Erin was undeterred. ‘It tells me that you might have to put in a bit of effort, but I think you need to woman up and do this. Come on, Soph, no matter what happens, it can’t be any worse than what we’ve already been through.’

  The truth of that began to sway her. Nothing could be worse than losing Mum in such a brutal, painful way.

  ‘Plus, not to pull the emotional blackmail card, but Mum would have wanted you to do this. You know she would.’

  Erin was right. Their mum had been a ‘live for the moment, chase your dreams’ type of personality who’d have been pushing her to face her fears and go for it.

  Erin went on. ‘It can’t be worse than a guy that wants you to put your feet in beans.’

  She had a point and the beans had been the clincher.

  Over the next few days, she’d thought about it, summoned the courage from somewhere deep inside, and then went for it, throwing herself into a whirlwind of flight and hotel bookings, and then packing and preening to prepare to come here. She’d even shaved her legs for the first time in months and taken herself to the hairdresser.

  Now she shook out her wet, freshly highlighted hair as she reached for the phone.

  If it wasn’t Erin texting, that meant it could only be…

  She checked the screen. Dad.

  Hello sweetheart, how are you today? How’s Glasgow? What time are you heading to the concert?

  Her mum had been the ‘live for today’ personality, but her dad was the opposite. Especially now. Since Mum died, he’d checked in on her at least once or twice every day and he always needed to know where she was going and when. The fact that she’d managed to get into an accident and spend the night in hospital without him knowing was utterly miraculous. She’d half expected a SWAT team to arrive at any second. Thank goodness that Erin had put her foot down when he’d suggested that they all install Find My Family on their phones.

  She texted him back straight away, because she knew that if she didn’t, he’d only worry and she didn’t want to cause him a second of panic.

  All great, Dad. In lovely hotel and going to do a bit of sightseeing today before I go to the concert. Hope you’re having a smashing day. Love you xx

  That’s good to hear! Will pick you up from the airport tomorrow night as promised. Love you too.

  It felt terrible lying to him, but again, she didn’t want to add to his stress by telling him the truth. Which was a total copout, but it was still true.

  Two years ago, she’d hadn’t told her parents about Ash’s proposal, because she knew her mum would be outraged that she’d given up her happiness to come home and look after her. Instead, she’d sworn Erin to secrecy, and played it down to Mum and Dad, telling them it was just a holiday romance. Their curiosity about Ash had soon got lost among the treatments and the surgeries and the chemo sessions and then the grief.

  It must have been on her dad’s mind last week though, because when she said she was coming to Scotland for a gig, he’d visibly paled, while trying his best to act casual.

  ‘That sounds nice, love. And erm… will you be meeting up with that lad you went out with up there?’

  She’d heard the anxiety in his tone though, saw the worry across his forehead. He’d lost stones in weight since Mum died and sometimes it seemed like he was living on a balanced diet of fake chirpiness and worry.

  ‘Ah no, Dad…’ Which was technically true. ‘You know we lost touch a long time ago. He’s probably forgotten all about me by now.’

  Some of the lines on his face had relaxed, as he’d taken that in. ‘You know, pet, I’ll never stand in the way of your happiness, but if I’m honest, it would be tough to have you move away.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad, I’m not going anywhere,’ she’d told him, guilt stricken even though she wasn’t actually being untruthful. The thought of potentially adding to his sadness almost made her cancel her flight right there and then, but Erin’s words kept replaying in her mind. Woman up. Mum would have wanted this. He’s the only man you’ve ever loved. And those beans…

  Today she would find out if the subterfuge, the trip, the expense and the near-death experience was all for nothing.

  Eager to get going, she chose a simple white vest top, tight and sleeveless, that showed off just an inch of her belly, while concealing her bruises, and on the bottom went for pale blue linen cargo pants. White trainers on her feet, some silver bangles and a bit of pink lip gloss and she was good to go.

