‘Not yet.’ DC Merchison is scribbling her name, asking for the correct spelling. ‘Do we need to?’

‘No, I just wondered.’ Idiot. I wish I could take the pen and score a line through his note. If they do decide to phone her, or pay a visit, they will surely tell her about Melia and me; they’re not in the business of diplomacy. I can only pray that her shock will be obscured by the greater horror of a friend having vanished.

‘Maybe you should call her,’ Merchison urges me, with a glance towards Parry. ‘Tell her where you are.’

This is obviously a test. They want to hear what I say about Kit.

Fine. I fish my phone from my pocket and select Clare’s name, trying not to show my relief when I connect straight to voicemail. I’m starting to feel that time has lost its reliability, a minute expanded, a half hour compressed.

I speak in a low, cautious tone: ‘Clare, it’s me. Something’s going on with Kit. Apparently he’s gone missing. I’m with the police at the moment and wanted to let you know they might phone you.’

To confirm my alibi.

‘Maybe you already know this from Richard,’ I add, ‘or Melia herself. If you’ve seen her, I hope she’s holding up okay.’

As I end the call, Merchison observes, ‘I take it she doesn’t know what you’ve been up to then?’

Rattled both by the sound of Clare’s recorded voice and the implication in his that he’s identified a new form of leverage, I let my politeness slip. ‘No. And I’d prefer to keep it that way.’

‘I’m sure you would.’ He jots a line or two on his pad before sitting back and smirking at me, giving off a one-lad-to-another vibe that feels pretty authentic, and I can only guess at his own success with women. His innate understanding that in our new culture of scrupulous equality most men and women still want to enjoy the original game of opposite sexes. It doesn’t just recede because we say it should. ‘No guarantees, I’m afraid,’ he says, with faux regret, and flattens his hair with both hands.

My gaze dips to his notepad, momentarily unprotected, and I attempt some upside-down reading. Probs with CA, I decipher. CA doesn’t know about MR?

Why the question mark? He hasn’t taken my word for it? I speak more firmly: ‘Look, Clare’s not relevant to whatever’s happened to Kit.’

Parry, who’s been listening to this exchange, must have an asbestos throat because he’s already tipping back his coffee to drain the last drops. ‘Until we know exactly what happened to him on Monday night, we have to assume everything’s relevant,’ he says, close enough for me to catch the scent of americano on his breath.

The table is smaller than the one outside, more of a bistro table for two, and I have a sudden image of Kit at our Christmas drinks (inaugural Christmas drinks, he kept saying in that significant way of his, like he’d just invented the word, like it was some kind of legacy, a gift from him to us); appearing at our tiny table in the bar with a round of drinks, empties swept to the edge. His voice was thick with mockery as he raised a glass in my direction: ‘To Jamie, who thinks his generation’s the only one that knows how to drink . . .’

Was there . . . was there some sense of farewell in that thespian flourish? What was it he said to us that time about suicide? If I wanted to end it all, I’d fuck off and do it privately . . .

Even as I resolve not to repeat his words to these detectives, I’m visited by a sense of loss so profound I find it hard to breathe.

11

March 2019

Fortunately for me, Clare was out at a client dinner the night of that first liaison, giving me time to scrub the smells of adultery from my skin and feign sleep by the time she returned. In the kitchen the next morning, I took my customary position at the coffee machine, blue-lit buttons aglow as the beans ground, while she sat at the table eating mango chunks with a cake fork and checking her email. She seemed exactly as she always was until she suddenly exclaimed, ‘Oh!’

I handed her a cappuccino and stood slightly out of her eyeline with my own coffee. ‘Bad news?’

‘It’s from Vicky.’

‘Vicky?’

‘Your career coach.’ She regarded me with dismay. ‘She says you missed your consultation last night.’

Feeling my face redden, I eased into the seat next to her. ‘God, I completely forgot about that.’

‘Jamie. You need to put this stuff in your phone calendar so you get reminders. You can’t just keep it in your head.’

‘I thought it was tonight,’ I said, proving her point.

‘It’s only the second one, isn’t it? What must she think? If you can’t even make the sessions, how can you expect to carve out a new career?’

The language was grating – Maybe ‘carving out’ and being on time are different skill sets, I thought – but I was not about to start an argument with the pressure of another woman’s fingers still burning on my skin.

‘I’ll apologize and reschedule,’ I assured her. ‘Why is she emailing you, anyway?’

‘I guess because I set it all up.’ She returns to the message. ‘She says she won’t charge for the no-show. That’s very decent of her.’

‘Great. I’ll thank her. And, Clare? I’d prefer to communicate with her directly from now on. What with my being forty-eight years old and all, I think I can handle it without an intermediary.’

‘Of course.’ And she looked across the table at me meaningfully, like a pet that expects its owner to understand its needs without needing to ask.

Or maybe I was the pet.

Later that day, I waited for Melia’s confirmation of our next meeting – 7.30 Weds – before composing an email to Ms Jenkinson suspending our course indefinitely owing to work pressures. I will be in touch as soon as my diary clears again . . . Her response was prompt and professional: an agreement to await my preferred dates as and when I became available (I must point out that the fees have been paid in full and are nonrefundable). I followed up with my thanks and then told Clare I’d rescheduled for the following Wednesday at seven thirty.

Potentially, I had six further iterations of the same cover story.

Of course, the downside was that Clare was now alert to the need for closer supervision, on my case the moment I returned from my second meeting with Melia, a glass of wine ready for our self-consciously informal debrief.

‘How did it go with Vicky?’

‘Great. She’s very inspiring. We did exercises to identify desires.’

Don’t think about sex with Melia. The animal pleasure. The commitment, as if it’s our last act on earth.

‘Has she given you homework?’

‘I have this whole thing to download with possible new career directions.’

‘What are you thinking at the moment?’

‘Maybe a comms job in education. Or even teacher training.’

‘I suggested that ages ago!’

‘I know you did, and now I’m thinking about it properly.’

‘Retraining is definitely the key,’ Clare enthused. ‘Unlike the baby boomers, we’ll be working till we’re at least seventy.’

I dismissed the flare of objection I felt that she should include herself in this cohort; with her private wealth, she’d have no need to work a day longer than she chose.