Page 73 of The Last Kiss Goodbye

She hadn’t even broken sweat, whereas Abby could feel perspiration dripping down her temples and the back of her neck. She wanted to go home, have a cold shower and go to sleep, but she knew that escape was not an option.

They showered and dressed and walked out into the balmy evening sun that was shrouding the South Bank in soft golden light.

‘So how was Russia?’ asked Ginny, fastening back her shoulder-length hair as they left the studio. They hadn’t had a chance to talk properly before the class; Ginny, being Ginny, had turned up minutes before it was due to start. As a consequence, Abby had felt tense for the entire hour, wondering where any conversation with her sister-in-law might lead.

‘Revealing,’ she said, instantly regretting her choice of words. She imagined Elliot’s mouth on her nipple, his hand between her thighs, and felt a flush of colour.

‘Get what you want?’

She nodded tightly, offering a silent prayer of thanks that the workout had been tough, otherwise her colour would have been a dead giveaway.

‘So who was it you had to meet?’

Abby knew that Ginny was not going to let it drop.

‘You’re not going to believe it, but a member of the KGB. It was fascinating. He lives in this old people’s home for retired intelligence.’

‘The KGB?’ said Ginny with a look of disbelief. ‘What was this all for?’

‘We’re tracking down the story behind a Peruvian jungle exploration,’ Abby replied, not wanting to link her trip to the Last Goodbye photograph too closely. Ginny was a wily fox. It was just a couple of short hops between seeing the photo in the Chronicle, noticing that the story had been written by the celebrated Elliot Hall and wondering who on earth she had gone to St Petersburg with.

‘Still up for

dinner?’ Ginny said, as Abby breathed a silent sigh of relief that this line of conversation was not going to be pursued.

‘How about Mexican?’ said Abby, pointing in the direction of Wahaca.

‘How about a drink first?’ In true Ginny style, her words were more like an order.

‘We can drink at Wahaca. They have those delicious caipirinhas.’

‘I haven’t been to the BFI bar for ages,’ said Ginny as they walked past it. ‘Let’s just pop in for one.’

Abby agreed. She liked the BFI. When they’d first moved to London, she and Nick had become members, and spent every weekend watching specially curated programmes, from Jim Jarmusch movies to Hitchcock classics to world cinema gems.

She pushed open the door and walked to the bar area. She was still thinking about the old days, how she couldn’t even remember the last time she had been to the cinema with Nick, and that was when she saw him.

At first she thought it was a mirage, before it dawned on her what Ginny had done.

‘It’s an ambush. I’m guilty,’ said her sister-in-law, holding up her hands. ‘But you have to talk to him, Abby. You owe it to each other to at least try before it gets all legal.’

‘It’s already got legal,’ Abby said, panic in her voice and a knot of fear in her stomach. She didn’t want to see him. Couldn’t see him. Not now, only four days after she had woken up in bed with another man. All week she had been asking herself over and over again how this made her any better than her husband, and had come to the conclusion that it didn’t. Her moral high ground was gone, and without it she felt vulnerable, exposed and culpable.

‘Even your solicitor has recommended you try counselling,’ hissed Ginny, standing behind Abby so she had nowhere to go but forwards, into the bar.

‘How do you know?’

‘Because Nick’s solicitor has told him exactly the same thing.’

Abby turned round and looked at her with surprise, a stab of panic the only sensation she could register.

‘Nick has been to see a solicitor?’ she repeated.

‘What did you expect? He’s not going to wait around for ever.’

The bar was busy but Nick had found a table. Nick was always the type to find a table. He gave a tense smile as they approached, as well he might after their last confrontation in Hyde Park, and Abby had to fight every instinct not to run away.

She was glad to see he had dressed up, even if there was a series of creases in the arms of his suit. Abby imagined him pressing it on the creaky ironing board they kept in the airing cupboard. The old Abby would have done it for him, tutting a little perhaps, but doing it anyway, because that was what a wife did, wasn’t it? But that was the old Abby. Not the one who flew to St Petersburg alone and got secrets out of former Soviet spies.