Dedication

For my sweet Isabella, who lives in daydreams with me…

Epigraph

‘We stopped looking for monsters under the bed when we realised they were inside us.’

–Charles Darwin

‘We shape our buildings; thereafter they shape us.’

–Sir Winston Churchill

Prologue

The bloodcurdling scream echoes from inside the labyrinthine corridors of Château Mirabelle.

The property stands stoically beyond tall iron gates, guarding her secrets.

Umbrella pines sway, casting jagged shadows across the long driveway.

This area is known as the Cotswolds of France. It’s old money around here mainly, Parisians snapping up second homes away from the bustle of city life. As temperatures rise, they head to the small villages outside Provence. But despite the recent influx of the jet-set, locals know to steer clear. They call this property the dark place, something its brand-new owner probably didn’t realise when she bought it just a few months ago.

A cherub-soaked fountain announces the eight-bedroom chateau which is set against a haze of tangled vineyard. The heavy wooden shutters on the chateau are overrun with violet sprays of bougainvillea. Next to the chateau, a white wedding marquee flaps in the breeze, its thin steel brackets slowly groaning.

This is a property some would kill to own.

Inside the house, the only sound now is the drip-drip of water from a vase overturned during the violence that occurred here just moments ago.

If you could swoop quietly closer and peep in through one of the windows, you’d get a partial view; fresh flowers lie gasping, a viscous pool of blood spills along the mahogany stairs. A console table is strewn with a wedding bouquet, a dirty doll, a crumpled pharmacy bag.

The scarlet trail continues along the stone floors where shards of glass glint like daggers. Ripples of pale sunlight fall across something on the newly laid rug in the hallway; the bare skin of a motionless human arm.

There’s one final desperate gurgle as the blood-soaked body at the foot of the grand staircase finally stills. Fingers twitch slightly and then splay slowly open.

This house sees everything but will tell you nothing.

You hold your breath, try to shift your position, to see a little better perhaps – the voyeur in us never sated. Imminent horror draws you towards it compulsively.

A person comes into focus. She clutches a silver candelabra in one crimson hand.

As if sensing something, she slowly turns.

She raises her eyes.

She looks straight at you.

She sees you watching her.

April/Avril

(Five months before)

1

Elle

Through the screen of my iPhone, the castle’s stone turrets cut into the soft blue sky.

The air is spring-sweet, the gentle warmth of the French sun pleasant against my bare shoulders as I wait for the estate agent to arrive for the viewing. I snap the image and then lower my phone to gaze up at Château Mirabelle in real life.

I’m immediately in love. But at the price it’s being advertised, there must be something majorly wrong with this place.

It was my online producer, Sue, who’d sprung this crazy idea on me. Concerned about the dwindling numbers on my interiors platform, she’d suggested charting a renovation project in real-time.

‘Hear me out, Elle,’ she’d explained, pushing her dark curls out of her eyes. ‘A friend of my sister’s knows someone with a huge chateau in the South of France who needs to sell it quickly.’

I’d looked at her cynically, but been intrigued. After all, my followers will only put up with so much posing in my Golden Goose trainers and advertising lip gloss.

‘It needs a complete interiors overhaul,’ Sue had told me. ‘But it’s affordable and it sounds perfect. Elle, I’m talking turrets, a vineyard, there’s even a pool… it might change everything.’

As I take in the property in front of me, I realise that Sue is right. This is exactly what my online community is crying out for.

Not everyone understands what I do for a living. Especially not Will. Creating content as an influencer is as different as you can imagine from what my new fiancé does in finance back in London. To him, broadcasting our whole lives to strangers is challenging. ‘I thought it was supposed to be about showing off cushions and rugs,’ he’d say, waving his hand in the air dismissively, annoyed I shared our engagement video online before we’d even told our families. Until recently I was best known for my presenting role on the UK’s biggest property renovation show. Now I’m an interiors content creator. At first people recognised my face, but they often couldn’t place if it was from TV, or their local yoga class. That was until I passed the million followers mark, which I’d done last year. Now my Instagram account pops up in people’s feeds constantly. Since my YouTube renovation series won best vlog at the Glamour Online Media Awards last year, people have demanded more from me. The rewards are bigger, but so are the expectations. My community feel entitled to know every last detail of what I wear or eat, or the type of sofa I tell them I can’t live without. But I don’t mind being that shallow, because the deep end of my childhood pool is so dark.

A car crunches slowly up the long driveway as I upload the picture to my 1.2 million followers on the Elle’s Dream Instagram page with the usual hashtags: #Interiorsfanatic #Excitingnewprojects #SouthofFrance #InteriorsLover.

My phone immediately starts hopping with notifications.

‘Think of the popularity of shows like Escape to the Chateau,’ Sue had pointed out last week, dismissing my questions about why there were little icons with the ages of the owners included on the website beside each property, including this one. I thought it strange that it would list such personal details, especially as most of them were in their seventies or eighties.

‘People love a good transformation story,’ she’d promised. ‘They’ll go wild for a complete overhaul of a huge French castle, Elle. Plus you have your product line coming up, and your wedding on the horizon…’

I picture Will and I sipping champagne under the bougainvillea terrace, me in ivory. The most picture-perfect life is right here within my grasp.

I check my phone again as the agent pulls up next to the impressive stone fountain: 2049 notifications since I posted. I calculate the likes per minute and try to quell the sensation of spiralling downwards. It’s not enough. There are the usual emojis, likes, the creepy DMs, but still not enough to keep my already twitchy homewares sponsor happy.

My life is a numbers game – my relevance is measured in cold hard figures, which have been dwindling frighteningly quickly since I ran out of projects to showcase. It feels like things are slipping out of my control. Even Will has been behaving strangely lately. I picture his dark liquid eyes, his lopsided smile.

Everything will be perfect, I whisper to myself, glancing up at the house again.

People are always telling me they would kill to have my life. But maybe not if they knew the truth.

Something catches my eye in the chateau, a movement in the upstairs window of the turret, a shadow behind the glass. I run my fingers through my blonde hair, jittery. The pressure of maintaining this façade has become overwhelming lately.

You see, they love you one moment and want to kill you off the next. You let strangers see you, but only so much of you that you remain enigmatic. They want to know the ‘real’ you, but then balk if you err. It’s a knife-edge I constantly navigate, and it’s starting to slie me open.

The estate agent steps out of her car with an outstretched hand. I take in her flawless skin and heavily pierced ears. She’s probably no more than twenty-five.

‘Je m’appelle Elle Littlewood,’ I smile, shaking her tiny bird-like hand.

‘Enchantée.’

I step into the mouth of the chateau. The ceilings and walls are clouded a speckled black. Sections of plaster curl around crevices, peeling like dry skin. There’s an overwhelming smell of mothballs and damp. Dust motes hang in the weak afternoon sunlight, as if waiting for something to happen.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the antique hallway mirror. The front door closes behind me.

Later, too late perhaps, I’ll realise just how much this moment changed everything.

In the misty reflection, I don’t see the glossy thirty-eight-year-old influencer my subscribers buy into. Instead there’s just a hollow-eyed girl, and a fluttering in my chest reminding me that nothing is ever as it seems. The house creaks and sighs as I venture deeper.

People think they know you.

People want to be you.

People have absolutely no idea.

2

Sue

Sue’s hand shakes as she hangs up on Angela Drumm. The head of Brooks & Zalia, the homewares retailer, couldn’t have been more clear; without an immediate renovation announcement, they’d be ending their brand partnership with Elle’s Dream Home. And without Elle’s Dream Home’s YouTube and Instagram revenue, Sue was completely fucked.

From her small office at the bottom of her semi-detached Kingston home, forty-eight-year-old Sue Anderson pulls up the Elle’s Dream Home socials to see just how bad the numbers are.

There are seven thousand likes on Will and Elle’s proposal video from the other day, but that isn’t even close to what they’d hoped for. Sue has known Elle long enough to know how delicate she’ll need to be about the next steps. Elle Littlewood lives and dies by the numbers. Her whole self-worth is so tied up in them that they could establish her mood for the day.

Sue leans closer to the screen of her MacBook Air, always amazed at the micro detail at her fingertips. People talk about a digital trail, but they have no idea of the information insights you can buy to learn their habits; how long someone has stayed on a page, the keywords that brought them there, the bounce rate, the pathways taken to get to the Elle’s Dream Home website.

The level of manipulation is staggering. All these millions of transactions taking place while people presume they have their own agency, plodding through content like they haven’t been herded towards it like cattle with an invisible prod.

Sue Anderson knows she enjoys the power she wields more than she probably should. Maybe it was growing up in New Zealand alongside a sister who was taller, slimmer and in her parents’ eyes, more talented, that drove Sue to crave such control.

In the distance, through the kitchen window, Sue sees the outline of Larry, down from his office in the attic to make a coffee. God forbid he offer her one. If she’s being honest with herself, Sue never thought this would be her life, not by a long shot; unloved and childless, with her fiftieth birthday looming, working for an adult Barbie doll day in, day out. Plus there is the whole being forced financially to live in the same home as her husband with no sign of either of them being able to afford a divorce or to even live separately.

Sue takes off her red-framed glasses and massages her eyes. This French property really is their last chance to turn things around.

Over her years working in TV and online, Sue had quickly learnt that there is a time for quirky, outside-the-box solutions to the problems that arose in this business, and right now was one of those times. Her job as an online producer was to follow patterns. And from what Sue could see, people were falling out of love with Elle Littlewood’s content. They wanted renovations. Elaborate renovations, international, budget-less projects. They wanted dazzling locations, memorable moments, showstopping drama. Windmills, lighthouses, chateaus…

In fairness, Elle was nice, funny and self-deprecating. At first, when she met her on set, Sue had been slightly dazzled by the younger woman’s determination. But once Elle made it to presenter, Sue saw another dimension to her. Elle needed constant reassurance about her looks or how she was perceived by the public.

Sue’s heart sinks as she sees Larry make his way down their tiny garden, towards her, picking his way along the stone pavements that lead to the garden office they’d had installed just after Covid hit. She watches with a detached weariness as her husband bends to scoop up the cat as he comes, bracing herself for Larry’s latest interruption. Last time it was something about a gas bill.

Elle’s number pops up on Sue’s mobile, but she ignores it. You see, even though Elle was overly… manufactured – and anyone could see that, with her false nails and movie-star teeth – she’d filled a gap in Sue’s life. They’d had a kind of push–pull dynamic that drove Sue to succeed. Then Elle had met Will, and while their friendship had changed, Sue had tried not to resent it. As Elle and Will’s love story bloomed, Sue’s own had withered on its rotten vine.

Sue arranges her face into a polite smile. No point in being nasty about things when they had to share a house for God knows how much longer.

He pours the cat onto the rug next to her desk, looking more uncomfortable than usual. These days, Larry’s muscles sagged, and the jawline she’d always admired had started to blur into meaty jowls. Larry, whose brown hair had begun receding in his twenties, was now half bald. Technically a photographer, until everyone in the world got an iPhone, he now works freelance for a local newspaper. Or doesn’t work, it appears. Lately every bill that came in was met with a shrug that his work had dried up.

‘I need to talk to you about something, Sue,’ he says, avoiding eye contact.

God, this is excruciating. Sue glances at her phone. Another two missed calls from Elle.

‘Go on,’ Sue says wearily. They are, Sue now sees, simply skating on the surfaces of each other’s lives. There were no common causes to connect them anymore.

‘I – I won’t be here for dinner tonight.’

Sue says a silent prayer of thanks. Bumping around their small kitchen trying to make their individual meals wasn’t the worst part of living full-time with someone who didn’t love you anymore, but it was certainty close.

‘It’s because I… well I have a… date.’

His face is puce. Larry had been good on paper when she first met him. A steady-Eddie type, until he’d decided to sell his business and plough everything they had into photography. He’d probably have been a great father too. An acute pang of disappointment overpowers her for a moment.

Larry had not become the man that Sue wanted. In fact, she thinks, as she imagines the empty silence of her home, nothing had really lived up to her expectations.

‘It had to happen sometime, I suppose,’ Sue says with a quick shake of her head. ‘It’s OK, Larry.’ She forces a light chuckle that feels false, even to her. ‘Go and enjoy it.’

Sue looks down at her hands. The nails were bitten to the quick. A new habit she’d formed just over the past few weeks. She hates the look of them.

Larry’s announcement has thrown her. It was one thing to not want each other, but quite another for him to be moving on so quickly. But he’s mistaken if he thinks she’s paying for him to wine and dine some woman from down the pub.

Watching him shuffle back up the garden, Sue feels that helplessness again – the feeling her entire life is getting away from her. The deepening wrinkles around her eyes and constant battle with grey roots haven’t helped.

She sighs and picks up her mobile to return Elle’s call.

Sometimes, when she goes over it in her head, Sue wonders if everything would be easier if Larry just simply disappeared. Poof. Like you could just unfollow someone who made you feel a certain way.

No expensive divorce.

No dividing the assets.

No experiencing the strange jumble of feelings that remind her of failure every time she looks at him sitting mournfully beside her on the couch.

She pictures Elle and her dashing fiancé, Will Buchanan, and a hot anger flares. They are at the beginning of all of it, unblemished by life’s inevitable grind.

Will is gorgeous, from a wealthy family and clearly adores Elle Littlewood.

Another feeling ripples through Sue. The intensity of this one makes her shiver.

3

Will

Will Buchanan jigs his legs beneath his desk on the eighteenth floor of the Watermark building in the City of London, refreshing his email every few moments. His office looks out over a sea of grey desks at Buchanan Capital.

Ping.

Not the email he was expecting, but a WhatsApp message. Elle has sent him another screenshot of an Instagram quote. In typewriter font, surrounded by swirls of flowers.

Some people go through their entire lives never finding what we have.

So many will never know love could be like this.

How lucky am I to have that gift. To simply know.

It’s endearing, he knows, to have someone like his fiancée who loves him so very much, but sometimes it’s hard to know how to respond to the intensity of Elle’s feelings, especially as he’d grown up in a house where an awkward pat on the back was the epitome of affection.

He heart-emojis the screenshot and adds a line of xxxxs.

Immediately, unsurprisingly, two blue ticks appear. Will jokes that Elle seems to have her phone surgically attached to her hand. He watches her sometimes, scrolling and scrolling, as if searching for something that she can never find. Will isn’t big into social media himself, preferring the neon draw of certain apps he’d deleted recently in a fit of guilt. He doesn’t understand the rabbit hole Elle burrows into constantly, even if it is her job.

He just knows that it can get pretty dark.

Will refreshes his email again, feeling his blood pressure spike.

The latest play had been a stupid moment of weakness. He’d been so confident he could play big and pay off the credit cards he’d maxed.

He pushes his dark hair out of his eyes. Will never considered himself classically attractive, but his strong jaw and rich brown eyes seem to attract those who like the brooding type. One ex-girlfriend laughingly told him he looked a bit like the actor Cillian Murphy, with his sharp cheekbones and mile-long stares.

Shame coils in his stomach as he pictures Elle with her dreamy plans and paper-thin hopes, and Will clamps his back teeth together.

Nothing was irretrievable. There had to be a way to pull this back.

He pictures his wife-to-be as he saw her early this morning before she flew to France for work – curled up next to him, elfin-like, dark shadows under her eyes from the insomnia giving them a hollowed-out appearance. He’d pulled the blanket up over her and rested his hand against her forehead a moment, filled with a heavy kind of love for her. She deserved so much more than he had to give.

Will glances up as his father crosses the open-plan desk area where the other analysts sit, and pushes open the glass door to his office. They are the only two with their own offices on this floor of Buchanan Capital.

‘Dad.’ Will can’t disguise the hope in his tone. ‘You got my email?’

His father hovers above his only child, pinching the bridge of his nose.

‘Will, I won’t be giving you that loan.’

Will jerks his head towards his father.

‘Dad.’ Will forces a laugh, reaching for his vape pen. ‘It’s me.’ He gestures both palms upwards as if he’s an open book. Smoke streams out both nostrils. ‘I’ve some money coming in…’

Silence.

‘I thought you were through with all this, son.’

There’s a catch to his father’s voice.

Rupert Buchanan is no walkover. Except when it comes to his only child. But Will knows that this is also about his performance in the company. Losing such huge sums of company money in the last three supposedly lucrative start-ups he’d brought in was going to have consequences. He unfolds his legs and steels himself for The Conversation. It was the same when he crashed his father’s Lexus when he was seventeen. The same story when he got arrested for putting a construction cone on the tracks of a tram in Germany during his interrailing experience. His dad fixed his messes and then lectures him about being irresponsible. It’s just how it has always been. Bailing him out of an overdraft here, another credit card there. A bridging loan three months ago meant the bank hadn’t been calling him as much. But once he’d defaulted on the mortgage, new letters came. Will had stuffed them in the back of his office drawer.

He glances at the time. There’s a horse in the 12.20 he’d had a tip on. That might fill a hole.

‘I told you, Elle’s lump sum is due,’ Will says, trying to keep his voice even. ‘She has this new sponsorship deal…’ He wraps his arms around his torso.

‘Will, you are almost forty,’ Rupert snaps, bending his fingers so far against the desk that his knuckles crack, a habit Will has grown up watching. Rupert’s once-famous dark curls are now thin and stringy. He has seemed smaller lately too, more fragile when Will stands next to him. Diminished somehow. Father and son share the same pale skin, prominent nose, black hair.

Will flushes. He hates disappointing his father – a feeling he is also, unfortunately, familiar with.

‘It isn’t fair to keep giving you cash like you are a teenager.’

Rupert waves his hands in the air but he loses his train of thought for a moment, something that’s been happening a little more frequently. He looks at his son blankly. Then, gathers himself and continues.

‘Your mother and I have given you every opportunity…’

This is how it usually goes. Will knows he is privileged. His parents had given him everything, bailed him out of every tough situation, bulldozed every obstacle for their son. He had private schools, ski holidays, their own pool. Then there was the two-bed in Kensington he’d lived in rent-free until he and Elle bought their own place a year ago. And though she had never exactly jelled with his mother, Elle always went on about the importance of having strong family connections – something Will feels Elle never had herself, despite what she claims. Elle said his parents used money to keep Will close to them. And maybe that was so, but it wasn’t like he was going to refuse it. It was all he’d ever known.

However, Will’s father’s words resonate.

This last deal was supposed to be the one where Will pulled the rabbit out of the hat and showed everyone he wasn’t just a daddy’s boy. It was supposed to be the breakthrough success that helped him and Elle get their own renovation project over the line. That’s why he’d proposed with such a lavish ring. They’d even viewed a few old country houses that needed work. Elle was hoping to chart the renovations on her social media. But now he’d messed that up too.

He feels unfamiliar panic as his father paces up and down in front of the private office window. Will thinks of the work his fiancée has put into building up her own business. He hadn’t loved the idea of charting their lives online when she left the well-paid presenting job on TV, but he knew there was something different that drove Elle to succeed. As much as he hated Elle broadcasting her life to a bunch of strangers online, Will also knew that without Elle’s advertising deals, they’d be much worse off financially than he’d like to admit.

His father’s words snap him back to his office.

‘So that’s it, then. I’m sorry son. That Macmillan investment bombed,’ his father reminds him. ‘An electric scooter start-up was never going to work. You didn’t do the due diligence. You know you didn’t. It was all over the news for months that the council were banning them from certain city roads.’

Will shrugs.

‘I guess you win some, you lose some.’

‘Four million isn’t loose change, son,’ his father snaps. ‘You act like you are so damn sure of yourself, but you’re not putting in the hard graft. You are risking my business by advising a client that their money is safe when it isn’t. You have to build trust so we don’t end up with our trousers around our ankles like this again.’

A vein pulses in Rupert’s left temple. His reaction surprises Will. Surely this type of fallout happens all the time?

‘It’s the nature of our business.’ Will shrugs, parroting the line he’s heard many of the other Buchanan directors use when deals fall through.

‘I’m sorry, William. It’s one thing throwing away your own money. But I can’t let you throw away mine.’

Rupert raps his knuckles on Will’s desk distractedly, as if reluctant to say what he came here to say.

‘I’ve had some sleepless nights thinking about this, but I’ve decided I’m not doing right by you.’

Will squints at his father.

This isn’t how the script goes.

‘You can stay on here until the summer, but there’ll be no more investing Buchanan Capital finances, and I’m dropping you down to an associate salary. It’s not fair on the directors that perform. Until you bring in your own deals – that actually work – it’s as good as burning it.’ Will stares at his father, the blood rushing in his ears. It’s a joke, it has to be.

‘But Dad…’

He’d been about to say that it wasn’t fair, but he could hear the whine in the words before he even got them out. What wasn’t strictly fair was that he’d been promoted within a year of working at Buchanan Capital and still hadn’t brought in close to the commissions half the other directors had.

The room feels hot. There is a tightness in Will’s chest. He pictures Elle’s dream wedding plans, the house he is about to lose. Elle hasn’t a clue about any of it.

His father had always been there for him – a confidante and guide to pick him up when he fell. Now he is telling Will that that bulldozing spirit his parents had always adopted with him was stunting his growth.

They are cutting him off.

‘There’s no more discussion, I’m sorry. This isn’t easy, William. I love you, son, but we just can’t keep going on like this…’

To be fair, Rupert, who always went easy on Will, seems almost close to tears.

‘It sets a precedent for the company. It was eight hundred thousand on the Thompson fund, close to two million on the Atticus account. I can’t think of any other way to try to get you to stand on your own two feet. I’m sorry, son. I don’t think I’m helping you.’

Will thinks of the date on the letter the bank had sent – the date they’re bringing them to court. A cold despair passes over him like a shadow.

‘Please…’ he says quietly, hating himself.

‘I’m sorry, son,’ Rupert mumbles, his eyebrows knitting tightly together.

An hour later, from the bar at the Wharfman’s Inn, Will rejects Elle’s call.

The glow of the racing on the TV casts a green hue across his face. He watches as the horses bolt inelegantly from their boxes. Blind to everything but the need to win.

4

Elle

I frown, slipping my phone into the pocket of my Paige jeans as I make my way towards the centre of Château Mirabelle.

The house is silent except for the steady tick-tock of an old grandfather clock in the hallway. The agent has excused herself to take a call, but her reluctance to venture into the house with me has immediately raised a red flag. She’d seemed almost nervous about stepping foot inside the huge crumbling property.

Will never used to ignore my calls, or reply with bland one-word responses. When we first met he’d send flirty paragraphs and sweet messages throughout the day. I picture him, down on one knee on our trip to Dubai, grinning as I squealed at the huge diamond in the velvet box in his palm. Though I knew it was being filmed, I’d sobbed genuine tears, because all I’ve ever wanted is someone who loved me and a place that could never be taken away from me.

I delve deeper into the chateau. My footsteps creaking as I open doors and peer into every corner.

As beautiful a building as it is on the outside, with the smooth stonework and vibrant wisteria clinging to the walls, inside is a different story. A vaulted ceiling stretches beyond a central mahogany staircase. The air is thick with a dankness that catches in the back of my throat. Crumbling patches bulge precariously from the ceiling. Despite the neglect, Sue is 100 per cent right; this chateau has unbelievable potential. It’s the ideal zero to hero project that we’d wished for.

But it is going to cost us.

I trace my fingers along the ancient embossed wallpaper. It hangs, ripped from its original dado rail, as I continue towards the centre of the house. In the kitchen, mismatched plywood cupboard doors hang open.

The agent had explained it was owned by an elderly man, the town’s former GP, who was finally ready to sell as his health worsened. Even so, for a price like this, I’d be a fool not to bring in a structural engineer. No point in buying an eight-bedroom house that could collapse around me.

From the kitchen, flimsy double doors lead out to a small overgrown terrace. I push them open, shivering as I go from dark back into light.

For a moment, I stand perfectly still, enchanted by the expanse of vineyard beyond the murky swimming pool that stretches towards the distant purple hills.

It’s breathtaking.

A dragonfly bumps carefully along the grey stonework of the building. There’s so much to explore. I twist my hair into a bun and go back inside, poking my head into rooms as I go – a small bathroom with a white mobility aid on the wall, pictures everywhere ruined by neglect. Some of a couple, some with a child, a serious-looking boy in various stages of his life – a communion day, a graduation ceremony. But all covered in a layer of dust and, if you judged by the ceilings in some of the rooms, probably mould too. It’s sad to see the deterioration of what once must have been a happy home. Upstairs, corridors twist every which way, as if teasing. Some of the doors are stuck in their frames so I shoulder them open, bursting into dusty rooms with a jolt. In one, a sudden fluttering from the bedroom chimney makes me jump, and a cloud of ash scatters silently into the hearth like snowflakes. I step gingerly down the central Gone with the Wind staircase clutching the mahogany rail, afraid it might collapse beneath me.

Downstairs my gaze falls on the main reception room door.

This door is stiffer. I turn the brass knob slowly and lean against it. It creaks as I twist it open, as if the hinges are resisting.

This room has a different energy entirely. The walls are lined with books, but dark patches of mould crouch in every corner. Thick velvet curtains are pulled almost completely over. I peel one slowly back, wincing at the dead insects littering the windowsill, their dehydrated bodies scattered unceremoniously over the sun-bleached grain.

Dust particles are suspended in sunlight.

There’s a unique mustiness here that’s different to the rest of the chateau. It reminds me of the odour that used to emanate from those I slept next to on long cold nights in the Dublin hostels as a teen. It’s the horribly familiar scent of neglect. And what I’d been running from my whole life.

Something on the sofa catches my eye. A dark blanket has been thrown across it carelessly. My heart leaps into my throat as it moves.

Then the movement turns into a figure. They stare at me through the gloom. Fear flares, making me take a blundering step backwards.

‘Please.’ I try to sound confident, but my voice betrays me.

I should have known then that beneath every pretty façade lies hidden complications.

There’s a barrage of angry French words as the figure lunges towards me. I release a desperate cry and, tugging urgently at the door, my hands shaking, my whole body shaking, I flee.

5

Sue

‘What the fuck, Sue?’

Elle sounds as if she’s struggling to catch her breath over the phone.

Sue pictures her striding up and down the gravel outside the chateau, pebbles crunching under her gold Birks, running a hand through that perfect hair of hers.

‘What the actual fuck, Sue. Was that the owner?’

‘OK, calm down,’ Sue says in a practised voice. ‘I just wanted you to see the house first, before I filled you in on the details…’

‘What details, Sue? You could have bloody told me there was someone still living there.’

‘I didn’t know. Maybe it was a mix-up with the agent,’ Sue appeases. ‘But it’s for sale in what’s called an en viager deal. I heard about them when I lived in Paris with my sister. En viager translates as “for life”. It’s a property deal that is unique to France; the buyer pays a knock-down price – but only takes possession when the owner dies.’

Elle makes a noise, surprise or horror, Sue can’t tell.

‘You pay a lump sum,’ Sue continues, trying to keep her voice neutral, ‘usually around half of what the property is worth, and then you pay the owner a monthly fee, like rent, for the duration of their life. The owner gets cash to live, and the buyer gets the property eventually for a rock-bottom price. It’s win-win.’

‘But you only get it when they die?’ Elle demands cynically.

Sue hesitates. ‘Well, yes, if you want to put it like that. The owner sells their home and then they get paid to stay on… maybe for months or maybe years, until… their death.’

There’s a silence as they both digest exactly what Sue is saying.

‘So the longer they live, the more you pay?’ Elle says slowly. ‘And the sooner they die the better the deal is for us.’

‘Yep…’ Sue tries to keep her voice light. ‘That’s why it’s so cheap, Elle.’

‘But that’s a pretty fucking big catch; buying a house that comes with its owner.’

‘It’s mainly older people that do it,’ Sue says quickly. ‘But yes, it’s a gamble. That’s why you can afford it. The buyer is hoping that the owner will pop their clogs sooner rather than later. But from the owner’s perspective, they get to live their life with a wedge of cash in the bank that they can enjoy in their lifetime. The monthly stipend for his chateau is only one thousand two hundred euro a month after you pay the lump sum. Less than a two-bed apartment in Wolverhampton.’

Elle doesn’t answer.

‘For. A. Castle, Elle,’ Sue enunciates.

‘Jesus Christ. Is that why they list their ages?’ Elle suddenly exclaims.

Sue is silent at the end of the line. She pictures the online sales ad with the little icons showing how old the owners are. Cute grey-haired emojis of old men and women with a number above their cartoon-like faces.

‘How horrifically morbid…’

‘It’s pretty cheap for a mansion in the South of France,’ Sue says matter-of-factly.

‘Imagine the agent asking the owners their ages and then uploading them onto the brochure for sellers, as if advertising the measure of their fragility. Like a countdown clock to when their asset will finally be realised.’

Sue sighs. Elle is smart and by all accounts successful, yet there are glimpses of a scared little girl that come out every now and then – an insecurity that Sue can understand how people might find endearing, even attractive. But lately, Elle has been so… distracted.

‘Sue, we need the project now,’ Elle points out. ‘We can’t wait for this old guy to keel over. It could be years. It’s too risky, even for the price.’

‘Elle, listen to me. The sponsor isn’t happy. They are talking about collaborating with Zibby Shanley from Bliss Interiors who has just refurbished that villa in Ibiza. It’s all over YouTube. The whole thing looks like something out of a style magazine – a chic Mediterranean bolthole. Now she has collaborations coming out her ass. She’s getting much more traction from the real-time renovations than your samey-samey content. Even your and Will’s engagement video didn’t go beyond 7k.’

Sue knows she can be persuasive. It was her who’d convinced Elle to consider becoming an influencer and stepping away from TV hosting. ‘It’s all about control and having the upper hand,’ she’d told Elle back then. She hadn’t been wrong, even if maybe Sue needs that power a little more than Elle does sometimes. That’s why they get on – because Elle reminds Sue of herself. She can look into Elle Littlewood’s eyes and recognise those burning embers of determination. Some believe it’s about control, but actually they both just need to build something that can never be taken from them.

‘I haven’t even told you the best part,’ Sue continues, her tone a little more gentle. ‘The agent told me that this owner – Leonard Louvain – might let us start renovating immediately if we put down the cash this week. Think about it – this could be another Elle’s Dream Home makeover. Who wouldn’t want to be a part of that? And best of all, be paid for it? Plus, no one in your community has to know the background details, or the timeline.’

‘I don’t know, Sue. This owner, this Leonard, didn’t seem too happy about our introduction just then. How’s he going to feel about us bulldozing around him?’

‘We’ll think of something. What have we got to lose? Plus I’m sure he’d be thrilled to have a working heating system and new floors.’

Sue realises she’s digging her stubby nails into the delicate skin of her wrist. She hates that her future is tied up with someone as fickle as Elle.

‘It needs a lot, Sue. Like, a lot more than we have.’

Than you have, Sue thinks unkindly. But they don’t have to go too deep into the renovation. They can keep everything surface level.

‘It’s a long shot,’ Elle says slowly, and Sue can tell she’s gazing at the chateau in the distance. Sue glances at the alluring façade of the property on her screen too. It really is the perfect place for Elle to do her thing.

‘I know, Elle, but it might also be our only shot. And…’ she continues, ‘the Elle’s Dream community doesn’t have to know about these… complications. You can filter out any flaws. Just like you do with everything else.’

There’s a slight inflection to Sue’s tone but Elle doesn’t seem to notice.

‘Zibby fucking Shanley…’ Elle mutters. ‘She’s like… a nobody.’

Sue almost smiles. She knows exactly which buttons to push with Elle Littlewood, and envy is definitely one of them.

‘So what do you think?’ Sue says hopefully. Then, more quietly, ‘I mean, he is almost ninety.’

‘Sue!’

‘What? Let’s not beat about the bush here, Elle. The only way you’ll actually own this property outright is if he dies.’

Silence.

Sue grips her iPhone tighter. Sue desperately needs this to work.

‘You knew I’d fall in love with it…’ Elle accuses, but there’s a smile in her voice, a new energy to her tone.

She also understands that they’re at the end of the line if this doesn’t work out.

Sue knows Elle well enough to figure out that once she loves something, she can never let it go. Another trait they both share. In fact, that’s how they’d both clawed their way to this point.

‘We’ll make it work, Sue,’ Elle tells her friend, a new determination to her voice. ‘No matter what it takes.’

6

September/Septembre

Five months later

The smell of fresh paint and death permeates the chateau as the detective steps over the threshold of the huge property.

The horror that’s just unfolded here seems completely at odds with its dazzling interiors. Inspector Dupont tries not to gag as he pulls on his protective suit and steps into the vaulted hallway of the chateau. The new owner has certainly done a lot with the place. It’s nothing like the last time he’d been here.

He surveys the blood-splattered murder scene. The victim lies crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, one arm stretched out towards the door, a small flower garland twisted on the ground beside them. Petals are strewn around the hallway like confetti. Above Dupont’s head, an elaborate chandelier sways precariously.

‘Oh la vache… beaten to a pulp,’ one officer exclaims, stepping wide of the sticky pool of crimson. ‘This was no accident.’

But Dupont knows better than to speculate at this stage. The whispers had already spread like a virus around the village and back. This isn’t the first time this property has thrown up her sinister secrets.

‘Do you think the victim was here for the wedding?’ Inspector Dupont’s new colleague had queried, as they first approached the large iron gates. The celebrity wedding taking place at the property was now all over the media. A sea of guests in brightly feathered hats had stood puzzled alongside media scrums held back by uniformed gendarmerie as Dupont inched the car up the long driveway of the chateau.

Dupont had shushed him; rumours were bad enough without the police adding to them.

That’s when he’d spotted the edge of the wedding marquee still standing erect next to the house – colourful cushions, a stack of white chairs, twisted bunting hanging discarded. A beautiful occasion transformed into something far more bleak.

‘Where’s the owner?’ Dupont asks as they stand in the hallway, taking in the shaken faces of the first responders who still look dazed by the stomach-churning scene by their feet.

‘Old one or new one?’ someone asks.

Dupont looks down at the body, which is too badly beaten to make any kind of initial ID. A red stain spreads out around it like wings. He finds it hard to look at where the face should have been.

He’s seen a lot of violence throughout his career, and looking at the horror of this particular scene, whoever did this must have been consumed with rage and hatred.

For this poor person.

Or perhaps for themselves.

May/Mai

7

Elle

Stuck-up bitch

What does Will even see in her?

Her hair is far too blonde for her age

What has she done to her face?

Fucking whore

The comments are always this typically nasty, but it’s the direct message I receive that leaves me reeling as Will and I pull up in a taxi outside Caribou, a swanky steak place just off Islington High Street. It’s a week since I returned from France. We order margaritas at the bar from the hyperbolic cocktail menu as Will narrates the menu. I glance around, distracted. Sometimes my followers actually follow me. And though this new message from the troll is horribly simple, the details of it have thrown me. Could whoever messaged me be here now?

There’s a wellness influencer I recognise by the doorway of the restaurant, and nearby, a personal trainer to the stars who’d recently turned up online with an impressive hair transplant. A few diners glance over and whisper as we are led to our table but no one who looks directly threatening.

You’d think I’d be used to the haters and trolls, but it never gets easier. Surprisingly, the majority of my worst trolls are women. My crime? Bringing it on myself, apparently, for posting about gorgeous homes, pretty summer dresses, cute videos of Will and I smiling on holidays.

Don’t they understand that it’s my job to make life look perfect?

‘So what did you want to talk about?’ Will leans in to take an exaggerated sip of the pale liquid from the over-filled rim of his cocktail when it arrives, his eyes slightly glassy. I post a standard Boomerang of us clinking glasses and spot a few people taking pictures of us from across the room.

My husband-to-be is the most handsome man here, slim and fit in his single-breasted suit. I try not to count the number of days since we last slept together.

Will is everything to me.

Will had shown me love when I’d never known what it even looked like. I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to make sure we have the happiest marriage ever. Even if that means banishing thoughts of the latest troll out of my mind for the evening.

This morning I’d sent Will another quote I’d found recently that summed everything up between us since we met, two years ago.

With you there are no endings.

Only beginnings on top of beginnings. Again and again. This is us forever.

He’d sent back one x.

I lift my own drink carefully to my lips. Strong and too sugary – no sign of the saltiness I usually crave.

A quick glance and I see there are 600 likes on my post of our drinks. A good sign. Just wait until the announcement about the French chateau, I think with a thrill.

But first, there is the small matter of my husband-to-be having cold feet about my prospective interiors project. I reach for his hand and squeeze it.

‘I wanted to talk about this French house with you.’ I try to sound deliberately casual.

His face immediately darkens.

‘Not this again, Ellie. We’ve been over it a million times since you’ve seen it. Can we not just go out and have a good time without flogging this idea to death again? We can’t get that house in France. Not yet…’

He sees my expression.

‘But we are so close, Elle. I’m trying to close the Oberdash deal and then everything will be good.’ His tone is unconvincing. Lately, Will has been staying out late, leaving the house early. It’s partly what prompted me to send those lovely quotes. To remind him of us. Of the amazing future we are going to build together.

Will breaks my grasp to tear off a chunk of bread and carelessly slathers it with butter, a lock of hair hanging across one eye.

‘At least listen to my suggestion,’ I urge Will.

‘Go on,’ he sighs, taking another slug of his margarita. He licks little flakes of salt from his lips.

I begin reeling off all the reasons why the en viager deal would work for us, interrupted only by the waitress who comes to take our order.

‘But the main benefit,’ I explain, taking another sip of my drink, ‘is going to be the renovations I could showcase. The owner says he’ll agree to let us start doing it up while he’s living there. The content for Elle’s Dream Home would be off the charts. It will catapult the site to the next level…’

Will shakes his head slowly.

‘Firstly, you are already an internet sensation, Elle. Over a million followers in just two years. It’s almost unheard of, and most of them are genuine. But don’t you think it’s a little fucking weird that this old guy is living there, aware that you are dying for him to die so you can move in?’ He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. It’s actually quite sad if you think about it.’ He surveys me with those gorgeous brown eyes.

Will is many things, but it was his kindness that first drew me to him when I met him at a fancy New Year’s luncheon his mother had dragged him along to. I felt a strange sense of peace when he’d sat down next to me and introduced himself – this posh public schoolboy who seemed to be at ease with the etiquette for water glasses and which forks to use first.

I look at Will across the table at Caribou now and wonder why I’ve never revealed to him the truth about what happened to me when I was fourteen. Probably because I’d have to finally reveal who he really fell in love with. Will’s lips are moving, but suddenly I’m miles away, my hands sticky, a weapon dropping onto wet concrete.

I jump as the waitress sets down the tray with our food – the metallic sound jolting me back to the din of the restaurant. That troll has really gotten under my skin this evening.

As Will carves his steak, I try not to look at the blood oozing from its jagged flesh.

‘There’s nothing weird about this French thing,’ I pick up our conversation, dissecting a cherry tomato with the serrated part of my knife. Juicy seeds burst out across my plate and congeal next to the creamy sauce. ‘Or complex. It’s actually an arrangement that suits everyone,’ I tell him. ‘We get a stunning house in France for less than half price. This man, the owner, Leonard Louvain, gets cash. And even better, he gets to see his beloved house getting done up while he is still… living. And I get amazing content.’

Will looks unconvinced as he chews his steak. He forks a green bean roughly.

‘It’s not for free though, Elle. It’s a whole load of cash we just don’t have yet.’

He looks uncomfortable.

I suppress the twinge of anxiety building in my stomach.

‘I know it seems a bit unconventional Will, but everyone I ever interviewed for Dream Homes had a story like this about how they got their properties. Places like this don’t just fall into your lap. You have to seek them out. Actively pursue them. There’s always a quirky backstory. It adds to the mystique, sets it apart. Otherwise everyone would do shit like this.’

‘But what if we do up the house and this guy lives for another ten years?’ Will challenges, setting down his knife. ‘How do you feel about playing roommates with an almost ninety-year-old? What if he falls over while we are in the house some night? Or gets dementia and we’ve to look after him? It’s like you are trying to squeeze us into this situation just to suit your brand.’

I set down my own cutlery, trying to contain the flair of resentment that has been bubbling between us.

‘Yes, Will. That’s exactly what I’m doing. Because if I don’t do a big renovation like this soon, there is no Elle’s Dream Home sponsorship. There’s no product line, no free cars… or holidays… And don’t think I haven’t noticed you keep putting off setting a date for our wedding. I have to say, all these deals you are spending so long working on are taking a pretty long time to pull off.’

The words are out before I realise how hurtful they might sound – how emasculating. I scramble to try to claw them back but Will stares at me in horror.

He’d told me work was slow at the moment. Something about the markets. No start-up investments had it smooth, especially not at the fledging stage, he’d told me. But he’d been saying that since I met him. We both knew it was Rupert and Bethany’s allowance that paid most of his share of the bills. That’s why I’d been able to squirrel away some savings of my own – an old habit, born from my desire to never have to rely on anyone financially. It wasn’t something we’d ever discussed, but it was starting to grate that Will found it so difficult to take responsibility for his side of our financial future. Sometimes it felt as if Will was still the public schoolboy from the photos in his parents’ house, dressed up as a man, the suit and a briefcase just props, like those crowns and swords my brother and I used to make out of tinfoil scraps.

Will looks so unsure of himself that I choose my next words more carefully.

‘Will, I have my own savings. This is an investment even Buchanan Capital would probably encourage when you look at what the end result will be.’ I lean forward and take his hand across the table. I lower my voice. ‘Leonard Louvain, the owner, is almost eighty-eight. He’s really not in great health…’ My insinuation is obvious. ‘And if all else fails, I’ll bloody push him down the stairs,’ I laugh half-heartedly at my own joke, but Will is staring at me, a strange look on his face. ‘Everything is going to work out,’ I say in my most convincing voice.

‘You have savings?’ A spark in his eyes. I feel a finger of cold run down my spine.

Perhaps this is the moment where everything changes.

Because what happens next is the first in a series of events that will lead to the darkest moments imaginable.

If only we’d stayed like that – Will and I, holding hands across the crisp white tablecloth, half-drunk margaritas in their upturned-sombrero glasses. Our outstretched arms a bridge to something a little more innocent, perhaps.

I was foolish to believe our future could be so uncomplicated.

His phone vibrates with a notification and he quickly moves it away, immediately flushing.

I know Will Buchanan off by heart, and that’s when I know that I very much risk losing him. I try to get the spinning in my head to slow.

Will’s expression is caught between indignation and guilt.

So I blurt it out. I need him to know we have commitments together now.

‘I’ve signed for the house in France, Will. There’s no going back.’

He glares at me, drawing a long breath in through his nose.

‘You signed the contracts? Behind my back? With what money?’

I nod slowly. ‘I told you, I’ve kept some aside.’

Will drops his head into his hands. It’s a long time before he speaks again. And when he does, there’s something in his eyes I’ve never seen before. A burden I wasn’t sure he knew how to carry.

‘What the hell have you done?’ he murmurs.

I hurry to the aerosol-soaked air of the unisex bathrooms. The woman in the reflection of the mirror stares back at me. The epitome of Scandi-cool and in control, even though I’m Irish and anything but. I lean close to the mirror, running my thumb along the bottom of my lip to fix my lipstick.

There’s a voice in my ear, three whispered words.

Who are you?

‘I’m Elle Littlewood,’ I say quietly to myself, trying to gain control of my emotions.

I think of the message I’d received in my DMs earlier and shiver. This one was different to the rest. A username with lots of different numbers and no profile picture.

‘Remember what happened in Dublin, Elaine.’ It said.

Those eyes glare back at me in the reflection.

But who are you really? they whisper.

What are you?

8

Sue

Sue is lying on the couch reading an article on LinkedIn that her sister wrote, half picking at a takeaway, when the strange DM pops up on her Instagram-managed account for the Elle’s Dream Home page. It’s addressed to an ‘Elaine’ which Sue immediately finds weird. She makes a note to speak to Elle about it later, an uneasy feeling building. What had happened in Dublin and who was Elaine? It had stood out against the usual crazy messages this account received. Everything from random men asking Elle to send naked pictures of herself, to offers of what were obviously bogus modelling contracts. There were the usual requests to post about every cause under the sun or requests for event appearances or speaking gigs, which Sue usually forwarded to Elle’s agent, Sam. But there was something about this troll that gave her pause. Frowning, she returns to her sister’s article.

Amy Anderson, Sue’s sister, often writes pieces on behalf of those she represents as a human rights solicitor with an international law firm in Paris. In this feature, Amy has outlined the massive injustices against her client. She’d even forced a landmark ruling at the Hague Court of Appeals. It’s pitch-perfect. As is the professional shot of her younger sister looking over her shoulder to camera earnestly. There are at least twenty comments underneath congratulating her.

You are such an inspiration, Amy.

Incredible work!

Look at you changing the world, Anderson…

Sue sighs, thinking how she’d spent most of the day trying to convince an ethical shampoo company to collaborate with Elle. Then there was the radio slot about pantry decluttering that she’d managed to get Elle to agree to. Sue shakes her head in frustration.

She feels destined to mediocrity next to her younger sister’s achievements.

But all that will change now that Elle has finally signed for Château Mirabelle. Sue had already sent a picture to Amy telling her all about it. She might even invite her to come and see it this summer… Sue could hear the neediness in her own voice as she’d described the chateau to Amy, wanting her younger sister to understand that Sue was capable of bigger things than simply promoting influencers, which, let’s face it, is hardly ground-breaking stuff. The biggest difference Sue had made to the world lately was to encourage Elle to post a flag on her Instagram stories in support of Ukraine. A mistiming in the posting schedule meant it popped up straight after their ‘plan your perfect dinner party table’ reel, which was obviously unfortunate, but hadn’t warranted the death threats Elle had received for being so flippant.

A stray noodle falls between the grey couch cushions, and Sue fishes it out with her thumb and index finger, reaching between the soft crevices.

She feels something hard.

It’s a small hoop, a cheap gold-plated earring, that’s slightly bent. It’s the kind you’d find in a high-street retailer for less than a tenner. Sue has worked exclusively with lifestyle and luxury brands in recent years. And the couch is relatively new. In other words, it certainly isn’t hers. Sue Anderson would never wear this junk.

The room seems to spin around her, a new pain she wasn’t expecting hits her between the eyes.

Shit.

An hour later, she confronts Larry when he arrives home. She’s loading the dishwasher in the kitchen when she hears him come in.

‘You brought someone into our home?’ she accuses, her voice coming out more sharply than she intended. Sue scrapes a plate furiously into the sink. A sliver of bok choy hits the back of the stainless steel and slides slowly into the drain trap.

‘You brought a date here?’

Sue isn’t sure if it’s the violation of having a strange woman in her home that’s upset her, or ongoing sadness about how her and Larry’s marriage had come to this.

She clatters a sauce-wet fork in among the other cutlery and kicks the bottom tray forward with her foot. It lurches back into the opening and she slams the dishwasher door shut. She turns to look at Larry. Larry’s shoulders slouch and he nods. Sue closes her eyes. She feels something break inside her. Something irretrievable. She hasn’t even told Amy about their breakup. Nobody knows.

She turns away and leans both hands on the worktop surface either side of the sink, shaking her head.

‘You thought it would be OK to roll around on the couch, my couch, while I was out?’ Sue snaps eventually, head still bent sinkwards.

‘Sorry, Sue,’ Larry swallows. ‘I just didn’t think…’ He glances at her and then away.

They are quiet for a long moment.

‘So what now?’ Larry says finally.

It’s then Sue realises how little of them is left.

The old them.

A sob builds in her throat.

She remembers their wedding day, how she’d refused to wait outside the town hall doors while those inside prepared for the excitable bride. Clutching a single allium, she’d nudged open the wooden doors herself and practically run into Larry’s arms, her white slip dress hitching up in her enthusiasm. Sue remembers his face turned towards her, his adoring smile. The one she hasn’t seen in so long. He didn’t let go of her hand all day long, like he was scared she’d float away from him.

The travesty of time, of growing apart, of the heartbreak that they are no longer those same people anymore, and haven’t been for a very long time.

It doesn’t mean she can’t grieve the people they’d wanted to be.

A single tear rolls down Sue’s cheek and lands next to the remains of her soggy dinner, now clogged in the drain like mush.

What to do with all those hopes and dreams they had? Where does all that energy go now?

Sue pushes her knuckles into her eyes to stop the tears, remembering how many times over the years that she had been asked the same question. Do you have kids? It was impossible to explain the thud that landed in her chest at that question, and how she’d have to pause as she waited for it to pass before answering. ‘No. No kids.’

They’d shared that, her and Larry.

Nobody tells you how much heartbreak physically hurts. Of the fine line between love, resentment and the sweetness of nostalgia. Or of the sour taste when nothing works out.

Larry reaches out towards her, his hand gentle on her shoulder.

‘Suze…’ his voice breaks slightly.

‘Don’t,’ Sue whispers fiercely, not sure she can bear living like this anymore. It’s like being locked inside a never-ending slideshow of their old life; simultaneously haunting and beautiful and so very devastating. She feels utterly discombobulated.

A rap on the glass of the back door almost makes her jump.

‘Shit,’ Sue frantically wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her fleece jumper. Elle’s face appears at the sliding doors, both hands cupped to the sides of her head as she leans to peer in. Her breath mists the glass, making her face cloudy and ghostlike. She spots Sue, who waves back. This is a regular occurrence.

‘We’ll talk about this later,’ Larry says gently, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ Sue replies, forcing her tone to neutral. She opens the door to her boss.

‘We’ll go down to the studio,’ she suggests to Elle.

Elle looks at her up and down as they pick their way towards the garden room, Sue trying to smooth her dark curls back out of her face. The influencer’s hair hangs in blonde waves around her shoulders. She’s wearing a pale pink cashmere jumper, tight blue jeans, her always-perfect smile.

‘All OK, Sue?’

‘Yep.’ Sue makes a show of smiling brightly as she opens the studio door and switches on the heat. It isn’t a huge room, just enough for a couch, an area where Sue photographs the free products sent in for Elle and a desk area big enough for them both.

‘Angela called a few minutes ago…’ Elle tells her.

The marketing manager for Brooks & Zalia is humourless and condescending, and more than keen to get her pound of flesh from the Elle’s Dream Home content, even if that means slapping the consumer in the face with marketing. Like many of the clients Sue deals with, there is little understanding of the art of subtly when it comes to selling products through influencer marketing. But Sue is surprised Angela is calling Elle directly.

‘That’s why I came over. We discussed the new product line, Sue. She wants to move forward with a launch this summer to coincide with the renovations of Château Mirabelle.’

Elle beams at her while Sue blinks, trying to catch up. Sue is the one that makes the deals here.

‘Sue, she’s talking about putting my name to throws, infusers, journals,’ Elle continues, sliding a silver-polished nail along the seal on the box of cupcakes she’s brought. ‘She thinks we’ll sell out. She’s even lined up the factory in China. But it all hinges on how many eyes we get on Château Mirabelle renovation content. Are you sure people will like it? Like… really like it?’

Her friend regards her wide-eyed, a cupcake suspended mid bite, and Sue feels that twinge again – she’s not sure if it’s pity or satisfaction. Sometimes Elle Littlewood is an enigma to her – so focused on succeeding – but then, that vulnerability… that desperation to be liked.

She always cares too much what others think. As far as Sue is concerned, Elle’s life seems so smooth that she’s found herself growing increasingly resentful of her own ordinary life, her own unremarkable house, her inability to land on her feet like Elle Littlewood always seems to. Some people call it lucky, but Sue Anderson knows that there are just some people in the world, usually the attractive ones, who seem to breeze through life. Like her sister, Amy.

Elle has good skin and good teeth. She has a fiancé who idolises her twenty-four seven. She has adoring fans. And, thanks to Sue, a pretty solid income, as long as the sponsor remains locked in. Some would call it jealousy, but that’s too uncomplicated; this is an inexplicable resentment that Elle’s life always seems easier than hers.

At the same time, Sue also needs Elle to succeed. Plus, they have a business to run. And emotions have to be kept out of it.

‘They’ll lose their minds over it,’ Sue promises, running fingers under her eyes in case her mascara has run. She tries to push the image of Larry standing so forlorn and confused in their kitchen out of her mind.

Elle takes another bite of cupcake, satisfied. Her diamond ring glints as she raises her napkin to her mouth. She finishes chewing.

‘Will’s not too keen,’ the influencer admits. ‘Plus he doesn’t like me being away from him and I’d have to go over and do a lot of the initial work myself.’

Sue exhales and shakes her head.

‘Elle, he has to be on board,’ she snaps. ‘I’m not losing my sponsor.’ Between the earring, her sister’s bloody achievements, and being stuck in this half-life with Larry, everything is getting in on top of her. Now here’s Elle thinking she can just turn up and demand Sue’s attention.

Elle regards her, a strange expression in her eyes. There is nothing vulnerable about the influencer in that moment. Those eyes an icy blue.

‘Don’t you mean my sponsor?’ she replies curtly.

There’s a long drawn-out pause. Both women stare at one another.

