With a grin, Maxine ran her fingers through her tumbling, gold-blond hair and shook it back over her shoulders. ‘I’m seeking sanctuary, darling. Just call me Quasimodo.’

‘Don’t call me darling,’ grumbled Janey, who hated it. ‘And whatever you do, don’t call me big.’

But it was no good. Maxine wasn’t going to go away. Neither — despite having driven all night from London to Cornwall — did she apparently have any intention of falling asleep.

Janey, who loved but frequently despaired of her sister, followed her upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed whilst Maxine carried out a brisk raid on the wardrobe. She wondered what Maxine had ever done to deserve a twenty-two-inch waist.

‘These’ll be fine.’ Forcing another hole through the tan leather belt, she patted the size fourteen khaki shorts with approval and admired her reflection in the mirror. The white shirt, expertly knotted above the waist, showed off her flat brown midriff and her dark eyes sparkled.

‘There, ready to face the world again. Or dear old Trezale, anyway. Where shall we go for lunch?’

‘You don’t have any money,’ Janey reminded her with a sinking heart, but Maxine was already halfway to the bedroom door.

‘I’ll sort something out with the bank tomorrow,’ she replied airily. ‘They’ll understand when ‘I tell them what that pig of an ex-boyfriend of mine did with my cheque book. Now come along, Janey, cheer up and tell me where we can meet all the most gorgeous men these days. Is the Dune Bar still good?’

‘He wasn’t your boyfriend,’ said Janey, wondering at the ease with which Maxine had apparently discarded him from her life. ‘He was your fiancé.’

Maxine looked momentarily surprised. Then, waving her left hand in the air so that the large, square-cut emerald caught the light, she said gleefully, ‘Of course he was! How clever of you to think of it. If the bank gets stuffy I can flog the ring, instead.’

‘You think I’m a heartless bitch, don’t you?’

They were sitting out on the crowded terrace of the Dune Bar. Janey tried not to notice the way practically every male was lusting after Maxine. Maxine, who genuinely appeared not to have noticed – it was a particular speciality of hers – sipped her lager and looked contrite.

‘I know you’re a heartless bitch,’ said Janey with a faint smile. ‘But at least you’re honest about it. That’s something, I suppose.’

‘Don’t try and make me feel guilty.’ Maxine glanced down at her engagement ring. ‘I didn’t love Maurice, you know.’

‘Surprise, surprise.’

‘I liked him, though.’ With a trace of defiance, she added, ‘And I adored the fact that he had money. I think I managed to convince myself that ours would turn out to be like one of those arranged marriages, where love eventually grows. He was generous and kind, and I did so hate being broke ...’

‘But it didn’t work out like that,’ Janey observed, shielding her eyes with her forearm and gazing out over the sea. A pillarbox-red speedboat, skimming over the waves, was towing a water skier. Ridiculously, even after eighteen months, she still had to convince herself that it wasn’t Alan before she could bring herself to look away.

‘It might have worked, if Maurice hadn’t been so boring.’ Maxine shrugged, then grinned.

‘And if I weren’t so easily bored.’

Not for the first time, Janey wondered what it was like to be Maxine. Maybe her cool, calculating attitude to life wasn’t such a bad thing after all. It might not be romantic, but at least it meant she spared herself the agonies of unrequited love and those endless, gut-wrenching months of despair.

I married for love, thought Janey, the cold emptiness invading her stomach as readily as it ever had. And look where it got me.

‘Oh God,’ cried Maxine, intuitively reading her sister’s thoughts and grabbing her hand in consolation. ‘I am a callous bitch! Now I’ve made you think about Alan.’

But Janey, managing a wry smile, shook her head. ‘I think about him anyway. It’s hardly something I’m likely to forget, after all.’

‘I’m still an insensitive, clod-hopping prat,’ insisted Maxine. Her expression contrite, she lowered her voice. ‘And I haven’t even asked how you’re coping. Does it get better, or is it as hideous as ever?’

‘Well, I’m not crying all over you.’ Finishing her drink, Janey met her sister’s concerned gaze and forced herself to sound cheerful. ‘So that has to be an improvement, don’t you think?’

‘But it’s still hard?’

‘It is getting better,’ she admitted. ‘But the not knowing is the worst part of all. The awful limbo of not knowing what I am.’ Pausing for a moment, she added bleakly, ‘A widow or a deserted wife.’

