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CHAPTER ONE

Cam

It is one hour before Camilla's life changes, though she doesn't yet know it.

All she knows, right now, as she cleans the high chair while Polly sits on her play mat after breakfast, is that her husband isn't here. He's gone somewhere, left her to deal with Polly's first day of nursery and Camilla's return to work by herself. Has he got a deadline? Has she forgotten some urgent project?

But Cam doesn't forget things. Luke, actually, forgets things. So... ?

Sunlight enters stage left in her kitchen in three distinct shafts. It's a perfect June day, and Cam woke up a mixed bag of emotions: nervous but excited, sad, happy—her first day back at work after a long nine-month maternity leave. She sometimes longs for words in the English language that don't exist, and today is one such occasion. Trepidation, excitement... when she woke up, she thought: Nope, none of them cut it.

And Luke has chosen today to disappear.

He must have some work thing on. He's a ghostwriter, for MPs and celebrities, and has a co-working space he heads to when he needs to think. That'll be it. She won't think about it anymore. Won't ruminate on it—definitely not, absolutely no ruminating, Cam thinks, gripping the dishcloth too tightly.

She watches as Polly leans forward to grasp a toy that's sitting just out of reach. She's so like Luke. Lean, blond, a disposition as sunny as the weather outside. Cam watches as she picks up the toy and throws it, a wobbly, random baby throw that could be deliberate, could be an accident. Funny, Cam's always liked people-watching, but her baby is next-level.

Her phone beeps and she reaches for it immediately, hoping Luke has replied to her, but it's her sister. Morning, it says, a selfie of Libby sitting on her sofa, dark hair mussed up in a pile on the top of her head. This kind of message is not unusual: Cam and Libby are engaged in a near-constant text conversation. It doesn't have a beginning or an end, just a regular back-and-forth, a tennis match that never finishes. They've been doing it for as long as they've had phones.

Morning, Cam replies, taking a selfie of her in work clothes, anxious expression on her face that she didn't know she had until she took it.

OMG yes. The big day. Well—to bolster your confidence... look! Look who's 12 down in the Times crossword!? It's accompanied by a photograph of a clue, which reads Author of bestselling recent novel about a hot air balloon ride romance (4, 5).

It's her client, Maya Jones. Cam is her literary agent.

Cam types back: Wow! I wonder if this is good press exposure? Do they print the answers next week?

Libby sends a second photo of a very, very small set of answers for last week with a laughing emoji.

CAM: How many people read this?!

LIBBY: ...Four? What's your cut of four books? LOL.

CAM: £8 paperback x 0.1 royalty x 0.15 commission? What's that?

LIBBY: Drinks are on me, pal.

Cam forwards the crossword to Maya, then puts her phone away and yawns. Polly woke her and Luke last night at ten o'clock, one o'clock, and then some other time... three, four? Cam promised Luke she would stop looking at the time after he said it only upset her anyway. Polly—old enough now, in their opinion, to know much better—thought it was the middle of the day, and was absolutely, categorically, not interested in sleeping. Luke had looked at Cam, Ewan the bloody dream sheep backlit red behind him, Polly actually chuckling with mirth, and said, "Fancy a suicide pact?" And God, they had laughed, the way they always have. The second Cam met Luke, he made her laugh, and, just like that, she was utterly beguiled despite everything: that he, a writer, was her client, and she his agent. As it turned out, nobody cared about that the way she thought they might.

But where is he? How could he just leave her by herself?