Page 128 of The Last Kiss Goodbye

‘And he’s still your friend.’

‘He sent me a really lovely note, but he doesn’t think it’s appropriate for him to be there.’

Abby was aware of a vague sense of disappointment, but dismissed it by carrying on flicking through the pages, smiling wistfully at some of the images: a young Anna in pigtails running through a stream in the Lake District; on a girls’ holiday in Spain, laughing in a bikini and holding a bottle of wine; graduating from university in her cap and gown; on various twenty-something mini-breaks in Prague, New York and Rome. Abby had spent many nights listening to Anna complain about the lack of decent men, but now she wondered if her friend hadn’t got it right. Years of wild and adventurous singledom, then getting married in her thirties to the man she loved. She couldn’t help but think that she herself might have got it the wrong way round.

Towards the back of the book were more recent pictures. One was a shot of Matt lying on a sunlounger wearing Mickey Mouse ears, another a cute snap of them skiing.

‘Remember this?’ said Anna, pointing to a picture of them all outside a Cotswolds cottage.

Abby wondered if Anna remembered that this was the weekend before she had found out about Nick’s unfaithfulness. He had returned from Stockholm on the Friday and they had driven directly to Chipping Campden, to a big stone farmhouse with a thatched roof and a hot tub in the garden.

It was Matt’s dad Larry’s latest purchase, and he had lent it to Matt and his friends for the weekend. They had gone for long walks, stopping off in various country pubs, and had cooked a big supper together in the evening.

There was a collection of photos from that trip. Matt and Anna laughing in the hot tub, Suze and Ginny making big jugs of cocktails, Abby and Nick sitting out on the grass in the sun. Abby was leaning against her husband’s shoulder, while Nick was looking down at her and kissing the top of her head.

‘Cute picture,’ said Anna, tracing her finger over the page. ‘He looks so in love with you there.’

Abby gave a small ironic laugh. ‘You know this was a couple of days after he slept with her?’

‘It wasn’t?’ said Anna, looking embarrassed.

Abby looked closer, imagining that she had her glass loupe, imagining that she was back at work inspecting her archive of images.

‘You know, you can see it in his eyes,’ she said finally.

‘See what?’

‘The guilt,’ replied Abby softly.

Anna took a moment.

‘I think he looks like he loves you. I think he looks like he’s sorry.’

Abby studied the photo again. Something about it unsettled her. Not Nick’s wistful, faraway look of shame, of fear that he was about to lose something. It was something else. It was an expression she had seen before, and with a jolt she remembered where.

‘I have to go,’ she said quickly.

‘I know. We should check out before they get security to physically remove us. What are you up to today?’

‘I need to go into work,’ said Abby.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The tube had just pulled in to the platform, and Abby ran to catch it, although getting to South Kensington took another forty minutes, thanks to weekend engineering works. When she reached the RCI, the main gates were closed, but Abby had a key to a back entrance and let herself in. It was quiet and eerie, and the sound of her heels on the marble floor echoed around the building.

Mr Smith, the security guard, was on his rounds.

‘What are you doing in on a Sunday, Miss Gordon?’ he asked.

‘Something important,’ she said, giving him a thumbs-up.

She went down into the archives and punched in the code to open the door. Once she was inside, she crossed straight to the filing cabinet that contained the Blake expedition photographs. She could remember every line, every inch of The Last Goodbye, but it was the others in the set she was interested in. Flicking through them quickly, she discarded the scenic shots – an ancient steamer on the river, a group of natives standing outside a straw hut – and concentrated on any she could find of Dominic or Rosamund until she got to the one she’d remembered. It had been taken in Kutuba, in a quiet, unguarded moment. Rosamund and Dominic were standing outside a hut, and the way he was looking at her . . . it spoke to Abby.

‘You knew,’ she said. Then, louder: ‘Dominic Blake, you knew!’

Nick lived in Kennington now. Abby hadn’t been to his flat before, and she was a little shocked to see the small one-bedroom place in the eaves of a slightly scruffy Georgian town house.

Nick answered the door in sweat pants and an old T-shirt, his dark hair particularly tousled. He looked as if he had just tumbled out of bed, and that thought stirred something inside her.