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She whirled round, her blue eyes blazing. She was glad of the anger that bubbled up inside her; it meant she didn’t have to show him that her heart was broken. ‘What?’ she demanded. ‘What could you possibly say right now?’

Kit stood, breathing hard, opening and closing his mouth uselessly, knowing that she was right. There was nothing he could say. ‘It wasn’t what it looked like,’ he said lamely, and he hated himself for it. Fliss deserved better.

Passers-by in the street stared at them, enjoying the spectacle of this beautiful young couple arguing dramatically on the pavement. Fliss could almost hear their whispers. ‘Wait a minute, isn’t that …?’

‘I’m sorry, so sorry …’ Kit said. ‘Can we talk?’

His guilty expression did little to cut through Fliss’s fury. She should have known that Tara would stop at nothing to try and snare Kit – but he wasn’t blameless either. He had been stupid enough to fall for her tricks and she was suddenly determined to hurt Kit as badly as he had hurt her.

‘Do you know why I was coming to see you?’

The question was rhetorical. Kit shook his head.

Fliss’s eyes were glittering dangerously. ‘I came to say goodbye. To tell you that I’m leaving.’

‘Leaving?’ The shock in Kit’s voice was genuine, the colour draining from his face.

‘I have a job offer. In America,’ Fliss told him, her voice icy. ‘Los Angeles, to be exact. I’m going to be with my father … until the end … and then I’m going’.

‘Fliss, you don’t have to do this,’ Kit pleaded with her, his expression anguished. ‘Let’s talk about it. What about everything we’ve had together? What about our plans?’

‘Were you thinking about that when you were kissing Tara? And is that all there is? For all I know you’re doing much more than that.’ Fliss could barely get the words out.

‘I wasn’t … I mean, she kissed me … I—’

‘I just don’t care!’ Fliss’s voice was deadly calm, and it felt liberating. ‘We’ve been drifting apart and we both know it. So have a nice life, Kit. I hope you and Tara are very happy together.’

She turned abruptly and walked quickly away, half-hoping that he would follow her and beg her to stay. But he didn’t, and before she realised it she was running, though where to she couldn’t say.

Part Five

Chapter 32

Cotswolds

Present day

Fliss had barely slept. In the early hours of Boxing Day morning she tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable, willing herself to doze off, but her mind was racing as thoughts of her career implosion, of Lord Oliver’s illness, and the betrayal of one of her closest friends all jostled for space in her brain.

After Fliss had received the phone call from her agent, she’d retreated to her room without speaking to anyone. The last thing the family needed now was a guest getting in their way.

In truth, she was in shock. She was soaked to the skin, icy cold snow clinging to her thin silk dress, and she realised she was shivering. She had run herself a hot bath, then put on her pyjamas and climbed into bed. Although it was still early, Fliss was emotionally exhausted as she crawled beneath the covers.

Before that, she had sent a text to Tara to ask about Lord Oliver, and Tara had replied that he had had a small stroke, but was now stable and being kept in for observation. Bill and Tara had returned around midnight but Elizabeth had insisted on staying in the hospital with her husband overnight, although it seemed the worst had passed. Fliss was obviously relieved, but kept reliving the horrible moment when they had run into the room and seen him on the floor. He had looked so frail and feeble, a colossus felled, and it had affected her more than she had expected, bringing back painful memories of her own father’s last days.

And then there was everything else … The press now knew that photos existed of Fliss taking drugs in her youth, and it was only a matter of time until they got their hands on the pictures. They had shots of her with Kit, looking as though they were lovers, and she had no idea who was behind it all, or even if the two incidents were related. The possible names still marched like a parade through her mind: Sally, Katie, Tara, Bill, Harry, Kit …

Fliss pressed her phone and saw that it was 3.06 a.m. She had heard the sounds of everyone else coming up to bed, then Bill and Tara returning, but now the house was quiet. She assumed the adults would carry on with Christmas for the sake of the children, but she was sure that no one felt very festive anymore.

Fliss found herself looking back over Christmases past: the innocence of childhood, with her mother and father, where her biggest concern was whether Father Christmas would bring her the Barbie Dreamhouse she wanted. She remembered that magical feeling on Christmas morning, the dawn light and the presents beneath the tree, her mum and dad watching on in pride and delight as she unwrapped the small pile of gifts. It was impossible to believe that anything bad would ever happen, that one day their happy family unit would be fractured in the worst possible way.

Fliss recalled the first Christmas after her mother had died, she and her father both floored by their own grief, neither feeling like celebrating or decorating the little terraced house by the seaside, which was filled with memories of Jacqueline. Her father had made an effort for Fliss’s sake, but a sadness sat heavily over the house that neither of them could shake. Then there was the first festive season without her father that was spent with the Olivers, who lifted her spirits and the Christmas she had spent with Kit, the two of them decorating the little flat in East London together, curled up on the couch watching festive movies …

Fliss rolled over and turned on the lamp. The carafe of water on her bedside table was empty and she could feel a mild pulsing at her temples. With a sigh, she got out of bed, pulled on her robe against the chill of the night, and headed downstairs in search of water and paracetamol.

The old house was spooky at night, sconce lights providing a little illumination, but casting shadows that were almost more unnerving than darkness would have been. Fliss made her way down the main staircase, the old wooden steps creaking under her feet though she tried to tread lightly. Everything looked different in the early hours, the hallways lit by shafts of moonlight that streamed in through the windows, and a picture that she had passed a thousand times during the day without a glance suddenly caught her eye.

It was an oil painting of a racehorse. Fliss knew that Neville loved horses, and had dabbled with owning racehorses when he was younger. She remembered Tara telling her that some had even won prizes, and one in particular had been his favourite. The horse in the picture was a beautiful chestnut, and the artist had managed to capture the way his glossy coat shimmered, the elegant set of his haunches and the way he held his head proudly. Fliss read the title underneath: The Winter Rose.