Page 1 of The Little Cottage by the Cornish Sea

I woke up in a bright pool of sunlight. I had fallen asleep in an armchair in my boyfriend Will’s luxurious Victorian home in Belgravia, waiting for him to come back from his work dinner so I could put an end to our relationship.

Over the five years we’d been together, Will had so slowly become domineering and controlling that only recently had I realised that I had Boiling Frog Syndrome, whereby if you put a frog in a pot of boiling water, it’ll jump right out.

But if you put it in a room-temperature pot and gradually heat the water until it boils, it’ll stay, adapting to the slowly rising temperature, until it dies.

That was a perfect portrait of our relationship. In the beginning, he’d been so charming and caring and attentive. But lately, it had become so bad that he would ridicule my thoughts and words and even put me down in public. So this frog was now ready to jump.

An expensive female perfume still hung heavily in the air, and dresses were draped around every stick of furniture as if she had lived here forever and only popped out for a pint of milk.

Because it was obvious she had moved in and made herself at home, whereas I hadn’t been invited over for months.

Realising my presence here was completely unnecessary, with a mixed sense of relief and sorrow, I lifted my handbag from the Berber rug as my mobile pinged with a new message.

It was Tamsin, my best friend and co-worker at the law firm Wise & Templemann where Will was a junior partner and where our relationship had begun.

Kate, where the hell r u? Confidential files on some of our biggest clients who were being blackmailed are missing and Will has accused you! The police have found them in your flat. Please go in and tell them you didn’t do it and that he put them there, the scumbag!

I stared at the screen in disbelief. Will was blackmailing some of our best clients and blaming me? And now the police were at my flat looking for me…

There was no way that my word would prevail over the word of junior partner Will Compton. He was a real shark and had made the firm loads of money. He was practically a deity at Wise & Templemann. The police would never believe me, not in a million years.

And even if they did, Will would surely use his influence to blacklist me from every law firm in London. I was in between a rock and a hard place and my only option was to immediately disappear off the face of the earth, where no one could find me. And as quickly as possible.

I couldn’t go back to my own flat to get any clothes as the police were waiting for me, so I ducked into the massive dressing room, ransacked the chest of drawers for something to wear over the next few days, hardly able to see through my panic as I threw some of her jeans, trousers and jumpers onto the made bed.

She had more than enough to spare. Will had never allowed me to leave so much as a toothbrush. How blind had I been to the obvious?

I found a make-up bag and some silk pyjamas, along with a pair of boots.

A rainbow of fancy cocktail dresses swayed as I brushed past them: they must have cost thousands.

The top drawer contained a passport. There she was, Sophie Graham.

Not in the flesh, but real all the same.

If you squinted, and removed the tons of make-up on her face and stripped her of every extravaganza that money could buy, her honey-coloured hair was very similar to mine even in length, and her eyes were green like mine.

Even our build was similarly petite. If she needed to, she could pass as me.

Not that anyone would want to be me when they could be Sophie Graham.

But maybe, just maybe, I could pass off as her.

Just until I got far away enough to clear my name.

I crawled under the bed where I knew Will kept his empty travel luggage and reached for one of his backpacks. I turned it upside down to get rid of any of his residual belongings and a waterfall of documents poured out onto the rug, all marked with a big, red CONFIDENTIAL stamp.

I rifled through them, recognising the names of some of our most esteemed clients.

There was top-secret information about a couple of MPs, famous business magnates and even a couple of mayors.

This was where he kept the bulk of the stolen stash.

This was proof of his crime, a crime he was trying to pin on me.

If only there was another witness who could verify my discovery.

But I was alone and apparently, only Tamsin believed in my innocence.

The sound of a car door shutting in the quiet street made me jump.

The police? Did they know I was here? I ran to the staircase and peered over the banister as the front door opened.

A woman took off her coat and donned an apron.

Only the cleaning lady, thank God! I hefted the backpack onto my back and whirled around, searching for an escape, but there was none.

The woman downstairs was now humming to herself, still moving around in the entrance hall, the only obstacle between me and the front door.

There was only one other exit. I quietly eased open the door to the balcony and looked at the garden two floors down. Jesus Christ almighty.

The humming became louder as she made a start up the stairs, moving closer and closer to my hiding place.

A few feet away from the balcony was a huge magnolia tree just about to bloom.

It was certainly sturdy enough, but was I?

I had no choice. Cursing myself and all the bad decisions I’d made, I pinpointed the strongest-looking branch within my reach and lunged for it, feeling the greedy pull of the void beneath me.

There was no time to think about getting caught.

There was no time to think about anything but my own escape.

I climbed down as fast as I could, wincing as the surrounding branches scratched my face and hands.

Powered by adrenaline, I sprinted down the back garden, vaulting clear over the low brick wall and into the street. After all, I was good at that. Running.

I grabbed the keys to my car from my pocket and whizzed around the corner where it was parked and I did the only thing I could think to do. I ran away.