‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m asking you. Ever since you’ve been friends with Kit and that group on the boat, something’s been off.’

I tore off an edge of galette and chewed. ‘There’s nothing off. You met them at the wedding, you saw they’re just regular people. Steve’s a bit of an arsehole, sure.’

‘I liked him,’ she said, more in the spirit of contradiction than truth, it seemed to me, but at least she removed her gaze. ‘He seems like a straightforward guy. Maybe the dynamic will change, now Kit’s married,’ she added, lifting the teapot and gesturing that I should bring the plates.

She said nothing more on the subject. But several times over the course of the rest of the trip, I imagined her thinking, You lied to me, Jamie.

Why should I believe another word you say?

*

On the ferry home, there was an odd moment. A crowd had gathered on the narrow rear deck, their chorus of urgent cries audible through the open doors. Dad was in the loo, Clare plugged into an audiobook, so I joined the gathering alone, fearing there must be a man overboard. And I admit to a certain excitement, in spite of the risk to this poor person’s life. I imagined myself at the heart of the fray, making the crucial suggestion that saved a soul, or at least succeeding in calming a hysterical spouse – something to make me the hero of the hour. But when I eased through the throng to the front, it turned out someone had spotted a dolphin, evidently now vanished. As far as the eye could see, the sea was gentle, silver-skinned, scarred only by our own wake.

No word of a lie, it was at exactly this moment, as I stood regarding the water, that a text arrived from Melia:

Are you back yet? Fuck, I’ve missed you.

The speed of my reply surprised me, though possibly not her:

Same.

I know you must be confused. I’ll explain when we’re together.

I could see the dots moving.

I love you.

Quite some PS. Perhaps I gave it too little thought before responding:

Same.

Tomorrow?

Yes, tomorrow.

‘That’s how boats capsize,’ Dad said, when I rejoined Clare and him and recounted my misapprehension about a man having gone overboard. ‘People attracted by the rumour that someone else is in danger, they end up creating it for themselves.’

He had no idea.

20

September 2019

This sounds crass, but when I think about that reunion with Melia, I prefer to think about the sex, not the words. I think of her skin glued to mine, the warm, wet squeeze inside her, the scrape of toenail on shinbone. Hair with a complicated new fragrance – dark and earthy, like the forest – covering my face, fingers gripping my neck, baby-pink nails as hard as almonds.

There are some words I will replay:

‘I’ve married one man and fallen in love with another.’

I wish I could think of a brilliant metaphor to express the irony, the theatre, of our situation, but I can’t. I do remember telling her I loved her too and repeating it like a prayer. (There’s a simile for you, anyway.)

The encounter took place in a converted factory unit, with soaring ceilings, exposed brickwork and polished concrete floor. Though it was a mild evening, we’d huddled in bed as if freezing, our brains deceived by all those cold materials.

There was a break in my voice as I asked her about the text: ‘So you love me, do you?’

And smooth honey in her reply: ‘I thought you already knew that.’

‘Getting married to another man might be considered a bit of a red herring.’ I twisted the cheap wedding band on her finger; though it was a little loose, she claimed to have no intention of getting it adjusted.

‘You should see my sister’s,’ she said, wistfully. ‘It’s a massive diamond. Must have cost, I don’t know, twenty grand.’

‘She’ll probably be mugged and have her finger broken for it,’ I said, eager to amuse her. ‘So you have no qualms about breaking your vows, do you?’

Now I’d amused her. Her laughter was soft, a puppy bark of approval. ‘You obviously weren’t listening at the register office, were you? We said nothing in our vows about being faithful.’

‘Didn’t you?’

‘No. Let’s hope Clare didn’t notice, either.’

I told her about the arguments in France, the exposure of my dishonesty, and we agreed to take greater pains than ever to keep our secrets.

‘It would definitely have come out, if she knew,’ Melia said. ‘She sent me some photos from the wedding, actually. Sweet of her.’

‘She took quite a few, I remember.’ I reached for my phone. ‘Did you know I took one?’

‘One? Wow. I hope it was worth the effort.’ She examined the image, a smile on her lips. ‘That’s from when we were dancing, Elodie and me. I’d forgotten about that.’

‘It was kind of magical, actually. You were like, I don’t know, pixies or something.’

‘Pixies?’ She giggled. ‘Don’t they have weird pointy ears?’

‘Fairies, then. Sprites.’

Holding on to the phone, she said, ‘Tell me your iTunes password.’

‘Why?’

‘I want to download a song for you.’

I watched her, her delicate profile, the gleam in her eye. Minutes passed, during which I understood that I was not only in love, but also addicted, a different kind of brain disorder altogether. ‘How many songs are you downloading there?’

‘I got you a whole album. Well, you got it yourself, technically.’

I closed my eyes, drunk with contentment as, at last, she played the track they’d danced to by the water and began kissing me with fresh urgency. ‘Did you ever feel for Clare . . . you know, this? At the beginning. What we feel.’

‘No,’ I said, as much because she demanded to hear it as because it was true. Though it was true, it really was.

When the song played a second time, I made out the line I’d only half-heard that Saturday in August by the river:

I’d like to hold her head underwater.

21

27 December 2019

At the next table, a man settles with a lurid green smoothie, speaking very loudly to the empty seat opposite: ‘Tell them that’s fine, but I would need to know by four at the latest, yeah?’

I spy the AirPods and realize he’s not deranged. Meanwhile, DC Merchison’s fingers play with his notepad, thumbing its edges like a pack of cards he’s about to shuffle. I will the pages to fall open on something that might help me – reassure me. This is the problem with the police: they defend information as fiercely as they seek it.

I need to get real here. If this goes on much longer, I’ll admit defeat and phone a lawyer, but for now I take comfort in the fact that the note-taking is hardly extensive, judging by what I can see; they obviously think most of what I’ve said is irrelevant.

‘So you continued the relationship with Mrs Roper after your holiday?’ Merchison says.

‘Yes.’ She was the one who got married, I consider saying, but there is no point, because Clare was – is – no less a victim than Kit. We are equals, Melia and I. This is something I’ve come to trust in. We’re not identically unscrupulous, but we align. Our respective moral gaps fit together like a smooth-running zip.