Chapter 2

They were married on the first of May, the happiest day of Janey’s life.

‘I’m sure there’s something I’m supposed to be doing today.’ Alan, emerging from beneath the navy blue duvet with his blond hair sticking up at angles, sounded puzzled. ‘What is it, the dentist ...? Ouch!’

But Janey didn’t let go of his big toe. ‘Much worse,’ she mocked. ‘Much, much worse.’

‘Aaargh, I remember now! The Registry Office. And you should be covering your eyes, you shameless female. You aren’t supposed to see the blushing groom on the morning of his wedding.’

‘Too late, I’ve already seen you.’ Whisking back the duvet, she surveyed him solemnly.

‘All of you.’

Alan grinned and reached out for her, pulling her back into bed and unfastening the belt of her flimsy dressing gown. ‘In that case we may as well have a quickie. One last, glorious, pre-marital quickie. How many hours before we’re married, Miss Vaughan?’

Janey glanced at her watch. ‘Three.’

‘Hmm,’ he murmured, rolling on top of her and kissing the frantically beating pulse at the base of her neck. ‘In that case, we might even have time for two.’

Once they’d torn themselves away from the bedroom to complete the formalities, Janey found she adored every moment and every aspect of being married. Each morning when she woke up she almost had to pinch herself to check that it was all real. But it always was, thank God, and the sheer joy of being Mrs Sinclair showed no signs of waning.

She enjoyed looking after their tiny flat, experimenting with new recipes and socializing with his surf-crazy friends. And because she was only twenty-five years old she enjoyed above all else knowing that they had the rest of their lives to spend together. Nothing need ever change.

No body was ever found.

‘But something must have happened to him.’ Janey, grief-stricken yet dry-eyed, simply couldn’t believe that it hadn’t. In an effort to convince the police, she uttered the words for what seemed like the hundredth time. ‘He’s my husband ... I know him ... he wouldn’t just disappear.’

The police, however, whilst sympathetic, were less convinced. Every year, they explained, hundreds of people in Britain with no apparent problems or reasons to disappear, did precisely that, leaving behind them distraught families, endless unanswerable questions and countless shattered lives.

Janey’s life was certainly shattered. On a sunny afternoon in July, after just fourteen months of marriage, her beloved husband had vanished without trace. Nothing had been taken from the flat and there were no clues as to the reason for his disappearance.

During the first few frantic days she’d pinned all her hopes on an accident, not serious enough to be life-threatening, just a bang on the head resulting in temporary amnesia. At any moment, she had fantasized helplessly, the phone would ring and when she picked it up she would hear his dear, familiar voice.

But although the discovery of Alan’s body was what she’d most dreaded, as the weeks dragged into months she found herself almost beginning to wish that it would happen. She felt like a murderer, even thinking such a’ thing, but at least it would be conclusive. The torture of not knowing would be over. And – most deeply shaming of all -- she would be spared the humiliation of thinking that her husband had vanished because he could no longer tolerate his life with her.

Nobody else had ever voiced this possibility aloud, of course, but whenever she was feeling particularly vulnerable Janey was only too easily able to imagine what was uppermost in their minds. As time passed she found herself, in turn, the object of macabre curiosity, whispered gossip and pity. And it was hard to decide which of these was worst.

Maxine drifted into the shop at ten-thirty the following morning, yawning and clutching a mug of tea. ‘God your sofa’s uncomfortable,’ she grumbled, rubbing her back.

Janey, who had been up for over five hours, lifted an armful of yellow irises into a bucket and slid them into position between the gypsophila and the white roses. The shop had been busier than usual and she still had three wreaths to make up before midday.

‘Sorry,’ she replied wryly. It would never occur to Maxine to bring her a cup of tea as well.

But Maxine was still massaging her back and pulling faces. ‘I’ll be a cripple by the end of the week.’

‘Are you really planning to stay?’

‘Of course!’ She looked surprised. ‘I’m not going back to Maurice-the-Righteous, and there’s nothing to keep me in London. Besides,’ she added dreamily, ‘I’d forgotten how lovely it is down here. Much nicer than smelly old London. I think a summer by the sea would do me the world of good.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Oh come on, Janey. Don’t look at me like that! It’ll be fun; we can cheer each other up.’

Having consulted the notes on her clipboard, Janey began sorting out the flowers for the wreaths. ‘You’ll be too busy complaining about your back to have any fun,’ she said brusquely.