“Well, perhaps it’s something to think about?” said Mr. Fenwick. “Now that you know it’s what your father wanted?”

“Yes.”

“I would talk it over with Matthew, if I were you, Maudie,” he suggested. “I know that some of the directors are keen to meet with you when you’re ready.”

“Right,” I said, helplessly. “Yes, I – I will.”

“Jolly good, my dear.”

After he’d rung off, I sat for a moment on the sofa, staring across the room. I felt winded. Why had Angus wanted me to take over his role on the board? I put my hand up to my face, biting my nails. It just seemed such an unlikely thing for him to have done – to endow me with all that responsibility. For a moment, I couldn’t remember what we ever had talked about, when we were together. The weather? My health?

And now this. Was this Angus’s way of saying he – he forgave me? That he thought I was someone whose judgement could be relied on? Was he saying that he believed in me, finally, after everything? Or was it just his way of keeping me within his grasp?

*

“To us,” said Matt, clinking his champagne glass against mine.

“To us,” I said and sipped my drink. The bubbles tickled my nostrils. I felt just fine; happily tipsy but still coherent, buoyed by my successful day.

“What a good idea this was,” Matt was saying, “I’m amazed you got a table, though.”

“Angus had an account here,” I said.

Matt rolled his eyes. “Of course he did. Not that I’m complaining.”

The waiter came to refill our glasses with the last of the champagne. I waited for him to leave, took a deep breath and relayed to Matt the conversation I’d had with Mr. Fenwick, earlier.

“The board of directors?” said Matt.

I had to laugh. “That’s exactly what I said.”

“Well–” said Matt, doubtfully. “Well, I’m not sure what to say.”

“That was pretty much my response at the time.”

He put his glass back on the table.

“I’m sure – I mean, Angus wouldn’t have wanted you to do it if he thought you weren’t up to it,” he said.

“Up to it?” I said.

“Well, yes,” said Matt. “Come on, you know what I mean.”

“I know I’m not very clever–” I began.

“That’s not what I meant. You’re not an intellectual or anything, but that’s not what I meant at all.”

I looked down at my plate. “You mean, I might not be up to it – well, mentally.”

“Yes,” said Matt. He looked awkward. “Come on, darling, you know it doesn’t matter to me. You can’t help your past. But, well, that’s not to say you should be put under any more pressure. I’m not sure you could handle the responsibility of a role like that. I mean, it’s an executive position. You’d have all sorts of things to worry about.”

Inside my head I agreed with him, but the words still stung. Perversely, I wanted to disagree. I opened my mouth and shut it again.

“You don’t have to decide now, do you?” said Matt. “I mean, that’s the sort of decision you have to sleep on, surely? You don’t want to rush into anything.”

I nodded in agreement. He gave me a grin and squeezed my knee under the table.

“Let’s have some more champagne,” he said.

The waiter brought another bottle and poured us both full glasses. I watched the thin golden stream of champagne flow and froth in the glass. The waiter set the bottle back in the ice bucket and melted away.

“Cheers,” I said.

“Cheers,” said Matt. “We could drink to Angus. We haven’t done that yet, have we?”

“No,” I said. Suddenly I felt near tears. I swallowed hard.

Matt reached for my hand. “I know you’re finding things a bit hard, lately,” he said. “You’re putting a brave face on it – for me, which I really appreciate – but you don’t fool me. I can see that it’s really affecting you.”

His fingers were cold at the tips from grasping his champagne glass. I looked down at my plate, feeling something akin to panic. You don’t fool me. What else could he see through? Was I fooling anyone? Even myself?

“Thanks,” I said in a watery voice. The waiter, thank God, brought our main courses and broke the tension between us. We ate in silence for a little while. I was trying to think of a new topic of conversation.

Perhaps it was time I told him of my problems of the past few weeks. Perhaps I should tell him how I’d been feeling and about the strange sightings I’d had of the thin blonde woman. I took a decisive sip of champagne and made up my mind.

“Matt.”

“Hmm?” he said, intent on his plate.

I took a deep breath. “Some strange things have been happening to me.” I never normally said things like this to anyone; I wanted to be thought of as sane, calm, normal. I attempted a light laugh. “I’ve been seeing – well, some odd things...”

I looked up, away from Matt’s face, my eyes drawn across the room by something, some movement or flicker of light. I felt as if I were plummeting floorwards, out of control in a runaway lift. The sounds of the restaurant faded away; the chime of cutlery on crockery and the hum of the other diners’ voices were sucked from me as if into a vacuum. The blonde woman was standing not ten feet from me. Our eyes met. She had the same frozen expression that she had worn the last time I’d seen her, concentrated emotion pouring from her eyes. I gasped. My champagne flute went flying, struck by my hand that flew out in an instinctive warding-off gesture. At the musical smash of glass, the woman wheeled around, her long black coat flaring out like a funereal flag. She walked quickly away and I heard the bang of the restaurant door as it slammed shut behind her.

I acted without thinking. I stood up and my chair fell backwards. I saw Matt’s face change, and then I was past him, running through the restaurant, slipping through the tables, my only goal to find the woman, to hunt her down until she told me what she wanted. I ran past the astonished maitre d’ and neatly sidestepped a couple that were just coming through the door. Then I was out in the street, the icy night air a shock of cold against my hot face. I paused for a second, looking left and right for my quarry. Way off down the street I caught sight of a gleam of blonde hair as she walked beneath a streetlight. She was moving at fast pace, her high heels ringing against the concrete of the pavement. I took a deep breath and ran after her.

I was almost hit by a car as I crossed West Street but I took no notice of the screech of brakes or the volley of obscenities. My whole being was concentrated on that distant halo of hair. I pounded down the street. Soon I was out of breath and holding my side. I passed hordes of people. Some of them shouted after me in derision or encouragement.

As I got within twenty yards of her, she looked round. Perhaps the thudding of my heart was audible. She looked at me – our eyes met – and, incredibly, I saw fear. She was scared of me. Her face contracted and she began to run herself, her coat flaring out behind her as she ran away from me.

“What do you want?” I shouted, voice raw in the icy night. The woman didn’t flinch; she never looked back. As I ran, I saw her turn the corner of a street, out of my view. Ten seconds later, I was there myself, bent double, gasping. I looked along the street, expecting to see a fleeing figure. Nothing. She was gone. I slowed and stopped, one hand pressed to my side, pulling in air in great, noisy gasps. Nothing. I felt a great surge of anger and frustration, strong enough to blur my vision with tears. I dug my fingernails into my thighs. Nothing. I balled my hand into a fist and hit my leg, hard on the thigh, once, twice. Fuck.

“What the hell were you doing? What’s wrong with you?”

I slipped back into my chair, my face throbbing. I tried smiling but it didn’t come out properly.

“It’s a long story.”

“Well, it had better be bloody worth it.” Matt’s eyebrows were low, his mouth turned down at the corners. I reached for my drink, remembered I’d smashed the glass on the floor and withdrew my hand. My fingers were trembling.