TOYL

to get married when there are still all these things going on. Richard is still recuperating, Dad is worried sick about the court case, and the rest of us – you, me, Will and Lizzy – we’re all still coming to terms with what happened. That’s not a good time to get married, is it?’
    ‘No, it isn’t,’ Dan agreed. ‘But I am worried about you, Em. These dreams about Stephen Myers, I don’t like them at all. It’s like he’s back, stalking you.’
    ‘He’s dead,’ Emma stated. ‘It’s my imagination, that’s all.’
    ‘Like yesterday at the services?’
    Emma nodded. En route to Cornwall they had stopped at services in Exeter to grab some lunch and stretch their legs. The place had been packed with tourists, many of whom were heading for Cornwall to enjoy the Indian summer England had been basking in. After a disappointing July and August, temperatures in September had climbed to the mid-seventies. The car park was filled with all manner of vehicles, loaded with surfboards, walking gear, and camping equipment. It was as she exited the toilets that Emma saw the man. He was standing with his back to her, on the other side of the atrium, near the slot machines. And then he had turned one hundred and eighty degrees, and appeared to look straight at her. She caught her breath at the sight of his face.
    It was Stephen Myers.
    Except it wasn’t. Because Stephen Myers was dead.
    Instinctively she had looked away, for a split second. When she turned back, he had gone.
    ‘It did shake me up,’ Emma said.
    Of course, she knew that it had just been her mind playing tricks on her. The person had looked like Stephen Myers, or how she remembered him. But it felt as if, for that moment, he had been there, living and breathing. Not dead, but alive.
    ‘I can imagine,’ Dan replied. ‘I’m glad you told me about it.’
    Emma had considered not doing so, but Dan had spotted straight away that something was wrong. And it had helped to talk things through. It hadn’t been the first time she thought she’d seen Stephen Myers. A week earlier, while out shopping with Lizzy on Oxford Street, a man had brushed past her in a department store. She’d caught only the briefest of glimpses and, as at the services, her initial reaction had been that it was him. But of course it couldn’t have been.
    She exhaled. ‘I’m starting to think I’m going mad.’
    ‘It’s just a natural reaction to an amazingly stressful situation,’ Dan said. ‘You’re not crazy.’
    ‘Hopefully not. I think it’s just all been getting too much. That’s why this holiday was such a great idea – it gives us a chance to really get away from everything and clear our heads.’
    ‘Definitely,’ Dan agreed. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t talk about any of this while we’re here. Just pretend that it never happened, and enjoy the next few days.’
    Emma smiled. ‘As man and wife?’
    ‘Why not? Mr and Mrs Carlton, on their honeymoon.’
    ‘Sounds like a fantastic idea.’
    ‘It’s because it is,’ Dan said.
    ‘So what’s the plan for today, Mr Carlton?’
    ‘Well, Mrs Carlton. Shall we go over there?’ he said, pointing towards St. Ives. ‘I’ve heard there are some seriously good places to eat, drink, and shop.’
    ‘Sounds great,’ Emma said, planting a kiss on Dan’s cheek.

    ***

    Dan sat back in the chair and finished the coffee, which by now was cold. Emma had gone to shower, and he’d promised to prepare breakfast. But he felt paralysed, unable to banish the worries from his mind. Looking out at the sparkling seascape he searched for some release.
    He should tell her.
    He wanted to tell her.
    To admit to her what he feared the most.

2

    Miranda was making breakfast when she heard Edward’s raised voice echoing across the house from the study. At first she tried to ignore it, concentrating on preparing the food – a continental platter of croissants and other delights. But after a couple of minutes, she moved out of the kitchen and up the stairs. By the time she reached the closed study door, he had quietened down again. She knocked. It was the only room in the house, apart from the bathroom, of course, in which she felt such formality was needed. Edward’s study was his bolthole, and Miranda knew he didn’t welcome intrusions, least of all unannounced ones.
    ‘Come in.’
    He was sitting at his desk, clutching his mobile phone. Miranda tried a smile, but he didn’t return it. She couldn’t remember the last