‘Go,’ he said. ‘Please.’

I left the room and walked slowly to the back staircase where I sat on the third step down and closed the top door to just a crack, through which I watched Phin disappear through the hatch into the attic space with his bag. I couldn’t imagine what he was doing or where he was going. For a moment I thought maybe he was planning to live on the roof. But although it was May, it was still cold: he couldn’t possibly. Then I heard scuffling noises outside and dashed into Phin’s bedroom, cupped my hands to the glass of his dormer window and watched the back garden. There he was: darting across the dark garden into the ink-black shadows of the trees. And then suddenly he was gone.

I turned to face his empty room. I picked up his pillow and held it to my face. I breathed him in.

35

It’s still dark when Lucy leaves the Blue House the next morning. The children are wall-eyed and silent. She holds her breath as she hands over the cash for the train tickets to Paris to a woman who looks like she knows all of Lucy’s deepest secrets. She holds it again as they board the train, and she holds it again when the inspector enters their carriage and asks to see their tickets. Every time the train slows down she holds her breath and scans the sidings for a flash of blue light, for the navy képi of a gendarme. At Paris she sits with the children and the dog in the quietest corner of the quietest café as they wait for their train to Cherbourg. And then it starts again: the stultifying fear at every stage, at every juncture. At lunchtime, as they board their next train, she imagines Joy at Michael’s house starting to wonder where he is, and the adrenaline pumps so hard and fast around her body that she feels she might die of it. She mentally pans around Michael’s house, looking for the thing she forgot, the huge red flag that will tell Joy to look in the cellar immediately. But no, she’s certain, absolutely certain, she left not a clue, not a trace. She has bought herself time. At least a day. Maybe even three or four days. And even then, would Joy tell the police anything about her, the nice woman called Lucy, the mother of Michael’s son, that would lead them to suspect her in any way? No, she would tell them about Michael’s shady underworld connections, the rough-looking men who sometimes came to the door to discuss ‘business’. She would lead them in an entirely different direction and when they eventually realised it was a dead end, Lucy would be nowhere to be found.

By the time the train pulls into Cherbourg that evening her heart rate has slowed and she finds enough appetite to eat the croissant she bought in Paris.

At the taxi rank they climb into the back of a battered Renault Scenic and she asks the driver to take them to Diélette. The dog sits on her lap and rests his chin on the half-open window. It is late. The children both fall asleep.

Diélette is a tiny harbour town, green and hilly. The only people catching the late ferry to Guernsey are British holidaymakers, mostly families with small children. Lucy clutches the passports hard inside sweaty hands. Her passports are French, but she is English. Both children have different surnames to her on their passports. Stella is a different colour to her. They have huge grubby rucksacks and are so tired that they look unwell. And their passports are fake. Lucy is certain, utterly convinced that they will be stopped, pulled aside, asked questions. She planned this long and meandering journey back to London to dilute her trail, but still, as she shows the passports to the inspector at the ferry port her heart beats so hard she imagines he can hear it. He flicks through the passports looking from photo to person and back again, hands the passports back, gestures them through with his eyes.

And then they are on the sea, the churning, navy grey froth of the English Channel, and France is soon behind them.

She holds Stella on her knee at the back of the ferry so that the little girl can watch the country of her birth, the only home she has ever known, recede to a fairy-lit wreath on the horizon.

‘Bye bye, France,’ says Stella, waving her hand, ‘bye bye France.’

36

Libby stares at Phin.

He stares at her. ‘I used to live here,’ he says, although no one has asked him to explain who he is. Then quickly, before Libby can form a response, he says, ‘You’re really pretty.’

Libby says, ‘Oh.’

Then he looks at Miller and says, ‘Who are you?’

‘Hi.’ Miller offers him a big hand. ‘I’m Miller Roe.’

Phin peers at him questioningly. ‘Why do I recognise that name?’

Miller makes a strange noise under his breath and shrugs.

