My hand, my fingers, move in circles. I try to think of Hugh, a version of Hugh, an idealized Hugh who has never existed. I imagine the way he’d look at me, the way he used to look at me, his eyes leaving my face, travelling down, pausing first at my neck and then again at my breasts before flashing lower for just the briefest of moments before coming back to my face. His appraisal would take three seconds, maybe four. I imagine letting my eyes follow the same path his had taken, taking in his unshaven chin, the black hair that pokes from under his shirt, his chest, the buckle on his belt. I imagine him leaning in to speak to me, the smell of his aftershave, the faint scent of his breath, like chewed leather. I imagine him kissing me, this idealized Hugh, who is really Lukas, who is really Marcus.

My hand moves faster, my body lifts then falls away. I’m free. I’ve become lightness and air, nothing but energy.

Chapter Eleven

I sit with a glass of sparkling water. Adrienne is late.

The restaurant is brand new. Even Bob had found it difficult to get us a table, according to Adrienne, and as someone who writes restaurant reviews he rarely struggles. I hadn’t been able to decide what to wear and in the end had gone for a simple sleeveless dress with a check print, plus the necklace Hugh bought me for Christmas and perfume from my favourite bottle. It’s been so long since I’ve been out for dinner it’d felt like getting ready for a date, and now I’m beginning to feel like I’ve been stood up.

Eventually I see her coming in. She waves then comes over to the table.

‘Darling!’ She kisses me on both cheeks then we sit down. She puts her bag under her chair. ‘Right …’ She grabs the menu, still talking as she reads. ‘Sorry I’m late. The tube was delayed. “Passenger action”, they call it.’ She looks up. ‘Some selfish prick who’d had enough and decided to ruin everyone else’s day.’ I smile. It’s a black humour that we can share; I know she doesn’t mean it. How can she, after what happened to Kate? ‘You don’t mind if I have a drink?’

I shake my head and she orders a glass of Chablis, then tells me I ought to have the lobster. She’s always been a whirlwind, but tonight she seems almost in too much of a rush. I wonder if she’s trying to compensate for being late, or maybe she’s anxious about something.

‘Now,’ she says, once her drink has arrived. Her voice becomes relaxed and reassuring. ‘How are you?’ I shrug, but she holds up her hand. ‘And don’t give me any of that “I’m fine” crap. How are you really?’

‘I am fine. Honestly.’ She looks at me, an expression of exaggerated disappointment on her face. ‘Mostly,’ I add.

She pushes the bread that’s arrived towards me, but I ignore it. ‘How long has it been, now? It must be four months?’

For the first time I don’t know immediately, I have to work it out. I’ve stopped counting the days and weeks; perhaps it’s the first evidence of progress. I’m strangely pleased.

‘Almost five.’

She smiles sadly. I know she understands how I feel, more than most. A few years ago her stepfather died suddenly, a heart attack, while he was driving. They’d been close; the intensity of her grief had shocked her.

‘Are they any nearer to working out what happened?’ For a moment her expression seems to change; she looks almost hungry, unless I’m imagining it. I’ve seen it before, it’s the journalist in her; she can’t help herself. She wants the details.

‘You mean, who did it? Not yet. They’re not really telling us very much …’ I let the conversation evaporate. It feels like every week that goes by makes it less likely they’ll catch them, but I don’t want to put that into words.

‘How’s Hugh?’

‘He’s okay, you know?’ I think for a moment. I can be honest with her. ‘Actually, sometimes I think he’s almost glad.’

Do I? Or am I just saying that because sometimes I still worry that I am?

She tilts her head. ‘Glad?’

‘Oh, I don’t mean glad that she’s dead. It’s just … sometimes I think he just likes the fact that it makes things simpler, I guess. With Connor.’ I hesitate. ‘Maybe he’s right. They’ve certainly seemed much closer, recently.’

I look up at Adrienne. She knows that I’d been worried that if it ever went to the courts they’d uphold Connor’s right to choose.

‘I’ve known Hugh since for ever, Julia. He’s always liked things to be neat and tidy. But he’s not glad. Don’t be too hard on him.’

I feel empty, like I want to share everything with Adrienne, to offload it, to hand it over and find some peace.

‘He’s not even there most of the time.’

‘Darling, hasn’t he always been like that?’ She drinks some of her wine. A wave of desire hits me, the first for weeks. I tell myself to ride it out. She carries on speaking, but I have to struggle to concentrate. ‘They all are. We marry them because they’re successful, ambitious, whatever. Then that’s the very thing that takes them away from us. It was the same with Steve, and now it’s the same with Bob. I barely see him, he’s so busy …’

I centre myself. It’s different for her. She has a challenging career of her own. She can take herself away from her husband as easily as he takes himself away from her. But I don’t want to argue.

‘You’re seeing someone?’

I feel myself recoil. She knows, I think. About Lukas. Even though there’s nothing to know. We’re still chatting regularly, and though I try to tell myself there’s no reason to think so, I keep thinking he must’ve known Kate. I can’t work him out, and so I keep going back.

‘What—?’ I say to Adrienne now, but she interrupts.

‘A therapist, I mean?’

Of course. My panic recedes. ‘Oh, right. No, I’m not.’

There’s a moment of silence. She doesn’t take her eyes off me; she’s appraising me, trying to work out why I’d reacted as I had.

‘Julia? If you don’t want to talk about it …’

I do, though. I do want to talk about it, and she’s my oldest friend.

‘You remember I said I might go online? To get the list of people Kate was talking to?’

‘Yes. You said you’d changed your mind.’

I’m silent.

‘Julia?’

‘There was someone I wasn’t sure about.’

She puts down her glass and raises her eyebrows. ‘Go on …’

‘He visits Paris. He messaged me. I convinced myself he might be someone Kate was talking to. Someone the police don’t know about.’

‘So you gave his details to the authorities?’

Still I say nothing.

‘Julia …?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Why?’

‘I need to be sure … I’m just talking to him. I’m trying to find out what he knows.’

‘Darling, are you sure that’s a good idea?’

‘What’s the alternative? Give his name to the police—?’

‘Yes! That’s exactly what you should do!’

‘I don’t want to frighten him off and, besides, they’d probably just ignore it.’

‘Of course they wouldn’t ignore it! Why would they do that, Julia? They have a duty to investigate it. He lives in Paris, it should be easy enough.’

I don’t tell her he lives in Milan. ‘I know what I’m doing. We’ve only chatted once or twice.’

It’s a lie, an understatement. I’m trying to backtrack. Things have developed. He turns his video on now and has asked me to turn mine on, though I haven’t, yet. He tells me I’m beautiful. He tells me he wishes there could be a way I could be there with him, and even though I feel guilty for lying to him, I tell him I wish that, too. Our conversations end with him telling me he’s loved talking to me, that he can’t wait until we can chat again. He tells me to look after myself, to be careful. And because it would be impolite not to, because I just can’t figure him out, I say the same things to him.

It feels cruel, sometimes. I don’t mean it, and yet he clearly likes me, or likes the person he thinks I am.