He took another quick sip, and blinked into the blizzard outside, eager to see her again. She didn’t reply.

  ‘Playing it coy, Julia? I like it⁠—’

  The sound of the gun was startling. He didn’t have time to react. He was aware of his mouth hanging open but his brain was unable to keep up with the pain in his chest. He felt his eyes bulge, and heard a glass shatter. A horrible wet wheezing sound filled the space around him.

  Footsteps. They came towards him. His vision was already fading. The world was tinged with grey and whites. He was cold. So very cold.

  He felt the work of nimble fingers unclasp the crucifix from around his neck. There was a voice exclaiming something in quick, frantic Italian. Then, before another thought could form from the confusion, everything faded away.

  CALAN

  The sun hadn’t fully risen and the sky was a brilliant gauze of orange snow clouds. Calan stood shivering in his swimming trunks on the decking, ready to jump into the water. Jules had instructed him to get the lochside firepits ready for the pic ’n’ dip this afternoon, which had made him realise that a cold plunge was exactly what he needed.

  He breathed out in three exaggerated whooshes, closed his eyes, and stepped into mid-air. The cold wasn’t immediate. It was more of a numb shock for a few seconds, the water submerging his head, enveloping his whole body, before it seized him. Kicking to the surface, a roar escaped his lungs as he gasped for air. The release of frustration felt incredible.

  How could Jules have not taken the missing rifle seriously? She was the one who was always banging on about guest safety and all that. Did a missing weapon not strike her as a problem? She was so patronising, treating him like a child. Well, he wasn’t. Did he have to spell the Marta situation out to her? Jules ran this place, didn’t she? She was the boss. Shouldn’t she have the sense to read between the lines?

  He hauled his weight up the steps and flung the towel around his shoulders, shivering violently as he dried himself. The abrupt change in temperature brought a bit of clarity at least. He would take things into his own hands.

  Tonight would be the final time. No question. The decision was made. He was putting an end to this horrible, messy affair. For the last time, he’d let her do whatever she wanted; he’d grit his teeth, then he’d put a stop to it. He’d put his foot down, say whatever he had to say. There would be no more surprise meetings, no more whispers from the shadows, no more knocks on his door in the middle of the night.

  He patted himself dry, his face set with grim determination. One last time. He could take it one last time.

  MARTA

  ‘When you’re near me, I see the world in technicolour. Your smile melts through the coldest winter. Our love will last a thousand years over, when you’re near…’

  The sunrise cast a narrow shard of yellow light over the courtyard. Marta rocked back and forth as she sang in her cabin, her eyes closed, her head tilted upwards as she immersed herself in the memories. It was so easy to return to those nights. She could conjure the laughter, the aimless conversations, the warmth, the gentle touches and caresses. All she needed to do was think of their song. The lyrics they’d sung together on many a wine-drenched night were like a prayer transporting her back to another time.

  London hadn’t been easy when she’d arrived all those years ago. The slow pace of her hometown in coastal Calabria couldn’t have been further removed from the constant noise, the churning, the spitting, writhing, relentless city. Her parents hadn’t wanted her to move.

  Marta, what about friends? You know no one. What about your family? Are you not worried about money, Marta? Why not cook here? Open a restaurant here. It will be far cheaper. Why leave us? Why leave your home?

  For a while, she suspected they were right. Her English was sufficient, but the people in this city weren’t patient with her. An insidious sneer followed her about the place, like there was a secret code nobody was telling her about. For example, it took her about a month to realise that it was pointless changing at Charing Cross underground station for Embankment, where she worked in a chain burger restaurant, since they were a mere twenty seconds’ walk from each other. The whole city was a frightening mystery to her. The sprawling, endless myriad of grey stone and Tube stations and glass skyscrapers and buses and commuters was impenetrable. She was, for longer than was bearable, an outsider.

