Someone’s coming towards me now, getting hold of my arms.
‘Adam –’ says a voice. Low. Kind. Familiar.
I know who this is – Nell – Nell –
‘She’s OK, Adam,’ she’s saying, shaking me, trying to make me listen. ‘Alex is OK –’
And suddenly the green wall parts and I can see her. On the bed, her hair spread over the pillow, her skin grey with exhaustion.
‘Adam,’ she breathes, reaching out for me, her face wrung with concern, ‘my God – you look terrible –’
Someone pushes me forward and I’m holding her hand, touching her cheek. ‘Alex, my darling, I’m so sorry – this is all my fault –’
‘No, it isn’t,’ she whispers. ‘None of it. I know what happened – I know you didn’t do it.’ She reaches for my hand, squeezes my fingers. ‘I’ve told Gis everything – it’s going to be all right. It’s going to be all right.’
I stare at her. ‘Gis? But how –?’
I feel Nell’s hand on my shoulder. ‘That can wait,’ she whispers. ‘There’s something else much more important right now.’
She pulls me gently round. There’s a nurse smiling into my dazzled face.
‘Mr Fawley,’ she says. ‘You missed all the excitement, I’m afraid. It seems this little one couldn’t wait to be born.’
And as I take my baby in my arms for the first time, I feel the warmth and the weight of my real, breathing child, the little fists paddling the big new air, the soft mouth opening and closing like a tiny bird, and after all these last terrible days when I barricaded my emotions, put my heart in lockdown, the tears spill finally down my cheeks because she is here and she is perfect.
My daughter.
Perfect, and alive, and as beautiful as her name.
Epilogue
6 July 2018, 11.26 p.m.
Monmouth House, St Luke Street, Oxford
He’s down in the kitchen when he hears the front door slam and the sound of footsteps on the wooden stairs.
A moment later she swings into the room in a crackle of sequins and high heels. The scent she’s wearing is so dense in the hot night air he can taste it in his throat.
She drops her evening bag on to the table, and tosses back her hair. Her face radiates into a smile. ‘I did it, Caleb,’ she says. ‘I did it. Two hundred bloody million. And all because of me – not that bunch of self-important old farts – me.’
He gets up, moving towards her with a smile. ‘You are just fucking amazing – I bet they were eating out of your hand.’
The smile falters for a moment and she seems about to say something but obviously changes her mind. ‘Christ,’ she says, looking at her watch. ‘Is it really that late? I’m exhausted.’
She makes to move past him but he grasps her, holding her upper arms. ‘Come on – tell me the details – what did they say?’
His lips are inches from hers now and he can feel the heat coming off her body. The sheer excitement – the exhilaration of her success. She’s been giving him ‘Fuck Me’ signals for weeks, and as far as he’s concerned that’s a game you’ve no business playing unless you’re prepared to follow through. And in any case, what’s Seb got that he hasn’t? Because she screwed him – it’s supposed to be some big secret but of course Seb couldn’t resist rubbing his nose in it, the smug bastard.
She frowns again now, pulls back.
‘No, Caleb – you know what I said –’
He smiles. ‘Oh, come on, Marina – you know you want to – you know I want to – there’s no one like you – no one – the way you look, the way you smell, everything about you – you’re driving me fucking crazy –’
She’s shaking her head, pushing him away. ‘How many more times – I told you. I like you, you know I do, but it would just make things too bloody complicated.’
‘If it’s Freya you’re worried about –’
‘No – it’s not that –’
‘– then honestly, it’s not an issue – I mean, she’s OK and I like her but it’s not serious. And look at you – Jesus, there isn’t a bloke in the world who’d choose her over you, given the choice.’ He smiles now, turning up the charm. ‘I mean, why have prosecco when you can have the real thing? And I mean the Real Thing.’
But she’s shaking her head. ‘No, Caleb, I’m sorry, but no. You’re just not listening. You and me – it’s never going to happen.’
A darkness crosses his face and he turns away and leans heavily against the worktop. She feels a tiny pang of remorse. He’s very young, and he probably wouldn’t be that bad in bed. With a bit of coaching, he might even be quite passable. But she’s not the one who’s going to do it. Absolutely not. She made that mistake once before. She’s not risking all that again.
She reaches across and touches him gently on the shoulder. ‘Friends?’
He looks at her, then gives a rueful smile. ‘Course.’ He straightens up. ‘Right, I think we have something to celebrate.’ He goes over to the fridge. ‘Champagne?’
She smiles. ‘Not for me. I’ve already had far too much and Tobin could wake up at any moment.’
‘He won’t,’ he says with a quick glance back at her. ‘I just went up to check. He won’t disturb us.’
‘Honestly, I really don’t want any more –’
But it’s too late – the cork pops and the wine gushes down into the glasses, up over the rim, down on to the counter. She bridles a little, behind his back. For heaven’s sake, that’s Bollinger Grande Année.
He’s fiddling with the champagne flutes now, wiping up the spill. She thinks he’s just being good-mannered – he’s well brought up, probably a bit embarrassed at his faux pas.
But she’s wrong. He’s buying himself time. A few crucial seconds for the effervescence to do its job – for that little sachet of white powder to completely disappear. Because he knew there was always a risk she really was just a colossal prick-tease, and he came prepared. And he’s not stupid, either. No way Fisher’s going to fuck him around like she did to Seb. No fucking way. This is going to be on his terms, and with no blowback.
He turns to her at last and hands over the glass.
‘To you,’ he says with a dazzling smile. ‘To your triumph. And to getting everything – and I mean everything – you deserve.’
Acknowledgements
This was the book that got finished during lockdown, in that strange period of half-life that should have made concentrating easier but somehow didn’t. It’s been a year of upheavals for everyone, including the publishing industry, but ‘Team Fawley’ has kept going throughout, adapting to circumstances, experimenting with new approaches, and basically just getting on with it and refusing to be defeated. So even though I thank them with every book, they deserve it more than ever this time. My fabulous editor Katy Loftus, and the whole Penguin Viking team – Jane Gentle, Olivia Mead, Ellie Hudson, Georgia Taylor and Vikki Moynes. My exceptional agent Anna Power, and Hélène Butler, also at Johnson & Alcock, who’s now taken the number of overseas editions to twenty-five. My copyeditor Karen Whitlock, and the whole production team at Penguin, led by Emma Brown. Jessica Barnfield and the team at Penguin audiobooks, as well – of course – as Lee Ingleby and Emma Cunniffe for doing such a fabulous job as narrators. Julia Connolly, who developed the new cover design, which has really taken the look of the books to the next level. And, last but not least, the dedicated crime-lovers at Dead Good for their support.