Friend of the Family

‘I’m going back to the villa,’ she said quietly, rubbing her tight chest.

David spun around. ‘Already?’

‘I don’t feel great.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I feel a bit sick and dizzy.’

‘I’ll come back with you.’

She squeezed his shoulder and forced a smile. ‘Don’t be silly. Stay with the others. I’ll just go for a little lie-down.’

‘Are you sure?’

She nodded. ‘I’ll just slip off, otherwise Max will make a fuss.’

‘I’ll cover for you.’ David winked.

It was just an ordinary washbag. Stripy, with a gold zip, stylish enough, but not the sort of thing that would make anyone uncomfortable. Yet Amy stared at it sitting on the bathroom sink, butterflies blooming in her stomach.

‘This is silly,’ she whispered, reaching for the bag and unzipping it, quickly emptying the contents. Miniature soap and body wash, travel toothbrush. And half a dozen BlissVit vials and a box of syringes. She had been worried about putting Dr Al Saraf’s vitamin boost kit into her hold baggage, but clearly no one had bothered to X-ray it, or perhaps vitamin shots were a common item in French women’s luggage, along with flimsy lingerie and Gauloises.

Remembering Dr Al Saraf’s instructions, she pulled up her skirt and exposed the side of her right buttock. Not very dignified, but then medication rarely was. Opening a vial, she used a syringe to draw up the liquid, then, tapping the barrel, squirted a stream of the fluid into the air like the fountain in the courtyard. Pressing her lips into a grim line, she jabbed the needle into her buttock and pressed down.

She had always been dubious about the various procedures her friends and colleagues seemed to use with abandon – Botox, fillers and vampire facials – and had so far steered away from them, preferring expensive creams and a constant bottle of Evian water on her desk. Six months ago, she doubted she would ever have used anything like BlissVit, but when everyone else seemed to be doing it, when she just needed something to help manage the stress and keep her energy levels up, it seemed like a quick-fix solution to her needs.

She wrapped the used syringe in tissue paper and pushed it to the bottom of the chrome bin. Wouldn’t want Max and Claire’s cleaner to jump to the wrong conclusion, although Amy was sure that working in this household, an important attribute was being unshockable. Then she sat back and closed her eyes, but although she tried to imagine the goodness pumping around her bloodstream, she didn’t feel any different. Actually a little more nauseous, if anything. Disappointed, she grabbed the vials and needles and stuffed them back into the bag, zipping it up and shoving it into the back of the bathroom drawer.

She wasn’t sure if it had been sunstroke back at the market, but she wasn’t entirely surprised that she had almost passed out. Exhaustion had been creeping up on her for weeks. Juliet had been right that she hadn’t had a holiday for a year; she had even worked over Christmas. The office had been officially shut, but Amy had spent the time reading the competition and planning future issues, wanting to start the new year with six months of future issues planned.

Clarity of mind – that was what kept her sane. The key to being in control was being organised.

Sighing, she took in the bomb site that was their room. Trousers draped over a chair, a shirt hanging from a cupboard door, two – no, three – damp towels just dropped on the floor; another on the desk near her Mode application.

‘Why are men so incapable of picking stuff up?’ she groaned, bending to grab a flip-flop poking out from under the bed.

Admittedly this was her room too, but she had barely spent any time here in the past few days; it was so hot in here, and there was more space to spread out her notes and magazines on the terrace or in the garden under the dappled shade of one of the trees.

She almost tripped over a pair of shoes David had evidently kicked off in a hurry, then scooped up a pair of shorts and a jumper, along with a pair of pants, which she dropped into a carrier bag. Seeing something peeking out from the rumpled bedclothes, she bent – and stopped.

Her heart was immediately in her mouth. Just touching the edge, she knew instantly what it was – a bra, it was a bra – and she knew it wasn’t hers. Gingerly she lifted the edge of the sheet to look. It was lacy. Pink. Definitely not hers, then. Amy never wore pink; it just didn’t suit her.

She sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress, her mind whirring through the possibilities. Another guest had left it behind? No, they had been there a week, and Max and Claire’s maid service had changed the sheets twice already. A joke? Maybe David had put it there as a prank. She shook her head. He wasn’t that kind of man. He had a dry sense of humour, not the juvenile sort required for practical jokes. Which of course led her to Max. But not even Max . . . He was an idiot, but this was far too subtle for him. He might put a live tiger in their bed, but nothing as straightforward as underwear.

‘So what then?’ she whispered, her head pounding. For a split second, she let the suspicion leak in: had David cheated?

She felt her stomach flip, then drop like the first loop on a roller coaster.

She forced herself to look at the bra again, feeling it in her hand. It wasn’t expensive, its scratchy nylon a giveaway that it was from the sort of cheap fashion store where teenagers and students liked to shop.

Josie.

It couldn’t be; he wouldn’t, would he? After seven years of marriage, this was the first time Amy had ever seriously faced up to the possibility that David might actually cheat. But then why not? Means, motive and opportunity: she had seen enough TV cop shows to know that was the detective’s trinity. Means? He was handsome, charming and rich. What else did you need? Opportunity? He worked long hours, went to conferences, hung out entertaining clients in hotel bars; Christ, he could be at it all day for all she knew. And motive? That was the killer, the one where the dark oozed in under the door. Why would he cheat? Because he’d fallen out of love with her? Because she wasn’t putting out enough – or worse, she was actually crap in the sack? How would she know? The sex had certainly trailed off in the past few years, but wasn’t that normal?

Breathe, Amy, breathe. She reminded herself that the chemistry she had seen between Jos

ie and David at the photo shoot was just acting for the camera. Taking a ragged breath, she crossed to the dresser and stuffed the bra in the back of a drawer. Before she closed it, she took one last look at the offending article, at the lacy edges, imagining David kissing her there, his lips against her skin, his hands feeling for the clasp . . .