  Eventually, she secured a job as a kitchen porter in a small Italian restaurant in Highbury. She moved from her sad hostel room in Bloomsbury, which smelt interchangeably of urine and weed, to the top floor of a townhouse in Holloway. She had no friends and no social life to speak of, so dedicated herself fully to her craft. She studiously watched the senior chefs at play, committing how they moved their fingers around their knives, how they gently slurped almost-reduced jus to check its consistency, how they judged pasta to be ready from the colour of the water to memory. She volunteered to clean up when the dishwashers called in sick. And, when she got home long after midnight, she opened her kitchen cupboards and laid out her modest ingredients before practising what she had learnt that day until the early hours.

  She began to enjoy her own company. Within six months, she had been promoted to commis chef, and it seemed impossible she’d even be able to find the time for friends. That was until Rebekah walked into the restaurant.

  It was a rare, crisp blue Tuesday in November and the lunch rush had just begun to quieten down. Apart from two businessmen finishing their wine, the dining space was empty. Since the waiting staff had already left for their break, Marta took the lead.

  ‘Hello, table for one?’

  She smiled like she was supposed to. She knew service wasn’t her forte, preferring to work behind the scenes, but doing an exceptional job – whatever it was – was important.

  Marta remembered how the customer had glanced around the space, her eyes widening, before shooting her a nervous grin. ‘I’m Rebekah… I’m… testing the menu.’

  She sounded embarrassed, as if she’d got something wrong. ‘I’m from the PR firm? Er… the CEO was supposed to be here, but she’s been held up… so it’s just me.’

  Marta felt the space between her eyebrows crinkle. Surely, this woman, barely a year older than her, wouldn’t be receiving a free meal? Three courses with wine came close to £150. ‘Let me just check.’

  She opened the booking system, and, sure enough, she was entered as a gratuity meal with the note *Our new PR company – impress!*.

  ‘It should have been confirmed…’

  Rebekah had been so unsure of herself, which struck Marta as odd. She was the sort of girl who exuded a weightless, careless beauty. Her hair was long and fell in waves over her shoulders. She wasn’t wearing obvious make-up, but her skin was luminous, with a deep caramel undertone. Someone who looked like her surely never felt self-conscious?

  Realising she was staring, Marta cleared her throat. ‘Yes, absolutely. It’s fine, right here.’

  They got chatting almost immediately after Marta took her drinks order. Rebekah even offered her a glass of the Gavi di Gavi, which she declined, but throughout the service, their conversation moved from small talk, to where they lived, how they liked London, and what they were doing that night.

  Marta remembered how she had looked at her feet, suddenly shy. She was confounded by how this vivacious, bright thing would want to spend more time with her. ‘Oh, I’m working.’

  ‘When do you get off?’ Rebekah handed her a company credit card, her finger grazing the back of Marta’s hand. She felt a light flush rise up her cheeks.

  ‘I…’ She had been planning to try laminating dough again that night. Over the last couple of weeks, she thought she almost had the process perfected, but wanted to see whether the bread flour she’d used in the last batch made it any easier to roll thin.

  She met Rebekah’s eyes, which seemed so patient and accepting. ‘Do you like pastry?’

  The next few months were magical. Both of them were too poor to go out, so Rebekah spent wonderful night after night in Marta’s studio flat. They drank whatever the restaurant gifted Marta after busy shifts. Rebekah slid into the role of Marta’s at-home sous chef, growing giddy on wine as Marta worked. The 2am tasting test became their ritual, before they both more often than not slumped, exhausted, onto the futon.

  They sang.

  Sometimes, they sang so much that the neighbours downstairs rang the doorbell to ask them to shut up.

  They danced.

  Rebekah was so good at moving. Marta loved how she intermittently closed her eyes and let her arms move freely to the music, before catching herself, her mouth pinched into an embarrassed pout. She held Marta’s hands and encouraged her to dance with her, showing her how to twist and shake and wiggle. They always fell onto the floorboards in fits of giggles afterwards, both of them gasping for breath.

  Their first kiss happened early on. Marta could still feel the rush of excitement, the taste of Rebekah, the electrifying moment when they committed to the embrace and allowed their hands to go where it felt right. It happened again the next night, and then became a regular occurrence.