‘You’re that journalist, aren’t you?’

‘Yup.’

‘That article was such shit. You were wrong about everything.’

‘Yup,’ says Miller again, ‘I kind of know that now.’

‘I can’t believe how pretty you are,’ he says, turning back to Libby. ‘You look so like …’

‘My mother?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Like your mother.’

Libby thinks of the photos of her mother with her dyed black Priscilla Presley hair, her dark kohled eyes. She feels flattered.

Then she says, ‘What are you doing here?’

Phin says, ‘Waiting for you.’

‘But I was here the other day. I heard you upstairs. Why didn’t you come down then?’

He shrugs. ‘I did. But by the time I’d got to the bottom of the stairs, you’d gone.’

‘Oh.’

‘Shall we …?’ Phin gestures at the staircase.

They follow him down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Phin sits on one side of the table; Miller and Libby sit on the other. Libby studies Phin’s face. He must be in his early forties, but he looks much younger. He has extraordinarily long eyelashes.

‘So,’ he says, spreading his arms wide, ‘this is all yours.’

Libby nods. ‘Although, really, it should have been my brother and sister’s, too?’

‘Well, more fool them. Oh, and I suppose I should wish you a happy birthday. A little belated.’

‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘How long since you were last here?’

‘Decades.’

There is a long and very brittle silence. Phin breaks it by saying, ‘I imagine you have some questions.’

Miller and Libby exchange a brief glance. Libby nods.

‘Well,’ says Phin, ‘shall we get out of this place? I live just across the river. I have cold wine. And a terrace. And cats that look like cushions.’

They exchange another glance.

‘I’m not going to kill you,’ says Phin. ‘And neither will my cats. Come. I’ll tell you absolutely everything.’

Twenty minutes later, Libby and Miller follow Phin out of a sleek lift and into a marble-floored corridor.

His apartment is at the other end.

Lights turn on automatically as he leads them down his hallway to a living room with glass doors on to a terrace overlooking the river.

Everything is pale and just so. A huge white sheepskin is draped over the back of a very long cream sofa. There is an extravagant arrangement of lilies and roses in a vase that wouldn’t look out of place in the showroom of Northbone Kitchens.

Phin uses a small remote control to open the doors on to the terrace and invites them to sit on a pair of sofas around a low table. While he goes to fetch wine, Libby and Miller exchange a look.

‘This place must be worth a couple of million,’ says Miller.

‘At least,’ says Libby. She stands up and takes in the view across the river. ‘Look!’ she says. ‘It’s the house. We’re completely bang opposite it.’

Miller joins her. ‘Well,’ he says drily, ‘I think we can assume that that is not a coincidence.’

‘Do you think he’s been watching?’

‘Yes, I totally think he’s been watching. Why else would you choose an apartment with this view?’

‘What do you think of him?’ she whispers.

Miller shrugs. ‘I think he’s a bit …’

‘Weird?’

‘Yes, a bit weird. And a bit …’

But then Phin returns, a bottle of wine and three glasses in an ice bucket in one hand, a cat held against his chest with the other. He puts the bucket down on the table but keeps the cat in his arms. ‘Meet Mindy,’ he says, holding the cat’s paw up in an approximation of a salute. ‘Mindy, meet Libby and Miller.’

The cat ignores them and tries to wriggle out of Phin’s embrace. ‘Oh,’ he says to the cat’s retreating form, ‘fine. Be a bitch, see if I care.’

Then he turns to them again and says, ‘She’s my favourite. I always fall in love with the ones who can’t bear me. It’s why I’m single.’

He opens the wine and pours them each a large glass.

‘Cheers,’ he says, ‘to reunions.’

They touch glasses and a slightly weighted silence follows.

‘This is an incredible view,’ says Miller. ‘How long have you lived here?’

‘Not long. I mean, they only just finished building these apartments last year.’

‘Amazing, isn’t it, being right opposite Cheyne Walk.’