  There was a queue at Greggs, directly across the square from the hotel, but she waited because she’d decided to treat herself to a sausage roll, then walked in the sunshine down to the Underground station on Argyle Street. She bought a ticket with her credit card, then got onto the first train that came along.

  Ash had told her that Glaswegians called it the Clockwork Orange because of the colour of the trains and the fact that it was a circular service. The memory of him made her smile, which was the effect he’d had on her since the first moment they’d met on that beach in Bali. They’d talked all night and, by dawn, they’d both changed their plans and spent the next eleven weeks travelling, talking, laughing and falling in love.

  There were only five stops to Hillhead station, five stops for the butterflies in her stomach to breed, ingest steroids and go on a rampage. By the time she came out on to Byres Road, she seriously believed her cardiovascular system was shutting down.

  She crossed the road, weaving through the standstill of West End traffic. When Ash had brought her here, she’d immediately fallen in love with the area. It was completely eclectic, teeming with students from Glasgow and Strathclyde Universities, heaving with tourists visiting the Botanic Gardens at the end of the road, and peppered with fancy big cars and women in expensive jewellery from the upmarket crescents and tree-lined streets of Dowanhill and Kelvinside.

  On the other side of the road, she turned left into Ruthven Street, then followed that road around to the gorgeous crescent where she’d spent one giddy month all those years ago. She saw the house immediately. It was a tall, beautiful Victorian townhouse in the middle of the terraced curve, opposite the kind of communal garden she’d seen in her favourite romcom, Notting Hill.

  Legs shaking, hands trembling, she climbed the ten stone stairs to the front door and stared at the silver door entry pad. Number 1B. There it was. She pressed it and held her breath until she was close to fainting, then almost hit the deck when a male voice said, ‘Hello?’

  It wasn’t him. Must be one of his flatmates. There had been two others living here with him.

  ‘Hi. I’m looking for Ash. Can you tell him it’s Sophie, please?’

  ‘I can’t…’

  Oh. He wasn’t in.

  She opened her mouth to ask if she could leave her number, when the voice at the other end carried on.

  ‘He moved out of here a year ago.’

  Crash. That was the butterflies in her stomach hitting a brick wall.

  ‘Do you have a forwarding address for him? Or a number. I’m a friend and I’ve lost touch. I can show you a photo of us together so you can see that I’m not a random weirdo.’

  ‘It wouldn’t do any good, because I don’t have any contact details for him. Like I said, he left about a year ago, and then someone else lived here, then we came here a month ago. I only know the name because we get the occasional letter for him, but we just bin them because he’s long gone. Sorry.’

  Sophie’s brain was both exploding and trying to think of any other possible productive question that she could ask, but all that came out was, ‘Okay, thanks. Sorry to bother you.’

  ‘No worries.’

  That was it. With a beep, the intercom went dead.

  She stood there staring at it for a few seconds, trying to come up with something useful, but it was hopeless. He wasn’t there.

  She turned around and started walking back to the station, thinking so hard it made the large bump on her head hurt again. What else could she try? She had no idea where he worked, because he was starting a new job after she left. That was why he’d taken a year out to backpack, because he knew that after his career in teaching began, he wouldn’t have another chance to escape for months on end.

  Along the crescent, back down the other street, across the road and into the station she’d only come out of ten minutes ago.

  As soon as she sat down on the train, she opened Instagram and put his name in. She’d done it many times over the last two years, but always with the same result. Nothing. She tried every variation of ‘Ash Aitken’ she could think of, even though he said he couldn’t be bothered with any of it, but maybe he’d changed his mind. She kept searching, getting more and more obtuse. Nope, still nothing.

  She glanced up and saw a sign saying that the trains had 4G, so she made a WhatsApp call to her favourite person.

  Erin answered on the first ring with a croaky, ‘Hello.’

  ‘How’s the hangover? Have you recovered yet?’ Sophie asked, trying her best to sound upbeat.