  A few months later, when they were snuggling in bed, a delicious buzz of alcohol and passion whirring through her brain, Marta plucked up the courage. ‘So, what do I call you?’

  Rebekah laughed. Such a joyous and pure sound. It still rang through Marta’s heart all these years later. ‘Errrm, Rebekah. That’s my name.’

  ‘I know…’ Marta bit her lip, struggling not to show her frustration. ‘But are you… are we…’

  Rebekah turned towards her and pressed her nose against hers. ‘Girlfriends?’

  She laughed again, which made Marta worried. Had she said the wrong thing? She’d been so stupid to bring it up – it didn’t matter what they called each other, as long as they were together. As long as it always stayed the same. After Rebekah stopped laughing, a more serious expression clouded her face. ‘Would you like that?’

  Marta didn’t reply straight away. Something about the way Rebekah asked made her hesitate. ‘Is it your family? You said your parents were Catholic too? I think if we⁠—’

  ‘It’s not that.’ Rebekah smiled and took her face into her hands. ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  Rebekah shook her head and turned away from her, pulling her knees to her stomach. ‘Can we talk about it another time? I’m knackered.’

  Marta’s lips moved over the conversation as she remembered it in her cabin. ‘Certo,’ she replied. ‘Sweet dreams.’

  Pulling herself out from the memories, she wiped her cheeks dry. There were jobs that needed doing. The winter picnic was that afternoon: she needed to prepare the hampers and the mulled wine. Of course, the most important job was keeping a close eye on Calan. He seemed more wound up than usual. Of all people, she was able to sense it. She could see it in his mannerisms. She’d seen how he shivered and screamed this morning in the cold water when he thought nobody was watching. She’d heard his anguished cries.

  Now, however, she was armed. She had for a long time suspected the danger he was in. And now God had paved the way for her to protect him however she saw fit. Already, she had put her plan in action. She was watching more closely than she ever had before. Already, she was walking the righteous path.

  ‘Do not worry, Calan,’ she whispered. ‘My love will last a thousand years over.’

  LUCAS

  Lucas slipped on yet another patch of ice and swore loudly. It had been near impossible to drag himself out of bed this early (especially during half-term!), but it was worth it to find the perfect spot. Things were looking up, after all. Forgetting the miserable start, last night had actually been an unmitigated success. Sandeep and he had enjoyed a wonderful meal. The conversation had been flowing. It had been obvious that Sandeep was really hanging off his every word.

  Lucas smiled, patting the ring in his pocket. He was so lucky to have such an attentive boyfriend… soon to be fiancé!

  Yes, sure, Sandeep could be a little dense when it came to emotional intelligence. And, yes, he was also a bit flirtatious with strangers. He was definitely a prude… and frugal to a fault. And sometimes too serious for his own good. And a coward when it came to his family. But, none of that really mattered, did it? Not when you loved someone. And Lucas was certain he loved Sandeep for all his glaring faults, which would hopefully be ironed out over the coming years. That was marriage, wasn’t it? Making little (sometimes big) improvements here and there.

  Sandeep had certainly made it clear what he thought Lucas needed to improve upon. Possessive. Ugh, it was such an overdramatic word. As he’d suggested many times before, jealous would be more suitable. Or enthusiastic. He wasn’t anywhere near possessive, even though it might occasionally come across that way. Anyway, he’d explained all about why he disliked Sandeep’s wandering eyes so much. After that first confrontation with the oh-so perfect Bebe, he’d been forced to. He specifically remembered how the conversation had gone in the pub at the end of their road.

  ‘I just don’t understand why you hate her so much,’ Sandeep had said, taking a sip of a pint at their local. ‘She seemed okay.’

  ‘I don’t hate her.’

  Lucas was well aware the venom in his voice suggested otherwise as he skimmed over the shitshow that had been his childhood, but he didn’t care. Sandeep could believe him or not. ‘I just wish things could have panned out differently,’ he finished. ‘I’m not an idiot. She was young too, but that doesn’t stop me wishing she’d protected me.’