Elle composes herself, she resumes picking chocolate chips out of the cupcake and brushing them into a napkin. Sue had never seen her eat an entire meal since she’d known her.

‘Do you know someone called Elaine?’ Sue says suddenly, studying Elle’s face carefully.

Elle looks up at her sharply. She narrows her eyes, making a show of trying to think really hard.

‘Not that I can think of…’ Elle shakes her head.

Sue knows it’s all an act. There is something off about the way Elle’s reacting to this DM. Normally she’d obsess over every tiny criticism or comment that came in.

It was that reaction, along with the build-up of weeks of frustration as well as her narky comment about the sponsor that finally compelled Sue to contact the private investigator to look into Elle Littlewood’s past. Sue understood power and she’d learnt never to underestimate the power of information.

Nothing at all to do with the giant diamond on Elle’s finger, or that beachy glow. Or that she held Sue’s future in the palm of her pretty little hand.

Besides, there’s no way anyone could really be that utterly perfect all the time.

Right?

9

Elle

I push open the door to the bedroom of our tiny Kensington townhouse, a few days before I leave for France again, watching the triangle of light spread through the dark like a slow smile. It isn’t normal for a grown woman to be afraid of the dark. For years, I’ve been petrified of the shadows that come once the day is snuffed out. ‘It’s not the dark you’re afraid of love, it’s what’s in the dark,’ someone once told me as my brother JJ and I huddled to stay warm one night when we were little.

I stand over Will, observing him sleep. I think for a moment about how I don’t like to share the things I find truly beautiful.

My fiancé is beautiful.

I picture him dead.

I’d never told Will about my childhood growing up on the streets of Dublin. Of my thwarted attempts to escape it over and over again. Or how that made me who I am. But I want to. When I finally reach solid ground – when I have a proper home and family that can’t be taken from me – I want to tell Will that there is a limited amount of good luck in this world and for most my life I hadn’t been given any, so I need certain things – love and sanctuary – at all costs.

Do you want to know the real reason I do this nightly check? It’s because if I picture something awful happening, I figure that it’s much less likely to happen. Because I never want to feel blindsided again.

When I kiss Will each morning before he leaves for work, I do it so if he died in an accident I wouldn’t feel as if I’d left anything unsaid. It’s a preparation of sorts.

It isn’t a conscious thing, by the way. Nor does it consume me. It’s more of an awareness, a background noise. I guess that’s what happens when you watch someone die in front of you as a child.

Maybe that’s why I curate my life in a way that looks so perfect to those looking in.

Come closer and I’ll let you in on a secret: perfection only lives in little moments. Little wisps of time, and then the world becomes imperfect again. But that doesn’t mean we can’t chase it down until the very end.

Holding my breath, I lean towards Will. My face inches from his.

I touch his sleep-clammy forehead and feel a ripple of joy at the warmth of his skin. I smooth a strand of hair back from his face.

My Will.

Will looks like he’s asleep, but he can be as quiet as I can be when he wants to. Once, when we were first together, he hid in the wardrobe of our bedroom while I was in the shower, just to leap out and laugh hysterically at my high-pitched screams. He grabbed me around the waist, weak with laughter, and I clutched my towel to my heart and tried to gulp down my panic and then rage. I never told him how disorientated I’d been in that moment, and just how close I’d been to lashing out at him with one of the wire hangers hanging an arm’s length away. Jagged steel mentally dragged across soft pink flesh – until I reminded myself of who I was now, and it didn’t have to involve violence anymore.

The glow of bile yellow street light is the only light apart from his iPhone that jumps to life as I swipe, too bright for my sleepy pupils.

I learnt from an early age not to accept things at face value. And Will’s behaviour lately has raised alarm bells.

I shiver but I don’t hesitate. The silver nail of my index finger quickly taps the code we use for everything – alarms, pins, safes – and the phone unlocks. Will stirs, he looks so young when he’s asleep, much younger than his thirty-nine years.

I take another breath, torn – because I know now that there’s no way back. I tiptoe into the kitchen. I pour a shaky glass of wine, my ring-hand gripping the cold countertop, holding me steady. I swallow it in one giant gulp.

I tap on his WhatsApp and close my eyes. I look, eyes darting through each of his message groups. Scanning.

A while later, I slide into the bed next to Will. My cold feet always grateful for clean sheets and a warm body next to me. I try to quell the panic swirling in my stomach as I burrow closer to him.

Though I hadn’t found anything in his messages, I know in my gut that Will’s behaviour is off. I’d walked in the other day and he’d jumped, immediately put his phone upside down on the coffee table, his face like a schoolboy caught copying homework. It’s so easy to parrot how it’s better to have loved and lost than never be loved at all. But people who say that have never experienced pain like mine. They never say what was lost.

I’d loved and lost hope a thousand times in my life.

And now that I have him, I will never let Will be taken from me. By anyone, or anything.

But there’s something else at stake. My stomach twists with anxiety. My latest post only got 1200 likes, and we’d agreed with Brooks & Zalia that the current sponsorship deal would be based on 4k plus. Announcing the renovation wasn’t enough; my followers wanted to see it transform in front of their eyes.

Fixing up the chateau over the next few weeks is my last shot at having the dream life I’ve been chasing. It will be the place Will and I will thrive.

It will finally be my happily ever after.

Frustration builds that Will can’t see that too.

But how can he possibly know that there are only two things that matter: him and my Elle’s Dream Home platform? If I lose either, I’ll be her again – the girl from the Irish newspaper headlines who I’ve been running from – the other life that I’d buried. A different type of celebrity entirely.

10

Will

She stands over him, casting a shadow across where he lies in bed.

A familiar feeling of dread takes hold of Will. It’s obvious that Elle isn’t sleeping again. This happened once before, a few months after they’d met. When he’d found her sleepwalking with a knife in her hand, confused and mumbling about people out for her, it had felt like a lot more than anxiety. That’s when he’d contacted the sleep specialist.

Elle doesn’t know that Will has deleted all his betting apps and removed any evidence that they are in financial turmoil. He absolutely doesn’t want to concern her. She has enough on her plate.

Elle has obviously sensed he is hiding something though. For weeks now, he’s watched the funds in their accounts spill away like water down a drain, but he hasn’t let himself believe things could get this bad.

In fairness, after their massive row the other day at the restaurant, Elle said she’d understood why he might feel as if she was siphoning money away from him. Now that she’d paid the lump sum for the bloody chateau, she’d agreed to transfer the remaining money into his Buchanan Capital account. Will managed the money from this account, which went on the mortgage and household bills, as well as investments. Elle left that side of things to him, mainly because of his job.

‘We can pay the monthly payments to the owner from there,’ she’d shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, Will. I didn’t come from much, as you know, and money offers me the security I crave.’

Her gesture left him feeling equally frightened and exhilarated.

After a moment, he hears Elle prowling towards the kitchen. He tries to slow his heartbeat. It isn’t fear exactly, but something like it. There’s no way she could find the letters from the bank, he figures. He’d redirected them to Buchanan Capital, where he’d been also hiding them from his father.

He hears the fridge door open and shut downstairs.

Will opens his eyes and stares at the crack in the ceiling through the dim light from outside.

He has to admit that the chateau is beautiful, even if it does need a huge repair job. Something about it drew him in when he looked at it in more detail with Elle on the computer last night. He could understand how someone might let it consume them entirely.

Elle had been insistent that she was doing this French project, but she also made it clear she was nervous about involving him. In a way, she was exactly right; he’d failed her. How was he going to tell Elle that he’d fucked up so badly that his own father had written him off?

That there is no money.

They probably only have three months before the court decides their home will be taken from them.

Another jitter of anxiety.

The truth is that Will can’t even bear to admit to himself that he isn’t half the businessman his dad was. But there were options. Maybe this chateau in the South of France is the perfect solution… Not just for the value it represents to them, but because there’s a chance they won’t have a home soon at all.

As Elle slips back into bed, pressing her cold feet against his legs, Will feels a wave of dread. An inexplicable sense of foreboding.

He wishes Elle had just gone back and seen the bloody sleep guy, Dr Peart, like he’d suggested. She can be so unreachable sometimes.

Outside there’s the sound of a taxi door slamming and a faint yell of Saturday night revellers falling home after a night out. It must be almost three a.m.

Will pretends to be asleep as Elle reaches for his limp arm. She raises it and pulls it around her tightly, pressing his skin into hers, almost forcibly. She brings his hand to her face, using it to stroke her head. Like a parent might caress a child.

He feels a surge of love and protectiveness for his fiancée suddenly, with her ridiculous romantic quotes, bursting with endless hopes for their future. It’s as if she is terrified of being alone.

Elle is Irish, from a place called Ballybeg in Dublin, but she’d never talked about her upbringing much. Will had enjoyed Elle’s mystique when he first sat next to her at the Fortum and Mason lunch. He’d orchestrated that meeting, swapping place names so he’d be seated next to the pretty blonde with the infectious smile that he’d spotted from the other side of the room where his mother Bethany was trying to introduce him to her stuck-up friends. A few minutes into their conversation over turkey crown and cranberry jelly, he’d finally placed her – she was the TV presenter of a show his mother watched sometimes. Dream Homes followed eccentric, wealthy homeowners who took on elaborate renovation projects around the world. Will and Elle had then spent the next three hours chatting about her travels, his ambitions in start-ups, their shared love of gardening, and when she admitted she was thinking of going out on her own to become an influencer, he’d encouraged her. She was so striking, but so lacking in self-worth. Insecurity radiated from her, something not many knew because they knew her through the lens of the screen.

He hates to admit that he found her vulnerability attractive.

Empowering.

But maybe there was the challenge to draw her out of herself there too. The day they’d first me, they continued chatting from lunch into dinner, and ended the evening in the rooftop bar near Packham Station where they’d raised frosty bubbles and clinked. At midnight, he’d leant in and kissed her.

‘Happy New Year, Elle Littlewood,’ he’d smiled, already in love, it had felt.

‘Happy New Year, Will Buchanan,’ she’d whispered, captivating.

And then that was that. They’d been together ever since.

Elle starts to snore gently beside him and he flips onto his back, remembering what everyone described as their whirlwind romance.

‘We love her, mate,’ his friends said when they first met Elle, thumping him on the back. ‘Fair play, Willy.’

‘She’s entirely perfect for you, Wills. Elle is just the sweetest thing,’ a college friend, Auggie, said, kissing him fondly on the cheek.

Elle was spontaneous and endearing. She’d enchanted him with her funny stories about the people she’d met through her work. Rupert, his father, was clearly very taken with her too, Bethany less so, but that’s Bethany. Will doubted anyone would ever be good enough for his mother when it came to her only child.

A few months later, Will realised he didn’t actually know very much about Elle’s background at all, except that she hadn’t had much growing up, and that her parents were no longer alive. She’d interned on various TV shows and lived with a few housemates in Clapham for a while until she got the presenter gig on Dream Homes, which became the springboard for her influencer platform which she was setting up.

‘Don’t you have anyone, family-wise?’ he’d asked once, frowning, understanding the difference between being self-sufficient, and being completely alone in the world. Elle had laughed that magical laugh of hers, and muttered something about cousins scattered all over Ireland. Too many to count, she’d rolled her eyes, listing them. Martha, Mary, Patricia, Aidan, Finn, Fiona…

‘Sneezy, Grumpy, Bashful…’ Will had finished off, laughing. But she’d gone quiet after that – her usual Elle-spark a little dimmer somehow.

He never did get to meet anyone from her family.

She’d described lazy Sunday roast dinners with the huge extended family, teasing and joshing, chaotic Christmases with so much wrapping paper strewn on the floor that you couldn’t even see the carpet. Elle painted a picture of such a rowdy, happy bunch that Will’s own memories of quiet dinners with just him and his parents seemed so sterile somehow.

He loves his fiancée, but Elle’s ability to switch off her emotions so abruptly frightens him sometimes. She is, he’s decided, completely unknowable.

He rests his forehead against the back of Elle’s neck in the bed. Letting her down just isn’t an option.

There has to be a way to pull this back.

How fucked up though, Will thinks, as he pulls Elle even closer to him, growing drowsy, that for Elle’s dream of a perfect home to finally come true, somebody would have to die.

11

September/Septembre

A candelabra lies on the ground next to the body, still stained a sticky red.

Dupont wonders who could inflict such violence on another.

He bags the crumpled prescription that lies on the console table in the hallway. He turns his attention to the bloodied handprint on the new wallpaper that continues up the stairs. A feature wall, his wife would call it. This one is full of strange birds. Personally, he finds the decoration in this place quite creepy. All animal-themed and shouty. Someone had seriously overthought these interiors.

Suddenly there’s an urgent shout from upstairs. With a sinking feeling, Dupont takes the steps two at a time, his blue shoe covers slipping slightly on the stairs runner as he goes. Fresh commotion unfolds in a small bedroom at the back of the property.

An officer is crouched over something on the floor. Dupont sees pyjama-clad legs, awkwardly twisted.

Bare feet. Pale soft skin, purple and mottled.

A second body.

The officer turns to look at his superior, his face grim. He shifts slightly and Dupont gets a better view.

His stomach lurches as the second victim comes into focus.

This time there is no denying the identity of the person sprawled on the floor of Château Mirabelle.

A prickle of horror runs through him.

He doesn’t know it yet, but this is just the beginning.

June/Juin

12

Elle

Tears gather in the corners of my eyes as the taxi winds slowly up the pea-gravel driveway, the chateau appearing and disappearing between the trees as we grow closer, as if teasing me. I’ve received another vile message online.

The roof curves across small matching turrets, even more beautiful in the summer light. The two wings of the property rise in scruffy symmetry.

I have a regular harasser with the handle @JosieWrightWay who has been sending me horrible messages since I started my own platform. Mostly about how I am ugly, old, pathetic. It’s as if I exist just to annoy her. She hadn’t commented on my Instagram or YouTube in a few months, so I’d been desperately hoping she had gotten bored and moved on. But maybe she’s just found a new way of messing with me. It sickens me to think that she might have discovered something about my past. I click on her profile and my heart sinks. There’s a new thread since Christmas when I went away with Will. She just hadn’t tagged me in it. There are hundreds of likes under her posts.

Think about it, she just wants to be famous so we’ll all buy her shit. We are literally the reason she’s in the Maldives.

Omg, I cannot. What’s with that dress. She’ll do literally anything for likes, including getting her tits out.

Does anyone else think she looks pregnant in this picture. I wouldn’t put it past her to get knocked up because she needs the attention. Poor kid to have her as a mother.

I clamber out of the taxi and the driver deposits my two large suitcases on the stone steps next to the entranceway as I peer into the lemony pinks of the frosted stained glass on the front door, trying to push the horrible words out of my mind.

The doorbell peals loudly, commanding and shrill, as I lean on it impatiently, glancing around at the fountain and the vast grounds behind me as the taxi pulls away. A butterfly dances drunk circles next to wild mauve hydrangeas. Cicadas hum in the milky midday heat. It’s both alluring and totally foreboding. A new adventure, but potentially a new life. I take a step back, wondering what fate awaits me beyond this huge door.

My phone buzzes again. This time it’s Bethany saying she’ll call me back at the weekend.

I’d called Will’s mother every day this week, to discuss the wedding plans that Will keeps avoiding, but unsurprisingly she hadn’t called me back. Will’s bossy mother lives in denial that her only child has failure to launch problems. I picture Will as I’d left him earlier. He’d smiled sleepily at me, shadows of the morning playing on his face as he kissed me goodbye. But something about him seemed off. I couldn’t tell if it was the rigid set of his shoulders or the fact that he couldn’t meet my eyes.

A shadowy shape distorted by the glass on the front door looms closer. The clunk, clunk of crutches, a soft click and the door slowly opens. I arrange my face into a smile.

Leonard Louvain struggles against the heavy oak frame. We are face to face. The first thing that strikes me is that he isn’t smiling. He has sallow smoker’s skin, with thick eyebrows, and the most obvious comb-over I’ve ever seen. His right leg is encased in a surgical boot, and he has a crutch propped under one arm. He regards me through thick black-framed glasses.

I resist the urge to push past the bent old man. He blinks and I wonder if he’s forgotten I’m arriving today. I take a breath.

‘Bonjour, Monsieur Louvain.’

There’s a pause as he trails his rheumy eyes over my face, then my body, and I shiver, though the local weather app promised twenty-four-degree heat today.

‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Littlewood,’ he finally says, curling his lips around my name slowly.

Greetings are prolonged as Leonard shuffles agonisingly slowly ahead of me, gesturing to photographs and old bits of furniture, giving me not only a tour of the downstairs, but a tour of his life via objects. And even though I’ve seen it all before – even taken pictures before I discovered him on the couch that first day – I nod politely, tracking my hands across furniture, leaving finger streaks in the dust, almost possessively.

Mine now.

‘This is the piano I brought from Paris,’ Leonard Louvain says in his gravelly accent, his English slow and exact, standing so close to me that I can smell his slightly slept-in skin. After the mix-up on that first day, the agent had implied discreetly that as Leonard grew more immobile, he’d taken to sleeping on the couch in one of the reception rooms.

‘And over here, Mirabelle’s sewing room.’ It’s one of the only bright rooms, next to the draughty, haphazard kitchen, also facing the back of the house. I picture his wife, making curtains, mending hems, keeping house for her GP husband.

The thing that’s immediately clear as I walk around with fresh eyes is that the money involved in giving this place a complete overhaul would stretch to the millions.

That’s far beyond the modest savings I’ve built up from various collaborations since I started to appear in the spotlight. Looking at the damp and cracks to the structure of the house, I can see it would take years to dismantle and rebuild to the standard it deserves. But my followers want instant gratification and convenient interiors hacks. Without a chateau-sized budget, we’ll have to be clever about papering over the cracks to quickly dazzle the community with some of the brands who have agreed to work with us on interiors, paint colours, landscaping and furniture. We’ll bring in a few local crafters to keep things authentic.

Insulation and repointing stonework aren’t sexy. The demographic we’ve attracted want to see me in dungarees peeling off wallpaper and hand-covering ottomans with local fabrics.

I know my brief.

For a moment, the old man and I are alone in the small room he calls Mirabelle’s. The sun dips behind a cloud and the light shifts. It’s just Leonard and me. I’m suddenly overcome with that tight feeling of being a woman alone with a male stranger. I’m acutely aware of how big the house is and though frail, Leonard isn’t a small man. As if sensing my unease, he smiles. I clench my jaw as I glimpse his yellow, decaying teeth. He’s almost as bedraggled as the house itself. How can anyone live like this?

He takes a step forward. My back is pinned to the wall and I brace my body against his proximity, but he’s just reaching for a photograph behind me on the shelf.

‘My wife, Mirabelle,’ he tells me wistfully, tracing a finger over the dusty frame. Just as I’m feeling bad for projecting my own anxieties onto a lonely widower, I let my eyes fall onto the picture of the woman’s face.

Feline eyes and a heart-shaped face trapped in the silver antique frame. My breath catches in the back of my throat.

It’s my face. Or almost.

It couldn’t possibly be a coincidence that Leonard’s wife Mirabelle looks exactly like me. My heart bangs so hard that I think I’m going to be sick. I look at him questioningly. Surely he sees it too?

Leonard holds my gaze and I suddenly remember the agent telling me that although there’d been several interested parties, Leonard had insisted on choosing me.

I’d felt flattered that he’d perhaps seen something special in me. Leonard is so close now that I can feel his breath on my neck. Flinty eyes, papery skin.

‘Welcome to your new home,’ he says breathlessly.

A sinking feeling descends. I try to make my shoulders relax, my lungs take a little more air. It occurs to me then that the sanctuary I’ve been craving might be nothing but a trap.

13

Sue

‘So when are you leaving that guy you married for me?’ Mike had joked, when they finally met in a small bar just off the Queens Road. He was small and stocky with rough hands and a strong Cork accent. Always smiling.

Mike Kelly was an older Irish guy that Sue had dated years before her Larry. A former Cork cop now living in Peterborough, Mike did some part-time work now as a PI and was delighted when she suggested they meet up the next time he was in London.

The Bull and Bear was a favourite with suited city bankers on a Friday night. Jackets flung over the backs of chairs, these city boys spent more time in the toilets than they did at the bar, emerging with cocky swaggers, sleeves rolled up to reveal chunky Breitlings. Sue had ordered a craft beer, Mike a pint, and she told him that she had a nixer if he was interested. He’d sat forward, immediately intrigued, and Sue had let herself absorb his attention, enjoying the jolt when his knee touched hers by accident.

Two weeks later they meet up at the same place again, for lunch this time. And though there is too much batter on the fish, and the chips are a little underdone, Sue laps up Mike’s open admiration for her.

‘So your inkling was right,’ he says as they eat. ‘I had a look into your friend Elle Littlewood. Turns out she doesn’t exist.’ Mike raises his eyebrow at Sue as he reaches for the salt, and she feels a shiver of something ripple through her. A nasty sort of pleasure.

Elle has been hiding something.

Sue sets down her knife and fork.

‘Go on.’

Mike finishes chewing and begins referencing his notes.

‘I’ve looked into any previous social media profiles, driving licence records, social welfare details and there’s zero record of anyone by that name in Dublin. In fact the first trace of Elle Littlewood is seventeen years ago when she first popped up in London interning on a shopping channel – you know, those ones that sell kitchen implements for knock-down prices every hour, that kind of thing.’

Sue nods, hungry for more.

Mike continues reading.

‘There’s also no record of the secondary school you said Elle claimed she’d attended in Dublin. St Sebastian’s, wasn’t it?’ Mike licks his thumb and turns the page of his notebook, his thumb leaving a small greasy stain. ‘I’ve obviously checked under other versions of her name… Isabelle, Ella, Ellie, Eleanor… zilch.’

Sue sits back, flabbergasted by these strange inconsistencies. But it also spurs her on to dig deeper.

‘What about Elaine?’

Her stomach is one thick knot. Mike writes it carefully down.

Yes, this is extreme. But Sue is an instinctive person. And she just knows in her gut that nobody’s life could be as unblemished as Elle’s smile suggests. Sue doesn’t consider herself a malicious person, not really. She just wants to find out why, until Elle turned up on the set of the Dream Homes auditions, she’d been nothing but a ghost. When Elle and Sue had first met, they’d bonded over their shared experiences with the salacious side of showbusiness, both caught up in the unsavoury elements of the industry. Both had their boundaries often crossed, albeit in different ways. There were things Sue knew that Elle kept from her. And vice versa. Everyone in TV had their own version of this story.

Sue takes a sip of her beer and rubs her lips together. Deciding how much she needs Elle and her platform.

She isn’t sure exactly how she can use this information to further her own agenda.

She is tied to Elle from a financial standpoint, so it is in Sue’s interest for Elle to succeed, but it never hurt to always be one step ahead.

Sue feels something bloom inside her. A thorny rose of an idea. A way forward, perhaps, from the rut she finds herself trapped inside.

She remembers Elle’s reaction when she mentioned the name Elaine, her voice creased in denial.

‘More,’ Sue says to Mike, her voice soft, as if she doesn’t realise she’s said the word out loud.

Then, clearing her throat, she repeats her request: ‘I want to know everything there is to know about Elle Littlewood.’

14

Will

I don’t know who I’d be without you

My heart holds stars, skies, the entire universe

And I have so much more to give.

I’m so glad I found someone like you worth sharing it with.

Will is on the way into the Watermark building, takeaway coffee in hand, shirt-collar tight against his stubble as he reads the latest screenshot quote Elle’s sent him. He immediately FaceTimes his fiancée. He had a tough night losing continuously after a big win. He feels physically sick.

‘Bonjour, baby…’

‘How’s it going, Ellie?’

Elle smiles thinly back at him through the screen. She’s wearing a blue sundress and her face is make-up free. She looks tired, her hair is messy and there are dark circles under her eyes. He wonders if she’s been sleeping.

‘It’s going… fine,’ she hesitates. ‘That’s the vineyard over there.’ She points it out, but there’s a lethargy to her that he recognises. ‘Leonard says it produces a couple of hundred bottles a year.’

‘What’s the old man like?’

‘Well, he’s always around.’ Elle drops her voice. ‘To be honest, he scares me a little. He’s just this constant presence around every corner. Staring at me like I’m a bloody ghost.’

She looks like she’s about to cry.

‘He lives there, Elle. You can’t just get rid of him. Focus on the project.’

That house might be all we have left in the world soon, he wants to say.

Will’s stomach lurches thinking of the pile of letters now mounting in his drawer from the bank’s solicitors.

‘I know, Will. But don’t you think it’s quite disturbing that he picks the one person who resembles his dead wife?’ Elle says, whispering into the phone. Elle had told him about the first day she’d arrived and how strangely Leonard had been acting around her. But in fairness, Elle was gorgeous – everyone was a bit intimidated by her when they first met her, even Will. There was something so ephemeral about her, like she was from another world entirely with her piercing blue eyes, honey hair and immaculate style.

Elle had WhatsApped him the photos of Mirabelle and he guessed they were pretty similar, the late wife and Elle, but it’s hard to see details on old pictures, plus maybe the old guy just had a type.

‘I suppose with all the excitement over the renovations and the collaborations, I forgot I’d be living with a stranger,’ admits Elle. ‘It’s… annoying.’

‘It’s what we signed up for,’ Will points out, his chest suddenly tight. All their money is being pumped into this project and she’s still complaining.

‘I’m just keeping busy working on the design element, gathering quotes, listing jobs, that kind of thing,’ Elle continues, new tears blurring her eyes. ‘It’s also hard being away from you.’ He hears the yearning in her voice. The expectation for him to respond similarly.

‘I miss you too,’ Will smiles, but he feels a stab of something that feels slightly suffocating. He just hopes she doesn’t mention the wedding again. There’s a thirty-grand hole in their account from the engagement ring already. Resentment bubbles up inside him. Maybe he could get a bridging loan. And there’s always his mother…

‘How are the numbers otherwise?’

‘There’s now twenty thousand views on the post announcing our renovation of Château Mirabelle, and counting,’ she says, sounding more cheerful. Will had also received loads of texts and voice notes from friends of his congratulating him on the new place in the South of France.

A chateau mate, bloody hell. Business must be booming…

Look forward to an invite to the chateau over the summer, Willy boy. Bonnie and I have a place an hour away.

It always amazed him how many people he knew followed Elle’s Dream Home platforms.

‘It’s working, Will. Engagement is up too,’ Elle tells him, some colour back in her cheeks. ‘Plus Brooks & Zalia have brought forward the launch of my homeware line. It’s going ahead on the fourteenth,’ Elle adds. ‘So I’ll see you in two weeks.’

There’s a male voice in the background calling her name.

‘Is that Leonard?’ Will says, his tone shifting slightly as he sees the sharp lines of the office block ahead. It’s a wet June day in the city, sharp and reflective, every surface pinging damp. All he can see is a sea of umbrellas scurrying through the streets. Figures with briefcases and folders tucked under arms like weapons. An urban army.

‘Oh, that’s just Pierre. He’s Leonard’s handyman. He’s helping me with some of the smaller bits. He’s nice. You’d like him.’

Will wasn’t so sure.

Elle yawns.

‘You haven’t been sleeping, Elle,’ he suggests, and Elle doesn’t respond.

‘Don’t you think it’s time you called Dr Peart again?’

Her expression darkens.

‘I don’t, actually.’ She glares at him through the screen.

‘Are you taking your pills?’ Will rubs a hand over his face wearily. He thought they were through with all of this.

Elle sighs. ‘I’m not sure…’

‘Elle, seriously…’ Will sees one of his colleagues in the distance, who jerks his head in recognition.

‘You know you always feel better when you take your pills,’ he says gently. ‘Don’t you?’

She deflates in front of him, like all the fight has gone out of her.

‘Do it for me?’

She nods slowly.

‘Ellie, I have to go,’ he says as he pushes open the glass doors to their building. Buchanan Capital is written in shiny silver letters behind the reception desk.

Elle bites her lip.

‘I love you so much, Will.’

She waits.

He feels a stab of guilt.

‘Love you too,’ he says quietly as he slides his work card over the sensor for the security barrier that leads to the elevators.

They sign off and Will tries to shake the uneasy feeling that’s growing by the day.

He presses the polished brass lift button and stands back with the rest of the suit-brigade, mainly Buchanan employees who go silent when he’s around. Boss’s son syndrome.

Will had been raised in a house where he’d felt loved despite never having heard the words, ‘I love you.’ He pictures The Laurels, the draughty manor house next to a forest where he spent his time as a boy tramping the grounds in wellingtons with his dog Max.

Things were done a certain way when he was growing up.

There was always a formal supper in the dining room on a Sunday when he returned from boarding school twenty miles away.

There was always goose at Christmas and boring church services where he was expected to wear stiff jackets and smile politely.

It was only when Will and Rupert tinkered with beekeeping that he’d ever really felt at ease at home. Those memories he was beginning to value more than he ever had, especially as he began to recognise his dad’s fallibility.

There was curt praise and plenty of satisfied nods, but never outward displays of affection and certainly not proclamations of love or any such.

For Will it doesn’t come easy to say it, even after having spent this time with someone like Elle.

The thing is, he’s sometimes not sure if Elle’s saying it because she loves him, or if it’s because she just wants to hear him say it back to her.

He’s already placing a bet when his secretary buzzes through to his office a few minutes later. ‘Mr Buchanan Senior on the line,’ she says in a clipped tone that always makes him think she’s rolling her eyes.

‘Put him through,’ Will commands, trying to push power into his voice.

He sits forward in his chair, jigging his foot slightly. Ever since their talk, Rupert has barely included him in any of the new business strategy meetings. Will just sits in his office all day feeling worse about himself and trying to resist the urge to apply for more credit cards. For weeks he’d watched the funds ebb away like water down a drain, but he hadn’t really allowed himself to face the reality of what was happening. Maybe they could move in with his parents, or rent somewhere less expensive. Increasingly, he’s been doubting if Elle will stay with him at all once she finds out. This isn’t the life she signed up for. Calling her shallow would be unkind, but Will knows that news of them losing their home would get out, and it would be detrimental for her brand.

‘Son?’

Will knew there was something wrong immediately by the tone of his father’s voice.

‘Dad, all good?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t exactly say that, William. Was it you looking after those funds from the MacMillans. Investing it?’

Will closes his eyes, exhales.

The MacMillan brothers were among the investors in the electric scooter start-up that had gone sideways the month before. Will had approached them for a lump sum, explaining he was investing in a property deal in Germany and it was too good an opportunity to pass on.

The problem was that there was no German property fund. There had been a diamond ring in Welton’s Antique Jewellery shop that Elle had talked about for a good five months straight.

‘Did they talk to you about this?’

If they started accusing Buchanan Capital of mishandling their cash, it could start an avalanche of investors deciding to jump ship. A mass exodus of clients or a lawsuit.

His father doesn’t need to spell that out. A mass departure would mean curtains for the business. A business that had been successful for the past thirty-five years.

That icy feeling comes over Will again.

‘I fully intended on investing that money, Dad.’ How easily the lies slip from his tongue.

Things couldn’t get much worse.

‘Boardroom in five,’ his father demands wearily and hangs up.

Will takes a moment before he gets up to join his father.

Money problems, relationship problems, and now potentially a lawsuit which the company wouldn’t get out of for at least a hundred thousand if it was anything like the last one.

He thinks of his fiancée’s smile, the way she wraps her arms around him and makes him feel weightless somehow. He pictures the stigma of bankruptcy that would infect them all.

After a string of girlfriends who seemed more interested in the size of his parents’ house than Will, meeting Elle had been so refreshing. Just being in her company made Will feel like he was floating on a different plane. Hers was an invitation to what life should be like. Fun and exuberant. He’d grasped her, with her wicked twinkle and refreshing take on life. Yes, she was flighty and a little darker than he’d like sometimes, but he couldn’t get enough of her. He’d catch her crying in the bathroom sometimes too, when she thought he didn’t notice. In those moments, all he wanted was to sweep her into his arms and make everything alright. But then she’d emerge, her face freshly scrubbed, and present him with that smile. There was a sadness beneath his Elle’s pretty hair and big eyes that nobody got to see but him. He felt strangely honoured by that. But helpless too.

Will opens the door into the boardroom. Worry is etched across his father’s face. But it’s the coldness in his eyes that surprises him.

Rupert Buchanan has spent his life building up this company. He’d missed countless school recitals and birthday parties for Will because of how hard he’d worked. And now Will was messing it all up.

Will is tired of always falling short. At that moment, he realises that he’ll have to do something dramatic, something truly notable to show his father he can do something all for himself.

He takes a deep breath.

It’s the right thing to do.

‘I’ll pay them off myself, Dad. Pay compensation to settle, replace the funds. That way none of the other investors will have to know. No court case, no media coverage.’

The words are out of Will’s mouth before he can think straight.

He’ll have to take the hit. Find the money somehow. To show his dad he is capable of more than his father’s eyes seem to always say.

He pictures them as they used to be, side by side, crouching next to the hives, springy mesh separating their similar faces. The low music of the bees around them. Ironically it was when they were fully padded in their protective suits that they were most gentle with one another. Rupert was a tough businessman, but there was a softness to him that Will knew only he extracted.

‘It’s amazing how the bees take what they need from the flower but never even leave the tiniest of bruises behind on the petals,’ Rupert used to remark, as if talking to himself.

‘Why is the queen the most important?’ Will remembers asking as a very young boy, back when they first got the blue-painted hives, fascinated by the amber gooiness that emerged like magic. ‘Because she does the most work?’

And his father had removed an errant bee from the shoulder of Will’s suit carefully, shaking his head.

‘No, William, it’s because she does the most work for others,’ he’d explained.

But now in the boardroom, Rupert is silent. He leans heavily against the table. He’s wearing his usual suit, beautifully cut with a kind of woodgrain texture. He passes a hand down his pale pink tie. Will’s aware that this is a big moment between them. Maybe even the biggest.

‘I can’t ask you to do that, Will. We’re talking a hundred grand, maybe more.’

Will takes a deep breath.

‘It’s OK.’ He shrugs like it’s no big deal. ‘I can do it, Dad. I can get the money.’

Will immediately thinks about the French house. The money Elle’s tied up in it. At least it is something tangible. When it’s theirs, he can get a loan against it. Or re-mortgage it. Anger curls in his stomach suddenly when he thinks of Elle hiding money from him. Money he could have used to bail them out of this mess.

He needs to show Rupert that he has backbone.

Rupert Buchanan glances at Will a moment, as if trying to decide something. Will is not sure if he’s hoping his father will disagree or agree with what he’s offered to do, but they both know this represents a shift in their dynamic. The two Buchanan men look at one another.

Eventually the older one speaks.

‘OK then, son. Only if you are sure.’ Rupert reaches out a bony hand and squeezes his son’s arm through his suit jacket. ‘Thank you.’

His father looks drained, much older somehow. That vacant look making him seem almost distant from time to time. He’s noticed a few of the other associates absorbing Rupert’s new behaviour too. Will remembers how his father once told him that the smaller bees protect those more powerful than themselves from vulnerabilities. They do anything to shield them from harm.

Anything and everything.

Will knows that dragging the company through the court system would ruin them. And destroy his father along the way. He isn’t sure his father’s health could take it. Looking at the relief spreading across his father’s ageing face tells Will that he’s done the right thing. He knows Rupert expected him to take over the business, and the recent lost deal had been a big blow to the trust he’d placed in his only child.

Now Will just has to find the money.

He tries not to think of the older owner Leonard Louvain pottering about in the crumbling manor, a target on his back as Will and Elle hunker down, waiting for their new start. It seems unbearably cruel somehow to want to speed up someone’s demise.

Through the glass of the boardroom window after their talk, he watches his father’s bent frame navigate the open-plan office, weaving slowly, his head bobbing in greeting to each of his employees as he goes. Always a different cartoon character on his playful socks.

It does something to Will’s heart. He couldn’t bear to lose his fiancée’s love or his father’s respect. Maybe he can gamble in a new way.

What if the demise of one man – a stranger – might benefit a man who Will loved so dearly?

A good man.

Would that really be so wrong?

Will stands watching. Considering. Until his father disappears out of sight.

15

Elle

The next morning, a loud sound rouses me. My chest tightens as my eyes snap wide open.

What was that?

I’m still disorientated by last night’s nightmare, exhausted and overcome by the mustiness of this unfamiliar room.

I stretch my listening, but there’s nothing. Yet something definitely woke me.

Leonard had warned me that Château Mirabelle plays a symphony all of her own; the ancient pipes, the beams, the bats in the attic, trees tickling the panes with their overbearing branches, like nails scraping and clawing.

Outside, the landing creaks.

It’s as if there is someone walking around in the hallway. But I know there’s nobody upstairs. Yesterday, Pierre, Leonard’s handyman, had brought him to the hospital two hours away for scans and he wasn’t due back until later today.

Somewhere downstairs, a door bangs. I’m suddenly wide awake.

Maybe Leonard is back early?

There’s no lock on the bedroom door, so last night I’d pulled a heavy wooden chair up against it. Not that the poor frail man would even be able to climb the stairs, with his litany of health problems, but it was force of habit. There was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on about Leonard, as I watched him watching me the last few days as I collated everything that needed to be done. Leonard was scruffier than I’d thought he’d be, his clothes wrinkled, his hair unkempt. He used a dirty handkerchief hanging out of his pocket to mop his brow, spitting out olive stones as he nursed his wine in the evening on the terrace, his watery eyes never leaving my face.

There is an edge to him that concerns me.

There’s no way Leonard would have been released from hospital this early. Something clacks across the stone hallway below.

Definitely footsteps.

I immediately sit up and reach for my phone.

It’s early. Not even seven. The usual horrible DMs flash up first, one from @JosieWrightWay, and a host of other random posters. There’d been nothing for a few days from the troll with the series of letters and numbers that had alluded to knowing about my past in Dublin.

If I was as rich as her I’d get my nose fixed.

What’s up with that fiancé of hers. Nice but dim, amiright?

Die bitch.

I’m acutely aware of how big this house is. A thought flashes through my head – what if one of my crazy stalkers found out I was here? They could have smashed in a window and I’d never have heard. They could be in the house right now.

I swing my legs out of bed and pull on my dressing gown. I haul the chair out of the way and open the door, listening.

Silence.

Perhaps I was imagining things? Dr Edmund Peart, the sleep psychologist, had said hearing sudden noises was one of the fallouts from my terrible sleep habits. Actually, the specialist had been no help at all when it came to my dreams, instead trying to churn up things from my past that I’d insisted I had no interest in revisiting. ‘Sleepwalking with a knife isn’t nothing, Elle,’ Will had pleaded, but that was a one-off when I was stressed, and nobody had been hurt.

Another creak somewhere beyond the door makes my heart race.

I know it’s just old property noises, just like at Will’s parents’ house – there was always some old boiler banging or a door groaning. But I had to go see for myself.

The hallway opens up onto the huge curved staircase. The balcony railings of the stairs look out over the vaulted foyer. My fingers curl tightly against the banister as I peer down into the entryway.

‘Hello?’ I call boldly.

There’s just light dancing in through the stained glass of the hall door, casting colourful shadows.

I feel silly all of a sudden. Then annoyed that I always feel as if I have to look over my shoulder because of my online presence.

‘Ignore the haters,’ is what everyone says, and I had blocked many of the most threatening accounts, but it’s hard to understand what it’s like to be constantly harassed by people you’d never even met.

Then there’s that feeling again as I make my way cautiously down the stairs; a slow stretching of my insides, the fear that no matter how much I try to transform, I’ll never escape my past.

I drift through the downstairs hallway, past the musty living area, down two long halls, past the cobbled-together kitchen.

A huge thud makes me freeze.

Sweat breaks out on the palms of my hands. There’s nobody there, I reassure myself, but then I see a woman through the doorway of Mirabelle’s room. At first I think it’s her. That it’s Mirabelle. That she’s lived here all along and I’m the imposter.

But why?

The woman roots through the drawers of the old bureau. I freeze.

Then the woman’s eyes flick up, finding mine.

‘Oh, mon Dieu…’ The older woman leans back against the wooden dresser, her palm across her chest in fright. My own heart is still hammering in my chest.

She looks like she’s about sixty, pale and thick waisted, with mousey hair down to her shoulders. Once she’s gathered herself, she squints in my direction. We stare at one another.

‘Je suis Elle Littlewood,’ I say hesitantly, as things slowly click into place. I have a vague memory of Leonard saying he was getting a live-in nurse – that he could afford the extra help now that I was paying him the monthly fee through the en viager deal.

‘Julia,’ the woman responds, without smiling. She jerks her head in greeting, staring at me so intently that I shiver.

Then in English, ‘Leonard didn’t say you I was coming?’

I shake my head as the woman seems to take in my nightwear for the first time.

‘Need some help with that?’ I say, indicating the paperwork piled up in folders around her.

Julia glances back, as if surprised it’s there at all. ‘Non, merci,’ she says pushing it into one of the old boxes on the floor and securing it with a lid.

She turns and I feel her eyes searching my face. There’s that feeling again. That things aren’t quite right. Or that maybe I’m just trapped inside of a dream.

‘Is everything OK?’ I say quickly, itching to race back upstairs and pull on my clothes. Not for the first time since I arrived, I wonder how I’ve suddenly found myself in a ramshackle chateau in the South of France with an octogenarian as a housemate and now this strange woman who’s looking at me as if she’s seen a ghost herself. I hear Will’s words echoing in my ears: ‘Just focus on the project, Elle.’

As if coming out of a trance, the older woman finally nods.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, her accent thick. ‘It’s just that you look so like her.’

There’s that chill again.

‘Like Mirabelle,’ she says. She points to the photograph. The same one Leonard was so fixated on. It’s a woman with strawberry blonde hair, sitting on a swing in a garden, a little boy standing on her lap, his hands reaching for the ropes. She looks so happy, her face half turned to look at the little boy. You can see her namesake chateau behind her in the distance.

‘Did you know her?’ I ask, carefully.

I can feel her eyes on me.

‘No,’ Julia answers quickly. ‘I’m not from around here.’ She closes the doors of the dresser and gestures at the wall. ‘I just noticed. There are so many pictures of her around this house.’ There are several mismatched frames crudely nailed to one of the walls.

I pick up a broken frame of a wedding picture in black and white. A very young Leonard smiling adoringly at a much younger woman in her lace wedding gown. She’s laughing at something slightly off camera, and you can see in that moment that had been captured, that she was everything to him.

I think about the shoes I spotted under my four-poster bed, the yellow dress hanging in the wardrobe, the name of the chateau that would someday soon be mine.

Monuments to the things that meant so much to someone.

‘I guess that’s what happens when someone you love dies,’ I shrug. I’d have plastered my walls with pictures of my little brother if I’d had any. ‘You just want to see them everywhere you look, I imagine.’

Julia glances up sharply, inhales audibly.

There’s a brief tense silence. The muscles in my shoulders knot.

I’m suddenly frightened. Have I said something wrong?

‘Dead?’ Julia replies, frowning. ‘Oh, you didn’t know?’

‘What do you mean?’ I press my fingertips to my temple, feeling a headache coming on. ‘Know what?’

Though we are alone in the huge house, the nurse lowers her voice. ‘Mirabelle isn’t dead,’ she says, her eyes unblinking behind her glasses. ‘She’s missing.’

16

Elle

I’m studying a cobweb stretched tight across termite-infected wooden beams when I hear car tyres crunching across gravel outside. I’ve been filming snippets of the ‘before’ footage around the house and grounds, but I’m distracted, the revelation about Mirabelle swimming around my brain.

We’d signed the contract based around the fact that Leonard was a widower.

We’d presumed it.

But if there is a woman, whose name is etched on the granite gate posts, waiting in the shadows to claim the chateau should Leonard die, that’s going to be a major problem. My solicitor isn’t answering my calls and now Will isn’t picking up either.

I clench my hands into fists and pull myself off the bed to go talk to Leonard. But I’ll have to be sensitive. Julia had explained to me that Mirabelle had disappeared twelve years before, and that Leonard, as next of kin, had refused to declare his wife dead, even after all this time.

One day she’d just up and left, Julia had whispered conspiratorially. Everyone in the village knew.

But I didn’t, I wanted to scream. Had Leonard withheld that information deliberately, or were we just naive enough to imagine nobody else would battle us to claim this place, even with a signed en viager contract?

I inhale slowly, feeling sick. Since that conversation this morning, I haven’t managed to get a full breath of air. It’s like there’s something lodged in my throat.

I open my bedroom door. The twin scents of mildew and dust fill my nose. Maybe I’m destined to always live alongside neglect and rot. But it’s the niggle that maybe this house is too good to be true that I can’t shake.

We’d known that Leonard had a son, Matthieu, who was living in the US. They’d been estranged for years and didn’t speak. We were assured that even though inheritance laws are strict in France, as long as Leonard had included the clause about his son not having a claim to the house in our contract, everything was in order. We’d double-checked that part.

But a little bit of me now wonders what happens if Leonard changes his mind. What if he removes the clause, or if someone else steps out of the shadows?

I can hear them out on the terrace, Julia, Leonard and Pierre, talking in quick-fire French to one another as I open the back patio doors. Adrenaline races through my veins. Everything is tied up in this place – my career, my future with Will, my vow to find sanctuary after all those years without a home. There’s no way I’m letting anyone take this away from me.

They look up as I approach, and for a horrible moment I get the impression they are talking about me. It’s something about the way they look at me. Did I hear my name?

Another thought occurs to me.

What if this is all some kind of scam?

It had come up briefly with Sue back at the early stages of drawing up the details, but she’d dismissed my fears, telling me I’d watched too many bad psychological horror movies. ‘Besides, he has much more of a reason to fear you than you have to fear him,’ she’d raised an eyebrow. ‘You are the one with the motive for murder, Elle.’ I’d glanced sharply up at her as I signed the paperwork. How ludicrous of her even to suggest such a thing.

‘Bonjour, Elle,’ Leonard’s voice calls from the other side of the patio. ‘Café?’

I nod tightly and join them, despite their frosty demeanour. Julia fusses over Leonard’s foot, and then nodding at me coldly, makes her way back inside. Leonard looks pale and tired after his hospital stay and despite my reservations about his intentions, I can’t help feeling sorry for him. A missing wife, a house falling down around him and now ill health. It couldn’t be much of a life, limping around this place all day in the dust when you’d once been the celebrated GP of the local village. But I know better than most how fortunes can change with the snap of a finger.

‘I see you’ve met Pierre.’ Leonard winks at me. Pierre flushes. I’d met the handyman a few days before. He’s in his late thirties, weather-lined, certainly not unattractive. He lives in the gate lodge of the chateau, and helps the older man with everything from chopping firewood to maintaining the grounds. Now he’d volunteered to help me with some of the renovations I’d be showcasing to my Elle’s Dream Home followers.

‘Très beau, n’est-ce pas… Isn’t he handsome?’ Leonard smiles suggestively. The older man is old school – I’d met many like him in my life – those who meant well, but who’d lick their lips or give you a once-over with their eyes and think you’d like it. He reminds me of those men in the studio when I first started working in television. The pat-the-seat-next-to-them type who would promise you the world and then turn nasty when you realised it came with conditions.

‘Pierre is going to show you the attic, oui?’ He looks at Pierre, who nods. ‘You want to see the history of this house, I understand.’

A look passes between the two men that I can’t work out.

I nod carefully. It wasn’t too much to ask to see some of the old documents associated with Château Mirabelle. I’m sure my followers will be interested in the history of this place too.

‘Don’t disturb the bats,’ Leonard says, frowning, sitting back in his chair and looking exhausted all of a sudden. ‘They don’t hurt us, so we don’t disturb them.’

Our structural engineer had already explained to us about the colony of lesser horseshoe bats that reside in the eaves. ‘Nothing you can do about them,’ he’d explained. ‘They are a vulnerable species, protected under French law.’ I picture their greyish brown fur and shiver.

Julia arrives back with a basket of croissants, a row of jams like bright daubs of paint, all served on rosebud china. I try to appreciate the view, the sun on my shoulders, the vision of how this place will eventually look. My future home in the South of France. How will I be satisfied with a Costa coffee takeout and a muffin ever again?

I tear a croissant apart with my fingers, warm and flaky, and as I savour the taste, I wonder how much Leonard has actually told anyone about our arrangement.

Despite our conversation earlier that day, Julia is nowhere near as friendly as Pierre. In fact, the nurse has been abrupt to the point of being rude. We’d agreed – Leonard and I – that our arrangements would be kept strictly between us as we navigated this situation early on. I’ll have to speak to him alone about declaring Mirabelle dead and ask why he never told me, but his delicate condition and the need to speak to my own solicitor makes me think it’s better if I wait a few days.

‘You didn’t sleep so good, no?’ Leonard’s nasal voice cuts through my thoughts. ‘I heard you walking around last night.’ Leonard is definitely wearing the same suit he set out to the hospital in yesterday. Flecks of croissant fall to the table as he speaks. ‘Running up and down the stairs all night?’

He laughs mirthlessly, looking at Pierre for camaraderie. Pierre looks on expectantly.

OK, weird.

I hide my response with my coffee cup, murmuring something about getting a glass of water in the night. I have nightmares of varying intensity which have followed me from childhood, but I wasn’t aware I’d actually left my bedroom here at any stage. I think of the chair pushed up against the door. It’s been there every morning, blocking the handle. Had I moved it? Had someone been into my room when I’d been out of bed? The coffee coats my mouth, tarry against my teeth.

Please say it’s not happening again.

‘Ça va, Elle?’ Leonard narrows his eyes at me.

I try to quieten my thoughts.

‘Sorry, of course, yes. It’s just… the heat. I’m not used to it. I came down to get some water in the night. Apologies if I woke you.’

The old man regards me with his watery eyes as if looking right through me.

I busy myself with my phone, uploading a picture of my coffee cup against the scene to my Insta.

‘Golden Mornings in Provence’ I caption it. Cliched, I know, but later I’ll enjoy answering the thousands of messages this post will prompt. It’s funny how we crave intimacy with strangers we really know nothing about. And how we get sucked in, not knowing who a person really is. There’s a name for it – parasocial relationships. Where one person feels as if they are in a relationship with the other – usually someone in the public eye. And the ‘celebrity’ has no idea the other person exists. Just that they are always watching them.

A bit like you, really.

After our coffee, Pierre waits at the bottom of the stairs while I get my notebook, leaning against the wall, one jean-clad leg crossed over the other. There is something languid about him – so very earthy. Very different from the trussed-up men I’d been surrounded with in London for the past few years. He has an old-world feel to him, despite his age.

As I jog towards the curve in the stairs, I get a sudden urge to glance back down.

Those dark eyes on mine. Then on my bare legs.

I feel a tingle – the promise of something that feels slightly dangerous.

17

Elle

I steal a quick glance at my phone as Pierre and I climb the shaky attic stairs through an entrance in one of the turrets that afternoon.

Has anyone seen Elle Littlewood’s Insta?? She’s bought a freaking chateau in the south of freaking France. I couldn’t be more emotionally invested in this renovation if I tried!

I smile, loving the fuss over my new project. But as I scan my inbox, my heart quickens. Another message from @19720_MightyD – the troll that had claimed to know about my past.

I must make a noise, because Pierre looks up from where he’s dragging bits of old furniture and stained cardboard boxes to make a path in through the large cavernous attic of Château Mirabelle. I busy myself scrolling on my phone, and he turns back to what he’s doing. The ceiling is more than double height, with fluffy pads of torn orange insulation bulging out from the unfinished wooden frame, as if trapped and trying to escape. Long strings of cobwebs cling to my hair and my face as we move closer to the centre of the eaves, the slight give in the wood under my trainers creating a creaking, groaning sound that adds to the sinister feeling. Up here, it smells like dead things, animalistic and stale. Patchy sunlight filters through cracks in the pitched roof as I follow Pierre even deeper, past broken suitcases, the thin string of a lightbulb cord.

I risk a glance down at my phone at the message the troll has sent:

Contact me, Elaine. It’s about what happened in Ballybeg that night.

‘What do you want? Who are you? I’m reporting this,’ I quickly type back, dread overtaking me. I hadn’t released publicly exactly where this renovation project was, but imagining someone turning up here to find me sends prickles along my spine. What if it’s a relative of one of the men from all those years ago?

Could they actually turn up here?

Pierre glances over again and I slide my phone into the pocket of my denim shorts. There’s no possible way they could have found me.

‘So how much might this section of roof cost?’ I ask Pierre, shaking off old memories of Dublin. I’m drawing up the potential collaborations for Sue. Already we have a security company, a landscaping architect and even a pool filtration company who want to work with us. But I’m not sure a roofing company will get on board.

‘Whole thing? Eighty thousand,’ he replies, using one hand to pull a chunk off one of the rotten rafters as he speaks. ‘You see there the way the waterproofing has gone in places?’ Pierre peels a layer of damp insulation away from the roof, and I try not to notice the flash of skin as his T-shirt rises up with his stretch.

