“But not fat either. Like, maybe a size 14.”

“Lewis would think that was fat,” Dom says without missing a beat. I give Zan a thumbs-up sign. One more subscriber to our opinion; we must be right. “If Lewis was going to stalk a woman, he’d pick a skinny, beautiful one. Someone who looked like Flora used to look before she had three kids.”

“Zan and I agree. And he might pick that skinny, beautiful woman to stalk because Flora no longer looked exactly the way she did before she had three kids—he could easily be that shallow, with his constant search for perfection—but what he definitely would never do is become obsessed with a plain-but-pleasant-looking, not-thin, frizzy-haired, gray-haired person.”

“Never.”

“But I’m sure Tilly was telling the truth, that’s the problem.”

“She was,” Zannah confirms. “Mum, put it on speaker. Aaand you have no idea what that means. Pass it here.”

She fiddles with my phone, then balances it on the armrest between us. “Speak, Dad,” she orders.

“Hello! Testing, testing.”

“So lame. See, Mum, now we can both hear him. Dad, she said they’d always been friendly, and Lewis helped her set up her own business, went above and beyond, came around at all hours of the day and night to provide support—but she didn’t think anything of it because he was helpful to everyone, he was just that kind of guy.”

“He was,” says Dom. “That’s true. He couldn’t stand for anything to fail, and that included his friends’ projects. Remember when I ran the marathon, Beth?”

“What happened?” asks Zan.

“Lewis nearly fell out with me because I wouldn’t let him be my coach and personal trainer—even though he had a full-time job, wasn’t a sports coach and had never run a marathon himself. Still, he wanted to take time off from work to make sure I succeeded and would barely take no for an answer. He couldn’t imagine me being able to do it without his help. I did, though, and he was genuinely happy for me.”

“At the same time as going on for months about how you’d have finished much faster if you’d let him coach you,” I say.

“Sounds like how he was with Tilly’s business,” says Zan. “She thought, great, what a nice friend. Her business did well. The Braids moved. But he still kept turning up outside her house, after he’d moved to Florida—spying on her from his car. The first couple of times it happened, he made crap excuses—like, really crap. One time she found him in her back garden and he said he’d been passing and heard something that sounded suspicious, so he’d gone to investigate. Another time she found him asleep on a bench in her back garden. On his chest was guess what? A pair of Tilly’s silk pajama bottoms that she’d left to dry on the washing line.”

“And . . . all this happened after the Braids moved to Florida? When the Caters owned the house?”

“Yeah, and when Lewis was working in America,” I say. “Tilly, thinking it was all very odd, googled him and found that he definitely had a job in Florida at the time . . . but he also kept making time to come back and . . . fall asleep in her garden clutching items of her clothing.”

“It all came to a head after the silk pajamas,” Zannah tells Dom. “Tilly and her husband confronted him, told him they weren’t going to pretend to believe any more excuses, and he broke down in tears and admitted it. He cried, Tilly said. Wept buckets.”

“What did he admit?” asks Dom.

“That he’d fallen in love with her!” Zannah slurs. “He actually said that to her and her husband. Begged them never to tell anyone, especially not his wife, and swore blind that he’d never do it again. Which he didn’t. The silk-pajama time was the last stalking episode.”

“Zannah, you sound drunk. Beth, what’s wrong with her?”

“Tilly gave her some booze.”

“For Christ’s sake, Beth!”

“Yeah, Mum.” Zannah grins at me. “This happened on your watch. You tell her, Dad.”

“Can you two come home now, please?”

“Not immediately. Dom . . . is it possible that there are two sides to Lewis? What if the perfection-seeking side of him makes him miserable, with the pressure it piles on? Tilly’s dynamic, happy, relaxed. Doesn’t give a damn about a few gray hairs.”

“And Lewis had a secret urge to abandon his perfect life and run off with her? I mean . . . I’m not saying it’s not possible, because anything’s possible, but . . . Why aren’t you coming home? What else are you doing?”