  He shrugged, the familiar puppet-like indifference taking over like it always did when he talked about his upbringing. ‘I can’t help how I feel and she can’t change what she did or didn’t do. Dad could have apologised for being an abusive arsehole, but that’s not going to happen now he’s gone. So, it’s best for me and Bebe to keep our distance. I’m fine with it, honestly. But it’s why trust is so important to me.’

  He imitated his therapist’s voice, trying to make light of the conversation. ‘You felt let down as a child, so it makes sense you expect those you love as an adult to eventually let you down too.’

  Sandeep didn’t speak for a minute or so, and instead stared at his pint. Eventually, he replied with, ‘Families. Complex, aren’t they? But with everything going on with my dad… I don’t know. She’s still family. Maybe you’ll work it out.’

  It wasn’t precisely the hug-in-a-mug Lucas was expecting, but at least Sandeep didn’t employ the faux “omigod that’s awwwful” that previous boyfriends had. He didn’t like focusing on the details anyway. His father had been angry and belligerent. He’d focused all his rage on his son… because of… well, who knew? And it didn’t matter anyway, because he was building a new family with Sandeep. What was in the past was in the past.

  Little had he known then that he and Sandeep would find themselves trapped on the world’s most depressing family holiday only months later. He blinked, trying to dispel the vivid images that surged behind his eyes. Placing a foot on the ice, he applied a little pressure and watched it crack in long, insidious branches.

  The early sun pressed against the heavy sky and the loch glowed golden underneath it. Lucas squinted at the strange expanse and bit his lip. The champagne bottle had grown so cold that it was starting to make his fingers sting. He shook his shoulders, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. Now, where was a good place to hide it? They would want some privacy for the Big Moment, obviously. Trouble was, that involved risking his life on this ice rink of a path. He gritted his teeth, telling himself that the ruined suede of his shoes was a small price to pay for the perfect proposal. Spitting out the snow which insisted on filling his mouth every time he took a breath, he scanned the middle distance.

  Ah ha! Was that a hut? Another one of those bothies, or whatever they were called? That would actually be the perfect location! Especially if there was a fire like the one yesterday. He hugged his arms around his middle, wishing he’d put a proper coat on. The hotel’s dressing gown felt a little flimsy in this weather. Putting his head down, he soldiered on, grimacing. This would make a hilarious story once the ring was on Sandeep’s finger and the champagne had been popped!

  The hut looked even more perfect close up. It was perched on the shore like it was just made for cosy, romantic escapades. If the weather cleared up, the Insta photos would be next level. Pushing open the door, wondering how much of a big deal it was that he couldn’t feel his toes, he poked his head inside.

  It was just what he’d hoped. A warm slice of luxury in the rugged landscape… and a fridge! He popped the bottle in and scanned the space more carefully. There were two armchairs and a very expensive-looking sheepskin rug – ideal for what he had in mind after Sandeep said yes.

  He frowned, cocking his head to one side as his eyes fell on a dark stain in the corner. He crouched to try and wipe it off, but the substance was encrusted onto the fluffy sheepskin. It was a bit unsanitary, wasn’t it? Probably some blood from a pheasant or something… or worse: fish guts. His lips twisted in disgust and he frantically wiped his hand on the dressing gown.

  It was fine, he thought. Completely fine. There was no need to panic. He just needed to find someone to clean it up – he’d explain what a special occasion it was, and his plan could still come together nicely. After performing a quick, excited spin on the spot, he hurried back down the lochside path.

  JULES

  Opening her eyes, Jules rolled over in bed and groaned. Her mouth tasted of whisky, and wine, and the other ten drinks she’d downed before sleep had finally put her out of her misery. There was something particularly destabilising about waiting for a knock on the door that seemed less and less likely to come. Was it her fault? Had she misunderstood Zach somehow?

  Rob had always told her how prone she was to misinterpretation. That’s not what I meant, Jules. No, you’re hearing things. You’re making stuff up again. She shook her head and flinched at the all-too-familiar throb. No. Zach had been keen. She was certain of it. He had agreed to meet her. Nobody kissed like that unless they really meant it.