‘That might be a next year job,’ I answer, writing down the costing in my folder along with all the other numbers I’ve been collating over the past few days.

‘Viens. Come and see,’ he says all of a sudden. I can’t make out his face, here in the gloom, but he sounds excited.

Pierre opens the grimy window outwards. ‘Watch this view,’ he says in his thick French accent. ‘The best in the entire chateau.’

I lean slightly out, and though the window is too narrow to fall through, the height makes my head spin. I grip the old oak frame and try to steady my breath.

‘Stunning,’ I whisper. But that word – the word I use for everything – dresses, shoes, rugs… it feels so underwhelming compared to the beauty of what’s right here in front of me. Pierre stands close to me, concerned for my safety perhaps. I feel his breath on my neck and my stomach flips. ‘I used to play up here as a child,’ he says, nostalgia warming his voice. I turn to ask more, but he clams up. ‘I knew Matthieu from school,’ he shrugs. He has an embossed brown leather notebook in his hand; dust escapes from between its ancient pages. ‘Leonard’s great-grandfather, Claude Louvain, would have been the one collecting rents around here originally,’ he says, pointing at the columns of figures neatly printed in old ink. ‘He was the landowner from here to Lescares.’

‘Isn’t Leonard from Paris?’ I ask, taking a step back from the window – the dizziness getting the better of me.

‘He studied medicine in Paris with his mother after his parents separated, but this house has always been in his family. When his mother Gilda Louvain died in tragic circumstances, Leonard came back. Couldn’t bear to be reminded of what happened. Then he met Mirabelle and took over the Lescares clinic from his father, who was the GP for the town too.’

‘What about Leonard’s son?’

Standing so close to Pierre all afternoon, I’d felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time about another man. There is an intensity to him that reminds me of the early days with Will. That same fizz.

‘Matthieu left years ago,’ Pierre replies, moving towards the back of the attic.

‘But isn’t he interested in this house. In his home?’

Pierre shakes his head. He takes my hand. ‘I want to show you something.’ Electricity courses through my fingertips. ‘Careful here,’ he says, and then, as I step past a particularly large antique side-table, he lets go.

I keep my eyes on his back as the attic grows narrower.

‘I think after Matthieu’s mother left – well, disappeared – he couldn’t bear to be here. He left soon after and never spoke to Leonard again.’

Four generations of Louvains have owned this place, and then it goes to me.

Someone is bound to have a problem with that. What if Mirabelle comes back? Or Matthieu.

I sigh heavily to myself. How long will it be before this place is fully mine – every complication finally eradicated?

‘So he blamed Leonard for Mirabelle’s disappearance?’

‘Seems like it,’ Pierre shrugs. ‘Ah, here we are.’ He stops walking and turns to face me. ‘Do you have any family, Elle?’

We are standing far too close together. I feel his eyes on my neck, drinking in my bare skin. I look away. ‘I had a brother…’ I say quietly.

He doesn’t fill the silence.

‘His name was JJ,’ I eventually whisper.

‘I’ve lost someone too,’ he says after a moment, and a shadow passes over his face. He seems to disappear and reappear. ‘You look like Mirabelle, you know,’ he says suddenly. ‘I bet that’s why he picked you.’

I glance at him sharply.

‘I don’t think there were many others interested in such a huge renovation,’ I shoot back, my earlier fizz reduced to a new icy sensation.

‘I think a lot, no?’ Pierre frowns. ‘From America, Asia…’ he lists. ‘But perhaps it was because you look so like Mirabelle that Leonard chose you.’

At first I’d found the pictures of Leonard’s late wife everywhere touching. Monuments to their love, their life together. ‘Married decades,’ he’d say to me a few times a day, repeating the story of how they’d met. But I was learning that his shrine was less a mark of respect, and more of an obsession perhaps. When he’d called me by her name earlier, I’d felt a flash of unease. It hadn’t just been a slip of the tongue – he’d looked at me and seen Mirabelle.

‘Leonard seems…’ I start to say. ‘He seems a little confused sometimes…’

I glance over at Pierre to see his reaction, but he’s pointing to something at one end of the darkest part of the attic. I know that Pierre is loyal to Leonard, so I’m careful with my questioning.

‘Leonard is getting on, I suppose,’ Pierre answers diplomatically. ‘He’s nearly eighty-eight, and ageing can sometimes makes people grumpy. I know he appreciates all you are doing for him though, and for the house.’ Pierre wipes the sweat from his forehead with his forearm.

All I’ve told Pierre is that I’m doing a blog on house renovations and the chateau is the inspiration for a line of products I’m working on. I’m helping Leonard out in the process, I’d added.

‘Sometimes Leonard thinks I’m Mirabelle,’ I admit to Pierre, remembering the way Leonard’s eyes cloud over sometimes when he’s near me. He’d followed me into the pantry the other day and tried to take my hand but I’d snatched it away. He was lucky he didn’t get a bloodied nose, sneaking up on me like that.

And in the past few days I’ve caught Leonard gazing at me, an increasingly disturbed look on his face.

Pierre shakes his head.

‘I’m sure that wasn’t pleasant,’ he says. ‘But maybe he just misses her.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘But sometimes it scares me a little. Especially at night.’

I haven’t told anyone about the strange noises I’d heard over the past new nights – creaks and tapping on the walls – afraid it’s all in my head.

‘Ah, he’s harmless enough,’ Pierre says, but there’s a tone to his voice that gives me pause. ‘There,’ he calls in a low voice pointing, and I move closer to him, shuddering slightly at the sight of all the bats huddled together in the dim light.

‘Are they dangerous?’ I ask, suddenly feeling a little lightheaded.

‘They don’t harm us, so we don’t harm them,’ Pierre repeats what Leonard said. The lesser horseshoe bats cling silently to the eaves of the east attic. He tells me that they roost here during the day, hanging upside down, cocooned within their own twitching bodies. Sometimes sleeping, sometimes grooming, a thousand eyes always watching. ‘All bats here are protected under the Nature Protection Act. It’s strictly forbidden to destroy, move them or damage their habitats. It’s their home too. We just live alongside them,’ Pierre explains.

I crane to see the colony – their clustered bodies like inky feathery things. Another colony lurks at the furthermost corner of the rafters. Pierre explains how they venture out at sunset and spend the night hunting or mating. ‘It’s safer to sleep during the day,’ he shrugs, moving a few old boxes aside so we can look out one of the small windows carved into the roof. That part I understand. The night, bereft of daylight, is cold and dangerous. My brother JJ and I knew that far too well.

‘What do you think happened to Mirabelle?’ I ask, rubbing the skin on both my arms to get rid of the goosebumps.

‘Nobody really knows,’ says Pierre. ‘It was years ago, but there were rumours, you know…’

I shake my head.

‘She went missing. Just up and left. The dinner was still in the oven apparently when her son came home from the surgery. He worked with Leonard, you know. The rumour is that she met someone else and left.’

I take in a sharp breath. ‘Jesus, is that what Leonard thinks? Has he looked for her?’

‘Well…’ Pierre looks uncomfortable, his dark eyes intense. He glances over his shoulder and instinctively I lean forward. ‘He wasn’t exactly the world’s best husband either.’ He raises his eyebrows.

‘I thought he was Mr Upstanding in the Community GP,’ I say, fascinated.

‘Depends if you believe the village gossip,’ Pierre explains. ‘But what do I know – I’m just here for the cheque.’ He smiles, showing off his neat white teeth, and my stomach flips.

‘Maybe that’s why Matthieu doesn’t speak to him.’

‘Maybe…’ says Pierre. ‘But if you believe the rumours, Leonard was known for being a bit heavy-handed with his family.’

My eyes widen. I think of how Leonard tried to grab my arm that first day and shiver. He was old, but there was still a power to him.

I open my mouth to ask more questions but a shout from downstairs breaks the moment.

It’s Julia.

She’s calling us, an urgency to her tone. The sound sends a ripple of movement through the bats. Too many beady eyes open at once, as if this house is watching.

‘It’s Leonard,’ she yells. ‘Come quickly!’

18

Elle

Leonard is standing in the garden by the murky pool with his back to us, as Pierre and I hurry to see what’s going on.

He was so worryingly weak after his hospital visit this morning that Julia had told us she was going to encourage him to lie down for the day.

He turns when we approach, his body is tense, his face furious. His hand trembles against the metal of the crutch handle.

I spot the shutters that I’d painted the day before strewn across the grass. Gesturing angrily, he emits a string of French words that don’t sound good. Pierre immediately strides over and they exchange angry whispered words.

‘He wants to know what the hell you are doing taking down the shutters,’ Pierre says apologetically, and when I look at Leonard, there’s a shadow across his face I’ve never seen before. Pierre’s face is flushed, and he looks panicked. ‘I thought you cleared everything with him.’

Why does he sound accusatory? Surely I don’t have to run every decision past the old man?

Pierre had helped me remove the most damaged wooden shutters from the downstairs windows to one side of the chateau for sanding. I’d already spent half a day repainting them a soft mauve colour to match the hills in the distance. It was all over my Instagram with the hashtag #ColourFriend – the paint brand we’d agreed collaborations with.

I glare at both of them. Julia stands in the doorway in the shadows behind us, wringing her hands.

‘I did not say you could change the colour,’ Leonard shouts, his eyes narrowed. Spit forms at the corners of his mouth. I look to Pierre for support.

‘I thought it would be nice to sand them and give them a new coat of paint,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘Pierre will hang them back up over the coming days,’ I add.

There’s no trace of the sweet old gentleman I’d pictured when I first tried to make this dream a reality. Leonard is almost snarling he’s so angry.

I see him suddenly for the man he once was – tall and powerful. But I’m no longer that girl with the lisp from Ballybeg who has none of her own agency. I’m no longer that child with a doll under her arm begging strangers for help, their eyes refusing to acknowledge me.

Pierre disappears inside into the kitchen behind the strangely quiet Julia. Seeing Leonard’s other side, I’m not surprised she’s hiding in the house watching through the windows. She’s probably regretting taking this job in the first place. I turn to follow them back into the kitchen.

‘Mirabelle,’ Leonard bellows. It stops me in my tracks.

‘I’m Elle Littlewood,’ I say, turning slowly to face him. ‘Mirabelle’s gone…’

Pierre had implied Leonard wasn’t an easy man to get on with, but I wasn’t expecting this outburst.

Something rears up in me.

‘Maybe it’s time we talked about the situation with Mirabelle?’ I say, the words tumbling out. We are only a few feet from one another.

Leonard drops his crutch. He darts over and grabs me by the arm, shouting in French, shaking me violently.

‘Don’t you ever say her name.’

I wrench my arm away from him. For a moment there’s nothing but black in his eyes.

I would do anything to protect what’s mine. Others say that casually, but I think you’ll understand that nothing I do is without purpose, especially after what I’ve been through. It hadn’t ended well that snowy night back in Dublin. I think about blood-splashed snow and my head spins.

Leonard is standing next to the dirty pool, more of a swamp now with leaves and green-tinged water. His shoulders heave in exertion. There’s nobody else out here but us.

The fluttering inside me surges into something different.

I take a step closer to the old man, my heart beating so fast I can hardly breathe.

Just one push is all it would take, and things would be so much easier.

The girl inside me struggles to keep her hands by her side. Everyone would presume it was just a terrible accident. My fingers curl and itch to do it.

‘Mademoiselle Littlewood?’

Julia is beside me. There’s a strange look on her face. I slowly lower my hands.

Then Leonard turns and we lock eyes – something flits between us, something unsaid but understood.

I know then that one of us is the cat.

And the other, the mouse.

19

September/Septembre

The entrance to the marquee flaps unchecked in the slight breeze, making the soft tuck-tuck-tuck sound of tarpaulin slapping against itself, as Inspector Dupont takes a look around.

It’s an eerie, empty space. All wrong somehow without the buzz of guests and dancing. Thick stems of tall purple alliums stand in glass vases expectantly – awaiting admiration. A wooden dance floor stretches out where no one will now dance. It would have been such a lovely wedding, Dupont thinks sadly to himself.

But whatever went on here, the press will go crazy. Already it’s like a circus out there with TV vans, locals and wedding guests begging to know what had happened. That’s what happens when there’s a celebrity involved. HQ has already been onto him asking what to do about the international media requests flooding in. He’ll have to do a press conference most likely.

Dupont’s radio crackles to life once more. He brings it closer to his ear as he ducks out of the marquee, bending his tall frame to fit. Outside the sky is a thin patchy blue, light fading rapidly as the clouds creep in.

He can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

‘Say that again?’ he barks, picking up his pace.

The static crinkles again, a tinny voice repeats something urgently.

Inspector Dupont frowns as he tries to absorb what the officer has discovered.

‘The remains of a third person have been found on the grounds of Château Mirabelle, sir.’

20

Sue

‘Her real name is Elaine Forrester,’ Mike explains, this time over an Indian dinner down a side street in Croydon. It’s a low-ceilinged, plastic-chair joint, with lurid blue neon letters above the door and windows fogged up against the lashing rain.

Mike is a straggly guy in brown corduroy trousers and dark green shirt. His forearms are decorated with faded tattoos, and his peppery hair styled like that of a much younger man.

‘Sue, are you sure you want to hear this?’ he asks, licking his knife, his eyes on hers.

Sue cracks a poppadom over her plate, tiny shards falling into her curry sauce. Larry is out again this evening; the prospect of returning to their empty house has kept Sue out as much as possible recently.

‘Tell me every last detail.’

She takes a slug of beer – warm and bitter. Mike nods, looking satisfied. Already, Sue thinks, there is something seriously off-key about this whole situation.

Amy, Sue’s sister, had FaceTimed her that morning to say she’d gotten engaged to the guy she’d been seeing for the past few months. Sue hated the burning envy that had coursed through her veins. He was successful and kind, according to Amy, and Sue felt a familiar pang deep in her core.

Mike puts on his glasses and reads aloud details from an email he’d received from a friend of a friend at the Justice Department.

‘Elaine Forrester of no fixed abode was involved in the death of a twenty-one-year-old Trinity College student in a laneway near a Dublin nightclub twenty-five years ago.’

He glances up to see Sue’s reaction.

‘Jesus Christ, she was just a kid.’

‘There’s something else, too…’

Mike hesitates.

‘Immediately after the attack, Forrester disappeared. It was all over the papers at the time. She’s never been charged with the unprovoked attack.’ Mike leans back in his chair and looks at Sue intently.

Sue blinks, blindsided. Elle Littlewood. A murderer?

‘No way,’ Sue says, a forkful of her biriani suspended in the air as she stares at him. Her voice is barely a whisper. ‘No fucking way…’

21

Will

His mother must have a curry on the Aga, Will thinks as he opens the door into The Laurels, his childhood home.

He throws the keys of his BMW into the dish on the console table of the quarry-tiled hallway, which is dominated by a huge marble fireplace. They make a clinking sound as they land. The homey aroma of spice fills the air, which is unusual, given that Will spent his boyhood wishing his home felt like his other friends’ homes – lived in, warm, welcoming. The days he returned home from boarding school, he, Bethany and Rupert would eat together, but it was usually a shop-bought, warmed-up convenience dish or his mother’s attempts at fine dining which usually ended up in the bin. Bethany Buchanan preferred to be served than to do the serving. That mothering gene that he recognised in his friends’ mothers simply didn’t exist for Bethany. Of course, he knew that she loved him, but her love language was making sure Martha, their housekeeper, had ironed his white shirts for school, or bringing him to his favourite restaurant when they went into London. Will doesn’t remember Bethany ever treating him like a child; there was no real difference in the way she treated him and the way she treated Rupert, even when Will was little. That meant no storybooks, unless he begged Martha, their housekeeper, to read him one before she left to return to her own house of four kids under ten. It meant no magic, no imagination, no softness or… larking about.

It was never a house where there was any fun.

Of course, his friends were forever telling him that he was so lucky to have grown up with a pool, a tennis court, even a horse… but the truth was that Will was lonely, and the things that surrounded him at The Laurels were meaningless to an insecure child like him who needed softness and understanding. Perhaps nowadays, his parents or teachers would have recognised that there are some personalities just not suited to going away to school aged just ten and a half. Back then, his distress was dismissed as character building. Will was introverted and cautious. He’d have given up all the privilege of fancy schools and a big house just for the sense of feeling safe and cared for.

If it wasn’t for his dog Max, who showered him with unconditional loving headbutts whenever he was home, Will doesn’t know what he would have done. Instinctively, he glances at the corner of the hallway where Max used to always snooze, and feels a pang of homesickness.

‘Rupert?’ Bethany’s sing-song voice rings out from the conservatory.

He hears his mother’s soft footsteps as he steps down into the open-plan kitchen and opens the fridge. The kitchen is almost the exact same as when Will was a boy, except for the addition of a large quartz island and some fancy breakfast stools.

‘In here, Mum,’ he calls, perusing what’s on offer. The light from the fridge’s interior turns his face a blue-tinged pale hue. He reaches for an already-opened bottle of white wine.

Bethany appears at the doorway, her sandy hair short and tightly curled, make-up heavy as usual. She smiles and peels off her gardening gloves, throwing them onto the island, and goes to stir the pot, patting him on the shoulder awkwardly as she passes.

‘Well, darling. This is a surprise. Hungry?’

Will shakes his head, setting the bottle down onto the table. Lately, he can barely eat, living instead on microwave meals eaten while standing and a bottle of wine a night to help him escape the intrusive thoughts that seem to whirl constantly around his head.

‘Did Dad come home with you?’

Will reaches for two wine glasses.

‘No, he’s stayed late to meet Percy Oberdash.’

Bethany nods thoughtfully.

‘Your father works too hard,’ she announces, and Will can almost write the script of how their exchange will go.

But not tonight.

Tonight he needs things to go a different way.

‘And how’s Eleanor?’ Bethany sniffs. She puts the lid back on the Le Creuset casserole dish and joins Will at the kitchen island. He pours them both a glass of Chablis. ‘Still doing that… interesting project of hers in France?’

She takes a sip and swallows softly, her red nails holding the stem of the glass delicately. When he’d first brought Elle home to The Laurels, Bethany had been cool and cordial, but after he’d dropped his new girlfriend off at the station and returned home, Bethany had shaken her head at him. ‘A nice girl by all accounts, but obviously not for you, William,’ she’d said firmly. ‘Not exactly wife material.’

He’d immediately bristled, because for the first time in his life he knew he’d found someone who understood what he needed. Elle had helped him understand what it was that was missing. Life wasn’t ever lonely with Elle. She’d brought colour to his days with her dreamy aspirations and funny quips. And she was kind. So kind. All he’d kept thinking about when she was introduced to his parents at The Laurels that day was that Max, his lab, would have adored her. He’d even shown Elle the tumble-down treehouse where he used to play with an imaginary friend.

‘Did your imaginary friend do this?’ Elle had teased, pulling him closer, in the woody confines of the den. ‘Or this?’ She’d kissed him hard, her body rubbing against him, and he’d groaned.

Will feels an ache in his chest. In the past few months, everything has started unravelling. He takes a sip of wine, wishing they could just go back to the treehouse, and stay there forever, in their nailed-together world. Sod everyone and everything else. Sod the bank accounts and the scary solicitors’ letters about the repossession order. Sod the lies he’d told.

And the lies he was about to tell.

‘I wouldn’t have picked purple shutters myself…’ Bethany is saying, shaking her head. ‘And that picture of her in those skimpy shorts sanding down beams, does that not bother you Will? Anyone could be watching…’

Will raises an eyebrow.

‘I thought you hadn’t a clue what Elle does?’ he says. ‘When did you start watching her content online?’

Bethany looks flustered for a moment.

‘Well, I wouldn’t call it watching exactly,’ she says quickly, reaching into a cupboard. She pours rice from a packet into another pot on the back of the range. ‘But I’m trying to take an interest in the woman that’s going to be your wife, William.’ She acts hurt. ‘But I’m surprised it doesn’t bother you. Did you see some of the comments? Completely disgusting. Elle shouldn’t be putting herself on show like that.’

Bethany adds a pinch of salt to the pot.

Will doesn’t speak. There’s no point in encouraging Bethany when she gets like this. If it wasn’t Elle, it would be something else. His mother has been picking holes in Will’s choices his entire life. If she had her way, he’d be walking down the aisle with the stuck-up daughter of her equally stuck-up golf buddy Dorothy Wright. But Will isn’t looking to marry a younger version of his mother. He craves excitement and unpredictability. No wonder he’s drawn to gambling.

Another jolt of despair. He takes a mouthful of his vape and watches the smoke float towards the ceiling and then dance off in different directions. He considers his next move.

He takes a deep breath.

‘Mum, I need some cash,’ he blurts out, his voice feeling very far away, even to himself.

Will watches his mother’s back stiffen. She stops what she’s doing. He’s glad he can’t see her face.

Bethany is the only one that knows about his… problem. She’d bailed him out more than once. The last time she’d given him the number of some ‘guy that might help’, an addiction specialist, she made it clear that, A: it was something that could never ‘come out’. And, B: it was absolutely the last time. Will sometimes wonders what concerned Bethany more; that her only son had a problem or that she was nervous the neighbours might find out.

Bethany is so still that for a moment, Will second-guesses himself.

Had he said it out loud? Should he repeat himself?

‘I told you never to ask me again,’ Bethany says finally. She can’t mask the judgement in her voice. It feels as if he’s been kicked in the gut.

Will tries to hide the surge of emotions that threaten to overcome him, knowing this request might tarnish everything, an indelible tear in an already delicate fabric.

Bethany turns and he realises her eyes are wet. Will exhales audibly.

Fuck.

What is he doing? He thinks of the mountain of debts and the holes in the bank account. He takes in his mother standing there, her hand in a fist pressed beneath her nose as if she’s plugging back the pain he’s caused.

But then a tiny spark deep inside him fizzles, like the birthday candle on his cake as a boy, extinguished by his joyful breath, only to jump to life once more.

It feels like a guiding light in the dark. Besides, he’s due a win.

Bethany looks at him gravely. She shakes her head.

‘I can’t, Will. I’m sorry…’ She draws her lips together in a flat line. She starts rooting among the cutlery drawer for something as if to indicate the conversation is over. Will knows then that there’s no chance that Bethany will give it to him. She won’t risk enabling him if she thinks it’s going on the horses. But what if he fabricated a dilemma for her to solve? What if he invented something that played into her need to be queen bee?

It would have to be drastic.

Will’s expression darkens. The wine gives him the push he needs to embellish. He has to get his hands on more money, at all costs.

‘It’s not for me, Mum,’ Will pauses. Then he takes a deep breath and holds it a few seconds before letting it flow slowly from his mouth.

‘There’s something I need to tell you. It’s about Elle…’

22

Elle

Olivia Rodrigo hums in my ears about getting her driver’s licence as I jog out of the grounds of Château Mirabelle. It’s early still, not quite eight. A dirty carpet of cloud hides the sun. I run across the cattle grid that marks the huge iron gates, my Nike Dynamics leaving soft patterns in the dusty pathway. Turning left brings me towards woodland that leads towards the nearest neighbour, two kilometres away. I barely notice the car behind me until it overtakes me aggressively, leaving a swirl of white gravel dust behind. For a moment I wonder if it’s Julia’s little red Ford, but she usually doesn’t arrive in for her shift until ten.

Ever since my fight with Leonard, I’ve been jumpy. I’m nervous about his real intentions. What is increasingly clear is that he doesn’t want me at Château Mirabelle. Yet he probably needs me as much as I need him. Well, need his property, at least. Everything I’ve found out about Mirabelle and Matthieu jumbles in my head. It’s keeping me from sleeping. And when I finally do fall asleep, I dream of my mother. I dream that it’s her sending me those awful messages.

While her face has faded in my mind, I’d never forget her eyes back then as she looked at me across the top of JJ’s head. What were we going to do? Where would we go? I asked her. Her answer was only panic. She had nowhere to take us. She just didn’t know how. She was only a baby herself, and I don’t blame her, but I do often wonder about where she is now. And what she’d think of my success.

I stop at a clearing and do a hundred sit-ups, squeezing my eyes shut as I kept the beat. I can’t shake the dream. Sometimes it’s easier to compartmentalise my childhood into a locked box. Other days, it fights to escape with a frightening intensity. There’s one flashback I find particularly painful.

A hostel refusing me when I dragged JJ there a few times by myself. I must have been only about twelve. ‘Too dangerous without a guardian, love,’ the night porter had said to me, shaking his head sadly.

‘More dangerous than out there?’ I’d jerked my head towards the dark alleys behind us and he’d just shrugged.

Not his problem.

‘Tomorrow will be better,’ I used to promise JJ. ‘Just one more day out here.’ And we’d play our favourite game. The imagine-the-best-home-in-the-world game. A slide instead of the stairs, he’d whisper, his voice still raspy from the cough we couldn’t shift, and I’d squeeze him even closer. Mammy would already be gone with the drink, eyes shut, mouth hanging open. A better place.

‘A giant scallop shell as a bath,’ I’d say to JJ.

‘A puppy room, a swimming pool, a popcorn machine,’ he’d continue.

A waterslide, a ball pit, a maze… a fridge, a mattress, hot water, a real toilet.

And we’d fall asleep dreaming of the house we’d live in together someday.

Warm and safe.

But the week I turned fourteen, everything changed…

My phone vibrates, interrupting ‘Vampire’.

I pull myself up from the grass, still panting.

Caller ID announces it’s Sue Anderson.

‘Nice of you to finally answer,’ she says tightly. ‘I presume you got my message about the launch?’

‘Yes, it’s so great.’ I try to push enthusiasm into my voice. She’d WhatsApped me the day before to say that Brooks & Zalia were so thrilled with the orders based around the lavender theme that they’d increased stock tenfold for the homewares launch on the fourteenth.

‘The Elle’s Dream hashtag has over three hundred thousand views.’ Sue sounds excited, but it feels like there’s a stone in my stomach weighing me down. All I can think about is how there’s no going back.

‘Now, about the interiors for the chateau.’ She is all business. ‘We need some kind of avian-themed wallpaper. It’s everywhere. Peacocks. No, wait, Zibby Shanley did that recently, didn’t she? Name another dramatic bird… herons?’

‘Sure.’

‘And did I tell you that Fortuna might be interested in partnering for the kitchen?’

‘Oh my God, Sue, are you serious?’

Fortuna was my kitchen company of dreams. I have pages bursting out of my folder with their designs; their hidden pantries and uber smart utility rooms are extremely popular with the Instagram elite.

‘Elle, are you listening?’ She’s going on about more interior details now.

‘Jesus, I hear you, Sergeant Major Sue.’

But I already know exactly what I want this house to look like. I’ve been dreaming of it my whole life, ever since I walked the streets with my kid brother, hunger burning holes in our small stomachs.

From my forest perch, phone in hand, I watch a blackbird pick up a stick and try unsuccessfully to fly as I allow myself to think of my past.

We’d fall asleep at night, JJ and me, lying on the cardboard Mam had managed to drag from somewhere, too frightened to bring us into the drug-filled hostels. We’d snuggle together in dark porches in city corners, trying to ignore the awful sounds of night in the city.

JJ used to cry with hunger. He was three years younger than me. After a while, he didn’t cry much at all. Or talk – a haunted look in his little-boy eyes as he resigned himself to this harsh life.

‘Elle?’

I jump.

‘Huh?’

‘I said, can you do the interview with Tatler about your life pre-Dream Homes, growing up in Ballybeg, your aspirations, that kind of thing? It’s part of the press junket for Angela at Brooks & Zalia.’

An icy ripple passes over me, like it always does when I’m asked about my past.

I take a drink from my Quench water bottle to give myself time to think as I walk back towards Château Mirabelle. Something niggles. When did I tell Sue about Ballybeg? She knows I’m from Dublin, but I’d never have mentioned the specific area I’m from.

The chateau looms in the distance, perched on higher ground, splotched with bougainvillea, always in view, as if it doesn’t want to let me out of its sight.

‘Can I get back to you on that, Sue?’ I say, hoping that after breakfast, and maybe a nap, I’ll be able to think things through with a bit more clarity.

Sue rings off and I jog back up the long drive. The tree branches lean and arch as if grabbing at me. I remember the story a girl in school once told me, about how her uncle had a basement with open steps, and how she was so convinced someone was waiting under it to grab her ankles when she walked down that she tripped and fell, splitting her head on the concrete below. She swore there was someone there, waiting – that she could hear their breath as she’d crept down. I wasn’t sure I believed that, but there are times in this house where I have a similar sensation, a feeling that something might pounce out from one of its shadowy corners. Its unyielding emptiness is almost palpable, especially at night.

But I can feel the bones of this house becoming my bones. I already consider the house mine now. The problem is that so does Leonard. The only way he can break the contract is if we default on the payments two months in a row.

Could he be the one banging on walls at night? Is he leaving strange obstacles on the stairs to trip me up now that he has his lump sum? Why are there so many locked doors?

Is he driving me mad on purpose?

Or maybe it’s just sleep deprivation.

Lately, though, I can feel that hole in my stomach again, and it’s definitely not hunger. It’s something more powerful now – something even more desperate and clawing than before.

23

Elle

‘I’ve missed you, Ellie,’ Will says softly into my ear.

I bury myself deeper inside my sheets, enshrouded in the darkness of the chateau bedroom. Outside it’s a moonless dark. I picture my fiancé in our little London house, sprawled on the couch talking to me on his phone. It’s already after eleven.

I hear Will exhale smoke from his vape.

‘I really miss you.’

I try not to give him a hard time, imagining the stress he’s under, trying to do everything he can for his dad’s business.

‘Well, why haven’t you called? I’ve been trying to get in touch all day.’ My head throbs. I’ve received another message, this time from @JosieWrightWay telling me I should stop showing off my bottom and get a real job. I haven’t slept properly in days. Leonard is still acting like I’m the imposter, and in the depths of the night, all I can think of is how much more distant Will feels from me.

The pause elongates.

‘I was at Mum’s,’ he says finally. ‘We had a good chat about things.’

‘Oh.’ I don’t have the energy to unpack that statement. ‘Things’ could mean the wedding, it might mean the chateau or even how Bethany is always frosty towards me.

‘She’s really trying, you know,’ he says in a small voice. ‘She cares about you, Elle…’

I stay quiet. Bethany doesn’t give a hoot about me. She barely even likes me. She’s never made a secret of the fact that she thinks I’m not good enough for Will.

‘I know you find it hard to trust people, Elle.’

I roll the white fabric of the duvet between my fingers.

‘I do wonder,’ Will continues, his voice laced with concern, ‘about what happened to you growing up. The nightmares… the terrors… I feel as if you are constantly holding back. I’ve tried to give you your space, but it’s as if there is something you are not telling me. If you can’t talk to me, maybe you might need to talk to someone else.’

I laugh bitterly. ‘I’m hiding something? Will, you are the one who’s living a secret life. I know something’s going on.’

I feel my words hit him.

‘For God’s sake, Elle. This isn’t about me. I’m worried about you.’ His voice sounds strained.

I feel something sick twist in my stomach.

I’m not sure if it’s Pierre and how I enjoy his eyes on me while we are working side by side. Or the messages that remind me of my life in Dublin.

Will’s voice brings me back.

‘The reason I’m asking you to tell me about what happened to you when you were young is because it’s really affecting you, Ellie. More than usual. You aren’t sleeping. Before you went away, I was finding you half-asleep on the couch or in your car. You are jumpy and you are obsessing over this house thing. You signed for it without telling me. I don’t get it.’ Will sighs. He sounds so sad. I run a hand through my staticky hair, remembering another vivid dream that I was sprouting hairy wings, just like those awful bats. I’d woken up, pulling so hard at my arms that there were bloodied scratch marks for days.

A sob escapes. Will’s right. How can I be trusted to manage all of this on my own?

‘And now you are telling me there’s some secret wife that might turn around and claim the house. It all sounds extremely complicated.’

Even though everything was checked and signed, and clauses added for almost every eventuality, Leonard’s son represented the one crack in the arrangement that we couldn’t control. He’d have a right to try and challenge the deal, our solicitor Ralph told us. That’s why the contract had to be watertight.

‘The best thing would be to suggest to Leonard that he declare Mirabelle dead, so that particular loose end is tied up,’ our solicitor explained the other day.

‘Are you able to let me in or not, Elle?’ Will continues. ‘Because sometimes…’ He pauses, and I hear the emotion in his voice. ‘Sometimes I don’t think I know you at all.’

Anger had kept me warm all those years. It had kept me from admitting how much I’d lost back in Dublin. Without it, I was weak. Before that, I’d done everything else I could to try and extricate myself and my brother from the situation we found ourselves in. Aged twelve I’d even turned up at the Department of Social Protection to ask someone to help us. JJ and I had snuck onto the tram just to get there. His eyes were wide with adventure as he clutched my hand.

‘We are hungry,’ I’d begged the man at the door of the important-looking building. He was wearing a uniform so I thought he’d have to help me. ‘I need to find somewhere for us to go. My brother’s only nine.’

But he turned out to be the security guard, and he wouldn’t even let me in the building. Like the others with their carefully arranged faces, he presumed I was there to cause trouble.

He judged me for how we looked – dirty and desperate.

‘Get out of here,’ he’d hissed. ‘Or I’ll call the Gardaí.’

‘Please, we have no one,’ I’d said softly, trying so hard not to cry in front of JJ. I was dreading having to search for another doorway that night, but equally frightened of being locked away in care. ‘We have nothing…’

‘Get away, you filthy beggars.’

That’s when I first realised that in life we get judged on our appearance first.

‘What’s a beggar?’ JJ asked me later on the long walk back to the lane where we had been sleeping. I turned him towards me, touching our fingertips together. I steepled our hands into the shape of a roof.

‘Not a word you need to care about,’ I smiled. I’d do anything to feel the warmth of his fingers against mine one more time.

Now, a different type of armour was necessary. After the night in the alleyway, I tweaked the parts I could. I transcended my fate. I was the girl behind the scenes doing whatever it took to build fans. Then a lucky break to get the Dream Homes gig. I became Elle Littlewood. Millions love me now.

‘Elle?’

I can no longer speak because I am remembering everything I’ve lost. I am an expert at silent crying. First next to JJ, then the strangers I’d found along the way.

‘I love you, Elle. I’m sorry. You are safe with me. I promise.’

Tears spill down my cheeks.

I don’t know if I’m crying because I am sure he loves me, or because I am too scared to believe I can ever feel safe with anyone.

Maybe I’m salvageable too?

We lie in silence, on separate islands, as the dark draws around us like a shawl. Two thoughts float through my head as I gently hang up the phone.

The first is that Will is concealing something from me.

The second, more frightening, is what happens if I’m not salvageable after all?

Come closer and I’ll whisper my truth to you; sometimes the person I’m most afraid of is myself.

24

Elle

‘I’ve been watching you.’

The woman on the airplane leans towards me, and fear flares through me. It’s two days later, and I’m on my way back home to surprise Will. Millions of grey raindrops streak along the window as the plane taxis into Gatwick. The sky here is nothing like the cornflower sky I’d left behind in Nice.

‘What do you want?’ I ask, a buzz of anxiety making me snappy. It was a long day’s travelling and I’d slept less than two hours. But some part of me has been expecting something like this, ever since I’d started receiving the particularly nasty online messages.

‘A selfie would be so great,’ the woman answers hesitatingly.

I stare at the phone in her hand. She has a glittery phone case with the letter B stuck on in pink diamantes. I force a smile.

‘I’ve wanted to say something to you the whole flight from Nice, but I guess I didn’t want to annoy you,’ she smiles. ‘You must get this all the time.’ I nod. She’s just trying to be nice. ‘Me and my friends love you. We’ve been following all the renovations at Château Mirabelle.’

I feel a rush of pride, then fear again.

The woman is dressed all in black, her blonde hair pulled back into a short ponytail. She feathers her fringe with her fingers with one hand as she hold her camera out in front of us with the other.

‘OK, smile,’ she calls, and there we are, captured in the tiny screen for everyone to consume, comment, tear down or envy.

‘We are dying to know when the wedding is going ahead.’

You and me both, I think wryly.

‘I’m actually home a few days early to surprise Will, so if you wouldn’t mind, could you not post it until later?’

‘That’s so sweet. Of course. I love Will.’

The woman pulls her backpack from the overhead locker and again, I marvel how strangers feel as if they know us intimately.

‘Where exactly is the chateau again?’ she asks, tilting her head to one side.

‘I… I prefer not to say.’ I hesitate.

‘I get it,’ the woman says, smiling. ‘I’d say there are plenty of weirdos out there.’

I smile back gratefully.

‘Bye, Elaine.’

I look up sharply from where I’ve been digging into my own bag to find my phone. ‘What did you say?’ I frown, holding her gaze.

My mouth goes dry. My stalker could be anyone. Anywhere. I look around, noticing the other passengers have already starting to file off the plane.

The woman looks surprised.

‘I said thanks, Elle,’ she says slowly.

I try to gather myself. Of course, she called me Elle. It’s my mind playing tricks on me again. She’s just a fan. Later, at the luggage carousel, she waves and I give her a small gesture of farewell. I’m shattered. All I want to do is fall into Will’s arms.

An hour later, I pull up to our London home in a taxi. Will’s not due home from work for another few hours.

The first thing I notice is that Will’s been ignoring the mail. Stacks of it sit on the kitchen counter. I open the fridge and wrinkle my nose. A few cans of beer, yogurt a week past its sell-by date, a single onion and Doritos dip without the lid. I’m surprised Bethany hasn’t been here cooking for her precious son and snooping about.

I check Instagram. The last piece I’d posted when I was waiting in Nice airport. It was a picture of me reattaching one of the shutters to the downstairs window. I’m wearing a Breton T-shirt and pale pink knee-length denim shorts with my navy Toms. My blonde hair is tied back with a hair clamp.

The weeks are flying by… So very grateful to have been able to make a start on some of the improvements. I’m so excited to show you the progress as we go. So chuffed to have been able to paint many of the windows on the front this time using Ocean Plumb by @ColourFriend. Highly recommend the colours, soft and subtle which complement the character and age of this house so well xxx E

There are 3493 likes. I feel a surge of excitement and start reading the comments, giddy with the validation real life never seems to offer me.

Wow… this looks insane!

South of France has always been high on my wish list.

This place is dreamy.

Loving the renovation content, Elle. Can you do a post on the DIY tools you find most useful?

I met her at the airport and she was SO LOVELY.

Do you mind me asking if it’s really expensive? It’s my dream to do up my own French chateau. Just have to win the lottery now.

Loving your journey. Dying to see the before and after! Will you be putting it on YouTube?

I respond with heart emojis and then check out what Zibby Shanley’s been posting about. She’s doing a yacht interiors brief in nearby Cannes. I flick through her photos, mentally noting which collaborations she’s received. Then I brace myself for the less generous comments.

There’s a particularly mean new post under the pictures of an all-expenses-paid ski trip I took with Will back in December.

Elle claims she only skied for one hour. Which some of you know, that’s exactly the time it takes to get the bloody skis on and struggle into the Moncler jacket and get on a button lift. Fashion victim Elle then enthralled everyone on the nursery slopes by zipping about with a sour-faced Will next to her filming her every move (does that man EVER smile?)

On TikTok, where I have 700k followers, mean fairy comments abound. Sue had explained what they meant when I’d asked her why so many people were adding the little fairy emoji to comments. ‘Essentially mean fairy comments are those with a twist ending that make them a little more impactful, aka cruel,’ Sue had said, scrolling them to find an example of what she was talking about. ‘Here’s one: “Elle Littlewood’s content makes my day…” Fairy emoji. “…worse”.’

They go on and on with hundreds of encouraging likes and laughing faces as if tearing me down personally is a game.

On YouTube, a message from the MightyD account pops up.

I urgently need to talk to you about what happened at Ballybeg

My heart-rate spikes. For a split second, I wonder again if it’s my mother playing tricks. It has been a long time since I’d heard from her. After we lost JJ, there was nothing left to keep us together. She’d let me down and I blamed her for how everything had ended up. But there was an edge to her, an unpredictability that scared me. Could it be her?

A dangerous thought flickers at the edge of my consciousness and I shake my head to dislodge it. This is a different life. I take a shower, picturing magazine shoots with headlines like ‘Escape to the Chateau’, me sitting on the front lawn on a blanket, my family around me. No sign of Leonard. The house ours alone.

First I’d sort things with Will, then there was the big showcase with my sponsor Brooks & Zalia at their flagship store in London. I quickly check my post again – over seven thousand likes. The best in a long time. The rush of dopamine is exquisite.

I’m half asleep, half dreaming, when I hear something downstairs.

A chill weaves its way down my spine. It sounds like voices.

The noise is coming from our living room. The storm outside has worsened. I can see the rain hammering down in sheets through my open-curtained windows.

I strain my ears. Definitely voices; there are two different tones. It’s still far too early to be Will home from work.

My mind immediately goes to the troll who mentioned Ballybeg. They must have found me. Because of my content, it wouldn’t be hard to find out where our London house is exactly. Before France, I was forever posting pictures of Kensington High Street – the white pillars outside our townhouse block are distinctive. People knew it was my neighbourhood. That same prickle of fear – what if I was being followed?

When you are in the public eye, you have to be prepared for all sorts of weirdos reaching out. It’s mostly harmless, those who don’t have much in their lives, people who become obsessed with your life – as if they have a say in how it unfolds.

‘I loved you on Dream Homes but I just want to say that I really don’t love your clothes. Far too revealing for your age,’ someone had posted just yesterday. ‘Just being honest,’ they wrote when a few others attacked their insensitivity. I sometimes enjoy watching the mini-wars that break out in my comments – everyone falling over themselves to speak ‘their truth’.

Elle’s gone to the awards dressed as Christmas tree tinsel. No wonder she didn’t win! Bahaha…

What does Will even see in her?

Stuck-up bitch

Is flaunting a job title now?

I creep closer to the living room door. The voices on the other side sound urgent. My heart thumps in my ears. After a moment, they grow quiet. This is the same fear I experienced back when I was a teenager, being woken up by two men poking us with sticks. Leaving me with only two options: fight or flight.

I grab the large scissors from the bathroom cabinet. I pull my towel tighter, the bird fluttering in my chest now a bat, clawing and scratching with the need to protect at all costs. My skin prickles with a familiar anticipation. I think about the night Will found me in the garden with a knife. I’d been dreaming that time. Is it possible that this isn’t real? I shake my head, unsure of which to be more frightened of – my diminishing lucidity or whatever is going on beyond the door to the living room.

Then I hear Will’s voice, clear and soothing. Thank goodness. My shoulders sag. Hearing him, I realise just how much I’ve missed him. But what’s he doing home so early?

My instincts scream that something doesn’t seem right.

They are sitting next to each other on the couch when they notice me standing there. Both pull apart quickly as I enter, jumping in fright.

‘Elle,’ Will cries, and makes to walk towards me. His face is a deep shade of red. He’s massaging the back of his neck with one hand. Sheepish.

‘What’s going on?’ I say so quietly that I’m not sure if I’ve said it out loud.

Then it’s Sue’s turn to stand up. She pushes her curls out of her eyes, looks at me unblinking.

‘Hang on, Elle. Let me explain.’

25

Sue

Elle is wearing nothing but a towel, her hair damp and frizzy, the huge scissors in her hand glint under the spotlights of their townhouse. With her dishevelled appearance Sue can suddenly picture the young Irish girl that Mike, the private investigator, had told her about. Sue still can’t believe Elle Littlewood is a murderer. Sweet, simpering Elle.

But Sue’s annoyed. She’s been disturbed just as she was getting somewhere with Will.

‘Elle, I can explain,’ Sue says to her as they all stand in the Kensington house, stretching her arms out towards her, like you’d placate an animal ready to pounce. ‘It’s all good.’

Sue isn’t sure if Elle looks different because of the information she’s learnt about her, or if it’s because she’s so used to seeing her friend so perfectly groomed. The first thing she notices is how many freckles Elle has. Tiny brown flecks run up and down Elle’s arms and chest. There’s a faint tan line running along each shoulder. Without make-up, she’s hollow-eyed and pale. There’s a warmth to her roots that Sue hadn’t noticed before.

‘Will?’ Elle asks, confused, her eyes never leaving Sue’s.

‘Calm down, Elle.’ Will takes a step towards her.

‘Will asked me to come over because I’m worried about you,’ Sue says. ‘We both are.’

‘Both of you?’ she says frowning.

Sue’s eyes dart towards the scissors clutched in her friend’s hands, white knuckles wrapped around the black handle.

‘You both decided you were worried about me,’ Elle repeats sceptically. ‘So you went ahead and held a meeting behind my back to talk about it?’ She looks from Will back to Sue.

‘Seriously?’ She raises an eyebrow.

Sue shrugs. She has plans in store for her golden goose. But not before she lays Sue a nice golden egg.

Will steps forward – God, he was such a wet blanket for Elle, Sue thinks resentfully. She watches enviously as her puts his arm around Elle. Sue has lost much of the memory of Larry after the past eighteen months of living together, apart. She can no longer remember his touch. She pictures the sheaf of papers he’d left on the table the other day for her to go through. Divorce papers. All that joy and planning and hope and despair dissolved with one sweep of the pen. ‘Just because it didn’t work out doesn’t mean we were a failure,’ Larry had said far too pragmatically. Sue wanted to scream and shake him, because she needed to probe at their marriage for longer, like nursing a sore tooth. A desperate need to hold on to it, even if it was unhealthy. It seemed too clean cut to unravel their intertwinement so sensibly. Larry didn’t seem to agree. Mild-mannered and introverted, the extent of Larry J. Mansfield’s dramatic flair was sex on the couch on Friday nights. Sue even missed that.

‘Elle.’ Will looks frightened. ‘Sue’s here because she wanted to discuss something exciting, but she was afraid it might be a bit overwhelming with everything going on with the house, so she wanted to run it past me first.’

Elle continues to look at the two of them with that confused stare. She’d looked genuinely frightened when she opened the door. Now her hair is drying curly, tendrils of auburn baby hair swirling around her hairline. Her toenails need painting and there’s no sign of the unflappable persona she usually presents publicly.

Sue once again feels that glint of satisfaction that Elle is only human after all.

‘Elle, it’s actually great news,’ Will says excitedly. ‘Dream Homes got in touch with Sue. They want to film the renovation at Château Mirabelle. They are even suggesting we get married there for the finale of the show. And they are prepared to pay for it.’

He smiles encouragingly, waiting for her reaction.

Elle continues to stare through both of them as if in a trance. She’s still clutching the scissors in her right hand, but it’s shaking less.

‘Oh, so now you want to set a wedding date,’ Elle eventually says, her voice flat. She walks to the couch and sits heavily down.

‘It will be huge for your profile, Elle,’ Sue chimes in. ‘And the money is off the charts.’ Sue is smiling, willing Elle to react the way she’s supposed to. ‘I didn’t want to overburden you so I thought I’d suggest it to Will first. I thought you were home tomorrow. So what do you think?’

A pause.

‘Elle, it’s mid six figures.’ Will looks at his fiancée beseechingly. Is it Sue’s imagination or does Will also look slightly dishevelled? His phone vibrates in his pocket and Will slides it out, frowns and then puts it back into his pocket.

Sue knows that knowledge is also power. That’s why she also had Mike look into the couple’s finances. That’s how Sue knew one of Buchanan Capital’s clients was suing Will for at least one hundred thousand pounds, and that Will was listed on four different debt collectors’ lists. Will’s collar is pinned to the fence here too. Sue thinks of her 30 per cent commission – the Dream Homes budget had always been huge, and convincing them to cover the French project featuring their former host and include her dream fairy-tale wedding as the finale was a no-brainer. The executive producer had immediately jumped at the chance when Sue floated it. This was win-win-win, and they all knew it.

Then Elle speaks. Her voice a little wobbly, but the influencer now has a little more colour in her cheeks.

‘When?’

‘They are suggesting this coming September.’ Sue steps forward. ‘The plan is to push out the eight-part series in the run-up to Christmas. That way we can capitalise on your product sales. Possibly release Christmas-themed versions… Or a wedding line?’

Endless possibilities.

‘As in, a couple of months’ time?’

‘Yes, they are keen to feature the renovations and the wedding in the same series.’

Will smiles at Sue encouragingly. She knew Will needed all this as much as she did. Boy did he need it.

‘There’s one major issue,’ Elle says quietly, the scissors still clutched in her hand. ‘Leonard Louvain.’

The room grows extremely quiet as her words sink in.

The three of them exchange glances.

‘Maybe he won’t mind?’ Sue offers weakly.

Elle shakes her head slowly.

‘An entire crew, an entire wedding?’ Elle laughs mirthlessly. ‘Not in a million years.’

In all the commotion and miscommunication, they’d not factored in what to do with the owner of the chateau while a TV series was being shot. And a wedding. A very public wedding.

From what Elle has told Sue, the older man was already causing problems. Filming the show around him would be tricky – especially if he didn’t give his consent. Or if he wanted to stick his nose in. Sue thinks of all that money. She thinks of the inconvenience of Leonard Louvain. The only obstacle in their way.

But it’s Will who verbalises it first. That’s important, for later. It’s Will who puts into words what they are all thinking.

‘I’m starting to think…’ he says slowly, carefully weighing his words. ‘I’m starting to think that Leonard Louvain might be a bigger problem than we’ve anticipated.’

Outside a gust of wind rattles the windows violently. A bird hawks one last final cry before darkness falls.

‘So what exactly are we going to do about him?’

26

September/Septembre

At least this death is bloodless, thinks Dupont as he leans closer to the pale hump of human flesh still lying on the upstairs bedroom floor. They’ve had to call in more forensics. Media vans have clogged the narrow lanes. Outside is pandemonium. There are now three separate scenes cordoned off. The bedroom, the bottom of the stairs and one outside in the grounds where the remains of a third person has just been discovered.

Dupont crouches upstairs next to the second body. The victim’s flesh is mottled and the lips are ink blue. Thin skin around the eyes puckers, almost translucent. They are lying on their back, one arm twisted out beneath. Bruise-coloured veins and a gold bracelet wrapped tightly around the right wrist. It’s a truly pathetic sight.

Sometimes the echoes of a crime linger in a place.

Dupont thinks about the slight sway of the huge chandelier in the hallway as he’d jogged up the stairs, the drip-drip of the water from a smashed vase of flowers on the stairs, the smell of freshly dug earth outside in the grounds by the walled garden.

He’s left the rest of the team outside uncovering the human bones found in the rose garden of Château Mirabelle.

What went on here, Inspector Dupont wonders?

The caved-in face of the downstairs victim suggests vengeance or hatred. The bloodied candelabra found next to the body suggests a violent personality. But it’s not Dupont’s job to judge. He just has to figure out what really happened to turn this place into a crime scene.

Suddenly, he freezes.

Dupont thinks he’s imagining things as he watches the victim’s chest.

This is most unusual.

The white protective suit he’s wearing bunches up as the detective crouches even closer to the body and cocks his head. He sees something has rolled under the bed. He bends forwards and retrieves the small object and places it into an evidence bag.

He listens. Harder this time, lowering his head back towards the person’s face.

Surely not…

He studies the victim’s chest. The legs are still wedged under the bed. Not fully visible.

Then suddenly, there’s tiny movement, a blink-and-you’d-miss-it rise of the striped pyjama top. A breathy gasp. Like a long slow exhale. Barely audible.

But it’s unmistakable.

This person is still alive.

Inspector Dupont knows that every moment is crucial from this point forward.

Because now they might have a witness to tell them exactly what went on here.

27

Elle

‘What were you and Sue arguing about?’ I ask Will the next morning as he bustles around the kitchen getting ready for work. ‘Before I walked in, I mean?’

I can’t stop thinking about how those voices sounded last night – the passion, the emphasis in their tones. I still have that sick feeling in my stomach after everything we discussed last night. It just doesn’t seem right.

‘Huh?’ Will doesn’t answer as he roots through the breadbin for the bagels. After examining one on both sides, he pops it into the toaster, but it’s obvious he’s heard and is stalling.

‘When I first came in last night, I heard the two of you arguing about something?’ I turn from the window to face him.

Will shakes his head.

‘No idea what you are talking about,’ he tells me. ‘You’re being paranoid again.’

I give him a look.

‘What was Sue saying, exactly?’ I insist. There’s a slyness to Sue that I’d only ever seen when she was negotiating my deals – so I’d never minded before. But last night she had the same look on her face when I’d walked in. As if she was scheming.

‘I told you, it was all about the wedding. She was outlining the Dream Homes filming schedule and asking if I thought you were up for it because you’ve seemed pretty low energy lately. That’s it.’

Will butters the bagel roughly. Oily yellow liquid runs down the sides as it melts. He leaves the knife on the countertop and grabs his coffee.

‘And would you even want to get married over there in September?’ I put to him. ‘I thought you were against the French house because of money.’

I swipe the knife off the countertop and drop it into the dishwasher.

He finishes chewing.

