A House Full of Secrets

by Zoe Miller

Genres: Siblings; Women's Fiction; Romance; Suspense

Synopsis

One of us is lying…
When Londoner Vikki receives an invitation from Niall Blake to join him for a weekend at his family home in a remote part of Ireland, she hopes it will be the perfect opportunity to turn their friendship into something more significant. But Niall has a different reason for his proposition. As the weekend takes a sinister turn and Vikki discovers more about Niall, his estranged older brother Alex and his over-compensating sister Lainey, it becomes clear that the family harbours a long-buried secret. But who is out to destroy them? Could it be one of their own? And why did Niall invite Vikki along for the weekend?
PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR: “A high voltage blend of drama, intrigue and suspense, and a story line full of twists and turns…Miller delivers again.” IRISH INDEPENDENT

Release date: August 3, 2017

Publisher: Hachette Ireland

Print pages: 416

Sample

The lough is still out of bounds.

The forest track leading to the beauty spot where Gabrielle met her untimely end has become impassable. Fallen tree trunks, shrouded with clusters of vegetation and thick tentacles of ivy, block the entrance. Where prisms of sunlight pierce the leafy canopy, clumps of untrammelled nettles, tumbleweed and briars thrust through cracks in the forest floor. It’s as if nature has conspired to prevent me or anyone else from trespassing, in collusion with the crude-looking, crumbling ‘Danger: Keep Out’ sign swaying against a tree trunk. The laneway down from the road is similarly obstructed; here, a wide gate smothered with thorny brambles and wild bushes strengthens the barricade, and the gap in the ditch where her car went off the road is shored up by a sheet of rusty corrugated iron reinforced with barbed wire.

As if this will stop me.

I’ve waited so long for the truth to be exposed but it’s finally going to happen. Lynes Glen has been re-opened for the weekend and the family are gathering. All of us. The broken family, I think, although they don’t know who is the most damaged of us all – yet.

Dust sheets have been whisked off furniture, and cleaners have wiped and washed and buffed. I glimpse my shadow moving across the parquet floors and my reflection shimmers as I pass the gleaming woodwork and the sparkling crystal and mirrors. The west-facing windows to the front have been unlocked, the sashes thrown up, and a fresh breeze flows into the rooms, fluttering up to corniced ceilings, surging freely through hallways and swirling up around the curving staircase. It carries a mountainy tang, mixed with the scent of pine trees, and it sweeps away stagnant air, driving any remaining dust motes into a crazy dance.

In the faded splendour of the sitting room, a beam of sunlight slants through the window and glows like a spotlight on the row of polished photograph frames lined up along the top of the piano. The family photos have been taken out of storage and arranged exactly as they were two decades ago, the images caught and frozen by the camera in an innocent fragment of time during the hot summer of 1995 before everything shattered. I step outside myself for a moment, I forget who I am and the scores I have to settle while I stare at the images objectively, as a total stranger might; Alex, Lainey and Niall, followed by proud parents Leo and Gabrielle. There are no hints in any of the faces as to how sharply the bottom was going to fall out of those glittering lives.

First up is Alex, the eldest son, the photograph taken outside on the pebbled driveway that sweeps to a circle in front of the house. He leans back jauntily against the bonnet of his BMW convertible, his red-gold hair flopping over his forehead, his eyes glinting, his whole demeanour infused with the assurance of a young man in his mid-twenties who thinks he owns the world and expects to follow every one of his dreams.

Next to his photograph is one of Lainey, taken inside in the hall. A year younger than Alex, she has a flirty smile on her face as she stands in a sideways pose by the curving staircase, her hair caught into a gleaming barrette. She’s wearing a backless red designer dress with lipstick to match, holding a cocktail glass aloft in one hand, silver bangles sparkling on her raised arm, her eyes full of calm confidence as if she had no doubts that life would deliver all the good things she expected.

Then Niall, the youngest, at nineteen years of age, caught in a pulse-quickening image down by the lough. He’s posing on the diving board set into a rocky outcrop, his face taut in concentration, his body perfectly aligned in a formation that looks effortless but speaks of hours of practice. He is ready to take flight out into open space, before executing a dive into the still, calm waters of the lough, some thirty feet below.

No matter how arresting they are, these images are eclipsed by those of Gabrielle. The next photograph is a formal one of Gabrielle and Leo, taken at an international literary event just weeks before their world imploded. Tall, spare Leo is dressed in black tie and holding a crystal trophy, awarded for his latest collection of poetry. He looks uncomfortable in the limelight, as though he’d rather be tucked up in his study in Lynes Glen, writing his soul across the page, but standing beside him, Gabrielle more than makes up for his reserve.

Always his muse, forever his beloved darling, she is smiling her brilliant smile. She’s dressed in a jade figure-hugging dress, a ruby-stoned pendant gleaming at her white throat, her flame-haired, emerald-eyed beauty frozen in time. Lined up beside Alex, Lainey and Niall, it’s obvious that only pale glimmers of her allure are reflected in each of her children, in their green eyes flecked with amber and shades of red-gold hair. Gabrielle’s is a luminous beauty that shimmers forever; it will never fade or grow old.

