been something familiar about her, something Scott couldn’t put his finger on. But she’d held it because she was fascinatingly different. Wide-eyed and often late, she couldn’t have been further from the highly experienced temps they usually hired. She’d stared at the switchboard as if she’d never seen anything so complicated in her life and greeted everyone who walked through the door like they were a guest at a surprise party without ever stopping to check who anyone was (he once saw her show a courier through to the boardroom). With her panic-stricken responses to most requests, she made for an amusing distraction from his clogged in-box and buzzing phone.

Every day he’d watched her fumble around on the desk, dropping the headset and misplacing paperwork. He watched her eat lunch on her own, compulsively checking her phone with visible disappointment. He watched her watching the team, especially the girls: she followed them with hungry eyes, imitating their show-pony walks and bouncy hairstyles, aping their outfits with high-street knockoffs, desperate for them to notice her. And as he watched, an idea had taken shape, or the seed of one, at least—and not an especially viable one at that. But as the days rolled by and Nina’s messages became increasingly frantic, the seed grew, until one day he decided to conduct a few tests.

First, he ran a Google search. He discovered Emily was an actress, though not a successful one. She’d grown up in a village in Derbyshire. Her social-media accounts revealed limited activity—just a few pictures of the same two or three friends hanging out at cheap venues and free events. No boyfriend. No family photos.