‘Exactly, but if Dream Homes goes ahead, we’ll have enough for our dream wedding and to put plenty into the house.’

Will glances over at the pile of unopened mail unconsciously. My usual instincts are hazy. I admire Will’s calmness, his faith that everything will work out. But I know that life rarely plays out the way you want it to.

Outside the clouds crouch stubbornly in the sky, as if refusing to let the day move. I watch a delivery man throw a leg over his bicycle at the doorway of the apartment block opposite us. A man ushers a little boy along on a scooter, past a dusty concrete mixer next to a group of workmen wearing high-vis orange jackets.

Will watches me a moment. Then he puts down his bagel and walks towards me.

‘Elle, it’s all going to work out,’ he says, wrapping me in his arms. ‘I promise.’

But I have a feeling he’s just reassuring himself. I know by his demeanour that work is still difficult. He was up again last night on his laptop, a worried look etched across his face. He’d shut it when I’d leant over to ask him what he was working on.

‘Super boring,’ he’d yawned, pulling me into a hug and pushing the laptop away.

Maybe it was time to allow my guard down and trust the man I was going to call my husband in just a few months.

I take a deep breath.

‘There’s something I need to say, Will.’

I feel his body stiffen in anticipation against mine. He releases me and takes a step back. I wonder why fear is the first emotion he feels when I’m about to be honest with him. A shadow flits across his face for a moment and then he arranges his face into neutral.

‘Say it…’ He swallows.

Outside a tree sways softly against the breeze. I wring my hands. This is harder to say aloud than I’d thought.

‘There are no cousins,’ I blurt out quickly, tumbling over my words before I can stop myself. ‘In Dublin, I mean. There were no big Sunday roasts. It was just me, my mother and my brother. I just made up this huge family because… I suppose I wanted it so much…’

I look at him, trying to gauge his reaction. I feel the tickle of tears behind my eyes.

Will stands perfectly still, as if afraid I’ll flit away like a frightened bird. I hold open my hands, inviting his response.

‘No cousins,’ he repeats, his eyes on mine.

‘And there’s more…’ I exhale slowly. I’ve never told anyone this part before. ‘There was no… well, there was no home, to speak of…’

I feel sick saying it, but there’s also a sense of relief that he will now know that part of me. A part I’ve kept concealed for so long.

‘As in, you didn’t have a sense of home, or you didn’t have a house?’ His eyes search mine. A tear rolls down my cheek.

‘No house.’ I shake my head a little as I say it, so desperately sad that I have to utter these words at all.

‘Oh Elle.’ Will steps forward and pulls me towards him. I bury myself into his shoulder, our faces so close that I can smell his toast-sweetened breath. ‘Where did you go?’

My voice is muffled against his shirt. ‘We moved around. Hostels if we were lucky. Friends of my mother’s, couches… alleys…’ I turn my head to rest on his shoulder and for the first time, feel a little unburdened by this admission. Tears prick my eyes.

‘Jesus Christ, Elle, I can’t even imagine.’ Will tightens his arms around my waist. I feel his heart beating against mine.

I think of Will’s parents’ house, The Laurels, with its strong beams and landscaped garden. How lucky people are and they don’t even know it. People like Will don’t even have to try at life… it just unfolds itself graciously ahead of them like a floating red carpet they can’t see or don’t notice.

But it’s the pity in his voice that rips me apart. The shame of my situation sometimes much worse than the abusive drunks, the broken glass, the freezing rain…

‘What about your mother?’

‘She was an addict.’ I shrug. ‘I couldn’t help her. She definitely couldn’t help me.’ I wipe my eyes with the back of one hand. ‘I’ve been alone since I was fourteen years old, moving constantly to avoid being put into the system.’

That horror now reaches his eyes as Will takes my hands in his.

‘So I moved to the UK and eventually got a job on a TV show,’ I continue. ‘I was embarrassed about not having much growing up so I capitalised on it when I finally had the things I’d always wanted.’

Obviously I say nothing about the incident in the snow. Or the degrading things I’d had to do to try and move forward in a career where looks open doors.

I can’t bring myself to tell him about JJ either.

‘That’s it really,’ I finish. ‘That’s my sorry tale.’

But I think we both hear the lie behind the words.

‘Homeless. Jesus, Elle, I had no idea… What about your brother?’

I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry… I can’t…’

He seems to understand that it’s too hard to talk about. I’m not ready to tell that part of my story yet.

Will takes me into his arms again.

‘I’m going to take care of everything for us,’ he says, his stubble gently scratching against my cheek as he speaks. ‘You don’t need to worry about anything. I’ll keep you safe now.’

I close my eyes, hope floating just within reach.

Deep down I want to believe in this new version of us. Undamaged and restrained. The happily ever after I’ve craved stretches before me like an oasis. That possibility of trusting someone to make things OK is suspended in the air of our kitchen above us, along with the smell of toasted bagels and coffee beans. I cling to Will tighter. It is so tempting to surrender everything to him, to let the tension in my muscles release, to sink into him and believe everything will work out.

Hope is a myth. Trust impossible.

It is up to me now. It was always up to me. I take a step back and manufacture a smile for my handsome fiancé.

How can Will not see that it’s me who is pulling all the strings to get us to where we need to be? Or how it’s me who is responsible for the line that we are about to cross?

28

Will

How can Elle not see right through him? Will wonders as he pulls the front door shut behind him and starts walking towards the tube station. It’s past eight a.m. and the paths are already brimming with commuters; pedestrians with eyes glued to their phones as they walk, backpack-clad parents shepherding schoolchildren on scooters, uniformed teens arm in arm, professionals in suits hurrying importantly along.

Will shuffles alongside his peers into the compressed air of the underground. The train screams and stretches, tuck, tuck, tucking from station to station belching out passengers. There’s a late June heatwave which prompted last night’s storm, and today the air is sticky. His shirt is glued to his back by the time he approaches his stop for work.

As he sways in the cramped carriage, Will feels encouraged by the fact that Elle’s finally opening up to him. But he was definitely shocked by her appearance when she turned up last night with the scissors in her hand. For a moment, he’d thought she was sleepwalking, like before. The train lurches forward and Will almost falls. He’s practically nose to nose with a young attractive girl whose perfume he can taste in the back of his throat. He shifts slightly, trying to manage his bulk, tucking his laptop bag to one side.

Sue was worried about Elle too, she’d told him. Apparently Elle wasn’t as engaged with her followers online as she usually was and she’d been quite emotional on the phone to Sue when she called for updates. Had Will noticed anything? Sue had asked when she’d called in last night with no notice whatsoever.

Will didn’t know Sue very well, but he’d always admired her tenacity when it came to arranging Elle’s bookings. He often thought of her more as her advisor than simply a producer of her content, especially as Elle’s agent Sam was so useless. But last night, Sue Anderson had seemed… well, different.

Will starts to plan his exit as his stop comes into view. He manoeuvres past a pregnant woman who stands miserably clinging to the rail. The tyranny of the London rat-race.

Sue told him that they both needed to convince Elle to let Dream Homes film the wedding. Will’s stomach had dropped initially, because he was actively trying to avoid shelling out for a huge ceremony. Plus he wasn’t sure Elle would even want to marry him at all if she found out about the repossession. He frowns as he thinks about the looming court date in early September. He imagines being evicted, not only the shame of it, but the physicality of not having a corner of the world to call your own. When Elle had talked about being homeless this morning, part of him withered. The irony of the knife edge Will now walked.

The doors slide open. Will hesitates. Other passengers spill past him but he remains motionless.

The prospect of going into Buchanan Capital and sitting there all day feeling like a failure because his father was keeping him away from clients was torturous.

A tingle begins deep in Will’s core. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He can’t let his father down.

But Bethany had transferred that money into his credit union account and there was at least a couple of hundred left.

Shame chases the tingle. The commuters behind him jostle to step out onto the platform. Will battles with himself. He should just do what all these others are doing and allow the crowd to carry him out towards work.

What is wrong with him?

He feels the physical pull of his conflict. A bead of sweat runs down his spine as he thinks of what might happen if he puts that cash on a game. His luck is due to turn. Statistically, he is owed a win.

The doors snap shut.

He remembers what Sue had said; that the wedding would all be taken care of by the production company if they agreed to film the show. Then Elle would get her dream wedding and it wouldn’t matter if they lost their house here because they could live in a chateau. Will’s adrenaline spikes as the train gathers speed towards the next destination. There’s no way he would gamble if he lived in the South of France. This would be his fresh start. No more credit card debt, no more lying to his mother, or diverting funds from Rupert’s company, or sneaking around behind Elle’s back.

That’s it, Will decides. He’d agree to their new plan, and he wouldn’t let anything stop it. Certainly not some old stranger he’d never met.

He feels momentarily elated about exercising a degree of control over what is happening all around him.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. It’s Rupert.

Fuck.

He suddenly remembers there was a meeting with a new investor this morning and his dad had asked him to take it because he was off getting tests. ‘Nothing serious, son,’ he’d added.

Rupert was probably furious with him for abandoning the potential client. Will frowns and slides his phone back into his pocket. He’d call in sick but he’s afraid Rupert will mention it to Bethany, who’s going to the launch with Elle later today.

New panic as he ensnares himself in more lies. Will rests his head against the metal handrail as the tube hurtles towards the next station – where he plans to exit to sit in the Wharfman’s Inn for the day trying to build up some cash reserves.

He wishes everyone would just leave him be.

When he opens his eyes, the pregnant woman is staring at him. She looks as weary as he feels.

He looks quickly away. The spark in his belly turns into a flame. The warmth banishes the icy shame that likes to linger and coil.

Will ignores his vibrating phone as the train pulls into the next platform. It’s either Rupert again, or the bank manager who he’s been avoiding for the past two weeks. Not much he can do about any of that though.

Will is already debating whether he’ll go for the horses or the football as he emerges from the darkness of the tube station at Angel. He shivers even though it’s roasting, thinking of all the eyes of the passengers darting around watching and judging. His hands are clammy with anticipation as he jogs up the steps of the sports bar.

29

Elle

‘Girls’ day out!’ Bethany Buchanan exclaims, breezing into the townhouse. ‘I want to hear all about your little holiday, Eleanor. Oh.’

She stops in her tracks and looks me up and down.

‘Are you leaving your hair like that?’

I’d just spent half an hour running the conical wand through my hair. I fluff it self-consciously. God, she was so… mean.

I’ve told my future mother-in-law countless times that Elle isn’t short for Eleanor, she insists on making my name sound more formal. That’s Bethany all over.

Her voice is sing-song, but I feel the sting. Bethany looks at me sometimes as if she knows I’m trying to be someone else. As if she knows my past is extremely far from the life she’s given Will.

I’d invited her to the Brooks & Zalia showcase this morning as a kind of olive branch, to try and build some kind of closeness between us.

‘The whole French house thing coming along?’ she inquires, waving a hand in the air dismissively. She’s been cynical about the whole thing from day one. I get the impression it’s perhaps more a reflection of her lack of faith in Will rather than me, so I let things slide. I know that raising her son to be so reliant on her and Rupert was an act of love, but even I can see that Will’s lack of resilience as an adult man isn’t a strength. For someone who was raised in the countryside with all the money and opportunities in the world, Will has little emotional intelligence. Perhaps that’s one of the positives I can take from my upbringing.

I’m wearing a forest-green sundress with a sweetheart neck, small star earrings and silver sandals for the Brooks & Zalia showcase. I leave my hair loose, despite Bethany’s mean-spirited comments. Then just lip gloss and a dash of eyeliner.

‘Eleanor, darling, you’ll have to pick a wedding date soon,’ my future mother-in-law commands as I unhook my phone from my charger in the small hallway, and throw it into my bag. ‘I can’t tell you how many people have been asking me when you and William will finally be getting married.’ She sniffs.

Once again, I feel acute disappointment that Bethany has not become the mother figure I’d craved when my own had abandoned me. There had never been any animosity between us, but Bethany has her own problems when it comes to showing affection. Or to accepting me. But we both love Will, so there is an understanding – a mutual dance where neither of us steps on the other’s toes. And it’s worked.

So far.

I’ve always felt Will’s mother had a sharp, vulpine quality to her face, nothing like her apple-cheeked husband. She catches my eye in the reflection of the hallway mirror.

‘Bethany, Will and I have decided to get married at the chateau. In September.’ I smile my most charming smile, bracing myself for her reaction.

‘This September?’ A horrified expression.

I nod.

‘The chateau? Not that old French place?’ she says curtly. ‘But what about The Laurels? William’s family home? We always thought he’d like to get married there. It’s the… it’s the Buchanan homestead.’

Bettany looks so aghast that I almost laugh.

We stand in the hallway, staring at one another. My phone vibrates. It’s the Uber I’ve ordered.

‘It’s so beautiful there, Bethany. I know you’ll love it,’ I say, gathering my PEELO tote.

‘And is my William OK with all of this?’ That flick of her hand again.

I force myself to remain polite.

‘It was his idea, actually.’

A point to me.

‘I mean, I don’t know… What if this French thing doesn’t work out?’ She sniffs. ‘As far as I’ve heard it doesn’t even belong to you,’ Bethany adds.

A point to her.

‘We have both decided on France for the wedding,’ I say firmly, fluffing my hair. ‘But I’d love your guidance when it comes to planning it, Bethany,’ I say more generously than I feel. Will would love that I’ve included her. ‘Maybe you could come over ahead of the big day – help out with flowers and caterers, that sort of thing?’

‘I’d have to check with Rupert,’ she says dismissively, the loss of her decades-long dream of hosting her son’s wedding on her own property making her snappy. As if Rupert has any say in Bethany’s social calendar.

I pull the door closed behind us and we walk out towards the Uber.

I can empathise a little. We all have dreams; sometimes we’ve had them our whole lives. Some bubble up inside you like things with their own mind – things that start soft and calcify. My dreams were pliable to begin with as I slept in damp doorways to the lullaby of bin-trucks and rowdy drunks. My dreams were simpler back then. A dry bed, crayons for JJ, a mother who didn’t leave us alone for hours. The dream that someday the cold would leave my bones. On the nights when we got space at a hostel dorm, I dreamt of a home where JJ could sleep safely. I clutched my doll Bunty and dreamt of bookshelves and a garden with swings.

A place to belong. That nobody could take from me. Isn’t that just what we are all trying to find?

Over time, those fantasies become more brittle, more piercing. Every time I tried to claw us to a safer space and was rejected, I hardened. There have been times in my life where I’ve been desperate. It caused that aching want to crystallise into sharp stirrings deep inside me. After I lost JJ – after what happened – that’s when the winged things formed. And as warm as my life is now, the cold never really left parts of me.

‘Bethany, has Will said anything to you about work?’ I say, trying not to yawn as I look out the window of the Uber. ‘He seems really stressed at the minute.’

She turns to look at me sharply.

‘William seems perfectly fine to me, Eleanor.’ She narrows her eyes at me. ‘You could have just asked me yourself, dear.’

I look at her, baffled.

‘I must say that this IVF is more expensive than I realised,’ she continues. ‘In my day, we didn’t go out and just buy a baby or grow it in a petri dish or whatever, but never mind.’ She pats my hand condescendingly. ‘I’m sure it will all work out. Money well spent.’

I stare at her aghast.

‘Now, will your own family be coming along to this wedding?’ Bethany digs, presumably because she couldn’t expect all her golf crowd to hightail it to the South of France at such short notice. The way her lips curl when she says ‘family’ makes me squirm.

‘Oh… I’m hoping so,’ I say, far too brightly, but my heart is racing.

What the fuck has Will been saying to his mother?

30

Elle

‘It’s her!’ someone from the small crowd calls as I approach the doors of Brooks & Zalia.

A cluster of iPhones appear in the air, hovering like giant rectangular eyes. I smile and wave, always hoping I please them, but always wary I’ll disappoint in some way. The followers are fickle – like vultures ready to strip me to the bone for what I wear or the brands I chose to align with. It’s the uncomfortable nature of our co-dependency. I need their eyeballs and their adoration. My exposure, for them, is something they need to consume.

I wave and one of the company’s representatives, a young woman with Barbie-pink nails, steps forward and introduces herself. Her hair is pinned back with a black velvet ribbon. She has a lanyard around her neck printed with the company’s logo, and skin too smooth not to have had help.

‘I’m Phoenix,’ she says excitedly. ‘It is so amazing to finally meet you. I’m such a fan.’

‘Hi Phoenix. Cool name.’

She’s still grinning.

‘Sorry, it’s just like… so weird to see you in person. I feel as if I know you.’ She displays a row of pearly whites. ‘You are so much smaller in real life.’ I force a smile.

A security guard from the store tries to control the group gathered next to the department store’s glass display windows waiting for it to open. An army of Veja trainers, long floral dresses and black leather jackets huddle by the double doors.

‘Will’s a ride!’ someone yells in the middle of all of it.

There’s a slight surge and the crowd topples forward. I move to help one of the only men near the front of the queue, the one closest to me – he’s reaching his hand out towards me – but Barbie Pink is already trying to usher me into the warm, perfume-choked air. Bethany walks ahead of us.

‘It’s OK,’ Phoenix reassures. ‘Security will sort it out.’

‘Elle,’ the man in the sea of faces cries, grabbing at me.

‘Elaine!’

I swivel around so quickly that my hair whips my eyes, but the crowd swallows him up and I’m inside the plush carpeted interiors of the homewares brand, Phoenix’s hand firmly on my back, propelling me forward.

‘Elle Littlewood has just arrived,’ she’s saying excitedly into her phone. ‘We are on our way up.’

Heart beating quickly, I allow myself to be led towards the escalators, the message I’d received earlier burning a hole in my pocket from my phone. Another threat to come to France to find me at the chateau from MightyD, whoever they are. What I can’t figure out is if they genuinely want to tell me something or if it’s just some lunatic who wants to smell my hair again.

Sue and Angela are already at the display area. Bethany is browsing the homewares. It’s at the centre of the store on the first floor. Brooks & Zalia is a US brand that only opened its first UK branch a year ago. Now they have twenty stores across the UK. That’s why it was such a coup for us to secure the sponsorship. Marketing manager Angela Drumm was a perfectionist – that part I didn’t mind – but it was the way she said the word ‘influencer’ and ‘online’, like she was internally eyerolling, that bothered me. She wasn’t the only one. Marketing budgets are now 95 per cent skewed towards online channels, but there are many within the industry who prefer not to acknowledge the power people like me bring to sales. I like to think that brands enjoy working with me because I understand it isn’t just about flicking your hair and telling people to buy your wares. Influencer marketing brings soft-touch advertising to a whole new level. It has to be delicately woven into the minds of your followers.

Do you really think you bought that shampoo because you chose to, or because it’s the one always propped on the shelf in the background of my bathroom selfies?

There’s a huge wall unit, custom-made, with the products mounted one in each of the small flower-shaped hollows cut out in it. The soft lilac mohair blanket with matching tassels, the set of textured bowls, a cream tufted cushion, a seagrass basket with ‘Dreamy’ stitched to the side in navy wool cursive. There are thick leather-look journals in soft pink with Follow Your Dreams inscribed in gold swirly writing and sage-green ribbon page-markers. The mark-up on these relatively cheap items is eye-watering once you stick a label with my name on it. Or the Brooks & Zalia name. Our names combined mean it’s even more expensive.

To the front of the stand is a marble countertop, with the diffusers and sets of lavender candles all branded Elle’s Dream x Brooks & Zalia.

Rustic, Redefined, the letters along the back wall announce grandly in purple neon, with a cluster of bohemian rugs rolled in piles either side in soft olive green. The overall aesthetic is fresh and inviting.

It’s exactly what we’d planned – the lavender themes are perfect alongside the French project. It’s all coming together, and in such a short amount of time. I think about the day we sat in Sue’s studio, frustrated by the lack of momentum. Had that really only been two months ago?

‘It’s stunning,’ I exclaim, running my fingers along the blanket tassels. ‘Wow.’

‘The fans are just so excited to see you!’ Barbie Pink exclaims, ushering me into position. The photoshoot will involve greeting customers, allowing them to take a selfie with me, and then hopefully I’ll ring up their spend on the till.

Phoenix shows me briefly how to take the payments with the card machine as Sue takes shots of the products she’ll upload to our platforms. I push Will’s strange lies to his mother to the back of my head. Plenty of time to figure that out later.

‘I’ll be right here beside you,’ Sue says reassuringly, knowing that despite my influencer persona, I am not a huge fan of crowds.

A group of followers from my Elle’s Dream community begin to trickle up the stairs, hesitant at first and then giddy, skipping over. It’s sometimes hard to know how many these events will attract, but Sue had explained that Brooks & Zalia had put a lot of spend behind the online ads using the chateau renovation as a teaser. I don’t get that many opportunities to meet my community in real life. It’s usually people taking sneaky pictures while I’m out having brunch with Will, where they think I don’t notice, or else it’s those who are very blatant about coming over. ‘I know it’s so cheeky of me, but I absolutely LOVE you. Would you mind taking a picture with us? Do you hate us for disturbing you?’

That happens most days if we are out and about. I enjoy that part of the gig, enjoy playing the character they think they know. People are usually polite. Even if Will grumbles things about being a fish in a fishbowl afterwards, it’s usually a positive experience. I purposely remain vanilla, a projection of all they want me to be. It’s served me well not to align myself with controversial political beliefs or be outspoken about certain topics in the media. Sitting on my fence means I alienate nobody. I want them all to like me, yes, but it’s more than that. In a weird way, I am them and they are me. Sue explained it to me once: ‘You are a version of who they aspire to be, Elle, so you have to leave space for them to project onto you their own desires.’ It felt a little Black Mirror to me, but at the end of the day, I’ll do whatever brings me the most success.

But although I read the online comments, I don’t actually have many face-to-face interactions with the community. So it’s a shock to see that they just keep coming. Hordes of women with fancy handbags and trainers, boho blow-dries and expensive fake tan. An army of mini-Elle Littlewoods. Everyone is so lovely, but few stand out. They all express their excitement at being here to support me and all ask excitedly about the renovations.

Are you going to run it as a hotel?

Can we come?

Will you rent it out for weddings?

I prefer to let the screen separate the real me from the one I allow others to see. Like a doll hiding safety behind the cheap plastic of the product box, always one layer removed. The online world gets a bad rap for being inauthentic, but when I leave the event a few hours later, I feel strangely buoyant. Having hundreds of people falling over themselves to tell you that they love you or enjoy your content is beyond touching. I think of how little Elaine Forrester – my younger self – would react if I’d bent down and whispered that into her ear as she huddled in the back seat of an old burnt-out car a few weeks after the attack.

Millions will love you, I’d have said quietly into her ear, my breath warm against her cold skin. Someday, you’ll have everything you’ve ever wished for.

I’d brush a strand of her rust-coloured hair off her dirty face.

Almost everything.

After the launch, Bethany takes a cab to meet up with some friends, congratulating me begrudgingly on the success of the event. ‘Nettle tea, dear,’ she announces self-importantly, before she climbs in. ‘Great for fertility,’ she adds, and then disappears, leaving me increasingly concerned about what Will has been telling her. I mean, having a child is something we’d like someday, but we hadn’t talked about the reality of it. Then again, I’ve recently noticed a lot of pregnancy and parenting influencers doing well, pivoting from the interiors space to showcasing their maternity wear, nursery furniture options and hospital bag lists…

Sue and I share a bottle of Moët in the nearby Lansbury Hotel. We sit in the huge glass-ceilinged bar under low brass lighting, and toast the success of Elle’s Dream x Brooks & Zalia.

But I’m still unnerved she went behind my back to speak to Will about selling my wedding. I try to remind myself that Sue is just doing what’s best for me. She smiles as she scrolls on her phone. There’s something so confident about the wide set of her features, the thick sweep of eyeliner over her lash line, confident curl to her mouth. Fully in control.

We tip glasses.

Sue reads a text Angela has just sent. ‘We completely sold out. There were still people outside who didn’t even make it in.’ Sue swallows her bubbles and reaches to refill.

‘They’ll go online, but we’ve loads of stock running low already.’

I wave a hand over my glass when she goes to pour, the exhaustion catching up on me.

Another niggle gnaws at my insides as I remember the man who called my name at the store.

I hadn’t seen him again inside the department store. Whoever is trolling me is really starting to mess with my head.

‘The client is over the moon, obviously,’ Sue continues, leaning forward and taking a handful of roasted cashew nuts from the bowl in front of us, spilling a few onto the glass table. She brushes the salt from the front of her long green dress. Her red sequin jacket hangs over the back of the chair. She’s wearing her usual black flats and a chunky gold bracelet.

‘There’s already talk of expanding the line further,’ Sue says, still chewing. ‘Maybe even do an Italian one next year.’

‘Steady on,’ I laugh, enjoying the buzz of the alcohol after the buzz of all the greetings. ‘One castle at a time.’

But now that the numbers are up and the renovation project is pulling in sponsorship, I am toying with the idea of taking a step back from the world of influencing. An Elle’s Dream wedding would be a fitting end to it all. With the house complete and a wedge of cash in the bank, maybe it would give me the time to focus on addressing my sleep problems, and my insecurities.

‘What’s that tribe that believes taking a photo steals your soul?’ I ask Sue suddenly. She looks up from her phone, surprised.

‘Huh?’

‘I read about it.’ I stroke the side of the champagne glass with my finger. ‘They refused to be photographed because they think it takes a piece of them.’

Sue furrows her brow.

‘Are you OK, Elle?’

I smile a little. ‘I mean, if you think about it, taking a picture probably does take some part of you; a moment of time, a privacy you once had, some essence of who you are or who you were…’

Sue shakes her head.

‘I don’t think that at all. I think they are just superstitious is all. And probably didn’t understand cameras. I wouldn’t read too much into it. Plus, every picture you get taken gives you something too; a nice memory, a captivating moment, or in your case… cold hard cash.’

She chuckles.

‘But wasn’t there some scientist that said that because a camera snatches all available light around the subject, it includes their aura? It steals all your light.’

‘Eh, enough champers for you, my girl.’ Sue jokingly slides my glass of champagne away from me. ‘Aura…’ she laughs. ‘Where do you even get this stuff, Elle?’

I shrug and reach for my glass.

‘It’s not that weird. Don’t you believe in energy? Maybe an aura is just the protective light energy around us.’

Sue plucks another nut from the small glass bowl and throws it into her mouth.

‘Maybe I just don’t want people constantly sucking up the small bit of light that I have.’

‘Nah.’ Sue answers slowly, still chewing. ‘I only believe in shit I can see. I’m not into all that airy-fairy stuff.’ She looks at me. ‘Next you’ll be telling me you believe in ghosts.’

I change the subject. But I can’t deny the sense of depletion I sometimes get from parading myself.

And while it is a lucrative deception, the more I fix up the French property, the more I am beginning to realise that the foundations are just as important as the façade. And mine are still pretty wobbly.

I glance nervously at my phone. There’s a how-is-it-going message from Will after our heart to heart this morning. I’m tagged in hundreds of photos from the launch.

‘How’s Larry?’ I ask Sue absently as I click into my emails, a pang of anxiety tugging and tugging, as I contemplate why my husband is lying to his mother. And to me.

Sue doesn’t answer straight away.

I glance up.

‘He’s… well,’ she says, and the expression on her face makes me wish I hadn’t asked. Sue has always been extremely private. As much as I share my life online, she protects herself from even someone as close to her as me. I know she has a sister who lives in Paris and who has a successful career as a solicitor. I’d never asked her about having children, or her relationship with Larry, who seemed like a nice guy the few times I’d met him at their house. It wasn’t my business. There was something about the way she put up her guard that I understood. I smile at her. Despite my own problems, Sue had always been such a good friend to me.

‘We’re separating,’ she says after a moment, faux-brightly, like she’s fine with it. ‘We’ve been separated for a while now. Since November actually. Just trying to figure out the details with the house and…’ Her voice wobbles. ‘And the bloody cat.’

Sue stops speaking and closes her eyes a moment, gathering herself. I don’t patronise her by jumping up to hug her. Sue’s not that kind of person. Tears glue her eyes together a moment and she pinches the bridge of her nose. She shakes her head slightly. ‘Sorry…’

I don’t move. I’ve never seen this side of Sue. This… vulnerability. Sue is kick-ass. A tough-nut personality, no-nonsense, a walk-it-off kind of person.

‘I’m sorry, Sue.’ And I really am. I’d seen Larry and Sue out together and they always seemed so in tune. He was the placid Yin to her dramatic Yang. They’d always seemed so solid.

I pass her the paper napkin the waiter had brought with our nuts and she blows her nose.

‘It’s just that I haven’t said it out loud just yet,’ she says softly. ‘I’m still getting used to the idea… but it’s for the best.’

I nod, understanding the need to maintain positivity in the face of devastation.

She excuses herself to use the ladies’ room. The sky through the bar sky-light is jet-black.

I scroll down my emails as I wait for her to return.

One email jumps out among the hundreds of unopened messages.

Subject line: Strictly confidential to the homeowner. Urgent.

It’s from Magnet debt management.

Just breathe.

I quickly scan the email, every muscle tensed.

‘We’ve been trying to reach you and your co-signee William Buchanan to no avail,’ it says dispassionately. The bubbles turn to bile in my throat.

‘As you are now six months in default on the mortgage for 133 Lower Park Road, London 5X8 3B, we’ve had no choice but to push forward with legal action to repossess your home.’

I check the date.

The court case to pursue repossession is in September.

I think of Will’s recent caginess. Borrowing money from Bethany under false pretences. His insistence that we secure the French house at any cost. Things start to click into place.

He’s been using me.

I try to sort out my thoughts, but everything is swaying, floating away. My breathing hitches. All the things I’d done to get myself to a safe place. All the ways I’d suffered so we could have stability.

And he… he’d done this.

Angry tears fill my eyes. What other secrets was my husband keeping?

A ripple of rage.

Will Fucking Buchanan. I am going to kill you.

31

September/Septembre

Morgue, Nice University Hospital

The pathologist uses a small stainless steel tool to lift a flap of flesh where the forehead had collapsed in on itself. ‘Several blows to the face with a blunt instrument,’ she tells Inspector Dupont. She points at the ridges on the side of the human head and then towards the top of the candelabra that Dupont had brought to show her. Angry crescent-shaped gouges seemed to match the circular edge of the silver antique.

‘A match,’ she confirms. ‘And whoever did this used a lot of force. Continuous blows, at least ten, from what the evidence shows.’

Ten blows with a heavy candelabra was a lot considering two or three would have sufficed. Ten suggests someone lost themselves in a frenzy of attack.

‘Time of death?’

‘Our vic was still bleeding when forensics got there at what? At one o’clock?’

‘One fifteen,’ Dupont checks his notes.

‘Then I’d say anytime from about eleven o’clock that morning,’ the pathologist shrugs, but they both know it isn’t an exact science, like they’d have you believe in the movies. The detective has a sudden image of the murder scene with the blood splattered staircase, the straggly blood-matted hair. He shakes his head in disgust. That part was more akin to a box-office horror story.

That’s why Dupont was having a difficult time believing some of the statements those in the house at the time had given. Things weren’t adding up.

Somebody was definitely lying.

July/Juillet

32

Sue

‘Sue, do you LOVE it?’ Elle looks so pleased with herself, turning around to face her as Sue follows her up the huge staircase flanked with giant heron wallpaper.

Another one of her ideas.

The bird’s beady eyes stare back at her.

‘Do you love my house?’ Elle repeats, motioning with one hand around the hallway. Her hair is loose around her face, and she’s standing next to the top landing gesturing like lady of the freaking manor.

‘Steady on, Elle. He’s not dead yet,’ Sue snaps, unable to contain herself. She tries to turn it into a laugh.

There’s a pause.

Sue changes her tone. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she gushes.

Elle smiles back, lips parting just enough so Sue can see her perfect teeth. How sweet it must be to always get everything you ever wanted out of life. Sue has a sudden desire to make Elle hurt in the way that normal people hurt. She clenches her fists and follows Elle closely down the stairs. Elle clutches the banister tightly, slowly placing one high espadrille-clad foot in front of the other so as not to fall.

Sue has to admit though, the difference to Château Mirabelle is incredible.

It’s morphed into something really special. There’s something bewitching about its long corridors and its intriguing corners. Elle has drawn it out of itself.

Of course, Sue had hoped the renovation would be a success, so she could monetise it for the brand, but she hadn’t expected it to be so… alluring. She can imagine padding through this house barefoot in the mornings, sitting by the pool each morning with her espresso. Her world becoming this world. But it’s just another thing she handed to Elle Littlewood on a plate. It’s maddening, because it was Sue who had pushed her to pursue the en viager deal in the first place. But now that she’s seen how happy this house has made Elle, something else has come to mind. Something a little more… destructive.

In the kitchen, Elle opens the brand new wine fridge.

‘Check this out, Suze.’

Sue stares longingly at the sleek Fortuna kitchen she’d organised as a collaboration. The rows of pale bottles stacked on top of one another.

‘You’re welcome,’ Sue blurts out, with a half laugh, feeling a weird mood washing over her. Her sister Amy had invited her over to Paris for her engagement party in a few weeks’ time, and Sue felt sick about the whole thing. She thinks of her sister’s never-ending generosity, and the way their parents preened over their youngest daughter. Sue’s not sure she can stomach the whole thing. And on top of everything Larry had admitted he was finally moving out now that they’d signed the papers. It should have been a good thing, and Sue had waited for the relief to wash over her that her bad marriage was finally coming to an end. But all she’d felt was an emptiness that opened up deep in her core. It was one thing channelling her frustration into her husband, but quite another to suddenly have an empty house and a gap in her heart so big it frightened her sometimes.

Elle pulls a face. She’d told Sue that her sleeping had been worse than ever but to Sue, she still looks mesmerising.

‘Oh, Suze, here I am trying to tell you about the kitchen you helped pick out and organised the brand partnership for. Thanks so much, I appreciate you.’

Sue’s stomach clenches. This was like when her sister always went on about how wonderful Sue was. How successful. When in reality, Sue knows she’s rotten to the core. All around them the Dream Homes crew have set up the TV cameras. Wires snake across the newly laid McGuire parquet floors; Sue had convinced them to get involved in the project, too. Another freebie.

A man wearing a dark T-shirt and jeans arrives and the atmosphere immediately changes.

‘Cou-cou. There you are,’ he calls brightly to Elle. He stops when he spots Sue.

‘Sue, meet Pierre.’ Elle slides herself up onto the kitchen island and hugs her coffee cup between her fingers, ankles crossed. Her long tanned legs dangle and Sue tears her eyes away, self-consciously pulling her knee length Primark sundress down over her milk-bottle knees. She remembers her father once telling her she had his ‘cankles’ while Amy got their mother’s lean limbs. He’d said it affectionately, but for Sue it was a punch in the stomach, and worse, validation of what she’d always felt; that she was less than her sister.

‘Pierre, this is Sue Anderson, my friend and fabulous producer.’

‘Enchanté.’

They exchange stiff handshakes. Sue tries not to wince as the tall, dark-haired man squeezes her fingers.

She pretends to read the call-sheet for today’s filming schedule with the show’s director while she watches Pierre next to Elle, her dangling legs close to his body. It seems like a familiar positioning – like a couple who may at any moment wrap their limbs around one another. Complete intimacy.

She pauses, trying to decide if she should broach the subject with Elle, even jokingly. Wouldn’t do if it got out that Elle Littlewood was shagging the bloody carpenter.

Over the noise of the crew setting up, Sue hears a raised voice somewhere near the back of the house. It echoes down the corridor.

‘Oh, that’s probably Leonard,’ Elle says, a pained look on her face. ‘Julia, his nurse, is off today. He probably needs his meds.’

‘Filming in three, Elle,’ the director reminds her. Corey Wesley is Canadian with permanent rosacea. He walks around with an earpiece, faded Bermuda shorts and trainers that would look more appropriate on a sixteen-year-old rather than a forty-six-year-old divorcee.

‘It’s OK, I can go,’ Sue says amenably. It’s her job to keep the filming on schedule. Plus, she is curious to meet this famous Leonard.

‘Just give him two of the capsules from the white pillbox by his bed,’ Elle calls, jumping down off the kitchen island, as the make-up girl looms towards her with lip gloss.

Leonard had been too unwell to have visitors the last time Sue had been over doing a recce for the crew.

‘It’s actually been good timing,’ Elle had explained. ‘It means he’s not always around trying to interfere in filming or the renovations.’

Sue had heard enough about the constant grizzling that he’d brought to the project early on. She remembers what Elle had said about him. ‘He’s a nightmare, Sue – it’s all don’t touch that, I don’t love those floors, why are you taking down those curtains, Mirabelle made them…’

Sue wasn’t one for nostalgia herself. There were almost no photos of Sue or her own family in her London home. Plenty of art though. But she didn’t go in for hoarding stuff. Sue couldn’t for the life of her figure out why Elle Littlewood even kept that scruffy little doll she’d had growing up. Sue’s own parents had been lawyers who worked hard to give Sue and her sister Amy a good education. She’d never been spoilt though – not like Elle. Or Will, who had never known a proper day’s work in his life. Elle got free everything, even her phone was paid for by one of the network providers that sponsored her content. Elle had it all; good-looking boyfriend, millions of fans who adored her, and now a bloody French chateau.

Sue makes her way down the hallway. This is the darkest part of the house. The wooden panels give it a dungeon-y feel. Despite the warmth outside, she shivers.

The voice calls again – gravelly and urgent.

Surely they don’t leave him down here the whole time?

Sue feels uneasy all of a sudden. It was one thing keeping him out of the way, but this seems a little… cruel.

Sue glances over her shoulder and then turns the door handle.

The first thing that hits her is the stink of unwashed sheets. A plate of congealed food sits on a tray by the bed. It’s a small room with only one window that looks out onto the back of the house.

No wonder the Dream Homes crew didn’t know about Leonard. He’d been packaged away like a bit of old furniture.

The elderly man is sitting half out of bed, his skinny white legs dangling from beneath the layers of blankets. The room is far too warm and he seems confused.

‘I need to go outside,’ Leonard says to her in English, trying to reach his crutch, which is propped up in the corner of the small room.

Sue looks around helplessly.

‘Er – I’m here to give you your medicine. I’m Sue.’

Leonard looks at her blankly.

‘No…’ he says, his voice more of a whimper. He looks much older than eighty-seven. ‘No medicine.’ He tries to hold his hands up, but Sue knows how delirious pain can make you – especially at that age. Her own father had been the same during his illness. He’d always resist, but then feel much better if he took his medicine. Elle had implied that Leonard was a bad patient.

Sue rummages through the different medications on the bedside locker and locates the white box Elle had described. She shakes the capsules from the box. Two, Elle had said.

Sue places them onto one of Leonard’s slightly trembling hands. She curls his fingers around them, cringing at the moistness of his clammy skin.

‘Take them,’ Sue commands. ‘You’ll feel better, I promise.’

He tries to shake his head again, but Sue encourages him by handing him a glass of water from his bedside locker. Leonard eventually complies. Then he lies back on his pillow, his face almost grey. He’s so quiet after a moment that Sue thinks he might be asleep. She tiptoes from the room.

She needs to get back outside to the dazzling sunshine and the buzz of the shoot. Away from this pitiful sight.

‘Please…’ He tries to draw a breath. ‘I need your help.’

She freezes, her hand on the door knob.

A tingle runs the length of Sue’s spine.

What had they done?

Without turning around, Sue leaves the room. She shuts the door softly behind her.

33

Elle

Julia Remy is watching me.

The nurse is always watching me. Lurking around the labyrinthine corridors of this place, standing in the shadows, rooting around drawers.

I’m half asleep when I hear movement in the next room, so I presume it’s her. She sleeps over a few nights a week.

There’s something about her I can’t quite put my finger on. She’d seemed so abrupt with me from the moment I met her, and the other day I found her in the en-suite bathroom of my room. She’d jumped as I walked into the bedroom and muttered something about cleaning the shower, even though it was broken and I’d had to use the one in the other bedroom.

She must be in her sixties, small and mousey – still all brogues and thick tights even though the temperature is now pushing twenty-seven degrees. A qualified nurse, she wears her brown hair in tight curls and speaks in a defensive manner – as if we’ve just accused her of something. She is tasked with taking care of Leonard, but those small beady eyes seem to take everything in. In the garden the other day, I was filming a segment about replanting the greenhouse and I’d felt eyes on me, a crawling feeling that I was being watched. When I’d glanced up, Julia was standing at the back window of the chateau staring at me. I’d looked back a moment later and she was gone.

A nauseating thought pulls at the corner of my mind. What if Julia is the one sending me the messages? But then I remember they’d started before I’d even met her.

Another groaning, creaking sound startles me – then nothing. It’s as if the walls are breathing. The hair rises on the back of my neck. A fragile memory appears; me and JJ, waking up in shadows to two men with sticks. Snow hitting my face, concrete beneath my back. A single thread of the image hangs, ready to tug, but I know if I allow myself to go back there, it will crack me wide open.

My eyes are blurry with exhaustion. I close my eyes, my brain struggling to put everything together. Will, the troll, the renovations.

I picture the open mouth of the chateau, swallowing me whole, the shutters blinking like eyes, the roof burying me inside this place, bats and all. I’m still a long moment, listening, but the sound stops.

Then there’s a loud rap and I jump.

‘Elle?’

It’s Sue; she pokes her head in.

I pull the blanket around me, my shoulders tightening.

‘Come on in.’

Sue wears black jeans and a black T-shirt, her curls falling over her forehead like corkscrew springs. She has a folder with her containing the filming timetable, the collaborations, and swatches for the interiors.

She looks around then at me, an intense look tinged with something else.

I know I’m not myself.

I haven’t been myself since I realised that in a few weeks’ time I might not have a home again. Château Mirabelle was my plan B, but with Mirabelle potentially lurking somewhere and her estranged son who could pop up at any moment, I feel boxed in. Then there’s Leonard who, though sick, remains our biggest obstacle to finally owning this place.

Plus, Will had lied. He’d lied about money, about us doing IVF to his mother, about our London home.

My Will.

How could I ever trust him again?

‘He’s on the phone again, Elle,’ Sue says gently. ‘Will you please speak to him?’

I shake my head.

‘I can’t, Sue. I’m too angry.’

I feel a tumbling inside me, like the time a wave had knocked me over in Brighton a few years ago, leaving me disorientated, unsure which way was up.

Sue lowers a cup of something down onto my bedside locker and settles herself onto the bed next to me, her movements languid, like a cat.

‘How are you feeling Elle?’ she asks frowning.

‘Tired.’

She offers me a small smile.

‘Elle, the wedding is less than two months away.’ She sounds calm, but I hear the note of desperation that has slipped in. ‘We have a contract with Dream Homes.’

I manage a brittle snort. I should have known it’s always business with Sue.

‘Sue, there mightn’t even be a wedding. I don’t want to go into it but I’m just not ready to speak to Will. He hasn’t been honest with me.’

‘And have you always been honest with him?’ She raises an eyebrow. My mouth suddenly feels dry, my head staticky. Sue couldn’t know about my past, could she?

‘Have you told him about the messages you’ve been getting?’ she looks at me a long time and the taste of something sour pools in my throat. How would Sue know about those messages?

‘What are you talking about?’ I meet her gaze. If I told her about them I’d have to tell her about my past.

‘The ones you were telling me about, from this Josie person,’ Sue replies. ‘The trolling.’

I blink.

‘I had someone look into @JosieWrightWay, Elle. Apparently it’s some middle-aged man in Atlanta who says it was just a joke.’

‘You had the police look into it?’ I stammer, breathing hard at the thought of law enforcement looking into my life too deeply, and Sue laughs, a high-pitched sound like breaking glass.

‘As if. We both know the police don’t take these things seriously. I just know a guy…’ Sue reaches for my arm. ‘That troll won’t be bothering you again, Elle.’

There’s a bang outside the door.

‘Did you hear that?’ I stiffen. There’s a click as the door opens and shuts on itself.

‘It’s just the wind.’ Sue is frowning. ‘You need to sleep, Elle. You are way too paranoid.’ She rests her gaze on me heavily. ‘But you need to sort things out with Will and move forward with this wedding.’ She squeezes my hand a little too hard. ‘Or we are all completely fucked.’

34

Elle

‘Did you ever think you’d end up alone?’

It’s dark – the only light is the single bulb hanging over our heads.

It’s late evening at the chateau. Leonard’s asleep and Pierre and I are regrouting tiles in one of the bathrooms. Sue’s out on a call to her lawyer, something about Larry needing to buy her out of the house. She’s been flustered in the last few days since hearing about the problems Will and I are having. Everyone’s under pressure to get the series filmed, but the plasterwork is still a day away from being painted. And the executive producer of Dream Homes is insisting on having Will and I on a Zoom call to go through some of the wedding plans.

I smooth the grout onto the back of a tile and place it into the gap with a gloopy squidge.

Working side by side on this property, Pierre and I have forged a friendship of sorts. Probably because he was one of the only people I’d ever known who didn’t put any expectations on me. I saw a lot of myself in him too – a loneliness that’s hard to describe. Perhaps it had something to do with not having the warm open family dynamic most people had, and took for granted.

He shrugs. ‘I had someone for a while,’ he admits. ‘Four years, actually, but when my mother got sick, I found it hard to maintain that relationship. I didn’t have much left to give. I couldn’t give them what they wanted.’

He glances up at me and there’s a sadness to his features I hadn’t seen before.

‘My mother’s death affected me in ways I find hard to explain,’ he admits. ‘It changed me.’

Pierre has told me about his upbringing in nearby Lescares. He’d studied horticulture in Grenoble for three years, working in the gardens of a well-known French stately home before coming back to take care of his mother when she fell ill. Then a few months after she’d died he’d taken the job with Leonard.

‘I needed the money to pay for the loan I took out for her treatment,’ he says, a lock of hair falling into his eyes as he glances down at the tile he’s grouting.

‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ I say gently. I know what it’s like to love and lose. ‘That must have been difficult for you.’

Pierre shrugs.

‘She needed more than I could give her. And, in the end, I just couldn’t give her what she needed,’ he says softly. ‘Maybe if I’d had more money I could have paid for better treatment.’

Pierre is handsome in an unexpected way. His mouth is a little large, a little loose around the lips. I catch him looking at me sometimes, those dark eyes filled with something I can’t pinpoint, but then just as quickly, we are usually distracted by an errant nail or stubborn water pump. As this project goes on, there’s an energy between us – a turbulence that I feel increasingly drawn towards. I don’t know if it’s my disappointment at Will’s betrayal or my own need for escape, but around him, I feel a protection of sorts.

‘What about you?’ Pierre says, taking another tile from the cardboard box. ‘Did you ever think you’d end up here, sitting on the floor of a chateau in Provence, laying tiles with someone like me?’

He smiles a little as he slides a bottle green tile into place next to the others, but there’s a catch to his voice.

Someone like me. The three words I’d struggled with my whole life too.

‘I lost someone too,’ I say quietly. ‘And for the longest time I thought I wouldn’t have anyone. Or love anyone, because of it,’ I admit. It’s easier to talk to people like Pierre. People who accept you for who you are in the moment – not based on what kind of childhood you had, what school you went to, what trainers you wear… ‘I felt as if I couldn’t risk passing to them the parts of myself that I didn’t like.’

I hesitate, trying to find the right words to explain what I mean.

Pierre continues to smear the grout onto the back of the next tile.

‘But then I met Will and he was so good. So happy in himself. And for the first time in my life I felt as if I might actually find that safety I’d craved.’ I use a little brush to rid the crack between the remaining tiles of its old flaky grout.

Pierre smooths the new mix onto the floor in sweeping motions as I speak.

‘And then I thought maybe that if we took the best of him, and added all his goodness to the parts of me that were…’

I take a sharp breath.

‘I don’t know… that were… worth something, I suppose. I felt that maybe we could create something whole. Something great together.’

I hand Pierre the new tile, which he fits carefully into the space he’s retained. Outside the open window, bats swoop. Moths swarm the hanging bulb above our heads, making tiny flickering sounds as they ricochet off of the warm stubborn glass.

‘And we did…’ I smile as I think of Will and I, the best of us, when we are laughing, the way he brings me breakfast in bed humming the here comes the bride tune. The way he dances so badly. His kind eyes. How he spends an hour considering what to write in birthday cards.

A pause.

‘We really did,’ I repeat dreamily. ‘But then, after a while, the feeling returned – the feeling that I can’t explain. The emptiness that I thought I could fill.’

I look at Pierre. I realise this is the most honest I’ve ever been with anyone. He reaches out and rests a hand on my wrist. I look down, blinking in the flickering light. I keep talking.

‘But I’m not sure I can ever fill it. I’m not sure I’m… salvageable. Does that make any sense?’ I gaze at his hand on mine, and try not to feel anything but resentment for Will.

He’d put me in this position.

‘Actually it does.’ He nods, his face more serious now. ‘I just never knew other people felt that way too. That hollowness.’

He leans slightly closer. His face is so close to mine that I can see his pupils. Watch them dilate. Nobody has ever seemed to understand what that feeling is really like.

It’s hard to describe how you live your life with a missing piece, or how scrambling to find something to fill that hole makes you capable of doing just about anything.

Maybe this exchange goes some way towards explaining what happens later on.

‘I don’t think most others do,’ I whisper quietly, and right there in the twilight bathroom, he leans forward and kisses me.

35

Will

Will’s out for lunch at Bellamy’s with his father when Elle’s name appears over the colourful graphics of the app he has open under the table. His father’s just finishing a work call and their appetisers haven’t yet been served. Bellamy’s is half-empty. The lunchtime rush is an hour away. A few women in suits sit in red velvet booths deep in conversation over a chunky blue ring folder. Two men sit drinking coffees served in glasses on high stools at the marble-countered bar.

Will fumbles to slide the call to green. ‘Elle… finally,’ Will answers breathlessly. He glances at his father, who is still preoccupied with his own call, tapping his finger on the white tablecloth as he follows up on a deal he’s been working on.

‘How are you?’ he asks cautiously.

Her voice is flat and toneless when she responds.

‘How do you think I am?’

An image of Elle the first night he met her flashes through his mind. Fierce and soft all at the same time. A constant contradiction. His heart aches for the versions of themselves as they were back then.

He pictures her standing in the bitter cold waiting for her Uber. Him holding her hand as it started to snow. Her blue eyes peeking out from beneath a huge white bobble hat.

‘When will I see you again?’ he’d asked, blushing.

‘Tomorrow?’ She’d smiled, turning to face him. Will had taken both ends of her scarf and tucked them snugly into her coat, patting them into place.

‘Not soon enough.’

Then, wrapping her lean body in his arms, holding her tight, he’d pressed a cold cheek against hers.

‘In fact, I’m never letting you out of my sight,’ he’d proclaimed.

They’d both taken the Uber back to Will’s house that night.

Now Elle seems so far from him. She in France, he in the UK. But the distance between them is more than just physical separation.

Above the jangle of cutlery and the jiggle of ice behind the bar of the restaurant, Will hears her exhale into the phone.

‘Are you OK, Elle?’ His voice is gruff with love and worry. They hadn’t spoken in days but Sue had been giving him updates. Elle was sleeping even less. She was up late working on the house with this Pierre fellow, Sue had told him, an inflection to her voice.

‘I’m giving you exactly thirty seconds to explain why the fuck you told your mother you needed cash for my IVF and why there’s a repossession order on our home potentially going to court in September.’

Her voice catches, and Will’s anguish multiplies.

He stares down at his prawn cocktail. The sauce, pink and gloopy, oozes over their transparent skin.

‘I’m sorry, Elle,’ he says in a whisper.

Rupert is gesturing at him to start eating as he wraps up his call. A wave of sadness crashes over Will.

‘I’m so sorry, Elle. I shouldn’t have. I just really badly needed the cash, and I am so sick of my parents thinking I’m completely useless with money.’

‘So you thought it was better to tell them I was desperate for a baby?’ She sounds incredulous. ‘And what about our house?’ She pauses, lowering her voice. ‘Will, our home…’

A flare of resentment bubbles up inside Will. Elle was the one who’d put him under added pressure when she’d signed for the chateau without consulting him.

But he knows he’s at the end of the road.

‘Please tell me it’s some kind of mistake?’ Elle pleads. ‘I’ve been tormented thinking about it the past few days, Will. Are we going to lose our home?’

He can’t bear to speak. He takes a shaky breath. The smell of the prawns suddenly turns his stomach.

Elle is crying on the end of the phone. ‘What are we going to do?’ Then frustrated: ‘Will, how did this happen?’

He closes his eyes and makes a decision. He can’t risk losing Elle or having her cancel the wedding. He glances over at his father, who’s finishing up his call. Rupert’s soup has arrived and he’s salting it before tasting it with one hand – something Bethany is forever giving out to him about. His father is paler than usual and Will notices a new shake to his hand.