  ‘Nope, I’m still in bed. I’m having a self-care day. I’m three romcoms in and I’m convinced I’ll never find love like that. Tell me you’ve found Ash.’

  ‘No,’ she said, sighing. ‘I went to his house, but he’s moved.’

  ‘Ah, bollocks. So what’s the plan?’

  ‘I’m going to stake out George Square and hope he goes back there tonight, just like he did last year. It’s all I’ve got.’ Even as she said it, she felt the hopelessness of the plan.

  ‘I wish I’d come with you – that way, if he doesn’t show, I could take you to a karaoke bar and we could sing Spice Girls songs until we feel better.’

  ‘That’s where your mind goes in times of heartbreak?’ Sophie teased.

  ‘It is. Don’t judge me. Oh, wait until I tell you… I thought about you this morning when something made me cry.’

  ‘Because you were missing me madly?’

  ‘Yep, definitely that. Absolutely. Okay, no. I was listening to that podcast I love, you know, the one about knickers…’

  ‘Stop!’ Sophie demanded, before going for clarification. ‘You listen to a podcast about knickers? Why do I not know that?’

  Erin sighed. ‘You do. It’s not actually about knickers. You never listen. I told you about it before when we did that social media collab with Carol Cooper. She has a podcast called Twisted Knickers and I work for a knicker company – it’s like the fates have destined that we join together.’

  ‘I think you still have alcohol in your system from last night,’ Sophie chuckled, before spotting that the lady across from her was listening intently to her conversation. It was probably all the underwear chat. ‘Anyway, why did that make you think about me?’

  Sophie carried on half listening as the train pulled into the station and she got up to get off.

  ‘Ugh, it was the saddest story. Her mum… or maybe it was her aunt… I got too distraught to remember the details. Anyway, someone she loves came to visit her and flew down from Glasgow yesterday. You were going in the opposite direction so that’s why I thought of you. But on the way this lady lost her bag… or maybe it was her suitcase… like I said, the details are fuzzy.’

  Sophie stepped down onto the platform and started walking in the middle of a hoard of passengers along to the ticket barriers. ‘Aw, that’s a shame. I hope it turns up. You must have been really hungover if that made you cry though.’

  The call dropped out as Sophie went through the ticket barrier and climbed the stairs. She’d just made it out on to the busy concourse when Erin rang back.

  ‘I wasn’t finished! What made me cry was that in her bag, or her case, or whatever it was, there was a jewellery pouch and in it were four rings…’

  A flash of something in her mind made Sophie stop dead. Three people behind her crashed into each other in a human pile-up, then wandered off in a flurry of swear words and dirty looks.

  A pouch. Four rings. Her brain could picture it, but why? How?

  ‘And she started telling the story of them, about how one was the ring her husband proposed with and another was her friend’s ring who is dead now – that one was a gorgeous emerald… And oh my God, I was shredded and…’

  The picture was clearing. A pouch. Rings inside it. It had been in the taxi.

  ‘Erin, stop.’

  Sophie said it so quietly that Erin didn’t hear and carried on… ‘So, of course, then I I went down a rabbit hole and had to go onto her socials and look at all the pictures and…’

  ‘Erin, STOP.’ She said it so forcefully this time that a nearby bloke in a yellow high-vis vest eyed her with suspicion.

  Snapshots started flicking around her mind like they were attached to one of those old-fashioned Rolodexes.

  Yesterday. Taxi. Pouch. Floor. Brush. Rings. The argument with the taxi driver. Spinning. Crash. Pain. Blackness.

  ‘Okay, fine! No need to shout. I mean⁠—’

  ‘Erin, listen to me. The rings. Did one of them have little stones, like diamonds, in the shape of a D.’

  ‘Oh my God, how did you know that? You looked, didn’t you? Don’t freak me out with all that psychic bullshit.’

  ‘Erin, tell me again, what was the name of the woman on the podcast? The influencer?’

  ‘Carol Cooper. She’s like Mollie-Mae, but about thirty years older. I love her.’