“Going to Wokingham. I need to try and find Flora’s parents. They must know something about what’s going on. Lewis Braid has been their son-in-law for twenty years.”

“Her parents? Beth, you don’t need to do that.”

“I want to.”

“Please don’t. Beth, the time comes when you have to draw a line. That time has come. Now. Today. Zannah needs to get back here and start revising. She’s on exam study leave, not . . . crazy-dashing-around-the-country leave. Ben wants you to come home.”

“Straight after Wokingham, I promise. Zannah was desperate to come with me, Dom. She’s really interested in this.”

“That’s what worries me.”

“No revision would have happened even if I hadn’t brought her with me. You know as well as I do—she’d have done fuck all apart from paint her nails and watch reruns of Love Island.”

“Hashtag when your parents believe in you,” says Zan with a chuckle.

“She’s got a brilliant mind and today, all day, that mind has been working.” I was planning to say that anyway, but now it looks as if I only said it to ingratiate myself. Zannah makes a face at me.

“Do you want to hear what happened at Kimbolton Prep School?” I ask Dom.

Without waiting for his answer, I launch into a full account. He may be right: there might be a point at which one ought to draw a line, but I’m hoping there’s also a point at which any intelligent person realizes that they have to find out what the hell’s going on or it’ll bother them forever. I reached that point some time ago.

I describe my conversation with Lou Munday.

“That all sounds . . . strange, horrible and worrying,” Dom says when I’ve finished.

“Yep. I’d swear that secretary wanted to tell me something—more than she told me. Zannah agrees.”

“I’m not sure I do,” she says unhelpfully. “Maybe. Maybe Lewis Braid stalked her too.”

“She didn’t give me the brush-off in a normal, routine, off-you-go-you-nut kind of way. There was something she could have told me if she’d wanted to, if she’d not been scared of losing her job.”

“Or scared of getting involved in something really unpleasant,” says Dom. “Which you should be too, Beth. Whatever’s going on in that house and with the Braids and the Caters, it’s something our family needs to keep out of. Think about everything you’ve told me so far—Tilly, now the school stuff—it all adds up to a giant neon sign saying ‘Stay the hell out of this mess.’”

“Typical graphic designer response there from Dad,” says Zan. “Bringing signage and the visual into everything. Me and Mum aren’t graphic designers so we can’t see that sign.”

Dom makes a disgusted noise. “Kevin and Jeanette Cater told us their children were called Toby and Emma.”

“Uh-huh. And, don’t forget, she turned up at the car park wearing the same clothes Flora was wearing less than an hour before. Oh—and she isn’t Jeanette Cater. Lou Munday told us Jeanette doesn’t have a foreign accent. I forgot that bit.”

“Who’s that?”

“Memory of a goldfish,” Zan mouths at me.

“Oh, the school secretary. Right. Well, whoever the woman at Newnham House was, she and Kevin Cater, assuming that’s his real name—”

“Yeah, they fed us a load of bullshit,” I say. And you thanked them for it.

“To our faces? While smiling and supposedly trying to help sort things out? I guess they must have, but . . . that’s pretty twisted, isn’t it?”

After more than forty years on this planet, Dominic has trouble believing that a civilized and solvent couple with an immaculate house could lie to him. He’s still keen to believe in a version of the world in which everyone has each other’s best interests at heart.

“They flat out lied.” He still can’t believe it.

“Yes. Dom, I have to go. I’ll see you later tonight, okay? Bye.” I press the end-call button before he can give me any more reasons for why I should come home right away.

11

Three hours later, we’re parked on Carisbrooke Road in Wokingham, outside a house that I hope still belongs to Flora’s parents. I only came here once with Flora while we were students, but I’m sure it’s the right place. I remember thinking it looked odd from the outside, and number 43 is the only one that fits that description. It’s a lone detached house on an otherwise terraced street, and so narrow that its detachedness looks like a mistake—as if it’s been cut off the row as an afterthought and shoved along a bit. It protrudes awkwardly from the low-walled private garden that’s been built around it like a little green island.

“Would you mind waiting in the car?” I ask Zannah.