Will feels torn between his obligation to be truthful to Elle and his desire to protect his father. Memories of himself as a boy standing next to his father with the smoker as they harvested the honey flash into his head. ‘The worker bees guard the bee colony like bouncers,’ Rupert had told him. ‘The smoke calms them temporarily so we can swoop in and take the honey.’

Will just needs to calm Elle enough to move forward with their original plan.

‘There was a mix-up with the funding for the Oberdashes so I helped Dad out by plugging a gap in the financing. That’s it,’ he stutters.

‘He didn’t want Mum to know, so I lied to get some money from her. I shouldn’t have, Elle. I promise. I’m seriously pissed off with myself too, but I was worried about the stress on Dad.’

Silence at the end of the line.

He drains his sparkling water, hating himself for how easily the lies flow.

‘And, well, the Oberdashes took a lot longer than we’d hoped for, so I didn’t realise the mortgage payments were defaulting. I’ve been onto Ivan at Magnet, and hopefully it’s all fine now.’

‘So there’s not going to be a court case for repossession?’ Elle doesn’t sound convinced.

Will hesitates.

There’s no way to explain to someone who has never gambled exactly what it is that drives the behaviour. It’s not actually for the money, though Will’s been telling himself that’s the reason he keeps returning to the apps, even though he knows it’s wrong. He thinks maybe Elle might understand the risk–reward element that makes it so dopamine-driven, given her career. If Will were to really analyse what it is that makes him determined to win it all back, he’d realise that it isn’t some valiant need for retribution. No, it’s the chase of a high he’s after. And as fleeting as that high may be, it’s so sublime for those short moments that it’s worth everything. Even lying to those he loves.

Rupert finishes his phone call and looks at Will expectantly from across the table. He’d brought him here today to have an important chat. Will has a horrible feeling his father knows exactly what Will is doing.

Will takes a deep breath and lowers his voice, his hand cupped over his mouth. ‘No, I don’t think there will be a court case,’ he assures her. ‘But securing Château Mirabelle is obviously more important than ever now, Elle. We need Leonard to sign the declaration that his wife is dead.’

‘Will?’ Elle sounds pained. ‘Are you sure it’s all OK? You can tell me if there’s a problem, you know?’

‘There’s no problem,’ he lies. ‘You focus on the paperwork, and I will fix things here. We will get married in September, and it will be the most memorable day of our lives. I promise.’

But even as he says the words, panic rises.

In the picture of Elle that flashes up on his phone, she’s smiling into the camera, with a looseness he hasn’t seen in a long time. Her teeth are white and straight. She’s happy then. It feels like a lifetime ago. He tries to push away his mother’s words, the night he called in to ask for money. While they were on their second bottle of white, Bethany had leant forward and patted his hand.

‘Have you and Elle a life assurance policy, Will? You need to put things in place before you are married, especially if you are talking about having children. What if something were to happen to either one of you?’

Will tries to chew a prawn, but its fishy bulk makes him almost gag. He remembers that after the smoke cleared from the hives one time, a single bee managed to crawl under his protective suit and sting him hard. He’d yelped, gripping tight to his father’s arm.

Later, in the kitchen of The Laurels, Will had cried, rubbing at the raised red bump on his chest where the determined bee had left its mark.

‘For some bees, no amount of distraction can put them off their singular mission,’ his father warned. ‘And look where it got him.’

Rupert shook out Will’s protective suit and the body of the death-curled bee fell soundlessly to the ground. A black fuzzy corpse with broken wings.

Before anyone could pick it up, Max leapt forward and after a curious sniff, swallowed it whole.

August/Août

36

Elle

Leonard is even sicker.

At this rate, the old man might not even make it to the wedding.

Slowly, as we renovate, the chateau begins not only to heal, but to come into its own.

But as it thrives, Leonard’s health dramatically declines.

‘Have you seen the latest comments rolling in, Elle?’ Sue says over breakfast. It’s just a few weeks before the wedding. It’s the last day the crew are filming. The press release has finally gone out about the TV series which will air just after our September wedding, and the buzz is huge.

‘We’ve gained another four hundred thousand followers,’ she announces proudly. ‘And I’m not joking when I say that brands are lining up to work with you. They are literally begging us to feature their products on the show. People are dying to know exactly where the house is, by the way. They are asking if you’ll be renting out the house for guests or even hosting other weddings like they do on Escape to the Chateau. They want to find it and gawk at it in real life, like a bloody tourist attraction.’

I shiver at the thought.

The chateau looks amazing. Of course, budget-wise we couldn’t do much more than surface-level changes. It’s been repainted, with new flooring and furniture. The Fortuna kitchen pulls it all together and the landscaping company have outdone themselves with the covered terrace, and granite patios and pergolas dotted throughout the grounds.

Yes, the single-pane windows still rattle and the damp from the basement continues to cause problems. The temperamental roof is also a concern, but there’ll be time for all of that once it is ours alone.

When I last saw Leonard, his skin was paper-thin, his lips pale and bloodless. Pierre explained to me that the antibiotics probably look longer to work because of Leonard’s allergy to penicillin.

‘Leonard’s still not doing great,’ I say, balancing my smoothie on my lap. ‘Julia suggested we get the doctor back again. But we should probably move him back into his own bedroom.’

Leonard is still in the smaller bedroom at the back where it’s quieter, so he’ll be more comfortable, but I’m afraid how it might look to anyone else.

‘It’s pretty convenient, isn’t it?’ Sue says, a strange inflection to her voice. I glance at her sharply.

‘Sue, he has pneumonia. It’s not uncommon at his age.’ I drain the smoothie she’s brought me, the taste chalky against my teeth.

‘I know. But isn’t this what you wanted?’

‘And you,’ I say quietly. I know from hearing snippets of conversations that Larry is putting pressure on Sue to buy him out of their house or they’ll have to sell. Sue needs the money from the Dream Homes wedding special. She needs me to marry Will to get her pay cheque. This suits her agenda too.

With Leonard confined to bed, it’s much easier for everyone to get the work done and the show filmed without his incessant interference.

‘I’ll take him his breakfast.’ I drop my coffee cup into the sink and feel Sue’s eyes on me as I prepare Leonard’s smoothie. The blades in the blender whir to life as I drop in a banana, some flaxseed, an apple and protein powder.

I’m not sure Leonard really understands what is happening around him. But I’ve been surprised to find that lately, I’ve enjoyed these quiet moments with the old man. Sometimes, I feel a kinship. You see, both Leonard and I love this house, and neither of us want to cede control of it. It offers us both sanctuary in different ways.

I swallow as I open his bedroom door.

Today is different.

Today, I need more from Leonard than a listening ear.

I freeze when I see him, pale against the pillow, feeling a prickle of unease. He looks so lifeless against the sheets.

Could he have…

Heat flares in my face the second the feeling of hope enters my head.

This is somebody’s life. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I’m no longer the person I used to be. A few of Leonard’s belongings have fallen on the floor next to the bed; his wallet, a tissue box and some papers. As I stoop to pick them up, I notice a small yellowing passport picture that must have slid out of his wallet. I turn it over expecting to see Mirabelle or Matthieu. Instead, it’s a young blonde woman, with much sharper features than Leonard’s wife. On the back, written in pen, the name Sabine is scribbled. I remember Pierre saying Leonard had been a ladies’ man in his youth, but this woman had obviously meant something to him if he’d kept her in his wallet all this time.

‘Mirabelle,’ Leonard mutters, stirring slightly. I quickly slide the image back into the leather wallet, gently shushing him. We hadn’t yet told Leonard about the cameras or the wedding, but I’d cross that bridge when we came to it. Julia took him outside in the wheelchair sometimes, to get some fresh air, but it became a rarer sight and she kept him out the back while the filming was going on because I explained that getting upset wouldn’t do him any good. Julia was surprisingly protective of the older man, barely letting us into his room at all. I’d also caught her riffling through some of the papers from his old desk that we’d boxed up and put into the mezzanine in the winery. She’s said she was trying to find his health insurance details, but looked flustered hurrying out, red-faced.

I help Leonard sit up, telling him all about the new wallpaper in the hallway leading up the stairs – a panorama of herons in soft shades of ivory, pale egg-yellow and blush.

I give him his usual pills, and after a few minutes he grows less agitated. His nightshirt is missing a button, gaping open; soft white flesh repulses me as I raise the smoothie to his lips. Dribbles of greyish banana ooze down his chin and I wipe it quickly away with a baby wipe. When he’s swallowed most of it, I reach for the folder I’d placed on the chest of drawers.

The three sheets are printer-fresh, the ink recently dried. They will be the difference between owning this place or not should Mirabelle pop up. Our solicitor had told us there wasn’t much we could do about Matthieu, Leonard’s son, as the French inheritance laws superseded most en viager contracts. He had the right to fight us if he wished, but there wasn’t anything we could do about that now. The solicitor made it clear that once Will and I were married and in possession of the house, it would be a great deal harder for anyone to try to oust us.

But we could do something about Mirabelle’s possible return. She was the one who would have the strongest objection to our taking ownership of the chateau once Leonard passed.

Unless her husband declared her dead. Because it was pretty difficult for a ghost to turf us out.

I push the pen into Leonard’s frail fingers and it falls immediately out, leaving a black ink streak along the crumpled white duvet. I push it more forcibly this time, curling his fingers around it with my own. He looks up at me, confused.

‘I know you loved her, Leonard. But it’s time to let her go,’ I whisper, my heart beating far too quickly. Leonard runs a tongue over his dry lips, lizard-like.

No point in being a prisoner of the past. Maybe that was a lesson we both needed to learn.

I bring the declaration of death form the solicitor had sent closer to his hand. ‘Sign it,’ I tell him.

I catch sight of my own reflection in the mirror from the corner of my eye and I get a fright. It doesn’t look anything like me.

I remember fourteen-year-old me in the bathroom mirror after the attack, blood winding its way down the ceramic sink, dead eyes staring back. I think about how I’d felt numb for such a long time afterwards, like I was rotting from the inside out.

A flashback to that beautiful snowy night, pristine and untouched, like the inside of a snow globe. Until the blood.

I’d do anything to survive. To thrive. To live a life for JJ and me both.

Leonard shifts beneath me and I grip his hand tighter. ‘Sign, Leonard,’ I repeat, and the pen moves, my hand guiding it, Leonard’s fragile bones beneath mine, so soft they could easily snap.

‘I am truly very sorry,’ I say softly, as I put the lid on the pen and close the folder containing the signed document.

A single tear makes its way down his cheek.

‘I have no choice,’ I whisper, a sob building in my own throat.

As I leave the room, I glance back. But his glistening eyes contain something other than devastation. There are sparks of pure hatred there too that make me shudder.

37

September/Septembre

Dupont finds it when he opens the cover of the old drain.

It’s around the back of the chateau, concealed in an area overgrown with thick bushes – you’d only know about it if you knew the place well. Inspector Dupont had returned to search the chateau with the investigation team a few days after the incident. He had a feeling they were missing something, some vital clue to how and why this had happened. Frustrated, he’d ordered another, more thorough search of the property. It was a huge expanse, plenty of places to hide. But it had been when he was returning from a search of the winery that he’d decided on a whim to cut to the chateau by approaching from the back. He never would have found it if it wasn’t for the reflection of something in the undergrowth. He’d moved towards it and, pushing back the thick bushes, he reached down and picked up the item, a discarded soft drink can, mangled and flattened. Dupont had been about to throw it away and move on when he’d spotted the dark drain cover, the mud slightly disturbed around it.

With the tingle of anticipation he’s learnt to recognise after years of investigations, he uses his toe to gently dislodge the plastic lid. It topples slightly to the side.

That’s when he spots it. The first decent break in the case.

Something balled up in the drain has created a soggy backlog that overflows when he dislodges it with a gloved hand. Dark material, deliberately hidden. He photographs it and reaches down with a gloved hand to place it into the evidence bag.

It’s a black T-shirt.

It’s completely covered in blood.

Dupont thinks he knows exactly who it belongs to.

38

Sue

Sue has never seen Elle this drunk.

She’s standing in Pierre’s small gate lodge on the grounds of Château Mirabelle, eyes glazed, spilling wine as she refills everyone’s glasses to the brim. It’s the wrap party for the renovation filming of Dream Homes.

Everyone seems loose and unwieldy… as if anything might happen.

The crystal glasses are engraved with a pattern of diamonds that seems to make the red liquid shimmer slightly in the candlelight. Outside it’s dark, and beyond the glow of lights arcing from the cottage windows, Château Mirabelle stands staunch and unyielding against the moonlight.

Elle stumbles as she sits back heavily onto the sofa. She uses the arm of it to steady herself.

‘Whoops,’ she giggles, straightening the black cashmere jumper she had thrown over her polka dot dress. She looks amazing, tiny and casually stunning, her huge blue eyes captivating everyone in the room.

Sue glowers, a little tipsy herself. She’d drunk far too much wine already, trying to calm her nerves after the call she’d received earlier.

Sue closes her eyes, remembering. If she’s honest, she’s always known it was coming. Ever since all the #MeToo stuff had hit the press. But a Panorama investigation? Her stomach lurches thinking of the list of right-to-reply questions she’d received about her time as executive producer on a modelling TV show, Façade, years ago. Once this Panorama exposé comes out she knows she’s finished.

Sue reaches quickly for her wine and takes a huge slug.

The funny thing is that her first reaction had been to call Larry.

Larry?

Perhaps because he’d been such a big part of her decision to leave that particular show when things were getting really bad. But by then, the damage had been done. Sue saw it. Hell, Sue had allowed it to happen. Those poor young girls, disappearing off into ‘special’ rehearsals with the director. She hadn’t said a word.

The accusations were damning. But Sue’s not sure she could stomach a rebuttal. Her solicitor, already dealing with all the Larry stuff, thought she was crazy to let it just play out in a few weeks’ time when the show aired. Her name would be dragged through the mud and it would be worse because she wasn’t addressing the questions about her time on that show. Sue refills her glass.

Since Larry was gone, and the truth about her complicity in what went on in that show was about to be splashed everywhere, Sue only had one avenue left to her. To ensure she had a big payout with this wedding special she’d brokered for Elle and Will. Then, even if she couldn’t get another job in the future because of the exposé, at least she’d still have the Elle’s Dream Home platform. If bloody Elle would still have her, that is.

Even Will had been unusually quiet when Sue had called him to make sure he was on track with everything. Honestly, it was like trying to herd cattle, trying to pull all of this together.

But now that they are just weeks away from the wedding, Sue knows that nothing can stop it. She accepts a shot from someone, and enjoys the burning sensation at the back of her throat as she knocks it back.

The party had started in the large reception room of the chateau. After midnight, most of the crew members had trickled back to the guesthouses in Lescares. But a few of them, Sue and Elle included, had been invited back to Pierre’s small lodgings to continue the party.

That’s when it got a bit rowdy.

The music was turned up and he’d poured shots. Now the only people left are Corey the director, Elle, Sue and Pierre. They’d been arguing about the latest sex scandal to hit the network that broadcast Dream Homes, TV Today.

‘Not every middle-aged white dude is a predator is all I’m saying,’ Corey slurs.

‘They sure aren’t doing much to help change those perceptions,’ Elle points out, but their observations are starting to sound a little more like drunken ramblings at this stage. Sue stays silent and after a moment catches Elle’s eye. She jerks her head towards the door.

One more, Elle mouths back. There’s no way Sue is walking back through those grounds alone. It’s beyond creepy with all those faceless statues hiding behind every bloody bush. She takes another slug of her drink. Outside is a small courtyard with a rockery and a bench where Pierre and Corey are in and out smoking more and more frequently as the night goes on.

Outside, the night is sticky and warm. Someone mentioned thunder.

Sue reaches for her too-heavy glass and swallows down her wine. It’s a silky pinot noir from the chateau’s winery. She enjoys the warm catch of it in the back of her throat.

Wrap parties usually have this effect on people. The relief that much of the hard work is done, mixed with the need to blow off a little steam. It’s always debauchery.

But this is different. The crew are coming back to film Elle and Will’s wedding in just two weeks.

Canadian Corey, who Sue has known for years, shouts that he has a great idea.

‘I have the draft teaser for the Dream Homes series opener. Still a lot of work to be done, mind,’ he says, his voice thick with alcohol. ‘But this is going to be huge.’

He pulls out his phone – a battered-looking Samsung – and they gather around. Corey fumbles on his phone for the play button.

‘Elle, can I just say, you are bloody amazing.’ Corey raises his glass and Elle smiles. Sue is used to this on set – the way everyone constantly blows smoke up Elle’s ass. Sue also sees the way Pierre is looking at Elle from the other side of the table. Sue can see how you might find someone like Pierre attractive – if you liked the intense vagabond type.

Larry pops into her head again and the thoughts are suddenly too much for her; the divorce, the exposé, the need to pull this project off – it all floats away into a sea of wine.

Elle claps her hands in front of her nose, coy and cute. The men in the room lap it up. Pierre puts his hand on Elle’s back as he leans forward to have a look at the screen.

The room grows silent as the screen fades from black to a sweeping aerial shot of the majestic French chateau, perched on the hilltop. The camera pans slowly, showcasing the grandeur of the estate, before the shot descends on towards the courtyard with the fountain.

The narrator begins in a deep, authoritative voice:

‘Nestled in the heart of the French countryside lies a hidden gem that’s about to shine once again. This magnificent property has stood the test of time, but years of neglect have left it in desperate need of a makeover.’

The camera shifts to the interior of Château Mirabelle, which was filmed a few weeks back; the grand entrance is shabby, close-ups of the damp ceilings and the derelict rooms, but a figure is seen moving about with purpose, carrying tools and equipment.

Sue internally rolls her eyes and takes another slug of her red. The men are captivated. Elle’s eyes remain fixed on the screen, unblinking.

‘But this time, this chateau’s fairy-tale story has a new protagonist; Elle Littlewood, former presenter of Dream Homes and interiors internet sensation.’

The camera focuses on Elle as she turns to the camera with a smile, a sanding tool in her hand. She’s the epitome of casual sophistication; pretty and productive. Faded denim dungarees, tanned arms, a mess of blonde curls. In Sue’s opinion they’ve turned her into some kind of sexy labourer instead of focusing on what really sets Elle apart; her elegant approach to business, her eye for detail, the win-at-all-costs attitude. There’s no sign of that resilience, that pluck. It was what had made Sue encourage Elle to leave the show in the first place. You are better than this, she’d told her, when they’d started reducing Elle to just a pretty face, making her wear skimpier outfits and encouraging her to act a little more clueless when it came to the interviews. There was so much more to her. Once again, they’ve missed a trick here. But Sue’s fed up being Elle’s champion. Now she just wants the pay cheque.

There’s a clip of Elle painting a wall while being interviewed. ‘This house has captured my heart and I can’t wait to share it with everyone. Not just through my renovation journey, but also on my wedding day.’

The camera shows Elle walking around various flea markets in Paris and elsewhere picking out fabrics and making design decisions for both the renovation and her wedding. It then cuts to Elle’s social media feeds, showing the numbers of followers clocking up, a swift pan of her grid with pictures of Elle on shoots and with other well-known personalities, and rests on a picture of her and Will skiing, faces rosy and smiling. Elle’s facing the camera while Will’s kissing her cheek.

‘From the restoration of this magnificent French home to the biggest day of her life, Elle’s journey will be documented here on Dream Homes. Get ready to fall in love with the perfect blend of renovation and romance as Elle Littlewood says “I do” to restoring her brand new home, with her brand new husband. Don’t miss a moment of this captivating journey.’

It fades to black and Sue looks around, a little discombobulated. Despite its cheesiness, it’s so horribly… inviting.

She realises that she’s as bad a voyeur as the rest.

Pierre is staring at the phone, a strange look on his face. Car headlights illuminate the window of the small cabin creating long dark shadows.

‘Shit, that’s me. I’m out of here,’ Corey says, standing up to say his goodbyes as he heads back to the village guesthouse, almost knocking over the coffee table. Glasses wobble precariously.

Then Corey is gone and it’s just Elle, Pierre and Sue.

‘One more, Sue,’ Elle suggests.

‘I’m not sure, it’s pretty late.’ Sue’s head is spinning, but she doesn’t want to leave Elle alone with Pierre, who is now pacing up and down the room, clearly agitated.

The atmosphere is charged. Elle raises an eyebrow at Sue.

‘Sit down, you’re making me dizzy,’ Elle laughs, waving her hand at Pierre.

In less than one second, Pierre lunges at Elle; he grabs her hand and brings his face close to hers.

Sue holds her breath.

‘What,’ he says slowly, his French accent even more pronounced, ‘…did they mean when they said your house?’

Oh crap.

‘Stop it, Pierre,’ Sue yelps, but Pierre and Elle are locked in a stare. Elle tries to pull her arm away but Pierre resists. After a moment, he lets her go. She rubs her arm, indignantly.

‘Jesus Christ Pierre, what’s wrong with you?’ Elle cries, massaging her wrist. ‘Let’s go, Sue.’ She sounds angry but looks frightened by this sudden change in tempo.

But Pierre’s not done yet. He stands to block their exit. Sue’s grabbing her coat from the room wondering what the fuck is happening.

‘This is Leonard’s house, no? You are just doing the designs?’

He gestures towards the chateau. Sue hands Elle her handbag. Pierre has the glazed look of someone who has had far too much alcohol. He sways slightly, trying to focus.

‘Move, Pierre, we’re leaving,’ Sue barks, trying to push power into her voice. What do they really know about this guy anyway?

‘Leonard lives here still. It’s his house. Is that why he’s in that small room, hidden away?’ Pierre’s face is red. He runs his hands through his hair, speaking French that neither of them understand. His eyes are wine-heavy. They glint dangerously. ‘You are taking advantage of him,’ he spits. ‘I can see it now clearly.’

‘Pierre,’ Elle slurs, pulls out her phone. ‘If you don’t move right now I’m calling the police. What I do with Leonard is none of your business.’

Sue feels like she’s going to be sick.

‘Pierre?’ Elle’s voice is quieter, desperate.

He steps aside, blinking like he is emerging from a trance, and the women manoeuvre past him. Sue shivers as she brushes past.

They edge their way out the front door. Just as they step onto the gravel, they hear a crash behind them, like glass smashing.

They do the only thing they can do.

They run.

And that’s when things get even stranger.

39

Elle

The distance between the gate lodge and the chateau isn’t far, but it feels as if it will take forever to get there in the dark. Unfamiliar shapes loom around us – the maze, the narrow lane down into the vineyard, the barn. I use the torch on my phone to light our way, the faint white beam jerking spasm-like on the gravel as we race towards those shadowy turrets.

What was that with Pierre?

There’s being loyal to his boss, but this is on a whole other level.

I try to catch my breath as we run past the statues dotted around the grounds, their expressionless eyes even creepier up close.

‘Come on,’ Sue pants urgently.

Pierre is right about one thing – Leonard needs to get out of that tiny room. I’d already asked Julia to move Leonard to the upstairs room – the room that used to be his. Julia had felt it was easier for Leonard to be downstairs to access the garden. She’d insisted. But I can see how it might look.

My head spins – I’ve definitely drunk too much tonight. I’d wanted to let loose a little – the past few weeks hadn’t been easy, juggling the house renovation, everything with Will and the issues with Leonard.

I glance behind us, but there’s no telling if Pierre’s out there somewhere, following us in the dark. I’d never seen someone flip so aggressively like that before – as if he was a different person entirely. It’s almost three in the morning and the only light is from the half-moon overhead.

‘Pierre’s just drunk,’ I venture, breathlessly. ‘I’ve never seen him like that, Sue.’

Sue turns to me as we jog side by side along on the dew-soaked grass.

‘What’s going on?’ she says. ‘And I don’t just mean tonight, Elle. I mean… between the two of you.’

Château Mirabelle looms large in the distance.

‘What are you saying?’ I have no desire to talk to her about this but I know Sue won’t let it go.

‘You just look pretty cosy, that’s all.’ There’s an inflection to Sue’s words, as if she is only half-serious.

‘He’s a friend. We work together. He’s a bit of a laugh. That’s it.’

Sue nods cynically.

A light snaps on in the upstairs window of the chateau ahead. We are almost there.

‘Don’t make me feel bad for something that I shouldn’t,’ I say gently to Sue.

But I’m annoyed. I could demand to know why she was so cosy with my fiancé when I surprised him at home in London. I’d never gotten to the bottom of what exactly that was, but what I say next is designed to shock her.

‘I need to tell you something… I was going to wait for a better time but…’

‘What is it?’ There’s panic in Sue’s voice.

‘I’m not sure I’m going to keep going with Elle’s Dream Home stuff.’

Maybe I should have waited to drop that bombshell, but Sue has caught me off guard, acting like I’ve done something wrong. I’ve been doing exactly the opposite, trying to make everything alright.

‘What do you mean keep going?’ Her voice is sharp.

‘I mean, once the house is done, and Will and I get married. It’s just that I’m not sure I want to carry on doing this. I feel so… exposed all the time.’

There’s a long, sunken silence.

No noise except the sound of us breathing heavily. We’ve both slowed down to a walk.

Lately, I’ve been thinking it’s time I put my energy into something else. As I rebuild this house, I’ve started to understand that I need to rebuild and heal myself.

I’d watched my little brother die on the pavement in Dublin when we were just kids. I need to go back to move forward.

Sue runs a hand over her mouth.

‘Elle,’ she says eventually. ‘You are top of your game. You can’t simply walk away. It’s just the drink talking. Pierre gave you a fright this evening, that’s all. Look at what you’ve done with the place.’

‘I didn’t mean to blindside you.’

‘But we’re just getting going.’ Sue laughs, but it sounds hollow. Then annoyed, ‘I mean I found this place for you. This “exposure” you are so scared of is what is making all your dreams come true. I know you think fame is a curse. But it’s not. It’s a bloody gift.’ She throws her arms out expansively.

I know my success is Sue’s success. But I also know that once I’ve achieved creating this home, the winged-thing inside me will finally rest. I won’t need that side of myself anymore. Maybe I won’t need to be put on a pedestal by strangers to feel accepted either.

‘What about a “styled by Sue” takeover?’ I suggest as reasonably as possible. ‘You could build on something yourself, leverage my followers. Amy, your sister, might help do it with you. Surely she has some fashion contacts in Paris…’

Sue laughs horribly.

‘Elle, I’m almost forty-nine, and not exactly photogenic. Nobody wants to know about my crappy life. It’s far from perfect, believe me.’ She presses her lips together and grows silent. I presume she’s talking about Larry and her divorce.

I squeeze her arm as we walk.

‘Neither is mine, Sue.’

‘I know. But it’s a damn sight more perfect then mine.’ Sue’s voice is brittle.

‘We all have our shit,’ I say feeling a lump in my throat thinking of poor JJ, how I’d failed him.

Imagine we could forgive ourselves everything.

‘I know,’ Sue squeezes back. ‘I know how tough it must have been for you growing up somewhere like Ballybeg.’

The alcohol has made me woozy and disorientated, but something feels slightly off. A knot in my stomach… like dread. Our feet crunch along the gravel as we get closer.

‘How do you know where I grew up?’

‘You’ve said it to me before, why?’

‘I’m not sure that I did tell you where I grew up,’ I finally say, but I’ve had too much wine to analyse what she’s said rationally.

‘Well, you must have,’ Sue quickly laughs. ‘Otherwise how would I know?’

I’m all muddled up.

‘You can’t leave me, Elle,’ she warns. ‘I won’t let you go.’

She throws her arm around my shoulder playfully, but there’s something in the way she says those words that makes me shiver.

It’s at the corner by the walled garden where I see the movement. Lack of proper sleep means I see shadows everywhere, but there is something about this movement that jars. I close my eyes. Fatigue tugs at my brain. I must be seeing things.

There’s someone on the swing. Slowly swaying back and forth.

‘Sue, there’s somebody there.’ My voice is tight with apprehension.

Maybe it’s Pierre, trying to scare us, but we’d come from the opposite direction. I catch the scream in my throat.

The shadow moves again. There’s no doubt. I hear the old rope creaking as it sways back and forth.

It’s only a short dash to the front door, then we’d be inside.

The night swirls around us. I decide to run. Then Sue’s beside me, our feet pumping across the last stretch of gravel, past the fountain towards the front door. I skid a few times in the loose pebbles. We are almost there.

Sue’s breathing heavily behind me. My hands fumble with the key to the front door. Sue cranes her neck to see who’s behind us – if they are following us.

There’s no security light, just the low glow of a small outdoor lantern. Something cold and clammy brushes against my cheek. A hand? A bat? I emit a frightened yelp.

Flying insects bang repeatedly into the lantern.

‘Come on,’ Sue hisses, but my hands are clumsy from the wine.

‘Elle,’ Sue snaps. ‘Open the fucking door.’

At the same moment the key turns, the door is wrenched open. Julia stands there; haughty, thinly veiled disapproval.

We almost trip in through the door. I immediately close it with shaking hands, my body rippling with a ‘someone-walked-over-your-grave’ feeling. A violent shiver as we stand in the hallway at the foot of the stairs.

‘Everything OK?’ Julia raises an eyebrow. She’s still in her day clothes and I wonder if something has happened with Leonard. Sometimes she stays overnight at the chateau, other times she leaves to take care of her brother who lives in Lescares.

‘Leonard OK?’ I ask breathlessly.

A shake of the head.

‘Worse,’ she says softly. She watches me carefully, as if studying my reaction.

‘What the fuck, Elle,’ Sue grabs my hand and drags me upstairs. ‘What did you see? Was it Pierre?’

I look back at Julia over my shoulder as I climb the curved stairs, but she remains standing in the hall, returning my gaze.

‘You didn’t see someone? On the swing?’

‘Elle, for fuck’s sake, you scared the actual crap out of me.’ Sue’s half laughing now, fear giving way to humour. ‘This place is creepy as fuck. Are you sure it wasn’t a ghost?’

As we tiptoe upstairs, past the newly painted panelling, I trail my hand along the crazy bird wallpaper plastered all up one wall.

Safe in my bedroom, I check my phone. Will hasn’t looked at his messages since 5.10 p.m. the day before. The warning signs turn into alarm bells. In less than two weeks we are supposed to get married here.

I flip the lamp switch and kick off my shoes. Then, just before I close the shutters of my bedroom window, I glance out. The fog has settled in low over the vines, turning everything a ghostly white, blurring the lines between what is real and what’s imagined.

Perhaps what I saw in the garden was something I’d conjured up, my mind playing tricks.

I’d done that sometimes – years back – imagined the man I’d killed was haunting me. He is, in a way. Because although part of me died that day I lost JJ, it awakened another part of me entirely.

The truth is that I come from a place where the edges were always sharp. I come from a place where I lived with gritted teeth, wet feet, an empty stomach, a mother who couldn’t. My home was a caravan, a shared hostel, a piece of cardboard. I’m far from stellar, like they’d have you think. I’m miles below, cheek in the dirt, the only glimpse of light the small wanting hand of my little brother. Then that was taken from me too.

I’ll tell you my real story someday soon.

I promise.

40

Leonard

Everything is completely black when he opens his eyes.

A scrap of a memory floats past and Leonard tries to grasp at it.

Hours later or maybe even days, a woman comes into the room and lays a cool hand against his forehead. Leonard is confused. She’s familiar, but he’s not sure why. His head is heavy against the pillow. Thin light trickles in from one side of the room, trying to claw through the blinds. ‘How are you doing, Leonard?’ the woman asks in a shrill detached manner. She reminds him of Sabine somehow, the woman he’d had the affair with for all those years.

The old man tries to speak. Is he in his surgery in Lescares? He has a patient perhaps?

‘Better?’ the woman says. Leonard realises he’s in a bed and he must be sick.

‘Take these,’ she presses two pills into his hand. They are chalk white against the dim light of the stuffy room.

‘Go on,’ the woman urges. ‘These will make you feel better.’

If only his brain would stop feeling so floaty. So he swallows the pills, grimacing, and takes the water she passes him next. ‘Get some rest,’ the woman says. He tries to ask her more questions, but his mind swims again and he falls back heavily into the black.

When Leonard wakes again, the room is deathly silent. He needs to go to the toilet. There’s no sound anywhere, not even birdsong. Leonard slips his legs slowly from under the blankets. He’s wobbly, using the walls to feel his way towards the doorway where his crutch rests.

Everything spins.

He has an overwhelming sense that he needs to leave this place. Outside there’s only a long dark corridor. Leonard drags himself down it, trying to get his bearings. His legs shake as he forces one foot in front of the other.

That’s when he hears her voice. Mirabelle’s voice. She’s calling him.

‘I’m coming, Mira,’ he tries to call back, but his voice is crinkly – as if he hasn’t used it for a very long time.

Shuffle.

Shuffle.

He wonders if he’s dreaming, but her voice is so alluring – demanding for him to follow her. He thinks of his wife’s frightened blue eyes as she left him that day, remembering how he’d barely blinked, holding eye contact with Mirabelle until she was finally gone.

He pushes open a door and feels the cool night on his face. It’s restorative. Leonard breathes deeply. He hears other noises then – music in the distance, an engine, the slamming of a car door.

He ignores it and follows Mirabelle’s presence. He feels pain in the soles of his feet, scraping against the uneven gravel. He finds himself in the walled garden.

He bends double to cough, leaning on his crutch as he splutters and hacks so hard that he spits. He makes out the swing, the big cherry blossom next to it.

A kaleidoscope of moments flash through his mind. He holds a hand up to his head – to try and stop it. Mirabelle on their wedding day, dropping lipstick on her dress and cleaning it with champagne, telling him it would just be a funny memory someday. Then crying because her ultra-religious family refused to give her their blessing. Leonard sees Matthieu’s scrunched-up face as he came into the world thrashing and kicking – Mirabelle’s face wet with tears, his son’s pitiful cry. Planting the vines together when they first moved into Château Mirabelle, sun on their faces, dirt under their nails. Mirabelle driving the tractor laughing, her auburn hair trailing down her back.

The crack as she fell.

The crack as she fell.

Leonard clutches his head, remembering.

This is the place he’d murdered his wife.

This is the place where he’d hidden her bones.

He’s bombarded with memories so vivid that he can almost reach out and touch them. They spread before him, coming into focus as the night air cut through his thin nightwear.

It was easy to romanticise the life he and Mirabelle had together. But it hadn’t been all plain sailing. There was one big complication. Sabine – a local woman from the village who’d worked as a receptionist at Leonard’s GP practice. It was only a silly fling at first, but once he was in it, it was too hard to get out of it. He’d enjoyed it, enjoyed her – she was a buxom woman – strong and capable. She didn’t put up with any of his nonsense, his power plays when it came to females. But Mirabelle was always busy with Matthieu. She found her own passion among the leaves in the garden – she suddenly wasn’t as impressed with Leonard as she’d used to be. Sabine made it clear to him that she was happy to be the other woman – to take second place as long as she was looked after. It all seemed to work out.

In hindsight, he felt terrible that everyone knew about his affair but Mirabelle.

Until that awful day.

He sees the ghostly outline of her ahead of him again in the garden, and reaches out.

The day she died flashes through his mind.

Mirabelle was preparing his lunch – he usually came home for it, driving through the lanes from the his clinic in Lescares, a feeling of peace always descending once he drove through those large gates. There’d been a chicken casserole in the oven that day.

‘Le déjeuner est presque prêt – almost ready, Lenny,’ she’d called to him when she heard the front door opening, and come into the kitchen to kiss him, apron on, her usual warm smile.

He was such a fool to have thrown it all away.

Leonard had sat at the kitchen table, back when the house hadn’t been so damp or crumbling – it had been a fine house – clean and well-cared for. Matthieu had been back at the surgery working the afternoon shift.

It was a completely normal Wednesday.

Until that damn phone call.

He remembers biting into the garlicky chicken flesh as he heard Mirabelle’s footsteps on the stairs, heading towards the upstairs phone. Tomato sauce dribbled down his chin which he mopped away with the napkin she’d always left neatly triangled next to his plate. He guessed there’d be apple pie for dessert – she always did one on a Wednesday. Bach played on the radio. Leonard closed his eyes to the swell of the music. The delicate chords, the dynamic changes in tempo building from a melancholic timbre to something significantly more dramatic…

There was a piercing scream.

Something smashing upstairs.

And his eyes had shot wide open, he’d scraped back his chair so quickly it fell over, and raced up the stairs, the way he used to be able to do. Two steps at a time.

Leonard pictures the scene from all those years ago; how his feet blurred in haste on the stairs. Mirabelle standing at the top of the staircase, her hand clutched to her mouth, her face white.

‘Mira! What is it?’ he’d cried, trying to reach for her. ‘Are you hurt, Mira?’

He took in the shattered glass at her feet – his golf trophy.

‘Mira? What’s happened?’ he’d shouted, fear making him louder.

‘You bastard,’ his wife had screamed, darting forward to pummel his chest. ‘All this time. You were with her all this time. And you told me I was imagining things.’

She’d half laughed, but it came out ragged. A devastation.

He remembers the moment his wife’s heart broke into pieces.

He’d known the game was up and raised his hands to protect his face from the blows she began raining down on him.

‘Sabine has just told me everything,’ Mirabelle had screamed, punching harder. ‘I mean everything.’

Leonard tried to grip her shoulders.

She squirmed away from him but he held on tight.

‘What did she say to you? What did she tell you?’ he shouted back, suddenly terrified.

He shook her slightly, his guilt translating into anger.

‘Are you going to tell Matthieu or am I?’ She’d spat into his face. ‘Dites la vérité à notre fils!’ Mirabelle hissed.

He twisted her body, to try to get her to look at him,. That’s all it was.

‘What did Sabine say, Mira?’ Leonard had demanded, desperately. He’d given her one final shake, but he didn’t know his own strength. They were at the top of the stairs when she toppled. One moment Mirabelle was there and the next there was only air. Leonard leant hard against the rail as his wife went through the rickety banister. She looked at him as she fell, horror and accusation in her eyes.

There was a horrible sound as she hit the ground. He’s never been sure if it was from her or from him. A piercing animal yelp he can never get out of his head.

He’d never meant to hurt her. He loved Mirabelle. It had just been a terrible misunderstanding. He hadn’t pushed her, exactly.

Back in the walled garden, Leonard bends forward, weeping. With a shaking hand, he tries to quell the tears.

Je suis désolé, mon amour.

He remembers how his legs had buckled from beneath him, how he’d collapsed on the stairs as his wife gasped wet gargling breaths below, with increasing difficulty. Trembling, he’d dragged himself down the stairs and stood above her – watching the light leave her eyes. The blood spread out beneath her like wings. It was clear there was no saving her.

‘I’m so sorry,’ was all he could whisper, over and over for what must have been hours, as he cradled her hand in his. There was still flour on the backs of her palms.

I’m so sorry, Mira.

Sonorous sounds from the radio drifted into the vaulted hallway where he’d sat. The tremble and shimmer of the strings, the low growl of the piano base. Still he’d held her hand.

And then eventually Leonard realised how this all looked. What this meant…

Heart beating wildly, he’d bundled his wife’s body into the trailer they used to harvest the grapes, wrapped in the rug that used to lie in the hallway.

Mirabelle left, was what he told everyone, including Matthieu – who had, over the years, heard the rumours about his long-time affair with Sabine.

That’s why his son had always blamed Leonard for his mother leaving and never coming back. And Leonard could never tell his son that Mirabelle was resting no more than twenty metres away from her beloved son’s bedroom window – a shovel of mud covering her beautiful face.

Horrified by his actions, Leonard Louvain had ended things with Sabine the very next day. Shortly after he broke up with her, she quit the surgery, and moved to another business in the village. He’d lost touch.

Leonard thinks he can smell Mirabelle on her favourite yellow dress that still hangs in her wardrobe. He can feel her when he smells the sweet roses in the evening which she used to cut and leave floating like treasure in glass bowls around their home. He can see her in the floury apron he’d taken from around her waist and pinned to the pantry door.

Mirabelle’s continued absence feels impossible. He keeps waiting for her to come back. That’s why he was so surprised when Elle Littlewood turned up in his house that day, looking so similar to his wife.

Now in the walled garden in the middle of the night, Leonard wonders if he’s finally lost his mind. He hears the spring of running feet against the gravel. He spins around disorientated. But there’s nobody there. All around him, the night is as black as his memory.

He grasps at his thoughts; things align a little. There’s more clarity. Why has he been stuck in that small room in the back of the house anyway?

He squeezes his eyes to try and recall.

He was sick. The pain in his lungs indicates that. Moisture from the wet foliage seeps up his pyjama bottoms as Leonard tries to get his bearings.

There’s something else…

That woman Elle was fixing up the house. Yes, he remembers the stupid bird wallpaper.

She made him sign something.

Anger comes in waves.

She was trying to take over. Take Mirabelle’s place. Leonard had planned to use Elle’s renovations to his advantage – to mend his broken home – not the other way around.

The dizziness comes again and Leonard falls to his knees on the ground.

He hears Mirabelle’s voice calling him again, and realises he’s kneeling right where he’d buried her. He paws the ground with his fingers, breaking his nails as he digs. That’s when he realises that his wife will haunt him until he does something about all of this mess.

He has to fix it. What should I do, Mira?

Mirabelle’s voice floats into his consciousness.

She whispers just four words, and suddenly, what she’s saying makes so much sense to him.

Get rid of her.

Leonard urinates in his crumpled pyjamas, a warm wetness that eventually drives him back inside.

41

September/Septembre

Dupont and the pathologist turn to the next table in the morgue. She removes a crisp white sheet. It reminds Dupont of those magicians who unveil a rabbit at the end of a trick.

But there’s nothing amusing about what lies beneath. The tray contains the bones found under the swing on the grounds of Château Mirabelle.

All had been painstakingly recovered and removed for analysis under the watchful eyes of the media, who remained clustered outside the gates of the manor house.

This was a huge story – the wedding of online celebrity Elle Littlewood cancelled, as multiple bodies are found on the property she’d been renovating. Sky News live-streamed the removal of the bodies, helicopters whirring above the property all night.

These remains are skeletal, with muddy clumps of dehydrated flesh clinging to some of the ribs. Dupont focuses on an item on the tray next to the body, trying not to gag.

‘This was a female, most likely in her sixties when she died,’ the pathologist explains. ‘Her skull was fractured in a number of places. Blunt force trauma.’

‘How can you tell?’

Bone analysis and carbon dating was a strange alchemy that always fascinated Dupont. Evidence the victims were offering up themselves to help catch their own killer.

The pathologist points to the yellowing skull using his small tool. The skull topples slightly so she picks it up and points with a gloved finger.

‘See that crack there?’ She points. ‘And there, and there.’ She points to a number of splintery cracks in the skull. ‘The way they flow outwards shows multiple fractures as well as skull base fracture.’

She reaches for more pieces of bone. ‘But taking biomechanical considerations into account too, there’s evidence of cervical spine fractures here,’ she indicates again. ‘That’s largely C0 and C1 fractures which usually indicate injuries are a result of high energy shear forces rather than pure tension.’

She glances up at him.

‘On initial examination, the relationship between the skull and this cervical spine fracture distribution points to a fatal fall from a height, most likely above three metres.’

Dupont raises an eyebrow, impressed. He had a feeling he knew exactly who this was. The missing wife, Mirabelle.

He’d been one of the officers on the case of her disappearance. It had been one of his first cases when he’d graduated from police college.

Right now there are more questions than answers. And the most obvious one being… is Leonard Louvain capable of murder?

It’s time to interview the only witness to the violence that kicked off on Elle Littlewood and Will Buchanan’s wedding day.

September/ Septembre

42

Elle

There’s pink froth coming from the bat’s mouth. When I put my hands around it, the creature makes a pathetic squeak. Its eyes bulge, beady and frightened, black skin stretched tight over delicate bones. A frantic heartbeat. I’m on the terrace having breakfast when I notice the baby bat which must have crashed in early flight. I glance up at the roof, my head wine-heavy from the wrap party. Its wings flap uselessly against my fingers. It would be a mercy to end its pain swiftly.

Inside the chateau, the kitchen fitters are banging about finishing the last fixes. The zip of a drill hurts my ears.

Julia appears at the glass doors, her eyes darting from me to the bat.

‘Bonjour,’ she says joylessly – she’s dressed for winter as usual. She frowns as she takes in my bare legs, tank top and denim shorts.

‘Bonjour, Julia.’

‘We can’t use the kitchen today, no?’ Julia says, in her usual monotone. Her long brown hair is plaited down her back and her dark eyes, full of shadows, move around the terrace, taking everything in.

‘It’s almost finished Julia. I know it’s not ideal.’

I know things have been more difficult for Julia with the kitchen ripped out. She’s had to use Pierre’s little kitchenette for the past couple of weeks to boil water and to use the dishwasher, increasingly spending time there to cook meals for Leonard.

She sighs.

‘What is it?’

‘C’est Leonard,’ she says, a little breathlessly. The bat’s wings flap uselessly against my fingers as it tries to escape my grip.

‘He was wandering around in the grounds during the night. I found him asleep on the sofa in the front room. Covered in mud and soaking wet.’

I exhale, thinking of the figure on the swing.

‘Is he hurt?’

Julia shakes her head.

‘Dr Ames is coming to see him. I’m afraid it’s something that’s affecting his brain in some way. He’s sleeping too much, always confused.’

I consider this a moment. It’s an awkward position to be in, because I’m not responsible for Leonard. I’m not his carer. Then again, our lives are linked. That has to count for something.

‘I was going to mention this to you today anyway,’ I tell Julia. ‘But I’d like to move Leonard back upstairs to his room. His and Mirabelle’s old room. He might feel better being back up there. It’s cooler too.’ The weather’s been particularly hot and there is no air conditioning in the chateau.

‘What about the stairs?’ Julia makes a fair point, Leonard’s mobility is virtually non-existent now.

‘I’ve a company that specialises in mobility audits that are due to come out in the next week or two to look at solutions – possibly even add a stair lift. But in the meantime, I’m sure we can manage to get him upstairs between all of us.’

Julia raises an eyebrow.

I shrug. ‘We both live here now.’

She nods, satisfied.

‘I’m going into Lescares this morning if you need anything for Leonard?’

‘I think Pierre’s going that way too if you want a lift?’ Julia suggests. I picture the old twelve-seater bus that travels past every few hours and feel slightly nauseous.

But I’m also not sure I want to see Pierre after last night’s debacle. But what I have to do is more important than Pierre’s strange outburst.

I walk towards Julia, finding it odd that she flinches slightly.

I place the bat into her calloused hands gently. It thrashes pitifully against our cupped hands. ‘I’m not sure what we should do about this. I found it on the terrace. It seems badly hurt. I don’t want it to suffer.’

A curt nod.

Pierre’s truck idles next to a van with hire chairs and tables stacked high. Spindles of freshly planted white oleander dot the flowerbeds the whole way down the driveway, which I admire until I remember he told me they were deathly poisonous.

Pierre is subdued as he swings the truck onto the road, his hair damp, the skin around his mouth and neck pink as if he’s just shaved. When he eventually glances at me, I look away and straight ahead. I remember the way he grabbed me so roughly.

Then, just as we pass the turn for the National Forest, Pierre finally speaks. ‘I think we all had a bit to drink last night,’ he begins.

I stare at him, challenging him to try to play down what he’d done.

‘But I… er – I think I overreacted,’ he admits.

‘You jumped across the room and grabbed my arm, Pierre. That’s completely unacceptable. I thought you were my friend?’

He keeps his eyes on the road. A small blue vein pulses in his temple.

‘What was all that about anyway?’

‘I didn’t realise you were buying the house,’ he says quietly. ‘I was feeling protective of Leonard.’

‘It’s an en viager deal,’ I say, slightly relieved that I don’t have to tiptoe around the contract anymore. ‘You’re acting like I’ve done something wrong. It’s what he wants too. How do you think he’s affording Julia full-time?’

Pierre seems to grip the steering wheel tighter.

‘What about his son?’

I shrug. ‘You said he didn’t care. Leonard obviously needed the money now,’ I continue. ‘It works for us. It suits him. I don’t exactly see his son here killing himself to help him around the house, do you?’

‘That doesn’t negate his right to his inheritance, though,’ Pierre says. ‘There are things that should be done a certain way around here. You can’t mess about with family. I’m just looking out for Leonard. He might come across as angry, but I’ve seen how vulnerable he really is – how fragile.’

‘It’s up to Leonard to do whatever he wants to do with his house and his money.’

We round the corner past the Boulevard des Fleurs. Pierre watches me looking at it. ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ But then he’s looking at me, an intensity to his eyes, and I look away embarrassed. ‘Accept my apology?’

I nod as my phone pings.

It’s a message from Sue.

What are you doing, Elle? I thought we’d go through the schedule of final works, plus the marquee people are coming to measure??

I ignore it and throw it back into my bag.

After Pierre drops me at the main street, I make my way towards the shopping area. Boulangerie Des Almands is one of the biggest bakeries in Lescares. It’s a peach-coloured shop with a long white countertop and brushed brass alcoves filled with giftable items against mirrored backdrops. There are rows of colourful macarons with flavours like lemon zest, pine honey and rose, sable shortbread biscuits, and Levantine pastries. I snap a few pictures of the confectionary and upload it to my stories. ‘Choux shopping,’ I caption it.

The acne-scarred girl behind the counter looks up brightly as we approach.

‘Bonjour. Comment puis-je vous aider?’

‘Oh, bonjour. Do you… parlez-vous anglaise?’

‘A little,’ the girl answers, hesitantly.

‘I’m trying to find information about someone who used to work around here. A woman named Sabine?’

The girl wrinkles her nose as if trying to remember. She shakes her head. ‘Sorry, but I can ask my father?’ She pronounces it fad-zer. ‘It’s his store.’

I mention her name and it takes him a few moments.

‘Ah yes, Sabine,’ he says, his voice tinged with sadness. ‘She worked with us for years, but sadly passed away a while back.’

It had been a long shot, but when I found the picture of the woman in Leonard’s wallet that clearly wasn’t Mirabelle, I’d done a little detective work of my own.

Sabine had been his mistress for years, one of the locals had told me when I was getting my nails done ahead of the wrap party.

I thought maybe this Sabine person knew what had become of Mirabelle Louvain. There was more to Leonard’s wife’s disappearance, and I was determined to find out what was really going on.

Pierre pulls up an hour later outside the antique shop where I’d arranged to meet him.

The store had drawn me in with its quirky furniture and curved wooden wardrobes. But it was the ornate candelabra in the window glinting in the sunlight that kept catching my eye. It would go perfectly on the dining table for the rehearsal dinner.

I bundle it into the back seat of Pierre’s truck and as we trundle back to Château Mirabelle, we talk about the marquee positioning. I don’t mention Sabine to Pierre, mainly because I’d have to explain I’d been going through Leonard’s wallet.

Plus, once you start crossing certain lines, the road back is far too bumpy. It’s best to just keep going forward, no matter the direction it starts to take you.

43

Sue

Elle’s up to something and Sue doesn’t like it.

All that talk of leaving Elle’s Dream Home online hub just when everything is starting to go in the right direction. She won’t have it.

Sue rests one sudsy leg on the curved edge of the clawfoot bath that looks out over the maze at the back of the chateau and watches the water drip slowly onto the terracotta tiles, staining them dark like blood.

She could certainly get used to this. The house has enchanted her – even with its strange night-time noises. Sue has a suspicion that Elle is sneaking out to meet with Pierre in the night. That’s why she’s decided to see for herself. She’d spent an hour earlier setting up the GoPros, placing them out of sight on ledges throughout the chateau. They’d used them on a shoot for Dream Homes a few years back to do a time-lapse sequence on a particularly elaborate church renovation.

Sue didn’t like not knowing things.

Knowledge was power, and Sue Anderson sought power. She runs the loofa roughly over her stomach. Foamy bubbles form in the water around her. Here, Sue feels like the lady of the manor. There is no denying that everything is coming together. The large-scale riveted hood Lacanche range cooker is a nod to the traditional manor house vibe, while modern marble and smoky grey woods inlaid with brass detailing say contemporary. It makes Sue’s poky pine kitchen back in London seem claustrophobic and twee. A surge of irritation overtakes her. Elle was even the one that prevented Sue’s work from being dull. ‘Oh, you work with Elle Littlewood,’ people always said to her – as if she were only interesting by default of her proximity to the influencer.

Without Sue there’d be no Elle’s Dream Home website.

There’d be no product sell out with Brooks & Zalia.

No French chateau.

There’d be no free wedding.

Sue slides her leg back into the bath where it disappears into the foam.

From here, Sue sees nothing but sky and hazy French countryside. She can’t believe Elle has the audacity to think she can waltz away from her commitment to Elle’s Dream just as they are really getting started. All that whining about feeling exposed, like she’s some rare flower all of a sudden.

Sue climbs out of the water, leaving turbulence. She wraps herself in a robe she finds hanging on the back of the door.

She has five missed calls from her sister, but Sue can’t face calling Amy back just yet. She’d texted Amy an apology for not being able to make the engagement party. There was no way she could have faced her sister’s unbridled happiness and pretended to be happy for her.