  ‘Erin, I have to go.’

  ‘But I haven’t told you the rest of the story!’

  ‘I think I know how it ends. I’ll call you back. I love you. Bye!’

  And there, standing at the entrance to a Glasgow Underground station, Sophie went onto Instagram, found Carol Cooper’s page, and typed out a message about four rings to a woman she’d never met.

  19

  ALICE

  Alice had a fleeting moment of curiosity about how long it would take for the world to find her here if she never left. She was still sitting in the family room, in complete silence, and it was through choice, not necessity, because the truth was that the hospital felt like a safe cocoon that she never wanted to leave. In here, in this room, she was protected. She was alone, yet not isolated, because she could hear the bustle of people going up and down the corridor outside, and occasionally someone would pop their head in and ask if she wanted a cuppa. She had a feeling that was Richard Campbell’s doing.

  She’d even had some company for a while earlier. One of the nurses she’d seen in the ICU yesterday had knocked and come into the room. In a soft, warm voice, she’d introduced herself as Bernadette Manson, and Alice had immediately thought she was probably around the same age as her. They’d no doubt had very different lives though. Bernadette had the easy smile and the relaxed disposition of someone who exuded happiness.

  ‘There’s been no change, Mrs McLenn. I just wanted to let you know that I’m coming back onto shift shortly, so I’ll be on the ward all day if you need anything. How are you holding up?’

  Alice had been grateful for the question. ‘I’m fine. I mean, as fine I can be.’ It was difficult to know what she should say. I can’t stand my husband, and I’m only here because I can’t face going home to a house that I hate? I want to stay, because I want to know if he dies? Or if he lives? Because this is the first time I’ve felt truly safe and insulated from him in thirty years and I don’t want to be in a horrible house where I see him and the consequences of his actions everywhere?

  To her surprise, Bernadette had sat down on the chair opposite the sofa Alice had been on since yesterday.

  ‘Is there anything I can get you? Or anyone you want me to call for you? Can’t be easy being here on your own.’

  ‘No, I’m…’ To her surprise, Alice’s voice had cracked very slightly, and she’d paused, cleared her throat, hoped the other woman hadn’t noticed. She’d spent so many years behind her wall of protection, holding it together, detaching herself from real life and acting like she could cope with everything that came her way, that she had no ability or desire to show vulnerability to anyone, least of all a well-meaning stranger. ‘I’m fine. I’m happy to wait by myself.’

  At that point, Alice had thought Bernadette would get up and go, and it seemed that she was about to, but then she changed her mind. ‘I apologise if this is overstepping, but I just want you to know that I used to watch you on TV, and read about you in the newspapers when all that business was going on with your husband, and I thought you were very brave to deal with all that day in and day out. You clearly still are. I just wanted to tell you that.’

  The kindness had almost wiped out the last of Alice’s defences. All she wanted to do was to collapse, to cry, to run or to hide and right now she was taking the fourth option, the one most familiar to her. Hiding. Yet it felt like this woman could see every bit of her, peer right into her soul. Years of conditioning to stay quiet stopped her from revealing that it wasn’t bravery that made her endure the scandal – it was absolute fear of what Larry would do to her and Rory if she defied him and left him to deal with it all on his own. But of course, an outsider looking in, wouldn’t see that. Countless articles and opinion pieces in newspapers proclaimed that the fact she stood by Larry made her either mad, bad or complicit in the corruption. None of them ever called her brave.

  ‘Are you married, Bernadette?’

  The nurse had shaken her head. ‘No. But I was. For thirty years. To a heart surgeon. And I don’t say that with pride. The happiest day of my life was the day I left him.’

  Alice had flinched with surprise. It had definitely been an unexpected piece of information. ‘Really?’

  Bernadette clearly didn’t share Alice’s pathological need to protect the details of her life. ‘Yes. Everyone thought he was a wonderful man, but, by God, he was not. He was controlling, abusive and he made my life hell.’