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it was only a local paper, the atmosphere at the Gazette was fiercely competitive and cutthroat, so against my better judgement, I rang the distraught parents and was told in no uncertain terms to fuck off. Then I rang the grandparents and the uncles and aunts and neighbours until eventually, I got the quote I needed. I remember that now with shame.

I donā€™t scream at the reporters. Instead, I draw the curtains and sit in the darkened room, my head buried in my hands, trying not to cry.

After what seems like an age, I hear them packing up and driving away and I feel safe to open the curtains again and let in whatā€™s left of the daylight. The man that lives across the street is gawping at me. I repress the urge to give him the finger and turn away abruptly. God only knows what Eileen and Bob will have made of this.

I donā€™t want to think about it all any more. I retreat to the back room and try to forget the only way I know how. I switch on my laptop, open the Embers file, and write until the real world recedes, until Iā€™m absorbed into Mollyā€™s world and the simple battle between good and evil. The words flow easily, and my fingers fly over the keys, my word count steadily climbing. Iā€™m not sure how long I sit there writing but when I finally stop, my bum is sore from sitting still for so long and itā€™s already getting dark.

I look at the time in the corner of the screen. Itā€™s seven-thirty and Dylan will be heading to bed soon. I miss him a lot when heā€™s not here. The house feels so lonely and empty without him. But Iā€™m relieved he wasnā€™t around to witness those reporters. The poor boy must be confused enough as it is.

When I ring Theoā€™s to say goodnight to Dylan, I can hear the burble of the TV and Harper talking in the background and I imagine the three of them cuddled up cosily on the sofa. I picture Dylan leaning against Harper as she ruffles his hair and Theo pouring her a glass of wine. In my Ā­imagination, Harperā€™s wearing a simple white slip dress, her hair is down and she looks beautiful and slim. Beautiful, slim and innocent. Everything Iā€™m not.

ā€˜Sleep tight, donā€™t let the bed bugs bite,ā€™ I say to Dylan, biting back tears.

ā€˜What bugs?ā€™ Dylan sounds alarmed.

ā€˜Itā€™s just an expression. There arenā€™t any bugs, really. I just mean I hope you sleep well, and Iā€™ll see you tomorrow. Night night, sweetheart.ā€™

ā€˜Night night, Mummy.ā€™

ā€˜Can you just get your daddy for a minute? I want to speak to him.ā€™

ā€˜Hello?ā€™ Theo takes the phone. He sounds impatient, no doubt annoyed to have his perfect evening with Harper interrupted.

I want to tell him about the press and about the interview with the police today. I need to talk to someone about all the craziness in my head. But he doesnā€™t sound like he wants to talk. He sounds like he canā€™t wait to be rid of me.

ā€˜I just wanted to remind you that Iā€™m taking Dylan to play with his friend tomorrow,ā€™ I say in the end.

He sighs. ā€˜Okay. I havenā€™t forgotten. Iā€™ll see you tomorrow, then.ā€™

ā€˜Yes, see you tomorrow.ā€™ I hang up.

Without really being aware of what Iā€™m doing I head to the kitchen, make myself a cup of tea and open a large bag of salted peanuts. Then I switch on the TV and sit down, shovelling peanuts into my mouth, tears of self-pity rolling down my cheeks. I catch the end of an old comedy show, which washes over me and then the evening news comes on. I brace myself for whatā€™s coming. Iā€™m terrified that Iā€™ll be on, but I need to know. Maybe itā€™ll be a busy news night. If thereā€™s a lot happening around the world, maybe theyā€™ll skip the story about Charlie. You never know, I could be lucky.

The lead news item is about the upcoming elections, and then they bang on about Brexit and the economy again for a while. The half hour is nearly up, and Iā€™m beginning to think I might have got away with it, but my hopes are quickly dashed when Charlieā€™s picture flashes up on the screen, her big hair, big smile ā€“ lots of teeth. Of course, they were never going to drop a story like this. An attractive young woman dies under mysterious circumstances in a posh country house. Itā€™s like an Agatha Christie. This is catnip for the press.

ā€˜An ā€œangelā€ who was loved by everyone,ā€™ runs the caption underneath. They show an interview with Adam during which he tears up and says that he canā€™t imagine life without her, then a short clip of Ben Wiltshire basically saying what he told me ā€“ that she was ā€˜an angelā€™ and he owes his life to her.

ā€˜Charlotte Holbrooke was much loved by friends and family, described by those who knew her as selfless and caring,ā€™ concludes the male news anchor. ā€˜Police arenā€™t ruling anything out and couldnā€™t be drawn to comment on a woman that was seen close to the Bathurst estate on Friday night.ā€™

The photofit of me appears on the screen and thereā€™s a split screen of me dashing to my house chased by reporters. Oh, God ā€“ I look guilty as hell, I think. Why else would I be so unwilling to talk to the press?

The news reporter moves on to a light story about a dog that was rescued from a well somewhere in Africa. Iā€™m just turning off the TV and heading up to bed when my phone beeps, making me jump.

Itā€™s a text from Georgia.

Just checking youā€™re still on for tomorrow. ļŠ

She obviously hasnā€™t seen the news.

The last thing I want to do at the moment is socialise and make small talk with someone I barely know, but Dylan has been looking forward to this playdate and I donā€™t want to disappoint him

I hesitate,

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