It was better she pulled away before she hurt someone she actually cared about when she was feeling like this.

The thing is… whether it’s because of this house or the kerfuffle with Elle, Sue’s filled with a terrifying loneliness that started to come in waves lately. It’s a sadness that has caught her by surprise. She feels unbalanced by the force of her emotions.

She clutches the towel to her face and scrunches it into her eyes almost violently, releasing a guttural sob. Sue knows she’s hungover and emotional, but there’s something about the expanse of this place that makes her realise just how much Elle has. And how much Sue’s lost.

The last thing she had left was her reputation as a stellar producer, and in a week’s time that will be gone too.

She knows she shouldn’t.

She absolutely shouldn’t do what she’s about to do. But she feels an ache of longing.

She reaches for her phone and dials Larry’s number. Hadn’t he always said to her to contact him if she needed anything? Right now Sue feels torn apart. Another sob bubbles up from deep within her and she presses the towel even tighter into her face.

‘Sue, all OK?’ Larry picks up after one ring.

Sue suddenly can’t speak, the emptiness inside her throbs, a hollow space of air and nothing else.

‘Suze?’

From the darkness of her towel sanctuary, Sue allows herself to see a vivid picture of herself in the fertility clinic after her fourth egg retrieval, groggy and hopeful, surrounded by pictures of beaming women holding fat happy babies. She remembers Larry squeezing her hand. ‘We only need one,’ he’d whispered, bending over to kiss her, and the rush of emotion that swept through her in that moment was unfathomable. She’d felt delicate, almost breakable, yet with Larry beside her, she felt like she could bear it all. She kept visualising, like all the fertility forums suggested, their tiny baby, four a.m. milk feeds, soft newborn skin. She pictured it like a visual mantra.

Four a.m. feeds, hungry lips, tiny soft fingers.

She wanted it so much she could almost smell her future baby’s sweet milky breath.

And in her heart, Sue knew that this time would be different. She promised herself it would be different. She’d willed her glistening pink insides to cling to that little life.

‘Susan, are you there?’ Larry’s voice feels very far away through the speaker. Sue still can’t speak. She’s stuck in a moment of grief that has been a long time coming. It was the same grief that marked the beginning of the end of her marriage.

She remembers the impossible wait after the embryo transfer, analysing her body, convinced that every twinge was a symptom. Focusing on the promise of tiny babygros, the feel of a body inside hers, Larry wiping the sweat from her brow as they brought a little life into the world.

Of course, that’s not what happened.

Sue must have spent hours starting at the tiny window of that plastic stick in the weeks after the procedure. A mountain of white sticks piling up in their en-suite bathroom bin like a snowdrift.

There was never a line. Not even the faintest mark. It’s amazing how the smallest thing imaginable – a sliver of blue, smaller than her fingernail – would have changed her entire world.

Their entire world.

‘Sue, please? I’m worried about you. Are you there?’

Sue shakes her head into the towel, knowing it was too late for her and Larry.

As the months passed, there had come a slow realisation that there would be no baby shower. There would be no standing at school gates, cheering on pitch side, or shopping for mother of the bride or groom wedding outfits.

Sue chose to construct walls instead. High walls that would keep her safe from the intense grief she couldn’t bear to feel. This was forward-facing grief, impossible to leave behind. Every day she thinks about the things they might have had. She wonders from time to time about the unfairness of it all. Why she couldn’t have the things that seemed to come so easily to others.

Larry, her lovely Larry, who she treated so badly, was a victim of this too.

Sue sees her life stretch ahead of her like an empty road.

What now?

She tries to speak into the phone. Sue wants to ask Larry if he feels like this too. She wants to ask if it was grief that made him disappear off to work every night for months afterwards. Was it grief that made him act as if everything was OK, when she was on her knees with the pain of it? Was it grief that made him pretend she wasn’t swallowing silent tears every single night, her back to him?

Sue reaches out her hand towards her phone. Her fingers hover over it a moment, but the weight of what they went through together feels too heavy for a single word to matter now.

She slides her phone to red.

A few minutes later, Sue is massaging frizz-ease products into her hair in her bedroom when the doorbell rings. Pulling the sash tighter around her waist, Sue opens her bedroom door and peers out gingerly, her despair still wrapped around her like a cloak.

The sound peels through the house again, shrill and insistent.

Isn’t anyone going to get that?

Damp footprints follow Sue as she steps out onto the wooden landing, following the sound. The grain is slippery so she clings to the rail as she pads over to the edge of the banister.

She hears the slide and click as Julia opens the front door.

Sue leans over the wobbly banister and listens as Nurse Julia greets the visitor.

‘Oui, bonjour?’

Her voice immediately cools.

‘Oui, ah oui.’ Then Julia drops her voice. ‘She’s not here.’

Sue leans dangerously over the flimsy wooden beam to hear the conversation. All she can hear are a few words snatched here and there.

It’s a man’s voice. Deep and gravelly. She recognises the accent. It matches Elle’s.

‘I need to speak to Elaine… to Elle,’ the man is saying. Sue’s pulse hammers in her ears. ‘Please… My name is JJ. I’m her brother.’

44

Elle

Mam was hit first.

The sharp crack to her spine woke us as we huddled in the lane behind the bank, south of the Liffey. Her cry was slightly muffled from underneath the old sleeping bags the three of us shared that night. It wasn’t always this bad – we’d had the caravan for a bit, the shelter too, but Mam’s wanderings meant we had no choice but to follow her impulsive pilgrimages to find her next hit. The second blow glanced off my head, so close to my left ear that I still have trouble hearing on that side. I was fourteen years old, JJ just ten.

The snow that night was like a white blanket thrown across uglier things; overflowing bins, dirty mattresses, broken glass. A pretend beauty. Nights like this we could make-believe we were part of a fairy-tale.

If I close my eyes now I picture it vividly – Dublin city, a freezing night, the bells of the cathedral ringing in the distance, carried further by the cold starless sky. But the God I’d been told about back in school when I’d made my Communion had long abandoned me.

A narrow lane, a concrete curb, the doorway we’d wedged ourselves inside despite the spikes designed to thwart us. JJ, wide-eyed and confused, one hand raised over his head as the laughing men beat us with sticks. He’d prayed for snow every night. That night it fell like feathers onto his outstretched hands.

Why did these people want to hurt us anyway?

The idea that it was for some kind of fun is what I can’t get past.

I remember thinking bitterly that this was the last straw.

I stood, anger coursing through my veins. The cold had chased the blood from my lips. The men watched me. Pale violet eyes that seemed transparent when I looked into them.

When I screamed at them to leave us alone they laughed harder, a looseness to their stance, like they’d left their bones back in the nightclub they’d just left. I saw that they were young – well dressed, tufts of hair held up stiffly by hair gel, neat collars under their sensible branded rainwear, a carefully knotted scarf. Students perhaps, belched out by the nearby bars, itching for a bit of drama in their safe lives.

How dare they.

Still groggy with sleep and shock, JJ came and stood behind me, his face searching mine for some assurance that I was making the right call.

I’d had enough of trying to escape this unescapable life.

I picked up the bar of rusted scaffolding that I’d dragged next to us for protection. Trying to stop my legs shaking, I hissed at JJ to get back. He nodded, unable to speak, but I could see the fear he was trying so hard to hide. His eyes too wide, his red hair so vivid against the white of the night.

When the men laughed again, I launched myself at them. A skinny girl in a dark lane, protecting a damp corner containing her trembling family.

The first man, a lanky blond, grabbed my wrist and twisted it behind me. The other approached and they swivelled me to face them.

‘We’ve a wildcat here,’ the smaller of the two slurred. This boy was heavy-set, wearing a dark hoodie. His eyes were unfocused. Both were well-spoken, despite their inebriation. He pawed a hand down the front of my body and my trembles turned to spasms. The power of their grip made my stomach sink. I was at their mercy as they exchanged vulgarities about what they might do to me. But I’d been raised on these streets. I knew how to fight my corner. With all the energy I could muster, I drew my knee up sharply and caught the smaller man in the soft area between his legs. As he went down, his friend stepped forward and grabbed me by the hair. He slammed my head back into the wall, cursing loudly. Everything verged on black; it felt like hundreds of red-hot irons pinging off the sides of my skull.

Then, a blur of red curls and a piercing scream. I have the vague feeling of sinking down into dark water, of desperately gasping for breath. A few stray images flit into my mind whenever I think about this night, but nothing like a sequence, just a series of moments and a terrifying blankness, like when you press on a bruise and it disappears.

My fierce little JJ appeared, the iron bar almost dragging him down. He tried to raise it above his head, but he wasn’t strong enough.

There was a moment when we locked terrified eyes. Something unspoken passed between us. A thousand words unsaid. Mother was still motionless under the sleeping bag.

I tried to call out. At some point I felt the snowflakes on my eyelids. How gentle they were as I lay there gasping. How cruel, their soft whispery kisses.

I was aware of a movement as the heavier man ploughed into JJ. A flurry of movement, a loud cry, a sharp crack.

Then nothing. A horrible silence except for the drone of oblivious traffic, the eerie velvety sound of falling snow.

Blood seeped from the pavement next to JJ’s head. His face was so immediately pale that it was almost translucent.

Everyone has a tipping point and this was mine.

Then it wasn’t bravery that drove me forward, nails scratching and clawing, a red mist behind my eyes.

It was survival.

It was retribution.

I realised that these men were probably only a few years older than me. Confused, they looked from JJ lying on the pavement back to me.

I scrambled towards whatever object I could find. A shard of broken glass. It made a wet, satisfying sound as it entered the shorter man’s flesh. A surprising resistance of muscle along the side of his abdomen. Unyielding. Then he emitted a series of soft exhales as he toppled to the ground.

‘You fucking killed him,’ his friend screamed, eyes wild. But I was with JJ, crouching next to my brother, cradling his red curls which were a sticky red against the snow. His body jerked a few times, like when he used to try to smother his giggles, but this movement was pathetic. It was heartbreaking. I tried to rub warmth into his skinny arms as I begged him to live. ‘Don’t leave me, JJ. Don’t leave me. Please. Come on…’

You are all I have in the world.

JJ’s breath slowed and slowed. After a moment my brother’s body stopped jerking. His face went slack and still and then I knew that I’d lost him. I felt his life slip away from beneath my fingers.

‘You’re a fucking lunatic,’ the man spat. He was towering next to me, his own hands bloodied from trying to help his friend, who was very obviously beyond help. But he had the bar in his hand and he brought it down towards me. I ducked away, but he ran at me.

Two things went through my mind as I raced away from him, sobbing and stumbling in shock.

The first was that JJ was gone. My brother would now only ever exist in my heart. And secondly, I had to survive for both of us. Because I couldn’t let his life be in vain. We had only been prepared to endure that hardship so we could finally have our perfect life together. If I didn’t make it happen, it was all meaningless.

I’d do it for us both.

The snow grew heavier. I gave one last glance back as I ran. JJ’s tiny silhouette lay on the blood-soaked ground, framed in the arch of the lane. That’s an image I’ll never get out of my head. Like someone had smashed the snow globe and snatched out the pretty scene.

Then I was alone in the world. My mother’s inaction probably more from the drink than the attack. That somehow felt like more of a betrayal.

That night, as the snowflakes fell and melted into my own trembling skin, I’d drifted into another realm entirely. By the time I’d escaped the man, I had walked out of myself. The sound of my voice startled me when the adrenaline finally subsided. I found myself in the bathroom of the nearby fast-food place, washing blood off my hands, Bunty, my doll, the only witness. The eyes that looked back at me in the reflection were forever changed.

When I returned to the lane, the police cordon was already set up. Blue lights and squad cars, so many people. An ambulance made me hopeful. At first.

‘Two dead,’ one of the passers-by told the person next to them. I must have made a sound because they turned to look at me and I was suddenly conscious of the blood on my clothes. I turned, blinded by tears.

‘Hey,’ someone called. I pulled my lips into a tight line. Please no.

‘You,’ they shouted. I ran.

The price of my emotions was too high to pay back then. I swallowed them down and they emerged in a ceaseless drift towards finding security at any cost.

On my worst nights, I wondered sometimes if JJ was better off dead.

But I’d never forgotten him. A safe home was the only bridge I had to feel close to him. The only thing I had left.

The night of the snow was the last time I ever laid eyes on JJ.

So why is there a man now standing in my living room, whispering my real name, arms outstretched… telling me he’s my brother?

45

Elle

I drop the bag of pastries. Both hands fly to my face. The man is tall, with auburn hair, a sprinkle of freckles… JJ’s eyes.

I think they are his eyes.

He rushes towards me and, seeing me hesitating, stops just short of embracing me.

We stand face to face.

He reaches for me, but I take a step backwards. I hold up a forestalling hand.

It can’t be. It can’t be him.

Can it?

Waves of joy and sorrow, confusion and suspicion, crash over me. I can’t begin to process my thoughts. Julia steps in and takes control of the situation. She suggests some refreshments and invites JJ to sit down. I lower myself to the opposite sofa. The living room is mostly complete. Feather-effect wallpaper, brass antique birds, deep navy on one wall with built-in units where Leonard keeps his books. JJ folds himself into the cushions and hitches one leg onto the opposite knee. He looks around and whistles.

‘Jaysus, Elaine, you’ve done well for yourself.’

His accent is broad, with the rough staccato of Dublin’s inner city. I drink in his face, trying to find some mannerisms, trying to understand if this man in front of me is the same little boy I’d watched grow pale on the pavement.

‘I thought you were— I mean… what happened?’ I take a breath. ‘Sorry, I’m struggling to understand how this has happened,’ I stammer. Every nerve in my body registers alarm as I gaze at him. ‘I thought you… I thought JJ had died.’

My voice cracks with emotion and unexpectedly, his does too when he speaks. He clears his throat. ‘Mam helped me, Elaine. She said I was freezing and barely had a pulse, but she flagged down someone on the street and they brought me to St Trinity’s.’

I continue to watch his face.

I’m very aware that this could be an imposter. I’d had all sorts of weirdos contact me over the years since I’d become an online personality. But how would anyone know about that night. That laneway? I feel a chill just thinking about it.

He runs a hand over his face. ‘When I woke up, Mam was gone. She’d signed me over to social services. I guess she just couldn’t cope…’ He shakes his head sadly and I see a flash of something, a characteristic of my brother’s that would be impossible to fake. I can’t say what exactly. There’s anger there too.

‘But they said two dead,’ I blurt. Hope and fear colliding. ‘I heard them.’

Tears flood my eyes.

‘They told me afterwards, a long time after I got better, that when they arrived at the scene, with the amount of blood, they’d figured there was no hope for me. But you were right, Elaine…’ He smiles, but there’s a lifetime of sadness in those eyes. ‘I was always a warrior…’

At his words, I break down. That was my name for him. The mythical warrior king he was named after. Mum used to tell that story when she was well.

I swat away the tears with the back of my hand. My thoughts are moving too fast for me to keep up.

‘How did you find me? I mean, where have you been?’ I say in a halting, painful voice. There were so many years we could have spent together.

Perhaps I wasn’t alone in the world after all.

Scientists say that receptors for emotional memories exist in the cells of people’s hearts. That’s why you feel homesickness or grief right in the core of your heart. I’d half listened to a podcast about it and then forwarded it to Will. The heartache I experienced when I lost JJ was made up of a thousand lost memories. The if-onlys, the could-have beens, the what-ifs. Tiny words that stop entire lives.

The man takes a slug of the coffee that Julia had brought in. ‘I was in foster homes for a good few years,’ he says stiffly. ‘Some better than others. Some stuff I’d rather not go into. One lovely woman who encouraged me to go to do an apprenticeship with an electrician. I’m still in touch with her. Like me second mother really.’

Another pang for the little boy who had been abandoned by so many.

‘Built me way up, didn’t I? Got me exams. Now I work full-time in Galway as a sparky.’ He swells with pride – that need for an older sibling’s admiration a force not much can erase. His hair is darker than when he was younger, and despite the fine spidery lines that fan out from his eyes, I recognise the cheeky looks I’d always associated with JJ.

It’s possible…

But maybe it’s because I want it so much.

‘And Mam?’ I ask gingerly. The man shakes his head. ‘Tried looking her up but there’s just no way of finding her. She’s probably long dead.’

We share a look, and that’s when I understand this is my brother.

‘Do you remember Bunty?’ I say. Not a test exactly, but what else can I do?

‘Your doll,’ he says softly. ‘You brought her everywhere with you.’

‘I still have her,’ I whisper, tears pricking my eyes.

Then, out of the blue, his voice grows hard.

‘Why did you run, Elaine? Why did you leave me there?’

My stomach drops.

‘The man was chasing me. I – I just didn’t know what to do. I’m so sorry.’ I choke back tears. ‘I’m so sorry, JJ.’

He reaches his hand across the table and right then, it feels perfectly natural to reach for his. Clean short nails, light brown freckles covering almost every part of his fair skin. A warm grasp. The same hand I’d held all those damp cold nights.

I think…

‘You are a bleedin’ hard person to find, love, you know,’ he smiles. I notice his teeth are bad and immediately feel ashamed at my disgust. ‘I’ve been trying to find you for years. Since I got my shit together…’ A slight shrug of his shoulders and we let go of each other’s hands.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ah, Elaine.’ He sounds bashful. ‘Did a bit of time in the Joy, didn’t I… Nothing bad, I swear.’ The Joy is Mountjoy Prison in Dublin, a place I’d seen suck too many people into its dirty insides. But it’s not shame he should feel. He came from a broken system. People have it all wrong. Childhood poverty is not just a lack of money, it robs people of the love and care that they need to flourish and grow. It’s the heavy air that fills the home. It’s not having a home. The helplessness as you watch your mother cry because she can’t fix things. It’s the struggle to do homework in a hat and gloves. It’s a teacher calling you stupid because you had nobody to ask for help at home. It’s the lack of privacy. It’s trying to solve adult problems with a child’s mind. I look at this man in front of me and feel nothing but sheer sadness. For what we both endured.

Because coming from a life like ours brings with it an aching emptiness not many understand.

As the evening stretches towards deep gold, JJ explains how he’d tried to find me and finally came across a campaign I’d done for a car company. He’d instantly recognised me and then realised the name change. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that I’d kept it close to my own. Forrester, Littlewood… Elaine, Elle.

That’s when he’d started trying to contact me.

‘I kept messaging you but you didn’t respond.’

JJ is the one I thought was trolling me.

‘And how did you know I was here?’ I ask, my wariness turning into something more optimistic; maybe I’d have family at my wedding after all. Maybe we could forge our relationship again, even if our lives had veered in very different directions.

‘You’d said in one post that your renovation was in the South of France, and in another you’d tagged a woodwork company. I just searched every woodwork company in the South of France and asked them had they recently done work for a chateau with someone called Elle Littlewood.’

I stare at him in awe and horror.

‘A hundred and twenty-six companies,’ JJ says proudly, and I start to laugh.

There’s a slow creak as the door opens. Sue hovers hesitantly. I beckon her over, too caught up in noticing the similarities between JJ and I to wonder how long she’d been standing there.

Things click into place. I close my eyes, tipping hot tears onto my cheeks.

This is how we rebuild. Together. I take a deep breath.

‘Sue, I want you to meet someone. This is JJ. My… brother.’

Two days until the wedding

46

Elle

‘Well, I… I…’

The expression on Bethany’s face is worth every single splinter, every stubbed toe, every broken nail. She looks up at Château Mirabelle, lost for words as Will gathers the suitcases from the back of our Range Rover that he’d driven over from the UK. It had taken them two days, but they’d stopped at a couple of the vineyards along the way at Bethany’s insistence.

Will runs up the three stone steps to where I stand – a white broderie anglaise dress emphasising my tan. My hair is freshly washed and teased into gentle waves. He wraps me in his arms and then kisses me hard on the lips.

‘God, I’ve missed you,’ he whispers into my ear. ‘My mother’s already driving me crazy.’

I kiss him back and turn to where Bethany still stands, looking in amazement from the house to the grounds. The shutters have been finished with a coat of protective varnish that makes the lilac pop. The stonework has been rendered, giving stronger curves to the turrets. And while we hadn’t finished the roof, we’d managed to get the moss off most of the tiles and repaired the worst of them.

‘So, you like it then?’ I say as the sun shifts behind a cloud.

Bethany smiles briefly, her body hard and unyielding as she embraces me. Bethany’s rare hugs sometimes feel more like an assault than an act of affection.

‘I do. I do like it. Then again, it’s not exactly your house yet, right?’ She pats my arm as a cloud’s shadow mirrors across the landscape.

That jellyfish sting – always with Bethany.

Leonard appears in the hallway behind me, pushed in his wheelchair by Julia. He’s lost a lot of weight since the worst of his illness, and his skin is stretched gaunt and pale across his cheeks.

When I’d told him about the wedding during his more lucid moments in the past few days, he’d been adamant.

‘Jamais,’ he’d said immediately, shaking his head. Never.

I’d sighed and thought, not for the first time, how much easier things had been when Leonard was bedridden and out of the way. I’d offered a compromise.

‘What if, when the house is finished and if you agree to the wedding, we leave you in peace and return to London for a while?’

‘For how long?’

Leonard swivelled his bird-like eyes towards me and held my gaze.

‘Until you feel comfortable with us returning. The summer after, perhaps?’

He’d looked at me suspiciously.

But I knew Leonard’s health couldn’t last forever. I had no intention of returning to the UK full-time. I just needed him to agree to the wedding. I’d figure out the rest afterwards.

He finally acquiesced, but there was a look in his eyes as if he knew something I didn’t.

Recently, I’d heard him talking to himself in his bedroom. I thought it weird actually, that he still spoke out loud to his missing wife. My French wasn’t good enough to understand what he was saying, but his tone seemed urgent and insistent. Or maybe he was using the house phone? But he probably didn’t have the strength to use it. Who else could he be speaking to anyway? As far as I could see, Leonard only had Soledad, his solicitor, and a handful of retired doctors he used to meet for bridge once a week before he got sick. Now, we mainly keep him cocooned. For the sake of his health.

Will lugs the first of the suitcases into the hallway, the wheels bumping noisily across the stone. ‘Just wow, Elle,’ he says, spinning slowly around. ‘This is incredible.’ He pulls me to him and I allow myself to be held. Despite my constant questions, Will has reassured me that our home in London is safe, but there’s a guardedness to his face I hadn’t seen before. Maybe it’s all the travelling.

I step forward to make the introductions.

‘Leonard, this is Will’s mother, Bethany Buchanan…’

Leonard twitches his head in greeting. I crouch near his wheelchair.

‘Leonard, Bethany is here for our wedding, remember I told you about that?’

He glares at me, and Will comes over and slaps him on the shoulder affectionately.

‘Thanks for all this mate. I mean… for letting us and everything. It’s very good of you. Très gentil.’ I frown at Will. What’s he doing? Leonard and I have an arrangement. But I’d got the feeling that if I pushed him too much he might change his mind. The old man was extremely unpredictable.

Anything could happen.

Leonard’s illness had come at an opportune time, yes, but I’m so close to realising my dream.

My dream house is pretty much ready.

My wedding is so close.

My family is here.

I can’t let anything spoil this for me.

Then JJ steps forward and I introduce him to Will. There’s an awkward pause as I remember the phone call I had with Will straight after JJ had arrived.

‘What does he want?’ was the first thing Will asked, a strange inflection to his voice.

‘What do you mean want?’ I shot back. ‘Jesus Will, he’s my brother. He wants to reconnect.’

‘Are you sure he is who he says he is? There’s all kinds of weirdos out there, Elle.’

‘Why do you always think the worst in people. Yes, I’m sure it’s him,’ I respond coolly.

‘How do you know?’

‘I can just tell.’

‘Well, that’s reassuring,’ he muttered. ‘Letting a stranger into our home on a hunch.’

‘Will, stop.’

‘And this JJ… He’s staying for how long?’

‘Things are a bit up in the air for him. He hasn’t really had much luck in terms of housing since he…’ I falter, knowing how the end of that sentence might sound to Will.

‘Since he what, Elle?’

‘Listen, I know it’s going to sound bad, but he was… he was in prison, OK? It was a minor drugs conviction. JJ’s been struggling to get on the housing list back in Dublin because of it. I want to help him out…’

‘Jesus Christ Elle, he’s staying there with you and you haven’t even checked out for sure he is who he says he is?’

‘Will, please stop.’ I dug my nails into my arm. ‘I spent my life thinking I had nobody. Don’t ruin this for me. Besides,’ I continued. ‘He knows things he could only know if he was my brother.’

‘You have me, Elle…’ Will sounded dejected, and I felt guilty for this small disloyalty. Despite everything, Will had been my constant; funny, kind, silly.

But my pledge to JJ when we were kids was about finding us a safe place. It was silly to think this had ever been about what I wanted. I know then, as I glance at the small party of us standing in the hallway, the new furniture and recently polished candelabra, that this had never been anything but a fulfilment of a promise to my little brother. Strange how it brought me such peace to admit that to myself.

JJ shakes hand formally with Will and Bethany, seemingly trying not to squirm under the scrutiny from my future mother-in-law.

This is going to take some getting used to.

Julia busies herself getting Leonard back to bed, and I wonder why she is always working such long hours. It’s as if she doesn’t want to leave this place.

I cringe thinking of the crude shoe box she’d made up for the slowly dying bat in one of the barns.

She’d taken me to see it before Will arrived.

Its pathetic eyes were dull and hopeless as she dropped in equally mournful-looking worms. ‘I think it might live,’ Julia announced, the first time I’d seen anything other than bitterness in her expression.

I watched the swivel to the bat’s eyes, as if in constant fear for its life.

The kindest thing would have been to break its neck.

‘We’ll have to do something about the mosquitos,’ Bethany says now, walking through the house, slapping her arms dramatically. JJ smiles at me conspiratorially. I’d warned him about her. I see Will notice the exchange. His face takes on a wary crease.

‘Can’t bring people all the way here for the wedding of the year and then allow them to get eaten alive,’ Bethany sniffs. ‘Will, son, pass me my repellent.’

And I smile to myself, because I know if she’s going on about the mozzies, it’s because she’s found nothing to criticise about the house.

47

Will

‘And how is… you know… Leonard’s health?’ Will asks, whispering. Leonard’s bedroom is now just across the hallway from theirs. They’d spent the first night back together catching up and talking about their future here. Now the morning rolls out before them, trying to edge in through the cracks in the shutter where things don’t align.

‘He’s doing OK.’ Elle shrugs. Will enjoys the warmth of her body as they lie in bed in the master bedroom. By now, Will has accepted that living alongside Leonard Louvain might just have to be the price they pay for this stunning place. It was much more impressive than he’d thought. But Elle was right, making sure news of the en viager deal didn’t get out to her followers was important. Otherwise it might look as if they’d tried to pull a fast one on an almost ninety-year-old man.

‘So when will this place actually be ours?’ he murmurs, kissing Elle’s tanned shoulder. He runs his hands over her belly and around her waist, pulling her towards him.

‘We’ve been through this with the solicitors,’ Elle tells him. ‘Mirabelle won’t be a problem if she does turn up,’ she whispers, moving her hips against him.

He groans.

‘It’s Matthieu that poses the only problem now, besides obviously Leonard himself. Whenever Leonard passes away, the house legally becomes ours, Will. Until then, formally at least, he gets to stay here.’

‘But could we sell a section of it. Like the winery?’

‘I’ve no idea about that. Why would it even matter? You said we are OK for cash now. I’ve put all my savings in, we have a million collaborations, and the Dream Homes fee will go towards our wedding. You said everything was good with the work deal, right?’

She gazes at him, scrutinising his face, and he murmurs yes as he kisses her.

Afterwards, Will brings up JJ again.

‘I thought you said he looked like you,’ Will challenges. He feels her body stiffen. Elle pulls away from him.

‘He does,’ she snaps impatiently. ‘The same nose, similar eyes.’

‘Can’t see it, myself,’ Will admits. There’s something about this JJ chap that makes him nervous. He seems sullen, unfriendly and there is an edge to him that Will recognises – someone with an agenda, perhaps.

Elle pulls herself to sitting. She looks directly at him.

‘He knew things about me, Will. Things nobody else would know.’

‘Like what exactly?’

‘My childhood doll Bunty, for starters.’

Will’s jaw drops.

‘Seriously? That’s all you got?’ He shakes his head. ‘Oh, Elle, you posted a picture with the doll ages ago, when you were doing the Toys for Children campaign for the BBC, remember? We’d only just met.’ A dart of anxiety passes over her face. ‘You talked about how you’d had her since you were a girl,’ he says. ‘Jesus Christ.’

She stares at him blankly.

‘Elle, I think you need to really check out this guy’s motivations, and his background.’ Will pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘You’ve invited a stranger into our home,’ he says softly, dread churning in his stomach. ‘He could be dangerous.’

‘No,’ she replies, and Will feels a chill. ‘It seems slightly melodramatic to suggest JJ is anyone other than he says he is. Why would he lie, Will?’

Of course it’s possible, Will thinks. There were always people waiting to take advantage of people like Elle. She was far too soft. As she slides out of bed to meet the marquee builders, Will notices a crack in the ceiling above the window. For a moment, he imagines it widening a fraction. He pictures the court case going ahead without him in just four days. His solicitor would put in an appearance, but it was likely the order for repossession would be granted. A cloud of dust rolls along the lightning-shaped crack, and powder falls to the floor like ashes. Will shakes his head. Not possible. When he looks again, there’s nothing on the ground. He runs a hand over his face. He had too much going on.

Beneath the fresh paint when they arrived, the air in the chateau revealed itself as stale and musty. It catches in the back of his throat now.

In fact, the more time he spends here, the more Will notices how the chateau’s corridors are filled with dark shadows and eerie creaks that no amount of clever interior design can erase. Will has always insisted that he didn’t believe in haunted places, but after a night here at Château Mirabelle, he feels as if he’s stepped into another realm entirely.

The thought makes him shiver as he walks naked towards the shower.

48

Elle

‘Stop,’ I scream, urgently, but nobody can hear me. ‘Please stop. Arrêtez.’

The huge truck tries to turn in the narrowest part of the driveway. The fountain is in the way, so the access point to where they need to reverse is tight. Birds lift in fright as the truck hits one of the curbs. There’s a loud scraping sound.

I tried to warn them.

Pierre stands in the distance, by the gate lodge. He’s making his way over to see what all the fuss is over. He knew my fiancé was arriving yesterday, and he’s not been around since. Maybe it’s because I’d been so honest with Pierre about the nature of my relationship with Will. Pierre knew that I felt as if Will was my touchstone – that I clung to his goodness.

I’m so lucky to have Will, even if he did screw up with the lying. He was only trying to help Rupert, who is due to fly in the next day for the rehearsal dinner.

‘Là-bas,’ I call to one of the truck drivers, gesturing towards the entrance to the walled garden. I’m only wearing my Gucci sliders along with a pair of red shorts and an old V-neck T-shirt.

‘Tell them to leave the trucks and carry the frame for the marquee over from here,’ I say in my best staccato French, copying the pronunciation from my translation app. The man nods and barks more orders at the others.

Half an hour later, there is a steady stream of long metallic frames being carted in and laid in the walled garden.

I allow myself a ripple of excitement. In just twenty-four hours, Will and I will be standing right here getting married. One hundred and eighty guests have RSVP-ed to our nuptials. They’ve already signed release forms for the filming of the Dream Homes special. Many of the influencers are already posting about their dress choices. My dress, picked up in Paris while shopping for furniture with the crew, is safe in the upstairs wardrobe. A delicate lace creation with capped sleeves and a traditional long veil that I’ll wear over my face coming down the aisle. The short video I did at the time for my followers, offering a glimpse of the white lace, got over twenty-one thousand likes.

Is this IT? Is this THE dress?

Stunning!!! You will make a beautiful bride, Elle

Anyone else about to lose their sh*t over this wedding? Parisian lace and a reception in the South of freaking France. I mean… come on.

The stuff dreams are made of…

Would it be weird if I flew over just to try to see if I spot them somewhere in Nice? I heard the manor is somewhere near Antibes…

The revealing of the location of Château Mirabelle had caused me some sleepless nights this week, but it was impossible to ask guests to keep it a secret. But @JosieWrightWay was having a field day threatening to show up, even if they’d been warned off by Sue’s people. Surely someone wouldn’t come all the way here just to throw some insults my way. Right?

I’d probably have gotten less likes if I’d shown the entire dress. You see, people don’t want to see every inglorious thing in your life, even if they think they do. Snippets of a life where they can fill in the blanks themselves are the crux of what it means to share yourself online like I do. They see what they want to see. To be honest, I’m not sure people even want to see the truth. They want escapism, glamour, an aspirational life they can daydream about, hints of the life they covet.

The hoops our fickle followers make us jump through mean I can justify the rewards. I give them my so-called life on a platter, they lend me their eyeballs. Then the advertisers pay per view. All those pretty things… it’s all transactional. It just so happens that it is the only thing I’m good at. So I lean into it, allow the success to help get me to the place I need to get to. But it’s wearing extremely thin.

By nine a.m., most of the equipment to assemble the marquee is laid in neat rows in the walled garden. Bethany is camped in the window of the library, craning to see the action. JJ has gone on one of the long walks he takes each day. He can get quite agitated sometimes, like a caged animal, but I’ve noticed his long disappearances out into the expanse of the gardens seem to help calm him.

My heart aches for the complicated life my brother has had to endure. At least I’d found someone like Will to support me.

A moment later, Will joins me with a coffee.

‘It’s all come together amazingly, Elle,’ he says, slipping a hand around my waist, our earlier disagreement about my brother paused with the excitement of the wedding preparations. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Happy.’ I smile, enjoying the warm trail of his fingers on my back. Tomorrow I’ll stand in front of the guests, wedding bouquet in my hands, film crew all around. For the first time I get the feeling that perhaps things will work out after all.

One of the workmen approaches us looking concerned. My pidgin French isn’t up to much when it comes to any problems.

‘The ground is too bumpy,’ he says, using his hands to gesticulate the problem. He’s a small man with deep-set eyes, wearing a red polo-neck which makes me hot just looking at him. He seems unfazed by thick wool in twenty-two-degree heat.

‘We can’t fit the flooring unless we even it out – make it straight. The swing is right in the way.’

‘We need the floor,’ I say, looking at Will in panic. ‘I mean… the first dance? The dinner?’

‘Can you even it out somehow?’ Will asks. ‘Or remove the swing entirely?’

I realise how much I’ve missed having help when it comes to decisions.

‘If you have a few shovels, we can make a go of it?’

‘I mean the tree itself is pretty, but…’

I consider my options. I need to fit the marquee into this spot… I know the swing hanging from this tree means a lot to Leonard too. That counts for something, because I’ve started to realise that Leonard, as irritating as he is, has contributed to my dreams coming true.

The man, Claude, suggests we try and even out the ground and I acquiesce. Fifteen minutes later, there are six men with shovels in the rose garden, trying to distribute the earth around the tree so it’s more flat.

They are just next to the swing when I hear the roar.

49

Elle

At first I think it’s an animal in pain – another injured bat, or a fox attacking it.

Then I see him, shuffling towards the walled garden from the house, one crutch in the air. Leonard shouts angrily, hurrying this way, his face scrunched in rage as he limps.

‘Oh shit, hang on,’ I call to Will, who has joined Claude and the men with shovels. I hurry towards Leonard, who is walking more quickly than I thought he was able to.

‘Bonjour, Leonard. Ça va? Everything OK?’

Lately, since he’s been getting his strength back, Leonard is around more. Now Leonard swings the crutch quickly towards my face and I instinctively raise my hand to protect myself. It takes a moment to register the pain; the hot sting of it radiates from my wrist. Clutching it with my other hand, I look from it to him in shock.

‘What the fuck…’

I turn to see if anyone else has seen. Did that really just happen? There’s a look in his eyes – black, as if he’s turned into another person entirely.

‘Putain. Tell them to stop this immediately. I want them to stop.’ He is almost convulsing with anger, his power so suddenly frightening, despite his age. All the elation I had felt being here evaporates, leaving behind a stark sense of foreboding.

‘ARRÊTEZ,’ he yells over my shoulder at the men. Will comes and stands next to me. He hasn’t seen the assault. He has no idea what just happened.

This is a man not in control of his own emotions.

‘Stop all of this at once. Tell those men to leave. I am not consenting to this. It’s too much.’ An aggressive finger in my face, spittle on his lips. I feel a pulse of dread.

‘But Leonard,’ I respond, my heart hammering in my chest. ‘I told them not to touch the tree. I know it means a lot to you.’ I falter. Twenty-four hours, that’s all I have. We can’t stop this train we are all on. It’s too fast now. I think of the Dream Homes filming and my blood runs cold. Without that money, I can’t give up my influencer life. I’ll have to remain exposed. Forever that dancing monkey under a spotlight.

When I look back on what happened next, it occurs to me that this tragedy was inevitable. From the moment I agreed to the en viager deal, we were all on a collision course that would undoubtedly result in someone being hurt. I just never thought it would end with a murder.

All that stands in my way is this person in front of me. A surge of anger I’ve been quelling all summer threatens to overwhelm me. I’ve tried to be patient with him.

‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘No, Leonard. We are doing this.’ I square my jaw. ‘Please continue.’ I wave at the marquee men. We have sponsorship collaborations to think about here too. It’s eye-watering the amount that is being spent on the house and the wedding. And all our brand partners had given one caveat; they’d feature in the show, on my online platforms and I’d post details about each company to all my followers. In terms of advertising, this was a captive, very engaged, very niche audience. And for me, it was a no-brainer; lovely things to feather my nest.

The men with shovels look over uneasily. The marquee rental alone cost €20,000. ‘Continuez, s’il vous plaît,’ I call again, my eyes still on Louvain. He glares at me, his temper hot. I hold my poise.

Will puts his hand on my shoulder.

‘Elle, maybe we should talk about…’

But Leonard interrupts him, banging his crutch on the ground. Bethany appears at the front door, her head almost falling off with curiosity about this strange stand-off. This is exactly what she was dying would happen. I see the smug look on her face, even from here.

‘I said, get rid of these men,’ Leonard shouts, his face too close to mine. ‘All of them. I want them out of Mirabelle’s garden.’

Will, unused to such open aggression, turns to meet the men who are now approaching us, unsure of what’s going on. JJ is suddenly behind me. He’s filming on his phone.

‘Do not speak to my sister like that!’ he shouts. ‘Don’t you dare threaten her.’

‘I’m not threatening,’ Louvain spits. ‘She loves playing the victim, n’est pas?’

Leonard darts forward and whispers something into my ear. ‘You are two months late with the money,’ he says triumphantly. ‘That means you’ve broken your contract.’ He looks less panicked now that the men have stopped work behind us. He smirks.

The words land like a gunshot. For a second we stare at each other, the warm breeze now chilling my skin.

‘Elle, c’est fini,’ he says, in a raspy voice. Since I paid the lump sum, Will has been dealing with that side of things – the monthly repayments. There’s something about the way that Leonard says it that makes the bottom drop out of my world. ‘I’ll inform my solicitor today. But you can forget about all of this.’ Leonard gestures widely.

We lock eyes.

‘There won’t be any wedding,’ he mocks.

‘I think you need to go back inside Leonard,’ JJ calls, taking a step closer. He still has the phone in his hands.

My heart beats so fast I think it will beat right out of my chest.

‘Who are you to tell me what to do in my home,’ Leonard sneers. ‘Everyone knows what you are after. I want you out too. I never agreed to any of this.’

I exhale shakily. JJ’s face is a picture of barely concealed contempt. But I appreciate his attempt to help me, something my mild-mannered husband-to-be hadn’t done. I glance over at Will, but he gestures wearily, as if to say ‘just leave it’. I want to grab him and scream.

‘No house. No wedding,’ Leonard reiterates, holding his hand up in mock surrender.

My hands clamp into tight fists.

He wants me out. I want him out.

Now he’s trapped me.

‘Leave, or it will be the end of you,’ he says, so quietly I’m the only who hears. His mask has slipped. He’s got his house done up now, of course he’d want to get rid of us. I should have seen that this might happen. It’s me that has been fooled.

‘I’ve years in me yet,’ he says through gritted teeth.

I’m not sure if it’s the idea of paperwork letting us down at this stage that makes me feel ill, or the idea of living with Leonard for years. I’m drained, but there’s a clutch of anger stuck in my throat that Will hadn’t helped.

‘Fucking disgrace,’ JJ curses, as I place a hand on his arm. I feel his strength, a unity I hadn’t felt since we were small children – us against the world. It’s a synergy I’ve never found with Will, as much as I love him.

I know then that JJ will do whatever it takes to have my back, just as I did for him, all those years ago.

He lights a cigarette and strides over to talk to the workers. Leonard’s already shuffling back into the chateau.

‘You don’t think he’s dangerous, do you?’ Will says quietly into my ear, rubbing the back of his head nervously. It takes a moment for me to realise he’s talking about JJ. ‘Maybe he’s annoyed you left him when he was a kid?’

I shake my head.

Why can’t Will see that Leonard is the only problem here?

‘Of course I paid the monthly sum,’ he says, his eyes darting everywhere but mine when I challenge him about what Leonard said about defaulting on the payments. ‘But what are we going to do about the wedding? Cancel it?’

I’d been threatened before and that really hadn’t ended well. I picture the blood in the sink after I’d washed my hands, the bright red whirlpool of liquid being sucked down the drain.

‘It won’t come to that,’ I tell him.

Because although there had been something in Leonard’s tone and the way he’d spoken that had teetered on the edge of violence, why would he act on it?

Why would he put our mutually beneficial arrangement in jeopardy at the eleventh hour?

50

September/Septembre

Were the two deaths related, wonders Dupont? And if so, how?

He runs through the case notes for the fifth time today, at his small desk in the back room of the farmhouse outside Lescares, where he lives with his wife. They still have a lot to ask Mr Louvain, who is currently on life support in the ICU at the hospital. Touch and go, the doctors had explained.

But it’s JJ’s alibi that concerns Dupont. It hadn’t checked out. JJ Forrester, the younger brother of Elle Littlewood. Telling police that he was ‘out on a long walk’ didn’t really cut it when it came to dismissing someone from a murder investigation. Dupont thinks of the tall lean man with reddish hair and the wiry frame of a runner. Never a straight answer. He scans the report from Mountjoy Prison in Ireland again. Violence, grievous bodily assault, possession of drugs. Although he had to follow the evidence, Dupont had always lived by the mantra that there’s usually no smoke without fire. Violence usually breeds violence. He fires off a quick email about DNA testing against the bloodied T-shirt found stuffed in the drain. He watches the video found on JJ’s phone once more. On-screen are Elle and Leonard. He’s shouting and she’s standing, small and scared. In fairness, JJ had offered up the clip voluntarily, but there’s something in the way JJ speaks, the vehemence in his voice when he asks Leonard to stand back. Is it motive enough for JJ to have hurt anyone in this situation?

Dupont gazes at the photo of Château Mirabelle. Tell me your secrets, he thinks. He feels a twist of disgust every time he remembers that poor victim, how they’d been beaten so violently. It’s not the blood that bothers him. He can do blood. People always compare the smell of it to copper, but blood that’s dried has a distinct odour that’s hard to describe. It wasn’t the blood that bothered him, it was the statements of those who’d been in the house at the time.

Dupont’s phone pings. Outside, the moonlight casts a ghostly pale light across the landscape.

Leonard’s tox results are in. The detective reads the lab report quickly, and frowns.

He pulls his glasses down from his head and scans the screen once more.

It’s telling him that there’d been enough medicine in Mr Louvain’s system to kill him. His medical history showed that he’d been fully aware of his own allergy to penicillin. He’d even worn a gold medical bracelet with its message engraved in neat swirls. ‘Alerte! Allergie aux médicaments. Je suis allergique à la pénicilline.’ He thinks of the EpiPen he found that had rolled under the bed. The only thing that had probably saved Leonard’s life.

So the question is, who administered that almost-fatal dose? Because there’s no way it was by accident.

Who would want to harm this helpless old man in his own home?

51

Elle

I crush the pills into Leonard’s elderflower drink and swirl it gently with my finger. The white flakes fall to the bottom of the glass in a flurry before slowly dissolving. I turn and hand it to Leonard. His chin is wet and frothy with spittle. ‘There you go,’ I sing. ‘Drink it all down.’

I lift it to Leonard’s dehydrated lips. He’s already groggy and disorientated from the earlier dose. He’s like a different person now from the angry man I’d encountered by the marquee.

There’s a creak behind me. Time stops.

‘Elle.’ Will’s voice is sharp behind me. ‘What are you doing?’

I jump and knock the liquid slightly. It spills over my fingers, down Leonard’s lined neck.

I look at Will, whose eyes remain on the table beside me. My sleeping pill box is familiar to him from our mirrored toiletries cabinet at home in London. Dr Peart’s prescription for my insomnia.

‘Jesus Christ, you’re drugging him?’ His eyes widen. I catch a glimpse of the shudder that rolls through his body, like he’s been hit by a sudden cold blast.

‘Elle, what the fuck…’

I cock my head as if I don’t know what he’s talking about. Force myself to smile tightly.

What?

But he’s seen exactly what I’m doing. There’s an awkward silence between us. I bite down on my tongue, tasting blood.

Bethany has been getting on my nerves fussing about organising place cards and table pieces. The caterers downstairs had a million questions about extra knives. Even Sue had been bothering me, suggesting I post reels of the table design, of the flower arranging, of the marquee going up… Everything has been so overwhelming. I just have to get through the next few days. Just keep moving forward.

To have Leonard suggest he would block the whole thing? No way.

That’s why I’d sedated him.

‘It’s just one last time,’ I say, squirming under Will’s horrified gaze. ‘Just until the wedding is over.’

Then I’ll walk away.

‘You’ve done this before?’

Will exhales as if he’s been holding his breath all day.

Leonard is groggy and immobile. But safe, here within his bedsheets.

I know. I know…

You think I’m a terrible person – drugging an old man in his own home like this. But it’s just a low-level dose – a small amount to keep him from meddling, until the house is done. And then until we finish the filming.

The thing is… Leonard had been so sick with his chest infection earlier this summer, he could barely sleep. That’s when I starting giving him the pills Dr Peart had prescribed for me. To help him. Then he’d become pliant and, if I’m honest… kinder.

I can’t have him messing everything up. I can’t have him calling his solicitor to question our contract. Or inserting himself into every damn thing I try to do to improve this place.

I’m trying to fix everything. For me and JJ. For Leonard too. If he’ll let me.

I do feel bad. But sometimes when I watch him sleeping, you know… after he’s taken the medicine, he looks so peaceful. The medication pulls him down to a better place. In truth, I sometimes envy him that oblivion.

That’s why I prefer to think of it as a kindness of sorts.

‘You’ve no idea how difficult things have been…’ I pinch the bridge of my nose. But Will doesn’t move. He just keeps looking at me. I reach out for him but he pulls away from me.

‘This is so fucked up, Elle.’ He rubs the back of his neck, the tendons bulging, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. ‘You could kill him.’

Will watches Leonard’s pale face as the older man slurs slightly, moving his hands slowly through the air as if he’s swatting at an invisible insect.

Will picks up the silver foil packet.

‘Why are you risking everything?’

I push a strand of hair back from my face.

Why are you? I want to ask him.

‘Don’t pretend you didn’t think of doing something similar,’ I say in a gruff whisper. ‘All I’m doing is managing things so that Leonard doesn’t ruin the wedding or get us kicked out of this house. Is Leonard messing everything up at the last minute a risk you are prepared to take? We are so close, Will. This house,’ I gesture, ‘the vineyard… it will all be ours so soon. We just have to hang in there. To do whatever it takes.’ His eyes are clouded with angst.

We both watch the old man fall back against the pillow. Slurring slightly, then after a few minutes, gently snoring. He’s wearing the medical bracelet around his right wrist. It’s pinched slightly, leaving a small puckered indent on his skin.

Will bends the blister packet from the sleeping pills forwards and backwards between his fingers, the crinkling sound the only noise in an otherwise silent room.

And though neither of us say a word, I feel something between us change. An energy I can’t explain, as if we’ve been ripped from one realm and transported into another.

I can smell the wine on Will’s breath.

Downstairs someone calls my name.

That metallic rustle again. The crinkling of the packet, one way. Then the other.

Forwards.

Backwards.

‘What are we doing here, Elle?’ Will finally says. But his voice is softer than before. His indignation taking another shape, a coil of frustration emerging on the edge of his tone. Losing this house would be the worst thing that could happen. Maybe even worse than all the other worst things that came before it.

‘Just until tomorrow,’ I repeat. ‘Just this one time.’

I turn to look at Will, but Will’s eyes are on Leonard, an expression on his face I’ve never seen before.

A longing I recognise completely.

Ten minutes later, Julia stands at the top of the stairs looking at me with narrowed eyes. How long has she been standing there? As she bends to lift the laundry basket, I realise who it is she reminds me of. The photos of Mirabelle dotted around the house are impossible to avoid. While I’d been so focused on how I’d resembled Mirabelle I hadn’t seen it staring right back at me. Similar cat-like eyes, the same slightly rounded face. Julia looks exactly like her, but with darker hair.

A horrible thought creeps into my mind as I watch her, my eyes narrow.

Imagine if she’d been here all along…

Panic rises up, cold then hot.

But then Julia turns and I can’t see the resemblance anymore. Maybe I’ve been looking at too many pictures. Or maybe this house is just getting under my skin. Last night I’d dreamt that I found a series of ugly bulges under my spine, only to have black wings sprout painfully through the thin skin of my back.

I brush quickly past Julia, down the steps, past the vase of fresh flowers perched on the table on the curve of the stairs. Julia must have been to the florist in Lescares. These are different to the elaborate arrangements Flowers by Amelia had collaborated with us on.

Julia’s bag rests on the console table in the hallway, a white paper pharmacy bag peeping out.

‘Mademoiselle Littlewood,’ she says, flicking invisible dust from her sleeve.

‘What is it, Julia?’ I say, agitated. ‘I was just checking on Leonard. He’s not feeling great actually. He’s having a rest.’

We live in a world where it’s so easy to lie.

The look the nurse gives me is unreadable.

‘Pierre wants to talk to you,’ she says, an eyebrow slightly raised as she follows behind me.

I practically feel her breath on my neck as we walk down the stairs.

Outside, the sun is hot and high. Expansive. Bethany is nearby, talking on the phone.

I take a quick snap of the marquee flapping gently against the blue sky as I walk to Pierre’s house, and post it to my socials to appease Sue. We’d managed to lay the floors, leaving the exposed area with the swing to keep Leonard happy.

All that’s needed now are the round tables to be rolled in and dressed, but that’s a tomorrow job. Bethany has taken over a lot of the final jobs like dressing the tables, organising the bouquets, and managing the caterers.

‘Just one more sleep until I marry my best friend,’ I caption the picture, and then scan for trolls. Nothing out of the ordinary. A few ‘eugh, tacky’ remarks but mainly streams of hearts and wedding bell emojis. We’d asked those attending the wedding to leave their phones behind. Not only was it a requirement for the Dream Homes contract, but actually, I was looking forward to having a respite from hundreds of screens following my every move for the day.

Walking quickly over to Pierre’s gate lodge, I ignore the gnaw of worry over Will’s reaction to what I was doing to Leonard.

It wasn’t like he’d tell anyone, would he?

Perhaps I had misread our exchange, but I’d imagined he understood that we both had to do whatever it took. It was as if, just for a moment, he had somehow seen me more clearly than I’ve ever been able to see myself.

I look back towards the chateau. The grounds are tightly enclosed by thick box hedging, the roses over the pergolas are in full bloom. The peaks of the white marquee stand ready for what the media are dubbing the wedding of the year. It looks commanding and alluring.

Mine.

The words whisper themselves in my head.

At the gate lodge, Pierre stands at the door barefoot, in jeans and a navy T-shirt. I adjust my own blue summer dress, conscious it’s shorter than I’d usually wear.

He smiles at me as I approach and I divert my eyes at the intensity of his gaze. I’ve been trying to keep my distance from him since we shared some intense moments.

‘What?’ I laugh. ‘What’s going on, Pierre?’

He takes my hand and I tell myself that that’s allowed because he’s my friend. And friends can hold hands. I can’t help thinking how, in just a few short months we’d brought the property back to life. We’d found an intimacy in the mundane tasks it took to get it to this standard. It was something that defied definition, that only the two of us could understand. I swallow, my eyes darting back to the chateau where I knew Will might well be looking out the window.

Pierre leads me into the cottage and I gasp.

On his kitchen island, there’s a huge three-tier cake adorned with tiny yellow flowers. I chew the inside of my cheek as I take it all in – the thoughtfulness of this gesture.

‘Surprise,’ he grins. ‘I know you said you didn’t want a cake, but I thought every beautiful bride deserves one. So you can cut it and make a wish.’