I hate her all over again for this as much as for what she did, ruining the rest of my life in the process. I’m tempted to stamp my foot. I want to raise my arm and send all the frames crashing to the floor. I want to cry out loud. But I’ve never allowed myself the luxury of tears. I clench my fists and go across to the long sash windows, taking a few deep breaths to compose myself.

From the front of the house, the world stretches away, full of a raw, desolate beauty, an unspoilt panorama of stone-walled fields, gorse-covered hills and glinting streams. It’s a patchwork quilt of green, purple and brown granite and flecks of slate, where shadows dissolve into sunlight, and clouds chase their reflections across to the sea. Up above, the skies are limitless. On clear days, high-flying aeroplanes trail needle-thin vapours across the heavens as they head out over the Atlantic, across to America. It’s enough to make you dream of running free as far as the sea, like the glinting rivers, or taking flight out into the big, wide world. But those kinds of dreams are long gone.

The back of the house settles into the curve of the forest. Beyond that the mountains form a towering backdrop, their pinnacles serrating the sky. Today the sunlight cloaks the summits in a veil of barley-sugar light. They do not always appear so benign. I’ve seen the peaks of Slieve Creagh turn into menacing brooding hulks in the blink of an eye when dark clouds scud over, blackening the horizon.

As the family gathers in Lynes Glen this early September afternoon, everything appears to be calm and peaceful. There are no shadows creeping in corners, no sad whispers wafting through the passageways, no talk of buried secrets, or uneasy ghosts flitting through the rooms or up the curving staircase. That will change within the next twenty-four hours, thanks to what I have planned.

To add to my devilry, a storm is coming. It’s seething out in the Atlantic, gathering strength before it hurls itself onto this remote glen in a far western corner of Ireland, expected to hit landfall on Saturday evening.

The timing couldn’t be more perfect.

London: One week earlier

Vikki Gordon had a heightened sense of expectation as she squeezed her way through the Friday evening throng milling around the Thames waterfront bar. Clutching her tote bag, she weaved around stool legs and flailing arms to avoid dangerously tilting glasses of beer and wine, so she felt it was a good sign when she, together with her soft white top, managed to make it to the bathroom in one piece.

She pushed up a basket of paper towels to make room for her bag, glad of the cool quiet after the din outside. She hadn’t waited to refresh her make-up in the office because it would have invited comments about why she might be putting on the glam, or, critically, for whom. She slicked some styling wax through her short, dark hair, a touch of fresh mascara that widened her grey eyes, lip gloss, a dab of perfume; nothing too glamorous, strictly effortless. Then she practised her smile in the mirror until she had it right; casual, cheery, relaxed, to suit a casual, cheery friendship.

Dipping into her bag for her sunglasses, she pressed her way through the throng once more, heading towards the terrace at the back and an explosion of late August sunshine, a whiff of Thames-scented air, the blast from a tug boat and shouts floating across the water, conversation humming up around her, laughter and the tinkle of glass – exaggerated gaiety because evenings such as these would soon be gone with the arrival of autumn.

Niall Blake, sitting on an aluminium chair by the railings overlooking a river stippled with sunlight, a bottle of beer on the small table in front of him, was waiting for her.

And her heightened sense of expectation crystallised into all the possibilities coming from this moment.

He stood up. He bent down and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Hey, how’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in a while.’

Fourteen days less five hours since she’d last said goodbye to him after they’d been to a movie together, when her tall lean Niall, with golden-red hair and the green eyes flecked with amber had kissed her goodnight, just as chastely on the cheek as he’d kissed her now.

‘Haven’t you?’ she said in a teasing voice. ‘I was living it up last weekend,’ she continued, as they both sat down.

‘Mia’s hen weekend in Barcelona – see, I remembered.’ He rested his hands on the table and smiled at her. ‘How did it go?’

‘Great,’ she said. ‘It’s the perfect spot for a party weekend, but unfortunately most of the beautiful architecture went over our champagne-fuelled heads. We were too busy laughing our way up and down Las Ramblas, but I’ll be back to nourish my cultural soul another time.’

‘Glad it went well,’ Niall said. ‘Make it a point to return to soak up the Gaudi brilliance. I’m going back as soon as the cathedral is finished, whenever that will be.’

A vision of both of them, going to Barcelona together, swam into her head and she swiftly thrust it away as a wonderful dream. The waiter arrived with a chilled glass of white wine, placing it in front of Vikki.

‘I’m impressed with the service,’ she said.

‘I asked him to bring it out as soon as you arrived. I think you could do with it.’ He gave her a long, considering glance. He was not usually given to such contemplative glances and she felt a stab of unease.

‘Do you? I’m good,’ she said airily, giving him her biggest and brightest smile. The one that covered everything. Taking her cues from him, she wanted to keep it easy and lighthearted. No problems or issues. Nothing for him to fix. And, most of all, no hint of any kind of neediness. She’d learned the hard way; at thirty-six years of age she’d been around that block more than once. She’d already told herself, courtesy of her ever-vigilant inner critic, that if she wanted to keep on seeing him, she had to stick to that script. This was a casual Friday-evening-after-work drink; she was thankful they seemed to be happening with increasing frequency.

