He looks at me with a strange, desperate expression and I realize he’s steeling himself to do something awful. I make a sudden dash for it, trying to slip past him. He grabs my wrist but his hand closes around my bangle, which slides off and I’m free. But then he’s blocking me with his body, his fingers scrabbling at my neck, at the necklace. I feel it snap, pearls bouncing like hail across the bathroom floor. He gets one arm around my neck, yanking me toward him, pulling me backward out of the bathroom like a lifesaver in a pool. I’m rigid with fear but I have no option but to let him drag me with him.

Simon, I try to say, but his arm is too tight around my neck. And then we’re at the top of the stairs and he twists me around so I’m facing down into the void. I love you, Em, he says into my ear. I love you. But he says it with a kind of fury, as if by love he really means hate, and as he simultaneously kisses me and pushes me away I know he means this to happen, that he wants me to die. Then I’m tumbling, my head cracking on the stone, stair after stair, pain and panic battering every part of me as my body gathers speed. Halfway down I fall off the staircase and there’s a moment of blessed relief mixed with terror before the pale stone floor comes up to meet me and my head explodes.

NOW: JANE

I call Simon.

“I’m not in the habit of asking men I hardly know to dinner,” I tell him. “But if you really meant what you said, I’d appreciate the company.”

“Of course. Do you want me to bring anything?”

“Well, I don’t have any wine in the house. I won’t be drinking, but you might want some. I do have steaks. None of your supermarket rubbish—these are from the smart butcher on the High Street. I warn you, though, I’ll eat yours as well as mine if you’re late. My appetite’s ferocious at the moment.”

“Good.” He sounds amused. “I’ll come at seven. And I promise not to go on about Monkford murdering my girlfriend this time, okay?”

“Thanks.” I’d been going to suggest we didn’t discuss Emma and Edward tonight—I’m spooked enough already—but I couldn’t think of a tactful way of saying it. Simon is a very considerate person, I’m beginning to realize. I remember what Mia said. For what it’s worth, I think you’d be far better off with someone like him than with your crazy architect.

I put the thought out of my mind. Even if I wasn’t fat and pregnant with another man’s child, that wouldn’t happen.

—

When I open the door to him a couple of hours later, I see he’s brought flowers as well as a bottle of wine. “For you,” he says, handing me the bouquet. “I always felt bad about being so rude the first time we met. It was hardly your fault that you didn’t know who those flowers were for.” He kisses me on the cheek, and the kiss lingers just a little longer than it needs to. He is attracted to me, I’m pretty sure of that. But I don’t think I could ever be attracted to him. Whatever Mia says.

“They’re lovely,” I say, taking the roses to the sink. “I’ll put them in water.”

“And I’ll open this. It’s a Pinot Grigio—Emma’s favorite. Are you sure you won’t have any? I checked online. Most people think a small amount of alcohol is okay at around fifteen weeks.”

“Maybe later. But you go ahead.” I arrange the roses in a vase and put them on the table.

“Em, where have you put the corkscrew?” he calls.

“It’s in the cupboard. The one on the right.” I do a double take. “Did you just call me Em?”

“Did I?” He laughs. “Sorry—I guess it’s just such a familiar thing, being here with you and opening a bottle. I mean, not with you, obviously. With her. I won’t do it again, I promise. Now, where do you keep the glasses?”

THEN: EMMA

NOW: JANE

It feels strange to be cooking steaks for a man, any man, in One Folgate Street. Edward could never have let me—he’d have to have taken charge, tied on an apron, found the right pans and oils and implements, all the while explaining the different way steaks are cooked in Tuscany or Tokyo. Simon, though, is content just to watch me and chat—about the housing market, where to look for cheap flats, the place he’s currently renting. “One of the best things about leaving this house was not having to worry about those stupid rules any more,” he says as I automatically wipe the pan and put it away before we eat. “After a while, you can’t believe you ever lived like this.”

“Hmm,” I say. I know I’ll soon be surrounded by all the clutter of babyhood, but a part of me will always miss the austere, disciplined beauty of One Folgate Street.

I take a few sips of wine, but find I’ve lost the taste for it. “How’s your pregnancy going?” he asks, and I find myself telling him about the Down syndrome scare, which in turn leads to explaining about Isabel, and then I start crying and can’t finish my steak. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly when I’ve finished. “You’ve had a horrible time.”

I shrug and wipe my eyes. “Everyone has problems, don’t they? It’s the hormones, they make me weep at anything right now.”

“I wanted a family with Emma.” He’s silent for a moment. “I was going to propose to her. I’ve never told anyone that. Funny, it was moving here that made me decide—being settled at last. I knew she’d been going through a difficult patch but I put that down to the burglary.”