He opens his arms to display it, his cheeks colouring slightly at my silence. A box sits next to it; the logo looks familiar. I’m thrown.

‘Wow,’ I shake my head. ‘Just wow, Pierre, I’m totally blown away. It’s so… generous.’ I fidget with the side of the box. I don’t want to let him see the look on my face – the emotion.

He looks pleased by my reaction. ‘Did you do it yourself?’

‘Make it? Mais non.’ He laughs. ‘It’s a wedding gift. I used to know the owner of Boulangerie Des Almands. He’s an old friend. It’s chocolate ganache filling.’

I think of the bakery in Lescares where I went to search for Sabine. Something pulls at my consciousness.

‘We’ll have to be careful transporting it,’ Pierre says, but I barely register what he’s saying. The only sound is the thud of my heartbeat in my ears. I stare at the cake.

Pierre continues talking about security on the gate for the wedding, but my chest hurts. I’m falling through the floor. I glance over to the sideboard and take in the photos. Pierre at college, Pierre and a woman he told me he’d been seeing years ago.

And then at the back of the pile, there’s a mass remembrance card. The picture of a woman that matches the photo of the woman that Leonard kept in his wallet for all those years. Suddenly, like the crack of a starting gun, I feel the pieces shift into place.

Oh my God.

Sabine Jane Rondeau. 23 March 1942 – 12 June 2022.

‘Des Almands?’ I say, my own voice feeling very far away. I’m thinking of Leonard’s raspy touch, when I asked him about Sabine… The pleading voice that seemed to come from the back of his throat.

‘I need to talk to her,’ he’d begged, not knowing she’d already passed away. Then I remember Pierre saying he’d played in the chateau attic as a child.

‘It’s the bakery where my mother used to work,’ Pierre replies, distracted, busy fixing one of the vibrant yellow flowers that had come loose from the icing on the cake.

The ringing in my ears grows louder. A rush of nausea, my eyes water.

Sabine is his mother.

‘Elle, are you OK?’ Pierre asks as I stare at him from across the room, finally seeing everything fall into place. The reality of what is going on freezes the blood in my veins. I hear the thumping of my own heart in my ears as I dig my fingernails into my palms. I murmur something about having to leave.

I’m not OK. If Pierre’s mother is the same Sabine that was Leonard’s mistress all those years ago, it means that Pierre is most likely Leonard’s biological son.

And if anything happens to Leonard, he can claim Château Mirabelle as his own.

52

Elle

I stumble out of the gate lodge back towards the house, my thoughts reeling.

I’d never had the chance to get to the bottom of the mystery of the woman Leonard kept folded into his wallet.

But when I’d broached it with him when he lay drugged in the small back room, Leonard had seemed adamant that he needed to talk to her urgently.

‘I don’t want to die without knowing what happened to Sabine,’ he’d whispered, during his worst moments during the summer when he had pneumonia. ‘Did you find her?’

He’d clung to my hand, sickness oozing from his pores.

‘She’d called Mirabelle and told her something the day she… she disappeared,’ he revealed. ‘That’s what drove Mira mad.’ Leonard wiped tears away with his blue-veined hands and coughed violently.

He’d taken a shaky breath.

‘I want to find her. I’ve nobody left. Matthieu wants nothing to do with me. Will you help me? She had a child…’

I felt for him. Really I did. But I’ll admit that my blood ran cold because every extra complication put my en viager deal at risk.

All I’d known was that Sabine had worked in a bakery in Lescares. But then with the filming and the wedding, and JJ’s arrival, I hadn’t managed to get any further.

But now the pieces fit together.

I reach the edge of the vineyard and remember the first time I’d ever come here. The time I’d burst in on Leonard asleep on the couch. And the disturbing thoughts I’d had ever since, gnawing at me, eating away at my flesh. I watch a kestrel soar through the air as if looking for prey. Suddenly I remember everything Pierre had said about his mother being so unwell and the look on his face when he explained how he’d felt he failed her.

Scary thoughts worm their way into my consciousness, pushing me to places I was afraid to go. Pierre must already know that Leonard is his father. Perhaps his mother had told him as she lay dying? It’s probably no coincidence that he’d taken the job here, working alongside Leonard.

But what does he want now?

It explains why he’d freaked out about the en viager deal when he’d first heard about it. But it didn’t explain what his motivations were now. I think of the carefully unwrapped cake in his small gate lodge.

I’d seen with Leonard how facing your own mortality can be an impetus to come clean. To try to correct the wrongs. Then I remember what Pierre had said about not having enough money for his mother’s treatment.

Things could have been different if I’d had the money, he’d said, and I’d heard true emotion creep into his voice.

So is it vengeance Pierre seeks? Maybe he’s been biding his time.

Maybe it’s me who is in his way now as he tries to claim this place.

‘Elaine.’

Two hands grip my shoulders tightly.

I whip around, adrenaline making me jumpy.

‘JJ,’ I exhale. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Why are you crying?’ he asks, his hand on my arm. My little brother now towers over me. He draws me towards him, hesitantly.

‘You look… like shit.’

‘Thanks a lot.’ I allow myself to hug him back, but I’m frazzled. I’d hardly recognised myself in the mirror this morning – huge black bags under my eyes, and I’d lost weight with all the preparations. My face was almost beak-like, pointier than usual, my body bony and hard.

Suddenly all the realities of our childhood crash together. JJ’s familiar presence brings back a plethora of memories, tough nights, frightening days, all the promises we’d made each other about finding sanctuary. Tears spring to my eyes again.

I tell him about Pierre. About the en viager deal and all it involves. My fears about Leonard. Will’s weakness when it comes to our finances. When I finally draw breath, I see him gazing intently at me, something in those lovely eyes that I hoped was solidarity.

‘I can’t lose this place, JJ,’ I say, dropping my voice. ‘I just can’t. This is the place we’ve always dreamt of having together. And there’s plenty of room for you too,’ I say shyly. ‘If you’d like that.’

There are tears in his eyes. ‘I can’t imagine anything better.’ He smiles, and we embrace again.

His voice cools.

‘But if I were you I’d be concerned about Will.’

I glance up, surprised.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I only want the best for you too,’ JJ says. ‘We have decades to make up for. I want this for you too. We deserve to feel safe. But if I tell you, do you promise you won’t freak out?’

I nod and he takes my hand leading me towards the other side of the chateau.

They are standing next to the winery.

Sue and Will are pushed up against the wooden structure. Will has his hands on her wrists – in defence or protection, I cannot tell. But Sue’s face is close to his. Too intimate to be wholesome. I watch for a few moments from behind the vines. I go to move but JJ pulls me back.

He shakes his head and brings a finger to his lips. What the hell is happening?

Will throws Sue’s arm down and turns to leave. Sue tries to pull him back towards her. I strain to hear their words. A wasp buzzes angrily next to my face.

‘I can’t keep doing this…’ Will says, as he tries to extricate himself from Sue’s grasp. ‘Just fucking leave it, Sue,’ he commands. ‘I don’t want to upset Elle…’

I shuffle slightly closer, but my foot snags on a root and I wince.

I thought I was done scrabbling in the dirt.

‘You can’t keep pretending, Will,’ Sue says, shaking her head. ‘She’s going to find out one way or another.’

Her words feel like a soft swift kick to my stomach. I hold my breath, the woody branches clawing at my hair as I strain to hear exactly what they are talking about. JJ’s frame next to me is a reassuring presence. An ally.

‘If you say a word… I swear to God, Sue…’ I’ve never heard Will threaten anyone before. He seems desperate, that boyish attractiveness pinched into something else.

He starts to walk away from her, but I catch his final words to her.

‘I’m warning you, Sue. Tell a single soul, and you won’t live to tell anyone else.’

His skin is tanned against the translucency of his sweat-soaked shirt, but when he turns, Will’s face is blank, leached of familiarity – as if someone has drained away everything that makes him who he is.

After they leave, I stagger towards the house alongside JJ, the colours of the landscape more muted somehow. It’s as if the shock and confusion of Will’s strange rage has drained the world of colour.

He’s supposed to be good.

My solicitor had explained when I’d called him the afternoon that the payment from our account to Leonard’s had defaulted twice. That means Leonard is legally entitled to terminate our contract. He doesn’t have to. But if he does, it’s all over.

The question of why we’d defaulted was something I had to speak to Will about, as was his strange connection to Sue. There was something going on that made the knot of dread in my stomach spool through my body.

‘I’m not sure Will is being honest with you, Elaine,’ JJ says after a few moments. A lock of his auburn hair falls into his eyes. He looks so earnest.

‘JJ,’ I say. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Anything.’

‘Where do you disappear to each day? Here I mean…’

He looks past my shoulder, into the distance.

‘This place is like nowhere I’ve ever known,’ he says simply, and my shoulders sag, because I know exactly what he means. ‘No traffic, no screaming drunks, no slamming cell doors, no jeering or crying…’ He trails off, emotion in his voice. ‘This place is peace. It’s perfect.’

I murmur my agreement.

‘I’ve never been in a place where I can just walk and walk and feel so safe. It feels… different.’

I squeeze his hand. This serenity is all I wanted for him when I whispered stories to him at night. It’s why I’d sought it for myself. Most take for granted the feeling of sanctuary when it comes to a home, of waking up in a bed without an instant curl of panic deep in your stomach. I’d woken up like that for most of my life. And now finally, here with JJ, I could feel it slowly release.

Almost.

‘Do you know what I mean?’

He looks at me beseechingly, and I nod.

‘Even warriors,’ I whisper, ‘need to feel safe sometimes.’

An hour later and just two hours before guests start to arrive for our rehearsal dinner, the phone call comes.

It’s Will who answers, standing in the hallway, curling the cord between his fingers nervously. All around us, last-minute preparations are underway for the big day. I look at him questioningly from my position at the top of the stairs. We lock eyes. Mine rage-filled, his frightened. My thoughts immediately go to our house.

Or the secret he doesn’t want Sue to tell me.

But when he puts the old phone receiver down on the console table, Will looks shellshocked. He hurries towards me.

‘It’s Matthieu Louvain,’ he hisses, the whites of his eyes showing. ‘He says he wants to speak to his father.’

53

September/Septembre

Julia has a scrunched up tissue balled between her hands as she answers Inspector Dupont’s questions.

Originally from Paris, Julia had worked as a health assistant at Leonard Louvain’s house for five months, and yet, as Dupont stands watching her in her small rented apartment on the bad side of Lescares, she seems unusually emotional about the tragedy that occurred at Château Mirabelle just a few days earlier. Dupont grimaces thinking of the splashes of violent crimson across white lace. And the matching red hands of the sobbing groom when they’d arrived on the scene. He asks her about Elle Littlewood.

‘She was nice,’ Julia says, fresh tears threatening to spill. ‘But my priority was Leonard.’

‘Is it fair to say you got to know her pretty well over the time you worked at Château Mirabelle?’ Dupont asks, glancing around. The apartment is otherwise neat, if a little threadbare. She’d said it was her brother’s place.

‘Yes, I knew her. To be honest, she seemed a little lost.’ She cocks her head. ‘All that videoing her life. Always her head in her phone as if searching for something inside of it…’

‘Go on,’ Dupont continues.

‘She was so happy to see that man… her brother…’ Julia chokes back a sob. ‘If anything I felt sorry for her. She seemed like there was an emptiness to her. She tried to fill it with cushions and fancy decorations, but deep down I think Elle Littlewood just craved love.’

‘So you got on well?’

Julia presses the scrunched tissue to her face so tightly that bits of it fall to the floor like snowflakes.

‘I mean… yes, but she also took over a little too much, throwing out Leonard’s things. She threw out his wife’s piano…’ Her voice shakes slightly and Dupont wonders if he’s just making her nervous, or if there’s something else.

‘She put all his stuff in storage and acted as if he was already dead. Then she was posting every single thing on social media. It felt like everything had to be perfect. That we had to be perfect. Especially in the run-up to the wedding.’ She hesitates a moment, as if deciding.

‘There’d been a lot of tension over the past few weeks because of the renovations and the filming.’

Dupont’s ears prick.

‘Did you have any idea that Elle Littlewood would own the house if Leonard died?’ he asks, even though they had a meeting set up with the solicitor Soledad later. In Dupont’s experience murder happens within the extremes of passion or dispassion. There’s no in between. Either someone is killed because of an explosion of emotion – lust or jealousy or hatred. Or else they are plucked off this earth because of a calculated decision that usually involves money or property.

He’s still trying to find out which this represents. But the vision of the beaten body of the victim flashes into his mind again – the extreme nature of the injuries. The mystery of Leonard’s almost fatal reaction.

‘Well, I’m not sure about the arrangements exactly…’ Julia admits. ‘I was just his nurse, but from what I’d overheard, Elle and her partner Will wouldn’t properly own the house until Leonard passed, yes.’

‘Tell us about the lead-up to the wedding,’ Dupont urges. ‘After the phone call…’

‘That’s when everything just kicked off,’ explains Julia. ‘The night before the wedding.’

Witnesses like Julia were of the utmost importance. Cleaners, carers, gardeners, nurses… they are life’s watchers. The invisible eyes and ears when it comes to reporting events that make a huge difference to the outcome of an investigation. Always there in the background.

Because people can’t pretend forever. And when they finally let their guard down, the watchers are usually there to see what really goes on. In Dupont’s experience, these types of witness testimonies are the ones that usually swing it for the jury too. Honest, hardworking, nothing-to-lose observers.

A metallic creak in the bed next door where Julia says her infirm brother is resting makes them turn their heads.

‘What about Elle and Will?’

‘Everyone at the dinner heard them arguing. Then Elle sobbing upstairs.’

Dupont and his colleague exchange glances. This ties in with what others had told him.

Dupont changes tack.

‘Ms Remy, did Leonard ever speak to you about his wife Mirabelle?’

Julia shakes her head. A single tear runs down her cheek. He hadn’t released the information about the remains found on the grounds of the chateau to the public just yet. Not until they’d had a chance to speak to all the suspects.

‘The worst was what happened at the rehearsal dinner. After Matthieu called.’ Julia blows her nose. ‘But I’m sure you’ve seen all that?’

Dupont looks at Julia questioningly. ‘What do you mean?’

She glances up at him, surprised.

‘The cameras? The footage of the rehearsal dinner? I mean, they filmed the entire thing.’

The rehearsal dinner/le dîner de répétition de mariage

54

Will

Oversized black cameras balance on spindly tripods in the dining room, their wires snaking under the table, concealed with gaffer tape. For safety, Sue had said, when she saw Will watching her organise the shoot a few days ago.

The cameras will capture everything that goes on during the rehearsal dinner tonight, part of the Dream Homes Wedding Special. God, he was so sick of every moment of his life being broadcast to strangers. He feels a pinch in his jaw – a bitterness that makes him wince. Will stands by the alabaster marble fireplace, his earlier outfit replaced by a tuxedo. He raises both hands to rest on the mantle, and lowers his head between them.

He sighs heavily.

Where the hell did it all go wrong?

This money thing has been eating away at him.

His father expected the cash imminently, to pay off the investor before he sues. He’d reassured Elle that the legal action over their London place was dealt with, even though he’d stopped answering the bank’s calls. He’d face that particular dilemma after the wedding. Last night he’d tried to win a bit back, just to take the heat off, but he’d ended up losing another 2k. The problem is that Will could see no way of raising the money until this bloody chateau was in their name. Because currently, they couldn’t take out a loan against it, or sell it, or even rent it out. Not without the owner’s permission. They were completely stuck, as long as Leonard was still alive.

Will sighs heavily and lifts his head. He looks into the large cheval mirror that sits above the fireplace and sees a pale, worried face staring back at him.

This was supposed to be the most joyful occasion of his life.

When she was giving him the grand tour of the chateau, Elle had told him the thick wooden frame with carved detail on the mirror was made out of mahogany. Will couldn’t even fathom how much it probably cost, but it represented another version of being trapped. How ludicrous a situation he found himself in when tens of thousands had been spent on doors and mirrors and kitchens, and yet they hadn’t a penny to rub together. Will feels dizzy with dread. How could he tell Elle that he’d used everything in their bank account to pay the first instalment to his father? To save face?

They have no money left.

He knew that his pride had won. But now he’s desperate. He’s been hanging on for the Dream Homes wedding payment, but that’s still a few months away.

Now Elle had told him she has decided to quit her platform.

And Sue is threatening to tell Elle about his precarious financial situation ahead of the wedding. She knows the London house is about to be repossessed.

Will Buchanan blinks at himself in the mirror. In school in Surrey, back when he was a boy, his chess teacher Mr Avery taught them about zugzwang – a German expression in the game for when any and every move will cause you to lose. That’s exactly how Will feels right now; hemmed in, pushed up against all the other pieces. Every option leads to checkmate.

Will had withdrawn from Elle over the past few weeks because he just couldn’t face seeing her disappointment in him too. All those stupid deals.

Behind him, in the reflection, the table is elaborately set for the dinner party. Elle told him that she’d picked up the extendable antique table from a brocante market in Limoges. It’s covered with a crisp white tablecloth and set for twelve. Bowls of delicate pink roses, matching Elle’s bouquet, float in water and are spaced at intervals along the table. Tiny tea-light candles flicker next to a huge central candelabra she’d brought in Lescares. Stiff napkins spike up from the table like jagged white peaks.

Tomorrow is supposed to be the biggest day of his life, and yet he feels nothing but a strange ominous feeling in the pit of his stomach.

If only there was another move available to him…

JJ steps into the room and Will forces a smile. There is something decidedly strange about this chap who claims to be Elle’s brother. He’s wearing trainers and a baggy shirt. JJ grins at Will, flashing his lopsided smile. Will hands him a glass of champagne and JJ knocks it back in one gulp. Will tries not to show his horror. ‘Oh yeah, that’s the good stuff,’ JJ exhales, holding out his glass for another.

‘Ah, Bolly… me missus’ favourite…’ He laughs, digging Will in the ribs, but then hesitates. JJ grows rigid, blinking dumbly as if he’s just shattered an illusion.

His wife?

Elle said he had nobody. Neon anger crackles in Will’s skull, adding to his headache. JJ slinks over to the window, glass to his lips, as Bethany sweeps into the high-ceilinged room, her thin grey hair pulled back into a tight chignon.

‘Oh there you are, darling.’

She’s wearing a scarlet-coloured dress with thin straps and has a black pashmina pulled tightly around her shoulders. She kisses her son lightly on the cheek, her cheek cool against his jaw. She smells artificially floral.

‘Is Eleanor feeling OK?’

Will shrugs.

‘You know… wedding jitters.’

When Will left his fiancée upstairs earlier, she was brooding over what to make of Matthieu’s call. As she’d stood at the top of the stairs, she’d hissed at Will to say they’d get Leonard to call him back later. Matthieu sounded put out, but left his number, slowly calling out the numbers in perfect American-accented English.

They’d left the phone off the hook after that. They were too close now to have anything mess up the wedding. Another bloody dilemma. Will tries to quell the panic fluttering in his stomach. He knows Elle is feeling similarly overwhelmed. She’d been cool with him all evening. He thinks of her upstairs, her hair heavy with rollers and bruise-coloured eyeshadow casting long shadows along her browbones. Her dress was on a hanger tucked into the outside of the wardrobe door, the cellophane cover swaying like a ghost when he’d opened it looking for his shoes. But Will knows that despite Elle’s wobble, she will turn up for the cameras looking like a million dollars, no matter the mood. When was she ever not acting, he thinks angrily. The bitterness surprises him, but his mind keeps returning to their engagement video. Every private moment cracked open on display. Elle, sneaking around behind his back to buy property without his knowledge.

Where was the trust?

The thing about Elle was that after Will got to know her, he realised he couldn’t go any further. Friends of his from school would talk about growing alongside their partners, but with Elle, Will had never learnt anything new about her after that initial bond they’d formed. It was as if she had no backstory. Will had found that mystery interesting, but now it felt less intriguing and more imprudent to sign up to a life together with someone so… unknowable.

He pours his mother a glass of Bollinger, which has been chilling slushily in an ice-bucket by the door. He notices that JJ has refilled his own glass.

Catering staff in black and white with their hair pulled back in neat ponytails dip in and out of the room, nervously tweaking and moving things under his mother’s watchful eye. Bethany has organised this dinner – her gift to the bride and groom, she’d said, but her demeanour over the past few days had shifted from her usual impatience to genuine concern over their forthcoming nuptials.

Will tries not to think of his mother’s whispered words to him after a few too many bottles of the chateau’s red wine last night when everyone else had gone to bed.

‘Are you sure, darling? It’s a huge decision. It’s just, I’m not sure about… her.’

But he’d held up his hand against his mother’s words, knowing that this train they were all on was hurtling towards something, and there was nothing any of them could do to stop it.

Now they clink glasses, and mother and son sip their bubbles soundlessly. Between Elle’s erratic behaviour, Matthieu’s call and Sue’s ultimatum, the tension was unbearable.

Will’s fear was that with the wine and the forced joviality, it might just all unravel tonight.

First it had been the bat. Julia had found the bat with its fragile bones crumpled next to a heavy rock in the barn. That brought Pierre running, the gardener turned philosopher.

Another bloody complication.

Will takes a slug of champagne. How irritatingly intimate Pierre seemed with Elle. And each thing that Will had pointed out in the house, Elle had credited Pierre with; Pierre suggested that. Oh, Pierre fixed those wheels, Pierre thinks maybe we should do this…

While he was back in London stressing about their financial future, Elle was here in France lying by the pool with the help. Things had always gone easily for Will. He’d never developed resentments or yearnings because he’d never had to. Nor was he familiar with this sinking feeling about money. He just didn’t know how to handle the emotions that had begun to build within him.

Julia, Leonard’s nurse, arrives next, trussed up in a long-sleeved yellow dress that seems far too small on her. Her cheeks are flushed and she nods solemnly at Will as she accepts a glass of bubbles.

They’d invited her to join them for dinner too, even though Leonard was still confined to his room feeling unwell. ‘A thank you,’ he’d heard Elle say loudly to Julia, ‘for looking after us all so well.’ But they’d glared at one another as Elle spoke.

Will’s father Rupert was due to arrive any minute now too. Everyone was staying at various guesthouses in Lescares. It would be too much for Leonard, Elle had stressed, to have everyone hanging about this house. But Will knew the real reason she didn’t want people around.

Sue arrives next, in a vibrant lime-green suit. Her hair is brushed out wild and she’s wearing more eyeliner than Will has ever seen. She smiles at him uncertainly from across the room and he nods briefly.

He’d have to fix things there too before she started spilling his financial secrets.

Will pours another glass of champagne so quickly that it bubbles up, almost to the rim, and he has to wait for the foam to slide back down. He quickly downs it and refills.

Bethany is deep in conversation with Julia. Will wonders, not for the first time, if Leonard had already told his estranged son Matthieu about the en viager deal. And how he might react if he heard his father had signed over the man’s family home to strangers.

Another pang of dread. The foreboding spreads.

The doorbell rings and Will’s stomach flips.

Sue sidles over to him and he wonders for a moment what would have happened if he’d let Sue continue pressing her lips to his in the vineyard earlier when they’d gone for a walk. Her body so determined against his, as she backed him against the barn wall and let her hand move down to his trousers and whispered things in his ear that made him blush. He’d groaned at her touch; it had been a long time since he felt so desired, so admired. Will knew that if he wanted to earn the respect of those around him, he’d have to start by respecting himself a little more than he’d been doing his whole life. He’d pushed her off. That’s when she’d told him she’d known about his financial problems.

It was time for him to take the reins on his own future.

Rupert arrives in the room, also wearing a tuxedo. He comes straight over to Will and gives his son a hug. Since he’d started having his memory spells, his father had been much more affectionate with Will, in contrast to Bethany who could be as cold as ice sometimes.

‘Son…’

‘Dad.’

Will leans into his father. He smells of coffee and aftershave, and of home. For some reason, Will feels a lump form in his throat. He swallows it down, savouring the safety of his father’s embrace. He thinks of their bees and how they swarmed around those that needed protection the most.

Then Elle walks in, and he reluctantly removes his head from where it rests on Rupert’s shoulder.

‘Ta-dah,’ she says, smiling brightly as she floats in and does a mini twirl, hands stretched out to show off her dress. The bubbles catch in Will’s throat. Elle is mesmerising in grey silk. He can see the ripples of her taut muscles beneath, the whisper of her cleavage, bronzed tan and bombshell blonde waves. A silver locket nestles by her clavicle. She runs her eyes over the room. The executive producers have joined the dinner party too. There’s a ripple of appreciation for the bride-to-be, and someone claps. Elle’s eyes move past Will, where he’s standing next to Sue, and for some reason he shivers, despite the array of candles in the room and the warm air floating in from the open sash window. There’s something about the way Elle’s gaze shifts from person to person, a kind of feverish delirium, that he finds unsettling. For some reason her eyes remind him of the tiny bat in the barn. Before its head was smashed in.

55

Sue

Elle knows. She definitely knows. And Sue doesn’t care.

Or maybe Elle doesn’t know, and Sue’s just imagining that the influencer’s eyes rest on her where she stands next to Will as she makes her grand entrance into the rehearsal dinner. Stupid thing to call it anyway. It’s not like they’re running through the prayers at St George’s – the little chapel on the nearby hill. The wedding is going to be all smoke and mirrors – with mostly Will’s family’s friends, because Elle’s invites were mainly those from the online world. What’s the collective noun for a group of celebrities? A gaggle, perhaps. Or an ensemble. Elle’s family couldn’t make it, she’d told everyone, her voice strained and, Sue thought, genuinely sad.

But it had been worth the risk – jumping on Will like that outside the barn. Just to let him know exactly where Sue really stood when it came to him.

Sue felt she’d made it pretty obvious for the past few months, orchestrating things to get herself in front of him. Will being Will, he was reluctant to meet alone. But Sue could see that he was floundering. He’d been told his whole life how great he was, but now, under stress, his ego was taking a hit. He was unbalanced and all it would take was for Sue to give him that final push that he needed. Plus, he was hot and she was lonely.

But dangling the Dream Homes filming in front of him as an excuse to come over to their apartment when Elle was away was also a thrill. A break from her own dull life while Larry was out dating young ones. Sue wonders what could have happened had Elle not burst in on them, brandishing the scissors that day in the apartment, before Sue had even gotten started. Will Buchanan was sweet and spineless. He was also properly hung up on Elle. But the funny thing about Sue’s brand of envy was that she was fully aware that it wasn’t even about him. She didn’t want Will, she just didn’t want Elle to have him either. What started off as an admiration for Elle rapidly turned into a sort of inescapable resentment. It had started in her early years, with Sue’s sister Amy cast as the golden child. That made her eternally second best. That feeling had festered for years and had sucked Sue dry from the inside. Will’s rejection by the barn had made Sue realise that it was time to stop lurking. Sue downs her champagne in one, the bubbles tickling her nose.

The Façade TV exposé is going to air the weekend after next. Sue realises she has nothing to lose. And from her conversation with Larry’s old colleague, who she’s private messaged on Instagram, it looks like things are pretty serious between him and this girl he’s dating. His new woman had only joined the company after Larry had branched out into photography but he’d met her over drinks with his old work friends.

An inexorable tightening of Sue’s chest almost hurts.

Pain is good. But she doesn’t want to be the only one suffering.

She nods towards the waiter for a subtle refill. It was time she came out from the shadows. Maybe it was time she told everyone who Elle Littlewood really was.

And exactly what she’d done.

56

Sue

Dinner kicks off with a chilled tomato soup, burnt orange segments, goat’s cheese ice-cream and acidulated watermelon. Bethany looks smug as the guests coo over the catering she’s organised. Glasses clink, and the group that includes Pierre, Julia, JJ, the producers of the show, as well as new arrival Rupert, fall into easy conversation about the renovations, the upcoming nuptials, the show. Voices rise and fall. Elle amuses those around her with some of the elaborate projects she’d worked on during her time in Dream Homes. Her audience guffaws, all except Bethany, a perpetually disappointed woman who seems to be trying to work Elle out like a maths problem that just doesn’t add up. Normally Elle would have included Sue in these conversations about their time working together on the show, but she’s been frosty all night with Sue – presumably because of their argument about her wanting to leave their YouTube channel. Or perhaps she had seen something with her and Will. She glances across at Julia in her silly yellow dress, who is glaring at Elle, also unamused by the influencer’s stories.

Sue shivers, despite the temperature of the room. She watches the candles on the table flicker in the balmy air from the open window at the other side of the room. Across the table, Will tries to catch her eye but Sue pretends not to notice. She’s biding her time.

Then a spoon tinkles urgently against glass.

At the head of the table, Elle stands to make a toast, flashing a dazzling smile across the room. She smooths her silk dress self-consciously over her middle as she pushes back her chair, her cheeks flushed pink from the champagne. She seems, to Sue, a touch more hyper than usual.

‘Thank you all for being here.’ Elle joins her hands in the prayer position and tilts her head to show gratitude. ‘Will and I are so grateful for all your love and support as we take this next step in our lives.’

She glances nervously towards the cameras that continue to roll. There are a few whoops, and Rupert slaps his son on the back. Will drains his glass. Elle’s voice lowers.

Anguish sweeps her face.

‘First, I’d like to take a moment to reflect on the fact that recently an old family member came back into my life…’ Her voice cracks. and despite everything, Sue feels a sudden pang for Elle. Maybe, thinks Sue, in a fleeting moment of empathy, Elle’s urge to project herself as perfect and in control masks a devastation she cannot bear to face.

And that feels familiar.

‘As you may know, family has always been extremely important to me. But my relatives haven’t always been around.’ Elle gazes at JJ and falters slightly. For a split second, Sue sees her – really sees her. She thinks of her own sadness and how she’s masked it by pushing people away. Elle’s gloss was an armour, albeit a pretty pathetic one, against the tyranny of tragedy.

It all falls away and Sue is catapulted back to a conversation she had with Larry, close to the end of their marriage:

‘Do you think maybe… if we hadn’t lost, you know… maybe if we’d had children, things might have been…’

‘Different,’ she was going to say, but Larry had surprised her by finishing her sentence with ‘better’.

He was shaking his head as he said it.

‘We can’t dwell on it, Sue,’ he’d said, with his usual Pollyanna positivity. But all Sue could think about was: how could he not?

But it was easier, perhaps, than listening to her sister Amy’s long, meandering voice notes where she shed her own slightly hysterical tears for Sue’s loss, with the sounds of Paris in the background, cars hooting, the shriek of unfamiliar sirens.

Sue shakes her head and tunes back into what Elle is saying as she makes her speech to the dinner table.

‘…I mean, it’s perhaps no surprise that I’ve built a huge community around me. And surrounded myself with all these beautiful walls.’ Elle gestures around the dining room of Château Mirabelle, and wipes away a quick tear, but Sue understands the walls Elle really means. ‘But it means so much for my brother to be here with me today.’

A few start to clap, but Elle’s not finished. She smiles a little awkwardly and continues.

‘But my real sanctuary has always been Will.’ Elle smiles, her Irish accent more pronounced. ‘He is my home.’ Elle smiles over at Will. It’s surprisingly emotional all of a sudden, and Sue finds herself slightly misty-eyed, because she realises part of the problem is that she hadn’t ever found her version of home either.

Rupert starts clapping first.

‘To finding your home,’ he raises his glass. And everyone follows suit. Except, Sue notices, Pierre, who shakes his head and downs his glass of bubbles.

But Elle wants one last word. And like a hologram that moves a fraction against the light, glossy Elle reappears.

‘I wanted to also raise a toast to our good friend Leonard who, unfortunately, is too sick to make it to the dinner tonight. He’s upstairs resting at the moment, but I’m sure we will all keep him in our thoughts and wish him a very speedy recovery. I know he’d have loved to join us tonight. We are so grateful to be here in Château Mirabelle, thanks to his grace and… well, chin-chin!’ She raises a glass again and everyone follows suit.

Sue thinks about how convenient it is that every time the old man gets in the way, his health declines. Back in her seat, Elle talks about her big day. A server sets down a plate in front of Sue – sticky lamb’s belly with carrot mash, a glossy jus, and decorated with lovage. It’s splayed open, pink sinew and soft flesh, prepared French style, and for some reason it turns her stomach.

There’s a low murmur of chatter as the guests begin to eat. Forks clink off the sides of plates. Servers dip and refill wine glasses over their shoulders. Sue tries to ignore the smear of deep red all over the crisp white tablecloth from where someone spilt a drop of red and tried to wipe it.

Suddenly there’s the sound of faint knocking.

Everyone stops talking and glances up. She notices Will’s face pales.

Heads turn towards the dining room doorway, which has been left open for the waiting staff going in and out of the kitchen.

Elle purses her lips.

There’s an air of anticipation. One of the candles from the huge silver candelabra goes out, a thin plume of white smoke rises. Across the table, Sue watches Elle’s throat bob, as if she’s swallowing hard.

Suddenly a dishevelled silhouette appears against the festoon of evening lights. He looks confused, wearing a crumpled pair of trousers and a filthy white vest. His arms are flaccid, coated in fine grey swirly hairs, his face gaunt and pale. He’s not wearing shoes.

‘Leonard,’ Bethany exclaims, hands to her face, as Julia jumps up from where she’s sitting to help him. But Leonard holds up a shaking hand to silence them. Coughing violently, he leans awkwardly against the doorway. He eventually catches his breath. Nobody moves.

There’s a figure standing in the shadows behind him.

A tall man wearing all black. He steps forward and rests his hand on Leonard’s shoulder. His silhouette is framed in the doorway. Similar hunched shoulders, the same broad profile and hooked nose.

‘My name is Matthieu Louvain,’ the man says, frowning as he surveys the room. ‘Somebody needs to tell me what the hell is going on here.’

57

Elle

Will and I exchange brief horrified glances.

Leonard wasn’t supposed to wake up so soon. And Matthieu…

I feel as though I can’t breathe.

I clear my throat and immediately swoop into action, despite the conflicting emotions rising inside of me.

‘Will, please get Matthieu a drink. Leonard, how lovely of you to join us,’ I cry, jumping up to place an arm around his shoulders as he tries to speak. Sweat gathers in my armpits.

What the hell are we going to do now?

Matthieu is in his early fifties, I guess, bearded and bedraggled.

‘Why is my father in such a state?’ he demands. A ripple of discomfort runs across the room.

I press a hand to my mouth, feeling suddenly nauseous. On top of everything, I’m also still a little rattled by my own words from my speech. I hadn’t meant to be so… honest. Adrenaline fizzes in my veins.

Anger too. How dare Matthieu show up after all these years and imply his father was being mistreated.

Leonard falls slightly to one side – unsurprising really, given the amount of pills I’d given him earlier.

‘I’m… I’m sorry,’ he stutters. Matthieu goes to help his father, and I flick my eyes at Will, who’s been looking miserable all evening.

Do something.

He might not agree with the choices I’ve made, but everything I’m doing is for us.

‘Will, darling, do you mind helping me with Leonard? I’m afraid he’s still not feeling the best. Matthieu, would you like to come through to the drawing room?’ Julia darts over to help. ‘Oh good, Julia here will take you in.’

Leonard’s eyes snag on her dress. Then I remember why Julia’s dress was so familiar. It’s the one that had been hanging in the wardrobe all this time.

It’s Mirabelle’s dress.

Leonard’s mouth hangs open a moment, but he’s still confused. He blinks twice and shuts his mouth.

The cameras keep recording, oblivious to the drama that’s unfolding at Château Mirabelle.

Will helps me to steer Leonard around. But suddenly there’s another arm around Leonard. It’s Pierre’s.

‘What’s happening?’ Leonard whispers hoarsely as we manoeuvre him into the hallway. Julia and Matthieu make their way to the second reception room, both talking quickly in French. Matthieu gestures as he walks. There is a familiarity to their interactions that makes me wonder if they’ve met before.

‘It’s OK, Leonard,’ I say gently, as the three of us drag the elderly man up the stairs, his feet trying to gain a foothold on the steps as we manoeuvre his body.

Below us, the sound of chatter resuming is soothing. I hear another champagne cork pop. The gentle clink of plates and the odd burst of laughter.

We leave the noise behind as we support Leonard along the upstairs landing and push open his door.

‘I want to tell you about Mirabelle,’ Leonard tries again, slurring slightly, and we help him onto the bed. ‘She’s gone.’

Will and I stand back, but Pierre remains kneeling by the bed as if in prayer. It’s then I notice he’s holding Leonard’s hand.

‘It’s OK, Leonard,’ Pierre says. ‘It’s OK. There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you too.’

‘Pierre,’ I call sharply, and our eyes lock. He blinks back, expressionless. ‘Pierre,’ I say again, a squeak escaping from the back of my throat. But Pierre is gently attending to Leonard. For some reason I think of my mother’s face as she left us each night to search for a fix. Like we didn’t matter at all.

Why had nobody ever fought to love me like this?

The room is completely silent when Pierre eventually speaks. Leonard looks at him expectantly, a little bewildered, but definitely lucid. He tilts his head to one side.

‘You don’t need to worry anymore,’ Pierre says, holding Leonard’s hand to his lips. I back slowly away, my eyes on father and son. Pierre isn’t here to avenge his father. He wants a relationship with him. Of course, love wins when it comes to family. But it has changed everything. Because now Leonard knows he has an ally to help him fight for his home. Someone with a beneficial interest in it too.

I rub one hand up and down my arms. Goosebumps pucker my skin.

‘I’ll protect you, Leonard…’ Pierre says. Then, his voice cracking, talking faster. ‘The thing is… I’ve wanted to tell you for so long.’ He brushes away the tears that start to fall. ‘Papa.’

We hear Leonard’s sobs through the closed door of our bedroom.

Will and I sit next to one another on the four-poster bed, trying to figure out what we are going to say to Matthieu when we go back down.

‘I used all our money to pay off a client,’ Will says flatly. His shoulders sag. We are defeated. ‘I’m sorry, Elle. I didn’t want to tell you tonight or before the wedding. But I couldn’t keep it from you. They are taking the house.’ I eye him quietly from my perch next to him, too overwhelmed with sadness myself to even have the energy to react. So that’s why the payment had bounced. He’d lied about having sorted the paperwork for our London home.

‘For fuck’s sake, Will,’ I sigh. ‘You are gambling our lives away. Where will we go?’

He laughs mirthlessly.

‘Me? You are the one who went ahead and signed us up for this place. That’s the biggest gamble of all, Elle. And we are going to lose it too. Plus, that man you say is your brother, you need to watch that one. Says he has a wife…’

I shrug. ‘So what?’

‘So he lied to you.’

But there’s no energy for anger – neither of us have any appetite to argue. I’ve spent the last few days in a jumble of hope and misery, ricocheting backwards and forwards like a piano metronome. My body doesn’t quite know how to respond.

‘Why are you even telling me about all this, tonight?’ I snap. ‘Can’t we just try and enjoy all this, Will? We are supposed to be getting married tomorrow.’ My voice is flat too.

‘Sue found out about the money and was threatening to tell you. There’s stuff with my dad too. It’s not been easy, Elle.’ Will looks like a little boy, pain in his eyes.

‘Your whole life has been easy.’ I can’t help biting back, but I’m relieved there is a plausible reason for Will’s entanglement with my producer other than lust. I meant it when I said he was my home. Nobody makes me feel as safe as Will Buchanan. He isn’t perfect, but he loves me.

‘I’m done with Sue too,’ I tell Will. I’d noticed her increasingly cold behaviour towards me recently. She’d always been an insecure person. I’d known that the minute I met her – so dazzled by others, so vindictive. I’d just have to get another producer. People would hopefully be lining up to work with me, especially after the wedding was going to be broadcast to millions. Plus she’d told me about the Panorama investigation. I couldn’t get dragged into that – even if I had my own shameful stories to tell about working on shows in the early days and how I was degraded in order to climb the ladder.

Another wave of nausea washes over me. Would this wedding even happen now?

We sit there, Will and I – listening to the sounds of the party downstairs, the emotional reunion going on across the hallway – and neither of us say a word. It sounds progressively more rowdy downstairs.

After a few minutes Will puts his arms around me.

Still silence.

I feel our shared misery about the situation in which we find ourselves, our backs to these pretty, soul-destroying walls.

Isn’t there any redemption?

I lean my head on Will’s shoulder. My heartstrings are pulled so tight it feels as if they are going to snap. Maybe the safety I’m chasing is an illusion too. Maybe this is as good as it gets.

This is the part my followers don’t get to see. The millions of little miseries we all experience day to day. The parts that make us human – all those dips and insecurities that give us our form. That’s where life is really lived. Otherwise we are no better than dancing dolls on a painted cardboard backdrop.

I cry, not so silently, with Will’s arms around me. Not because of a house, but because now I understand that this hollow feeling will never leave me.

I’ll never be salvageable.

I can’t varnish or sand away the truth of who I am. Who I became when I had to kill someone as a child myself.

Nothing will fill it; not a building, not a person.

Will’s eyes are on mine now. I see the questions swirling in his pupils. But I don’t have any answers.

All I know is that the man standing downstairs in the drawing room represents our most immediate problem.

58

September/Septembre

‘So you never saw Matthieu Louvain again after that rehearsal dinner?’

Dupont clicks his pen as he speaks. They are back in the interrogation room, this time with JJ, who had introduced himself as Elle Littlewood’s brother when Dupont first met him. He seemed eager to please, sending him the video clip of Leonard shouting at Elle as the marquee was being put up. It was hard to reconcile the rage-filled old man with the retired GP that lay wan and weak in the hospital’s ICU, still barely able to communicate.

‘No,’ JJ responds. Under the table his leg jigs uncontrollably. He’s dressed in a white T-shirt, khakis and Timberland boots, and has a squinty-looking face with dark red hair.

‘We stayed up late and had a few too many drinks, but I didn’t see him again.’

In fact, nobody has seen Matthieu Louvain since he was a vague shadow in the footage of the rehearsal dinner. Nobody could contact him. But why had he turned up so abruptly and then disappeared again?

Dupont lets the silence sit between them a moment. There’s been something niggling at him since he first met JJ. It’s clear this guy had an attitude to cops, that was obvious by the way he wouldn’t make eye contact, but Dupont wasn’t sure he was the prodigal brother he was making himself out to be. They also knew he’d lied about why he’d been in prison to Elle and Will.

Dupont thinks back to the scene at Château Mirabelle, the fallen vase, the candelabra. All the blood. There is no way in hell that whoever did this escaped without being covered in blood. The results are due back from the lab on the blood-soaked T-shirt later today.

Dupont wonders if maybe JJ saw more of what happened than he’s saying. JJ Forrester says he was out on a walk at the time of the incident, but Dupont has been in this game a long time, and he knows there’s something that JJ isn’t saying.

‘What about Sue Anderson?’ he says, trying to see if the stories match up. He thought it strange that the bride’s friend had left immediately after the murder, stopping only to briefly collect her suitcases from the chateau after her first interview. Subsequent interviews had been over Zoom, but Dupont felt it was not the mark of a great friend to have up and left in the immediate chaotic aftermath of what had happened.

Nurse Julia said there had been tension between Elle and Sue that evening. In the footage, Sue’s back is to the camera so it’s difficult for Dupont to tell. In the interview Sue had said everything was fine between them. ‘Her usual bubbly self’ is how Sue had described Elle, but her voice had an edge to it.

‘Sue had been staying at the chateau, but she went to bed straight after dinner,’ JJ says to Dupont across the table. He scrunches his eyes as if trying to remember. ‘But I was pretty drunk so…’ JJ shrugs. Clever boy, thinks Dupont. An unreliable witness will always squirm out of being called in a court case.

Dupont tries to put the picture together but the jigsaw needs a few more pieces. There’s just one last thing he can’t figure out…

‘So tell me about the wedding day,’ he says, his pen poised, ready to take notes. ‘Tell me what happened that day, from start to finish.’

The wedding day/Le jour du mariage

59

Elle

I open my mouth, a silent scream to the camera, the Tuscan Sparkle filter hiding the bags under my eyes. I swing my iPhone around to the open bedroom window and show the 37,000 people who’ve just joined my livestream of the golden landscape of this Provençal morning.

It’s the most beautiful day in the world at Château Mirabelle. Eeeek, it’s my wedding day! I’m unbelievably excited. Will’s gone to collect his mother, and I’m going to get started on my skincare. The flower guys are coming in a couple of hours. The marquee is up! I’ll have someone updating my posts all day. Check out this view, you guys… Dreams really do come true!

After a few minutes I end the livestream and throw my phone down on the dressing table. I flop onto the bed, face-first.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I think of our empty bank account. The fight with Sue. Leonard’s newly discovered son Pierre now stationed in his father’s bedroom all night like a guard dog. I picture Pierre as he’d embraced Leonard last night, a strange expression on his face.

‘I wanted to tell you that you were my father,’ he’d admitted to Leonard. ‘I was just afraid you’d reject me like you’d done when I was a kid.’ Pierre’s muscular shoulders shook as he clutched his frail father. ‘I was afraid you still didn’t want me.’

I’d watched as Leonard’s face grew more peaceful then. Like when the drugs would hit his bloodstream. The lines on his face softened as he returned his son’s embrace. But the old man’s eyes remained hard, like the tiny coins I’d found in the water fountain by the front door when we were clearing it out.

‘Stealing wishes,’ Pierre had joked when I scooped up the rusted coins from the sludge.

Over Pierre’s shoulder, before Will and I had left the room last night, Leonard had gazed at me. There was a look, a lucidity that made me feel as if I’d been punched in the face.

He had a protector now.

At least Matthieu was no longer a problem. I finger the cross around my neck, remembering how Will and I came up with the plan as the rehearsal dinner continued below us. We figured the distraction of the dinner party was probably no bad thing in the end…

The rest of the rehearsal dinner was a stilted anti-climax of faux joviality and watery sorbet. It was clear the guests had also sensed that something had shifted. They made their awkward excuses by eleven and left.

Outside now, the birds sing, oblivious to the reverberations that had shaken this place almost to its foundations last night.

Sue was the last to go to bed. She was still staying in the chateau, but neither of us bothered pretending things were in any way normal between us anymore.

‘Will told me what you did,’ I said, holding her gaze as she made her way up the stairs to bed. But there was no power to my words. No emotion left at all between us. I realised in that moment that this wasn’t a friendship, it was a business, and I was the product.

‘I’m sorry, Elle,’ she’d said, shrugging, refusing to look me in the eye. I noticed her beady eyes matched those of the herons on the wallpaper behind her.

What a stupid fucking idea for a feature wall.

I was done listening to her.

As she approached the top of the stairs, I thought of the line from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, when the monster tells the master: ‘I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine, and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.’

As she disappeared around the dark corridor, I’d called out the two words I knew that would really kill her:

‘You’re fired.’

I slip into my lace wedding dress. The film crew have warned me to be at the church early for filming. JJ’s out for his usual walk and Sue’s still in the shower. Will’s right, I can’t not go through with this. Because in the midst of all the drama last night between Pierre and Leonard, I saw something in the faces of those two grown men. Something that was about more than a house or a garden. It was about finding something they fundamentally needed at their core. A satiety I still longed for.

I’d got as close to that with Will as I think I’m capable of.

I can no longer tether myself to a dream. Dreams drift and disappear like snowflakes. You open your hand praying to catch them, and then after a moment, after you uncurl your hopeful fingers, you realise there’s nothing there at all but freezing cold water – a disappointing watery nothing.

I check the time on my smartphone. Almost eleven o’clock. I wrap the flower garland gently around my head and twirl in front of the mirror. The Parisian lace hugs my figure but billows out below the knee.

As I twirl, I have the overwhelming awareness of the magnitude of this moment. A day that will change everything. My blue eyes shine as I smooth the material over my curves in the reflection. Then yelp in pain as something suddenly snags my finger.

A pin left in by the designer.

A bead of blood blooms against the soft pink of my skin, and I quickly hold it out away from the dress. It falls onto the dresser, the dark wood making it appear black.

An omen, Sue might have said. I stick my finger into my mouth and quell the bleeding.

Behind me, the room is like something from a magazine shoot – the puddled drapery of the bed, the local art, the soft pistachio on the walls. Maybe I’d have to focus on what I do have now, not only on what I was missing. I think of Will blowing me a kiss from the door this morning as he left to get his mother from the village guesthouse, so handsome in his wedding suit.

Last night I’d whispered something to Will as we wrapped ourselves around one another, before we’d gone down to get rid of Matthieu.

‘We will make it work,’ I’d vowed, as we sat on the bed. I rubbed my belly. ‘All three of us…’

I’d paused to watch his face, waiting to absorb his surprise.

I run my hand over my stomach tenderly now. This new baby would mean another fresh start.

A dark shadow flits quickly across my open bedroom door. Just outside my peripheral vision. Like somebody ran quickly past.

I freeze in fear and confusion, goosebumps rippling under my carefully applied fake tan.

There’s a guttural sound, low and panicked.

Even from a distance it makes my stomach churn. Slowly, I take a peep out into the hallway, barefoot but still in my wedding dress.

Maybe it’s just Sue messing about.

Leonard’s bedroom door is slightly open, and the noise comes from within. Breathing hard, I don’t wait. I don’t think of anything, except that if this was a horror movie, I’d scream at myself not to go a single step further.

I reach trembling fingers towards the brass handle of the door, drawn towards the spine-tingling sound.

I slowly ease it wider open.

60

Leonard

Leonard tries to sit up. He’s gasping for breath. A shadowy figure stands at the end of his bed. Mirabelle’s standing over him, a strange look on her face. In her white dress, she looks like an angel. He presumes it means he’s dying.

This choking feeling is familiar. He’s only experienced it once before; when they first realised he was allergic to almost every antibiotic he was ever given.

Penicillin.

Over the last few weeks, Leonard’s health had worsened. He was eighty-eight now, and he’d accepted that good days would be few and far between. But after the chest infection, he’d struggled to regain his energy for weeks. There were gaps everywhere in his memory – time slipping through his fingers like quicksand, his days increasingly upside-down and foggy.

The whole wedding and house thing had tired him out.

Seeing Matthieu, even briefly, had been draining too. Julia had been the one to tell him that he’d finally called. Seeing his son after all this time brought feelings that had lain dormant for decades. Matthieu’s handsome face had brought back a flood of emotions about what had happened to Leonard’s family all those years ago.

During one of his more lucid moments a few weeks back, Leonard had asked his solicitor Soledad to send a letter to Matthieu to ask him to come. It was to an old address, but his solicitor was hopeful that Matthieu would take an interest in the fate of the chateau if they could explain exactly what was going on.

Leonard feels a tightening in his throat, the muscles constricting. He closes his eyes… trying to remember where his auto-injector EpiPen might be.

Leonard had cried after Julia told him that Matthieu had called out of the blue. Not only because he’d been asleep at the time and missed his call, but because suddenly he wanted to share the news with Mirabelle. He wanted to share the joy with her that their son wasn’t just alive and well, but on his way to see him.

To take care of him. Fresh grief hits the elderly man as he gasps for breath.

Panic rises up, making him even more frightened. Recently, for the first time, Leonard had begun feeling as if he wanted to be with Mirabelle under that swing. To let go and give in. Everything was foggy, he wasn’t sure which way was up.

But then Julia began wondering about the medication he was on. It didn’t seem right that he wasn’t getting better, she’d told him, frowning. It was making him so groggy. So she’d called Dr Ames, the young doctor from the village GP surgery, and then Leonard started to feel more himself again.

But then something had happened… last night? There was that dinner party. Then this morning, Julia had checked on him and now… this awful feeling had come over him. Had someone else been in his room? He glances wildly at his bedside locker where the stash of medications are huddled together in cloudy white pill holders.

Where was Matthieu?

Leonard’s heart hammers in his chest and he tries again to gasp for air. A whistling sound comes out. His eyes blur. The ghost bride at the end of his bed moves towards him.

‘Leonard, are you alright?’

He realises that of course, it isn’t Mirabelle, it’s Elle Littlewood. She’s wearing a crown of flowers. She seems to stare at him for a moment, as if deciding something, and then reaches out her hands towards him.

Behind her, he sees a slight movement. Someone else has entered his bedroom, dressed all in black.

Pierre.

Yes, he remembers now, Pierre was Sabine’s kid. Leonard feels strangely detached from his body as air struggles to make its way into his narrowing airway. It creates an increasingly pathetic sound.

This feeling is nothing like the drowsiness from the past few weeks. This is a completely different sensation; anaphylactic shock. Someone had given him penicillin.

As he panics to gulp oxygen, one sound echoes in his head over and over like a video on repeat; the sound Mirabelle made the day she died. How, just moments before she’d fallen, she had taken that phone call from Sabine.

He’d known deep down that Sabine must have carried out her threat. Sabine had told Mirabelle that she was raising Leonard’s child on the phone that day when he drove home for lunch.

Leonard’s grief was so extreme back then that he’d fired his mistress from the GP clinic and made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her or the kid, who was quite sweet actually. Sabine had named him Jean-Pierre, he remembers. But Leonard hadn’t seen him in decades. He wasn’t interested in raising another woman’s child. Back then, he couldn’t help equating Sabine and her kid with the loss of his own family.

He’d lost Mirabelle through the fall. He’d also lost Matthieu, who blamed Leonard for his mother’s disappearance.

In a way, Sabine’s revelation had cost him everything. Which is why he had rejected her child too.

But that was then.

Leonard reaches out his hand towards the son who had been there for him when he needed him most. Maybe Leonard had known subconsciously all this time that Pierre was his blood. As he gasps for breath, Leonard thinks of all their shared mornings under the wisteria with pots of coffee, the late night harvest, examining the leaves of the vines for the brown patches that indicated blight. The relationship he’d craved, it had been there all along…

Leonard experiences the worst headache of his life as he tries to turn his head to ask for help. A sound comes out, hollow, deadened – his voice containing no purchase whatsoever.

Pierre is almost behind Elle now, framed against the gloomy light of the bedroom. White drapes blow back into the room from the open window, flapping wildly as if in surrender.

Why isn’t anyone helping him?

He can feel the penicillin forcing his throat closed. The nausea overtakes him.

He looks from Elle to Pierre.

What is really going on?

Elle, following Leonard’s gaze, spins around. Her dress billows out as she does – a white blur against the newly painted walls of his small bedroom.

But Pierre is even quicker. He’s behind her – grabbing Elle’s arms, trying to pin them down by her sides. Leonard feels himself weakening. The edges of his vision blur. He watches helplessly as Elle struggles against Pierre’s grip, blonde tendrils escaping her plait as she twists to free herself.

Leonard wants to help her, but everything is spinning. He uses the last of his energy to push himself up onto his elbows.

If he can just manage to get Pierre away from her, she might be able to run for help.

Leonard’s fingers clasp around the iron curtain rail lying next to the bed. It was due to be hung up on the wall to hold the heavy duck-egg curtains Elle had picked out, but his room had been left until last.

Pierre is hurting Elle and Leonard doesn’t know why.

Trembling with the effort, Leonard wheezes for breath and uses all his diminishing energy to press it towards her.

Elle’s eyes are wild as she frantically struggles to escape Pierre’s grip.

Pierre’s face is bright red from the struggle.

‘Don’t…’ Leonard tries to say again, collapsing onto the carpet but the room spins and Leonard knows he’s close to losing consciousness. He fumbles with the locker cabinet. He knows Julia sometimes stored his EpiPens there.

‘I’m coming, Leonard,’ Pierre calls, but the words seem to come from very far away. ‘Hang in there.’

Elle uses the iron bar to stun Pierre, who yells in pain, releasing her as he clutches his head in agony.

Elle races out of the bedroom, the long train of her lace dress snagging on the door, as she runs towards the top of the stairs. Pierre follows. The last thing Leonard hears is its long, slow rip.

Face down in the carpet, Leonard tries to grasp at the only thing that will save hm. His feet pedal uselessly against carpet. He watches his fingers blur.

Then slowly, everything fades into black.

61

Elle

The first swing catches Pierre on the shoulder as I run towards the staircase. Below me, someone has placed the antique candelabra on a small table at the top of the hallway. It shimmers as the sunlight catches it.

Pierre grabs my arm roughly. I crash violently against the banisters near the top of the stairs. Pain shoots along my back, but I twist my body around and continue to hurl myself towards the stairs.

Faster.

Faster.

Pierre stands there a moment. A shadowy figure looming above me, anger in his eyes. I grab the candelabra as he lunges.

‘You were trying to hurt Leonard,’ Pierre shouts, his voice thick with emotion. He is just inches behind me, grasping at my dress which has now become another obstacle to navigate. ‘I won’t lose someone else.’

‘I wasn’t,’ I scream. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Go help him, Pierre.’

On the curve of the stairs, I turn to face him and, swinging the candelabra, the first attempt overshoots. It misses him and smashes the vase of fresh flowers on the stairs. Water bleeds down onto the stairs. Smashed glass tears at my bare feet. The second swing connects with Pierre’s face. His nose spurts blood instantly.

He spits it out of his mouth onto the wall, decorating it a vivid red.

‘I won’t let you take him from me.’ Pierre jerks his head up towards the bedroom.

I hold the silver candelabra defensively with both hands, but he’s cornered me.

‘Pierre. You need to go and help Leonard. He won’t make it. You have the wrong idea.’

‘You can’t admit that you’ve been drugging him?’ He half laughs.

‘I… well, yes,’ I cry. ‘But just to keep him calm. Just to keep him away from everything,’ I shout. ‘I swear I haven’t given him anything for a few days.’

‘You are a liar,’ Pierre screams, angrier now. ‘And you are a thief. You are trying to take all of this away from us.’

Blood has stained his teeth, oozing into the crevices. Pierre places both hands over mine on the candelabra. His strength pushes against mine. My bare feet start to slide as he forces me backwards. He’s crying.

‘He messed up my mother’s entire life. Did you know that? He used her and discarded her and didn’t want to know me.’ He spits out more blood. ‘How do you think that made me feel? Every birthday, every Christmas… I had nothing.’

I try to get past him. I have to escape.

I’ve never had anything either, I want to shout.

‘He would bring me here when Mirabelle was out. Can you imagine. He’d show me everything I couldn’t have.’ He cries. ‘Then he just stopped coming to visit me.’

Pierre wipes his mouth, leaving a smear of blood across his upper cheek.

‘I love him, but I hate him,’ he says in a strangled voice. ‘She spent her life pining for him. He abandoned me. But what about what I wanted?’ His face is too close to mine. ‘And then you came along. You started taking him from me too. Taking all of it.’

I try to catch my breath.

‘He’s my family.’ Pierre’s voice breaks.

‘What about Matthieu?’ I cry desperately. If he keeps pushing, I’ll fall backwards down the final steps. Still, I cling on. But I know Matthieu is long gone. After Will and I had broached the subject of the vineyard that night in the drawing room, Matthieu’s eyes had lit up. He pretended to play hardball of course, but once I’d filled him in about the clause in Leonard’s will, about the en viager deal, the money Matthieu would have to pay us back when it came to all the renovations, as well as the lump sum we’d paid, he chose to depart with the promise of eventually having ownership over the vineyard. He’d signed the document relinquishing his claim to Château Mirabelle, as soon as I explained about the money I would transfer to his account if he walked away. Will had looked at me astonished, but keeping cash aside was always going to be second nature to someone like me.

‘Matthieu doesn’t give a shit about his father. Never has. Never will. I am the one who has been here for him. I am the one that will protect him,’ Pierre now spits.

There’s a noise from the bedroom and Pierre turns his head. I drive my shoulder rugby-style into his side. He topples, slightly destabilised, but by the time he’s righted himself, I’m racing down towards the last stretch of stairs.

The stiffness of my dress drags me down. I lean a bloodied hand on the heron wallpaper to propel myself forward.

I fall the last few steps. Shock stuns. I’m so close to the front door. The stained glass casts rainbows across my bare skin. I stretch out my arm towards it.

Pierre stands above me. The candelabra is still in my hand, bloodied from his injury.

Did you guess it might be me?

Were you hoping it wasn’t?

Bunty the doll watches dead-eyed from the console table as I try to drag myself towards the front door. Pierre kicks me in the stomach.

‘No,’ I curl into a ball. ‘Not that. Please.’

Pierre leans down, desperation in his eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Elle, but I won’t let you take this from me.’

I mumble something again, terror-stricken, and he leans closer. His blood drips down onto my face, my dress, the floor. I hate how I understand what it’s like to want something so badly you’d do anything. I understand his need to belong. To want a family that nobody can take away.

Pierre raises the candelabra above his head. I try to cling to consciousness but the world fades around me. The outline of Pierre grows fainter.

But suddenly there’s a commotion. Another voice. A familiar one. The sounds of a scuffle, a terrifying groan.

Everything is dreamlike. Things happen around me in a haze. That’s when I blank completely.

When I come to, I’m sitting slumped on the stairs.

There’s a body on the ground, a candelabra in my hand. I feel the sensation of being watched, but there’s no one here but me. When I drop it, it clangs eerily on the stone.

‘It’s OK,’ I say aloud to myself, rocking and shaking. My face is soaked with tears or sweat. I touch my hand to it and realise it’s neither. My knees are resting under my chin. ‘You’re going to be OK now. It’s OK. Everything will be fine, I promise…’

I hug my legs, one bare throbbing foot over the other. Swirls of red stain my beautiful lace wedding dress.

Like red hair against the snow.

Rocking back and forth, I whisper the words of comfort that I so badly needed to hear once upon a time as a child, but never had. I croon kindness to myself like a mother would a child. And for the first time I let the real emotion come.

I cry for how I spent my life trying to make my way home, when the only map I’d ever been given had been upside-down and inside-out.

I cry for everything I’d lost.

For everything I became.

62

September/Septembre

Dupont watches Elle’s face as she reacts to the news he’s arrived to tell her. The hospital room is bright and clean. A tray straddles the bed where Elle lies, mostly uninjured. Her long blonde hair has been wound into a bun and she looks exhausted, bags under her eyes like bruises. They’d kept her in because of the baby, and the concussion. Will stands next to her, a tall, polite man, clutching her hand, as Dupont finishes the last of the questioning. He’d already cleared Sue Anderson to return to the UK that morning. The producer had a lot to tell him.

The Dream Homes cameras had given them nothing much extra except a glimpse into the glamourous life of champagne and caviar. Elle’s social media feed had given him a headache too – all that fabricated perfection. And cushions – there were a lot of cushions.

‘So Leonard is alive,’ Elle stammers. There’s a beat. ‘Oh, thank goodness.’

Will nods mutely next to her.

‘It’s great news, isn’t it Will?’ Elle rubs his arm and Will echoes her words.

‘Thank goodness.’

Dupont watches them a moment.

‘Can you identify this T-shirt?’ Dupont asks.

‘Isn’t that Pierre’s?’ Will responds. They’d already taken Will’s statement about how he’d returned to the chateau to find Elle terrified and covered in blood.

‘Not JJ’s?’

Elle shakes her head. ‘Definitely Pierre’s. JJ was out walking.’

‘So run me through exactly what happened again?’ Dupont pulls over a chair. This is all part of it. Going over the incident time and time again to find any inconsistencies.

‘I just remember Leonard gasping for breath,’ Elle starts. ‘Then Pierre was there trying to hurt me. He attacked me.’ She looks at Will, as if for confirmation, and he interlocks their fingers. ‘Pierre chased me down the stairs and I fell. I tried to fight back. I think I may have hit him to try and get him off of me, but it’s all a blur. I’m sorry.’ She breaks down, but Dupont notices that her eyes are dry. ‘He was trying to hurt me,’ she repeats.

‘And you, Mr Buchanan?’

As far as Dupont had been told, Will hadn’t been in France much all summer, only showing up for the couple of days before the wedding.

‘I arrived back at the chateau and Elle was on the stairs crying.’ Will frowns. ‘There was blood everywhere.’

‘On the stairs or in another room?’ Dupont says sharply.

‘On the stairs,’ Will confirms, but his eyes dart towards his fiancée’s.

‘Do you have any idea why this T-shirt might have been placed into a drain at the back of the property?’

Will shakes his head.

Dupont moves on. It might not be in any way related, but the DNA testing had found Pierre’s blood on the item, so it was still a strand of the investigation he couldn’t pin down. He’d need a court-order to get DNA swabs from the rest of those in the chateau at the time of the murder.

‘Well, I’m pleased to say that Leonard corroborated your statement that Mr Pierre Rondeau attacked you when you were in his room. Looks like this was self-defence.’

Elle’s eyes widen. ‘I told you that’s what happened,’ she says. ‘Hopefully we can all put this behind us and move forward with our lives here.’

She glances at Will and smiles.

Will clears his throat. ‘Inspector Dupont, I just wanted to point something else out,’ he says nervously. ‘I have reason to believe that the nurse, Julia, gave Leonard the penicillin, but by accident.’

Dupont raises his eyebrows.

‘She admitted to me the day before that she sometimes got things all mixed up. You know she cares for her brother too?’

Dupont raises an eyebrow.

‘I think it might be a complete misunderstanding. She’s under a lot of pressure with everything and we don’t want her to get upset.’ Dupont’s phone beeps with a notification, but Will continues. ‘Julia came to us saying she was exhausted and distracted. She admitted that she mixed up some of the medicine she gives to her brother, and left the wrong ones next to Leonard’s bed. We should have kept a better eye on things.’

Dupont lets this settle like snow on the ground. It does make sense. Julia did come across as a little frazzled. It would explain a lot.

The detective understands that with Elle Littlewood’s celebrity status, this isn’t an ordinary situation. The media are all over it, headlines flooding in about the murder at the manor. How internet sensation Elle Littlewood had been attacked in her own home. And Elle hadn’t done the police any favours, doing constant chats to the camera, talking about how an intruder had attacked her on her wedding day. Posting pictures of her IV line at the hospital.

The intruder story wasn’t strictly true, but for now, that was the line.

But Pierre Rondeau was dead.

Leonard Louvain was still in the ICU.

A heap of bones needed burying.

This explanation fit. An accidental poisoning wouldn’t require charges being brought.

Dupont knows he has his work cut out for him though. The mystery of what happened to Mirabelle Louvain will be another protracted investigation, but they are still trying to contact her son Matthieu to let him know the news that her remains had been found. So far, they haven’t been able to find him.

Elle had explained in her statement that the handyman was angry that his biological father had done the en viager deal with her.

‘I tried to escape,’ she’d said in her statement. ‘But Pierre just kept trying to hurt me. I thought I was going to die.’

‘It was self-defence,’ she’d said, straight after the incident, hands shaking as Dupont sat with her in the station, blood still under her fingernails.

Now he looks at her and says nothing for a moment. He wonders who she really is under all those layers.

He gets that feeling again, a pull towards something he feels as if he’s missing. It’s a niggle that’s been keeping him awake since he first walked into Château Mirabelle.

Dupont takes a step towards the influencer. She seems too bright for this place, he thinks, taking in her straight neat teeth, the tilt of her head, as if overly exposed, in the photographical sense.

It might have been self-defence, but there was still something he had to clarify.

He pulls his chair closer and flips the iPad open. Things had gotten a lot more complicated after his chat with Sue Anderson. Elle’s eyes remain planted on the floor.

‘Does the name Elaine Forrester mean anything to you?’

63

Elle

The day of my actual wedding, three weeks after Inspector Dupont closes the case, dawns bright and sunny. Instead of a live to-camera talk piece, I snuggle up to my husband-to-be in our bed at Château Mirabelle. Sunlight streams through the window. We decided to have a small ceremony in the church on the hill. Just us.

‘Good morning to the groom.’ I kiss Will’s eyelids awake and he groans and pulls me closer. I relish his hands on my bare skin as he throws an arm over my shoulder and kisses me back.

‘Morning.’

He smiles easily, his lips parting over straight teeth. My golden boy. Funny how tragedy can bond.

We’d returned here, ten days after the attack. I’d insisted we stay here, refusing to let the horror of what happened stain our beautiful home. When we’d walked in that first day – after the specialist cleaners had done their job and after the marquee had been taken down – Will had held me in his arms in that vaulted hallway. He’d stroked my head and told me I was safe now. And I finally believed him.

‘The most important thing is that you are OK,’ he’d said. ‘You both are.’ He places a hand carefully on my belly over my purple Anine Bing T-shirt.

But patches of carpet had been pulled up and a section of heron wallpaper removed. Even the strong cleaning smell couldn’t mask the stench of leached blood.

My skin still prickles as I walk past the spot.

Leonard remains in the ICU, but the doctors are confident he’ll pull through. When I’d stood over his bed watching him struggle to breathe in the bedroom that day, tears had filled my eyes. Watching him suffer like that was indescribable. The police had no idea I’d been giving him sleeping pills to sedate him, but the penicillin was different – I’d never have done that. I’d never have intentionally hurt him.

You know that, don’t you?

The sedation was just for his own good while I worked on the house.

I’d told Inspector Dupont pretty much everything else though, after I realised my past had finally caught up with me. I knew they’d find out who I really was anyway – it was only a matter of time. After I was released from hospital, the Gardaí in Ireland liaised with Dupont. The man who’d died that day in the lane in Dublin was called John-Eric Bentley. He was a twenty-one-year-old law student at Trinity College.

He was drunk. It was dark.

The autopsy showed he hadn’t bled out. He’d had a heart defect, and the shock most likely exacerbated it. My attempt at stabbing was barely a graze. It wasn’t what killed him at all. The boy’s family had long moved back to America. He’d had a history of colourful behaviour, drinking too much, finding trouble. They just wanted to find peace now. A sad story that didn’t make the headlines after the eventual inquest.

The other man is also alive and well. He was from a family of solicitors who encouraged him to put the whole messy incident behind him.

So I’m not a murderer? I whispered to myself after I hung up on Dupont. My entire identity had been wrapped up in that one incident, and I wasn’t sure where to go from here.

I slip out of bed and pull out my alternative wedding dress.

In the small church on the hill, I walk up the aisle, my broderie anglaise summer dress swaying gently as I move. The lavender clutched in my hands was picked fresh this morning from next to the pool at the chateau. Will’s eyes are red-rimmed as I finally reach him. He’s so handsome in his white open-collared shirt. Bethany is going to absolutely kill us…

‘Beautiful,’ he says gently.

‘I love you,’ I whisper, and he folds me towards him, being careful with his lapel microphone.

We are both mic-ed up for the camera. I asked for only one, just to keep things intimate. That was the vibe we were going for. Plus, we had contractual obligations to Dream Homes.

‘It wasn’t the wedding we thought we were going to have. But, to us, it is absolutely perfect’ the caption says, when we post the picture of us ‘just married’ later that day. The image is me, in Will’s arms, my arm trailing downwards with the lavender bouquet. Behind us, cypress trees snake along the country road and beyond that, miles of vineyard stretch to the horizon, with the odd spire of an abbey in the nearby medieval villages visible.

Picture perfect.

JJ has been amazing. When I confronted him, he’d admitted that he’d been married briefly.

One drunken evening, when he’d been using, one of their fights ended with her filing a violent assault charge against him. He looked ashamed when he came clean. ‘I just didn’t want you to judge me,’ he’d said, hanging his head slightly. ‘I shouldn’t have shoved her, but to be honest, a lot of that time, I don’t remember.’

But we can’t let our past define us. I believe in second chances. That’s why Will is going to an in-patient treatment programme in Devon in a few weeks’ time. He’ll be gone for a month, but that’s a price he is willing to pay for making things right. We’d also handed back the keys to the London house to the bank. I couldn’t have had it come out in the papers or in a public court case.

We are now in a tricky place between losing our old house and getting the chateau, but Leonard seems to have mellowed after his near-death experience.

The comments for our tiny wedding break all previous records. Even though most refer to the deaths at the chateau, telling us how brave we are to push forward, how devastating we had such a thing happen to us.

It’s astonishing though – all those hundreds of thousands of extra followers who have been drawn towards death, as much as life.

After our wedding, we sit outside the small bistro in a nearby town. Well-wishers congratulate us when they see my dress. We both felt going to Lescares wouldn’t look quite right.

After our dessert, Will pulls me towards him.

‘Alright wife. Let’s head home.’

Home.

Will, JJ and I take a taxi back to our chateau, and as we turn through the tall iron gates, I feel a slight fluttering sensation I try to brush off… an ominous niggle. Will takes my hand in his as our home looms in the distance.

‘All good?’

‘Yeah. I was just thinking what a journey this has been…’

He squeezes my hand.

‘But we got here. All because of you, Elle Buchanan.’

Another new name.

But the tiny feeling ripples again – a small voice in my head that asks the dangerous question:

If I’m not a murderer, then who exactly am I?

One year later

64

Sue

She doesn’t know why she does it – walks the long way around when she’s in this part of the city. Past Elle’s London terrace.

Sue wonders if her inability to forget Elle Littlewood is a result of all the shop windows at the major retailers selling her French-inspired product line. A surge of jealousy overpowers her and she balls her hands into fists as she hurries towards her new office. She’s the marketing manager at a travel brochure company near Knightsbridge called Voyager, a terribly paid gig but it gives her the flexibility to travel. Walking past Harrods a few weeks ago to see Elle’s new luxury furniture range in the window made her physically ill. She’d taken a few days off work. It had taken every fibre of her being not to go back online. She’d deleted her apps, only used the company ones and took care never to venture near anything that might mention Elle Littlewood. She’d never even watched ‘The Wedding’ – the special Dream Homes episode where Elle and Will were married in a much more intimate setting than they’d originally planned.

It seemed to be something that was talked about for weeks. The low-key wedding a much bigger hit in the end. And, she thinks bitterly, 500k extra followers. Who knew it wasn’t the chateau renovation that would draw the crowds, but the brutal death that would occur inside it? Elle Littlewood had gone from being big to being huge, pretty much overnight. Someone had said she’d been asked to be lead judge on a new primetime show, Renovation Masters, on the BBC.

It was unfortunate that Pierre had turned out to be such a psycho, but Sue had been convinced when she’d first heard about the murder at the manor, the day after she’d been fired, that it had been Leonard. It made perfect sense to her that Elle Littlewood was capable of murdering the older man in order to get what she wanted.

‘We’d like to increase our influencer marketing,’ Sue’s boss says when she’s back at her desk. Her reputation after the Panorama investigation was dragged through the mud, as she’d feared. Reporters outside her house and articles with headlines like ‘TV executives allowed young girls to be thrown to the wolves’. Many articles that featured her name. Larry had begged Sue to do what her solicitor suggested – issue a statement. She told Larry she wasn’t his problem anymore. They’d bumped into each other at the cafe near their house last summer. The place where they used to brunch on Saturdays.

His face when she said that to him was almost too much to take.

‘Take care of yourself, Sue,’ he’d said quietly after they talked a while. He’d arranged to drop some of her old boxes to her now that they’d finally sold their house. He pulled Sue into an embrace. For a moment they stood in the middle of the street, arms wrapped around one another. Sue buried her head in his shoulder, inhaled his toasty, soapy smell and felt tears well up.

All those hopes and dreams…

Larry belonged to somebody else now. Sue had pulled away, walking off stiffly without looking back.

Once she’d rounded the corner out of sight, she’d slumped against a wall. Her legs were shaking as she let the tears fall. She remembers how they’d only bought their house because of the extra bedrooms and the big garden. Perfect for swings, the estate agent had smiled. For so long Sue had pictured it full of their family. Now a couple with twins had bought it. Sue sometimes walked past her old house too, trying not to hate the woman with her double buggy and smiling helpful husband.

Sue’s new job involved sending content creators with large followings to various five-star resorts around the world; they would chart their trip with creative reels and inventive photos.

‘What about that Elle Littlewood? She’s hot right now. You used to work with her, didn’t you, Susan?’ her boss had queried, and Sue had told him Elle was old news and it was all about micro influencers now. ‘Those who haven’t paid for followers, if you know what I mean,’ she’d implied. ‘Smaller communities, but much more engagement with their fans.’

‘Yeah, I heard Littlewood charges fifteen grand a post anyway,’ her boss had said, and Sue felt that surge again. Venomous.

With nothing at home in the evenings, Sue finds herself attending more and more launches and PR events, hanging around newly opened bars in the city centre, or up and coming restaurants. Maybe she’s just trying to catch some of that golden dazzle that used to light up her life.

She’s standing outside Veneman’s, a two-Michelin-star restaurant, at six o’clock one evening in early autumn, checking her appearance in the reflection of the gold embossed glass doors. Red lippy, monochrome jacket, cropped black trousers. She can almost taste the glass of bubbles she plans to immediately knock back as she surveys the crowd for stars.

Sue takes a breath and walks in. She’s immediately stopped by a sea of photographers blocking her way through the trendy new restaurant. The champagne is usually near the back. There’s the thrum of a DJ, the smell of wild garlic and thyme as she pushes past the little taster platters floating around the room on silver trays. To one corner there’s a frenzy of flashes. Sue glances over to see who they are salivating over this time.

There stands Elle Littlewood – shimmering in a stylish white blouse and wide palazzo trousers. Her hair is shorter now, but she’s as dazzling as always. She’s having her picture taken against the backdrop of the Veneman’s logo.

Flash.

Elle looks left, pouting slightly.

Flash.

She looks right, eyes down, demure.

Flash.

Power stance, hands on hips.

Flash.

Elle stares straight at Sue.

Sue’s stomach drops.

There’s a long moment before either woman moves. Then, stepping away from the paps, Elle holds out her arms graciously and weaves her way towards Sue. It’s suddenly far too hot and Sue feels ridiculously overdressed in her tailored jacket.

‘Sue,’ Elle exclaims. She tosses her head to the waiting PRs. ‘One second – this is my old colleague Sue. I just want to say a quick hello.’ They move to one side where there’s a pocket of space. Elle stands beside Sue, hand on her shoulder, pretending nothing had ever happened between them. That Sue hadn’t been fired in disgrace.

‘How are things?’ Elle says, probably aware the cameras are usually always trained on her.

Sue nods stiffly.

‘You know…’

‘I heard you’re working at Voyager? Going OK?’

‘Yeah, fine.’

Sue finds her voice.

‘How’s everything with… the house. With Leonard and all that?’

Something flits across Elle’s face. Like a rogue cloud scudding over a bright summer sky.

‘Oh, you didn’t hear?’

She frowns, and her eyes flick to see if the cameras are still on her. It looks as if it’s an entire documentary crew following her.

‘Well, I’m not on social media anymore,’ Sue explains, an uneasy feeling growing in the pit of her belly. ‘After… you know, everything…’

Elle leans closer, clearly only for the cameras, which can see them but not hear them. Sue can smell her perfume – overly sweet and fragrant, like potpourri. Sue hates the flush of excitement she feels being seen as ‘someone’ just because she’s next to Elle.

‘Poor old Leonard died a few weeks after he came back from the hospital.’

Sue takes a step backwards. The blood drains from her face. Someone jostles her arm and she clutches the back of a tall bar stool tightly, as if she might keel over.

‘What?’ She can’t keep her eyes off Elle, her dazzle, even when talking about death.

‘He just never really recovered…’ Elle frowns, remembering. ‘It was so sad. He’d been doing so well.’

Sue’s not sure which version of Elle she’s talking to. She exhales. It just wasn’t right. Elle finally ended up with the house. And Will. And she’d grown her brand tenfold. It wasn’t fair.

Poor Leonard, Sue thinks, he never really stood a chance. Sue thinks of that depressing room at the back of the house where they’d kept him for a while. Why hadn’t she said anything when she had the chance? She thinks of the colony of bats in the attic that Elle had managed to get rid of too just before the wedding. She’d installed bright white lights throughout the attic space and eventually drove them out. Sue has a vivid picture of Elle showing her the corner of the rafters where the bats had been. All Sue could focus on were the millions of mouldy droppings as well as the few scattered and rotting corpses of those who hadn’t made it out. She’d read online that some bats get so disorientated by the change in light that they freeze where they are and starve to death. Others just move deeper towards the darkness.

Sue snaps back to Veneman’s. There’s a low mewling noise that sounds entirely out of place and Elle swivels around. A blonde girl with too much lip-filler approaches pushing a buggy.

‘Ahh, there he is – my hungry little boy.’ Elle takes the handle and manoeuvres the pram around so it faces her. ‘I have to take him everywhere with me at the moment. He’s a real mummy’s boy. Say hello to baby Jasper.’

A dark-haired little boy regards Sue with big brown eyes.

Everything seems to stop.

The first thing that strikes Sue is that both Elle and Will are fair-haired and blue-eyed.

The second is that she knows she needs to get the fuck out of there before she does something she’ll regret.

When Sue eventually gets through to the police station in Lescares that evening, she finds herself speaking to an officer named Dupont. He’s the same detective who’d interviewed her back in September the year before. A burly man with glasses and a low gravelly voice, he’d pressed Sue on what had really gone on at Château Mirabelle. That’s when she’d told him about Elle’s sordid past. But like everything, none of that mud stuck in the end. It was as if Elle had dodged every single bloody bullet.

‘What is this all about, Madame Anderson?’ he says in heavily accented English. Sue swallows.

‘It’s about Leonard Louvain. He died a few months ago?’

‘Ah yes, at Château Mirabelle. That’s right.’

There’s a beat of silence.

‘I have reason to believe that it might be a suspicious death. Was a post-mortem done?’

Dupont clears his throat. It’s after hours, but Dupont doesn’t strike Sue as the type of man who clocks out the minute it turns six.

‘For a man of Leonard’s age, and after the unfortunate incident with his allergic reaction, we didn’t find anything… out of the ordinary.’

‘Yes, but did you check? Because if he’d recovered, he might have had five or ten years of life left.’ Sue knows she sounds desperate. Because she is. Her fingers shake as she holds the phone.

A fucking baby.

This felt like the biggest kick in the teeth. Like Elle was doing it to spite her, which of course she wasn’t, but… a baby.

Elle gets the velvety middle of the night snuggles, the cute babbles, the school gate life.

And Sue knows, she just knows that Elle Littlewood is capable of just about anything to get what she wants. Because she’s a lot like Sue.

‘If you’d like to write a letter…’ Dupont begins, sounding exhausted.

‘Would newly administered penicillin show up if he’d already been given it by mistake? Like a few weeks later?’

‘I’m sorry… I think it’s best you get in touch with Victim Support here and we can arrange for you to perhaps write an email…’ Dupont trails off, and Sue understands a dismissal when she hears one. Why would he want to go back digging through such a horrible case anyway?

‘I am not a victim…’ she starts to say, but he’s already gone. Sue hears her words ringing in her ears and wonders for a moment if she might be a victim in all of this after all.

Sue doesn’t know exactly what went on in the chateau that day, but she knows there’s something Elle’s hiding.

She bangs down the house phone violently. Then, reaches for her mobile. Sue downloads Instagram – the first time in a long time. She goes onto Elle’s page with her fake profile, careful not to press any ‘likes’ or comments.

The last pictures posted on the Elle’s Dream profile are of Elle, Will, and that baby sitting on a picnic blanket on the grass out the front of Château Mirabelle. Will’s arm is around her, Elle’s head is turned towards the child. His chubby little hands clutch Elle’s face. Sue instinctively touches her own fingers to her cheeks.

‘All my everything,’ is all the caption says. ‘#ChâteauPetitBois, #Home. Photo by the lovely JJ xxx’

Almost five hundred thousand likes.

Sue tries really hard to control her breathing.

Don’t let this consume you.

But there’s something about Elle’s flaunting of all she has that pushes Sue further than she’s ever imagined possible. Elle shouldn’t get to have it all and grumpy bastard or not, Leonard had so much more to give.

Sue has logged in using her @JosieWrightWay account. There’s a picture of a single allium as her profile picture. Sue types horrible words about sleeping your way to the top, about being ugly on the inside and out. She’s about to mention the baby but then hesitates for a moment.

She exhales, continues typing:

Poor baby having someone like that as a mother. It would have been better off not being born

Sue logs out. Relief floods through her like a blood-let. She stretches a knot in her neck. Deliberately Sue chose not to let herself think about those days in France after Pierre died. But something had snagged in her mind when she saw that picture of the chateau online. A vision of herself packing up her bags quickly and collecting everything she’d left around the chateau while police officers smoked outside. By then the body had been taken away, but the amount of blood had turned her stomach. The scene was cordoned off by police tape when she’d hurried out, her face buried in the crook of her elbow.

A realisation causes a warm slither of power deep in her stomach to unfurl.

A few hours later, Sue kneels by the plastic storage boxes Larry had dropped off with her belongings. They’d been piled under the stairs in their old house for months. She starts to sort through them, one by one.

Finally, with some kind of purpose.

65

Elle

‘To the left, another inch. OK, stop… perfect.’

The piano delivery men strain as they manoeuvre the grand piano I’ve been keeping in storage into place. They stand back to take a breath and Jasper is straight over trying to bang fat little fingers on the keys. The piano is positioned in the front room, close to the huge sash windows. The room that Leonard used to occupy when I first arrived. No longer damp and musty, it’s a bright room with soft grey chesterfields, an alabaster fireplace and gold-rimmed mirrors. Just like I’d imagined.

Bringing the piano out of storage is one of the final jobs I’ve had on my list for the chateau. After I returned from London, Will and I celebrated our one-year wedding anniversary. We are having Rupert and Bethany over for a New Year’s celebration this year. I think how huge the tree for the hallway will be. It will be the first Christmas here – we’ve planned a real family celebration, after having gone back to The Laurels last year. We decorated Jasper’s room upstairs in the duck-egg blue I’d picked out before the… incident.

Soledad the solicitor arrives into the hallway of the chateau, which we’ve renamed Château Petit Bois – Little Wood. He whistles when he sees the new piano. ‘What’s all this going on in here?’ Soledad has become a bit of a friend over the past few months. The solicitor was the only one of Leonard’s friends to have visited when he lay pale after returning from the hospital. During those times, as Leonard slept, Soledad told us more about Leonard – his hopes and dreams. They’d known each other in the Paris days. A fine medic, Soledad told us. A ladies’ man, yes… but good at his job.

‘I’ve got those documents we talked about,’ he smiles now. ‘Leonard’s deeds.’

My stomach flips. The final piece of this long, protracted puzzle. Soledad had warned us that Matthieu might try to void the contract, claiming Leonard was under duress when he signed it. He’d insisted on giving it six months after he died, just to make sure. Soledad felt he owed it to Matthieu to make sure he had every opportunity to state his claim, even if he was unsuccessful. In light of my profile and the interest in the French project, our own solicitor advised us it was no harm to go along with Soledad’s wishes. He had been Leonard’s best friend, after all. With Pierre out of the picture, we’ve spent the past few months praying Matthieu wouldn’t show up again, but there was no guarantee – even with the money we’d continued to send.

‘Will’s in the garden.’

Soledad and I jog down the steps, out into the grounds with baby Jasper in my arms. It’s a magnificent day, the sky a glorious blue, the vines heavy with grapes. Will’s out pruning the roses. We’d found a heap of rose bushes in the old greenhouse during the summer that amazingly, and despite years of neglect, had survived. The strongest had found somewhere for its determined roots to grow, its long white tentacles breaking through the cracked plastic flowerpots, absorbing everything it could around it.

I’d replanted them in the garden near the swing, where we’d organised to have Leonard and Mirabelle buried together.

Will sets down his secateurs when he sees us approach. He joins Soledad under the pergola, while I hang back. I watch Soledad clap Will on the shoulder and fish out the documents.

Don’t think I can’t see you there, by the way.

Watching.

Waiting.

Scrolling along. Dying to know what really happened.

You want to see if I killed Leonard Louvain. If I’ll admit it.

Would it satisfy you if I had?

Come on then, come closer.

I’ll tell you this: Leonard was so weak after he finally came home that it made me cry. He spent his days suffering debilitating headaches.

He started seeing visions of Mirabelle everywhere. He’d call out to her constantly. He’d given up. I picture the helpless baby bat in the barn and how it had offered no fight when I raised the stone up above its delicate head.

It was no life at all.

I know what you are thinking: if Elle drugged him before, she’s capable of doing it again… more permanently.

So what if I did put a pillow over his face to return him to the love of his life? Or gave him a final fatal dose of penicillin? Does the truth even matter?

‘Those roses are something else,’ Soledad says, conversationally, admiring the bright yellow petals of the Rosa ‘Molineux’ as Will flips through the folder in his hands, which has little strips of coloured post-its sticking out here and there. ‘I’ve never seen them get so big.’

Then he spots Mirabelle and Leonard’s gravestone and he grows quiet, bowing his head as if in prayer.

Leonard Louvain et Mirabelle Louvain (née Remy), Repose en Paix.

Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not a cold-blooded killer.

Soledad hands me the documents that will give us final legal ownership over this place.

I sign with a flourish, setting the baby down. Will smiles at me, adding his name to the bottom of the neatly typed paper. It’s done, I exhale. It’s over.

By my feet, Jasper rips the buttery petals roughly from a yellow rose leaving only a naked stem.

My legs are so weak that I cling to the pergola.

66

Elle

Christmas Day

‘Woah, careful.’

Will navigates the huge goose from the oven towards the kitchen island wearing the oven gloves. He slides the oven dish onto the smooth marble countertop. Something sizzles.

Jasper is in his high-chair mashing bits of egg. It’s late evening on Christmas Day and Santa’s been. Wrapping paper covers most of the floor of the front sitting room where Christmas movies play and a fire crackles. Outside it’s unusually cold. JJ picks up a copy of the interiors magazine in which I’d been recently featured. A double-page spread of me and my family with the headline ‘At Home in the Château’. After I’d been offered my own furniture line in Harrods, it was hard to back out of the online world.

‘Smells delicious.’ I hand Will a glass of one of our wines, and he kisses the side of my head. He and JJ had made their peace. While they’d never be best friends, Will seemed content to have JJ pop in occasionally, though my brother spent most of his days in the gate lodge, or with his few friends in Lescares.

‘Merry Christmas, Ellie.’

Will took over Buchanan Capital from his dad a few weeks back, after Rupert’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis. Then he made the decision to sell the company. Rupert still doesn’t know. Bethany says some days are better than others.

The dining table is set for Christmas dinner. Yellow roses from the garden adorn the table alongside the candelabra. A huge Christmas tree glints in the hallway, shimmers of gold and purple dance along the walls of the house. Just like I’d always imagined.

I’m turning the roast potatoes when the doorbell rings.

Which is strange, because the gates of Château Petit Bois are always supposed to be locked. We certainly aren’t expecting company.

When I open the heavy door, the figure standing on the doorstep turns. It’s hard to see who it is at first. A long shadow is cast across their face.

They move into the light.

I gasp.

Julia.

I haven’t seen the older woman in a long time. Not since Leonard’s funeral. She’d been present for his burial alongside Mirabelle and had sobbed loudly the whole way through.

Julia looks nervous. She’s wrapped up in a navy puffer jacket with a leather bag thrown over her shoulder.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask, suddenly concerned. I glance past her to see if there’s anyone with her, but there’s just her small car parked by the fountain.

‘I need to talk to you,’ she says softly, nervously glancing around.

‘Come in,’ I offer, wrapping my long cashmere cardigan a little tighter. Julia puts a hand on my arm.

‘No, I won’t be long. I’m sorry… I just wanted to say something.’

I hear Jasper whimpering inside. Will coos at him, singing a few lines from a French lullaby we’d heard at the local baby group I’d joined after he was born.

‘It couldn’t have been me,’ Julia says, glancing over my shoulder to where the Christmas tree stands gently glowing. ‘I have been going over it and over it in my head for months. My brother never had any penicillin. I didn’t give it to Leonard that time. I’m sorry to bother you, but I had to be honest with you…’

I bite my lip so hard I taste blood. Why couldn’t she just leave things alone?

‘It’s OK, Julia. That’s all in the past now.’ I hear Will calling me, but Julia draws me towards her, bony fingers tight on my arm.

‘I lied to you,’ she says, in a small voice, no sign of her usually aloof demeanour. Then, even more quietly, ‘You see, Mirabelle was my sister.’

I lean against the cool stone of the wall and massage my temples. The freezing wind feels as if it will rip the skin from my bones.

‘She was your sister?’

Julia nods.

‘I hadn’t seen her since she was a girl. Our parents were religious and didn’t approve of her marrying outside our faith, so they didn’t come to the wedding. But the two of us stayed in touch, we wrote letters.’ Julia wipes away a tear. I’m rooted to the spot, anxiety pooling in my stomach.

‘She’d told me that Leonard wasn’t always kind to her. Then… then, the letters stopped.’ Julia looks haunted. ‘But then I had my job, my work…’ She wraps her arms around herself. ‘The police, well they just presumed she’d just walked out. When my brother was sick and was being treated near here, I came to look after him, but I wanted to find out what happened to Mirabelle so I took the job at the chateau. I just wanted to see if I could find any information about her.’

I nod slowly. Things fitting into place. At least it explained why Julia was rooting around the house at night, the footsteps in the attic, why she’d felt compelled to wear her sister’s clothes. I shudder suddenly. How horrible to think that her sister’s body was lying just a few hundred metres from where we stood now. I’d never met Mirabelle, but we are connected. In one of the pictures of her sitting on the swing with her son on her lap, Matthieu is probably the same age as Jasper.

‘Thanks for telling me,’ I say, reaching out and patting her shoulder awkwardly.

She looks at me, surprised.

‘Oh, that wasn’t what I came here to tell you.’

I glance at her sharply.

‘What do you mean?’

She lowers her voice. ‘While I was… keeping an eye on things around the house, I came across something.’ She pulls a folded document from her bag and opens it out. ‘I wanted to tell you sooner but I wasn’t sure if I should.’

We look at each other a moment, and then I take the pages from her freezing hands and she turns to leave.

‘It’s probably nothing…’ she says, looking back over her shoulder at me sympathetically.

‘I couldn’t help Mirabelle, but maybe I can help you in some other way.’

I watch her weave her way back to her car, treading cautiously across the dark driveway.

The red brake lights of her car cast a red glow across my face as I read the letter gripped between my shaking fingers.

It’s addressed to Will. From an Oberdash Mayers Insurance company PLC.

Confirming a life assurance for £5 million. For me. Taken out by Will.

I stand in silence, clutching the doorframe of my home so tightly that it feels as if my nails might splinter.

I double over as my dinner comes up and I heave again, retching with the shock and horror of realisation.

When I’ve nothing left inside of me, I look up. I hold my hand out to the starless night. A bat cries in the distance, echolocating with frenzied chirps. Will appears around the door.

‘All OK, Ellie?’ he smiles, those brown eyes unreadable. ‘What are you doing out here?’

He puts his arm around my stiff shoulders and starts to steer me inside. The snow slowly begins to fall.

I start to follow him slowly back inside.

This house sees everything, but will tell nothing.

I pause a moment. One cold drop melts into my outstretched palm. Tiny, like a teardrop.

Epilogue

The footage Sue watches back is staticky, the perils of having it connected to the patchy Wi-Fi present at Château Mirabelle that September just before the wedding. She’d found the GoPro cameras in the boxes Larry had dropped off and had connected them to her laptop. Most of them were time-lapse of the renovations; painting work, footage of the pool being drained and a tour of the winery in one of the tractors. But then she’d found this one.

Sue watches the screen in horror as a figure appears in the hallway of Château Mirabelle like a ghost. Someone enters Leonard’s room on the morning of the wedding. In a wedding suit.

It’s Will Buchanan. He has a pharmacy bag in his hand.

Surely not.

Sue had been so sure it was Elle who had something to do with Leonard’s passing, she’d discounted Will’s motivations. But it made perfect sense suddenly – the gambling, the money problems, the risk of losing Elle, his bloody entitlement. Of course, Will would benefit the most if Leonard was gone. Giving him penicillin and blaming Julia was such a simple way to do it.

Eyes wide, Sue sits forward. The tape glitches, and she fast-forwards until there’s another movement on the screen. Elle enters Leonard’s room a while later, her long white dress trailing on the ground behind her. She walks barefoot into Leonard’s room. Sue’s heart hammers in her chest, afraid of seeing what really happened that day at Château Mirabelle.

The GoPro camera that she’d placed on the picture ledge all that time ago has a view of the hallway right down to the bottom of the stairs. It’s partly obscured. Sue sits forward a little more.

She’d gone back and dropped all the GoPros into her suitcase the day she’d fled France, not even thinking straight. All she’d wanted in that moment was to get away from that awful place. She hadn’t given them a second thought since.

Suddenly Pierre appears at the bottom of the stairs in the footage. He takes them two at a time and enters Leonard’s room. A minute later, Elle comes running out; her dress seems to catch on the door and she glances over her shoulder, fear written all over her face.

Another glitch and Sue curses. It’s already hard to see the figures in the footage, but the voices she can hear clearly.

A horrible shriek from Elle as she’s chased down the stairs by Pierre. There’s something in her hand; the candelabra. Sue pauses the video a moment as she tries to slow her own breathing.

Maybe she shouldn’t be watching this.

She takes a breath, calms herself and presses play again.

On the screen, there’s a scuffle on the stairs. Elle breaks free from Pierre’s grasp and falls the last few steps onto the stone floor.

A pit of dread lines Sue’s stomach. She watches Pierre hover over Elle. He bends close to her. He raises the candelabra up over his head and Sue almost covers her eyes.

There’s a pleading voice. Elle’s. Begging Pierre not to hurt her. Then a flash at one corner of the screen, and another figure appears. Sue gasps when she sees who it is.

They charge into Pierre and wrestle the candelabra away from him. In one fluid motion, the person knocks Pierre to the ground and swings the weapon over their head. There’s a high-pitched scream.

It’s JJ.

Elle’s brother continues screaming as he hits Pierre over and over. When he grows quiet, his face is just a wound. But JJ goes on beating. Sue feels a wave of nausea. On the screen, Elle stands trembling over her brother, pleading with him to stop.

‘This is so fucked up,’ she’s shouting, trying to pull JJ off the body on the floor.

Sue closes her eyes as she hears their conversation.

‘JJ stop. He’s gone. He can’t hurt me anymore. Oh my God. Oh my God, what are we going to do?’

JJ sobs as Elle grasps at her brother, trying to calm him down.

‘It was like that time…’ JJ finally says, hoarsely, staggering backwards. ‘I couldn’t save you back then…’

Elle’s voice: ‘JJ, you have saved me by coming back. More than you know.’

A beat of silence as she holds him to her. Blood covers her dress when JJ pulls back. Then Elle speaks, her tone more frantic. ‘This can’t happen. You have a record, JJ. You will be sent away again, even if we explain it was self-defence. I can’t let that happen, JJ. I can’t have you leave me again. No.’

She curls her fists. ‘No,’ she repeats louder now.

‘I thought he was going to kill you.’ JJ sounds like a child. His shoulders sag, his hands hang loose by his sides. ‘I didn’t mean to, Elaine.’

‘JJ, you have to go. Leave right now. I will deal with this.’

‘No, Elaine. I can’t…’ They both turn to look at the body on the ground.

‘Go, John-Joe,’ Elle hisses urgently. ‘Get rid of your T-shirt.’ Her brother glances down, disorientated.

There’s a moment where the siblings stand face to face. JJ touches his fingertips to Elle’s, and it’s obvious to Sue that this is a sign of affection that’s deeply familiar to them both. Perhaps something they used to do a lifetime ago. They steeple their fingers into an apex and press their foreheads together. Tears run down Elle’s cheeks.

The sense of voyeurism on this private moment almost makes Sue look away.

Then JJ is gone from the scene, and Elle collapses on the stairs, her face a picture of pain, crumpled and defeated as she sobs into her hands.

Sue takes it all in, the huge sweeping staircase, the candelabra, the bloodied body of the man, and Elle on the stairs, diminished and dazed. The warped act of love she’s just witnessed gives Sue a peculiar feeling.

On the one hand, this is exactly what she wanted – proof that Elle lied about what happened that day. Proof that Will poisoned, and most likely went on to murder Leonard Louvain.

On the other hand, Sue isn’t a monster. Yes, she’s jealous, often complicated and certainly vindictive, but she’s human. After what she’s seen, she knows it will blow up Elle and JJ’s lives. She’s not exactly sure who the victim is here.

Sue replays that silent and intimate moment again. The siblings’ determination to save one another. Would Amy do that for her? Wouldn’t Sue do the same for her sister?

She spends an hour editing the video down to the four minutes where everything happens. For the next hour she sits in front of her computer as the room grows increasingly dark, contemplating what she should do.

Should she delete it, or post it online?

Go to the police, or take her own form of justice?

The police had dismissed her in the past. They’d probably dismiss this as tampering with evidence. It would never make it to court.

Sue cannot shake the image of Elle’s face as she sat on the stairs.

They say the pen is mightier than the sword, but social media brings a whole new element to what it means to have power. It can make or break you, depending on how you present something. Neck-breakingly swift justice, or the people’s version of it anyway.

In a way, Sue realises, she’s gotten exactly what she wanted. Now she gets to play God.

Should she punish Elle Littlewood or absolve her. Retribution or exoneration?

Delete or post? Delete or post…

Sue takes a breath. She curls her left hand around the arm of her chair, as though to steady herself. She pictures Elle’s face; her devastating dazzling smile, those sad, sad eyes.

She hovers the mouse arrow over one button, then the other. A lump forms in her throat and she tries to swallow it down. Sue understands that this isn’t really about Elle at all, this is about her.

She clicks.

Acknowledgements

Circa one million years ago, I lived in an Italian chateau for a summer. I’d been on my Erasmus year in Siena, Italy. Keen to earn some money on the side, I began teaching English to the children of a lovely family called the Biondi-Santi’s. Mornings at Villa Greppo were spent getting the children up and out into the grounds where we’d play in the pool, race through the vines, and play hide and seek inside its labyrinthine corridors. It was like living in a fairy-tale. Until they told me about the ghost…

Since then, I’ve always been fascinated with old buildings and the energy it takes to bring them back to life. Injecting a new history can alter that energy completely, so when Elle Littlewood exploded into my imagination, I wondered what it might be like to channel all that hope and newness into a chateau like the one from my time in Italy. I loved the conflict that Leonard Louvain brought to the table. He represents the (almost) ghost of someone very much rooted in the past. I enjoyed writing the dynamic between their perspectives, while also delving into the fascinating world of influencers. But ultimately this book is about something we can all identify with – finding a place to call home, whether it’s place or a person.

It was great fun to write. But it wasn’t the easiest, which is why I’m so grateful to my wonderful agent Madeleine Milburn and to the fantastic Rachel Yeoh who dedicated so much time to Elle and her dilemma. I’m so grateful for the brilliant team at Canelo publishing including Alicia Pountney, Thanhmai Bui-van, Nicola Piggott, Kate Shepherd and Deirbhile Brennan for their guidance and hard work in getting The Perfect Place to… the perfect place! Thank you to Lisa Brewster for the stunning cover. A huge thanks to my editor Louise Cullen for her excellent insights into Elle, Sue and Will’s differing motivations, and how they clash as the wedding of the year at Château Mirabelle looms ever closer.

I couldn’t have done this without the amazing support from my wider family and friends. Thanks to the Mulvee’s and the Cassidy’s for always showing up for me.

Thank you to the school mums and dads for the gorgeous cheerleading too. From the kind questions about how the writing is going, to the dig-outs for sports-lifts when the children had matches or training mid-edits, I’m honestly so blown away by the fabulous community we are so lucky to have around us. It’s hugely appreciated.

I want to give special thanks to the book community, both online and at all the events I get to speak at or attend. It’s been such a wonderful career shift in my forties and I’m grateful every single day for booksellers, bookstagrammers, librarians and of course, readers for the reshares, the thumbs up, the time taken to review or photograph my books, as well as the lovely compliments. It means the world.

To all my amazing author friends, (you know who you are!) Thank you for being in my corner and for the always generous advice. I treasure your unwavering support, blurbs, chats over tea and (more often) wine. Being surrounded by such endlessly talented writers is truly inspirational.

I want to thank everyone at Tyrone Guthrie Centre in Annaghmakerrig for offering blissful sanctuary (and the very best meals!) as I worked on ALL the versions of this book. A huge thanks also to the exceptional team at The Irish Examiner; Vickie, Irene, Esther, Des, Caroline, Denise, Nicole, Maeve and Jillian for their understanding and kindness as I navigated features and fiction this time around.

Finally, to my family; To Karl, Eva, Bobby and Isabella, thank you for coming on this journey with me. Thank you for the drawings, the inspiration, the suggestions, the emergency ‘of course you can do this’ pep talks, the endless cups of tea, the re-reads, the chorus of cheers over every little milestone, and attempts to sell my books to every unsuspecting stranger.

Your love and support spur me on to make you even prouder.

X

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About the Author

Amanda Cassidy is a freelance journalist, commissioning editor, former Sky News reporter, and author. She has been shortlisted for the Irish Journalist of the Year Awards, the Headline Media writing awards and more recently has been shortlisted for the CWA John Creasey New Blood Dagger for her debut novel, Breaking. She’s a frequent contributor to national radio, print and television and holds a BA in French and Italian from Trinity College Dublin. When she’s not on a plane, you’ll find her in her cottage in Dublin where she lives with her husband and three young children. Amanda can be found @amandacasssidy on Twitter.

Also by Amanda Cassidy

Breaking

The Returned

The Perfect Place

Copyright

First published in the United Kingdom in 2024 by Canelo

Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
Unit 9, 5th Floor
Cargo Works, 1-2 Hatfields
London SE1 9PG
United Kingdom

Copyright © Amanda Cassidy, 2024

The moral right of Amanda Cassidy to be identified as the creator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Ebook ISBN 978 1 80436 813 8
Hardback ISBN 978 1 80436 808 4
Export Trade Paperback ISBN 978 1 80436 812 1

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Lisa Brewster

Cover images © Alamy, Shutterstock

Look for more great books at www.canelo.co