Niall said, with a hint of something she couldn’t quite define in his eyes, ‘I hope you’re still good after I ask you a favour.’

She twirled the stem of her wine glass. ‘Hmmm. Sounds ominous. My gut instinct is to refuse. What kind of favour?’

‘Any plans for next weekend?’ he asked.

Her mind went blank. When it powered up again the biggest thing she registered was that he hadn’t asked about next Friday or even Saturday night, it was next ‘weekend’, as in the sum total.

‘Why?’ she asked, pushing away thoughts of the work conference scheduled for Saturday. The work conference she could only afford to miss at her peril. Niall’s next words were so unexpected they put all that out of her head.

‘I’m going back to Ireland for an extended weekend,’ he said. ‘Back to Lynes Glen, the family home in Mayo. There’s a kind of get-together; it’s been arranged for a while—’ he broke off and shook his head. ‘Just forget it. I know it’s terribly short notice and you’d need time off work – it’s Friday to Monday. Anyway you’re bound to be busy and you’ll think I’m mad for even asking you …’ The way he gazed at her sent her pulse tripping into overdrive.

‘What part of what you said are you asking me to forget?’ she said, forcing a teasing voice.

He looked as though he was already steeling himself for her refusal. It was something she’d found surprising about this man. Out in company, he was the fun person, never taking life seriously, as he breezed his way through it, but now and again, when they were on their own, she saw glimpses of a different Niall, a man with a hint of vulnerability that found a resonance inside her. A gentle person, he’d always treated her with kindness and respect, unlike some other men who were only interested in how quickly they could get into her bed. If she’d had more than her fair share of relationship disasters, she sensed there was a similar sadness lurking behind Niall, something he’d only hinted at, once.

A pleasure cruiser puttered along the river, the sounds of party laughter coming from the dozen or so occupants out on deck. Niall waited until they had passed. He leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head.

‘Thing is,’ he said, looking straight into her eyes, ‘I had the mad idea of asking if you’d like to come with me …’

Come with me … the weekend … He’d made sure she’d had a drink lined up before he’d asked her. In case his mad idea bothered her? Little did he know her thoughts were ricocheting off in a thousand different directions like glorious fireworks.

‘But it’s probably off the wall,’ he went on. ‘Lynes Glen won’t be remotely like Barcelona, remote being the word because it’s quite isolated. Anyway’ – he smiled lopsidedly – ‘I don’t want to mess with your cutting-edge social life.’

He was really asking her. Everything blurred around her, the glint off the river, the drift of laughter and conversation, even her insides felt soft as mush, and then they took shape again, hardening with a daredevil resolve.

‘Obviously a glittering social life is high up there on my hierarchy of needs,’ she said, sounding as matter of fact as she could. ‘But I’m always up for something mad and adventurous to add to my résumé. I’ve never seen that part of the world, but I believe it’s rather beautiful.’ She heard the words coming out of her mouth, slightly alarmed at the way she was throwing caution to the wind and performing a kamikaze act on her career, never mind that she’d vowed to put herself and her wellbeing front and centre from now on, after the fallout from her previous relationships.

‘You might be up for it?’

‘I might.’ Go slow, she warned herself, willing her eyes not to appear too eager.

‘Before you say yes, let me check out some practical details with my sister …’

‘I should have guessed,’ she joked, ‘I have to do all the cooking? Your family mightn’t want me in their midst?’

‘No way! We’re getting someone in for the cooking. And my family …’ he paused. ‘They’ll be grand.’

‘Your brother and sister will be there?’ Vikki tried to remember what Niall had told her about his family. She knew he was the youngest by four or five years, that he had a sister in her mid-forties who lived in Dublin, and a brother, a year older again, living in New York. Both were married, with children.

Niall stretched out his legs and leaned back, as though to give the impression he was thoroughly relaxed. His face, she thought, was almost too bland. ‘Yep, Alex and Lainey will be there with their spouses, Jenna and Ben, and kiddies. And Dad, of course.’

She knew his mother was dead. He never spoke of it.

‘My mother died years ago … a car crash – actually, I don’t ever talk about it …’

He’d mentioned it early into their friendship, sounding as though he’d felt the need to put down that boundary. She remembered it well, because while she’d sympathised with his loss, she’d also been relieved he didn’t want to talk. It gave her permission not to talk about her parentage either.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she’d said at the time. ‘It must have been rough.’

‘Yeah.’ The closed-up look on his face had been enough to tell her how rough.

‘I don’t talk about my mother either,’ she’d said. ‘She’s alive and well, so you might find that a bit …’ she’d paused. What could she say? Compared to him she was fortunate enough to have Sally Gordon alive, yet she didn’t want to speak of her?

He’d looked relieved. ‘That’s OK, so we’re quits.’

Vikki took a sip of her wine and tried to sound as though she was well used to being on the receiving end of weekend invitations to family homes from gorgeous men. ‘Your dad – I’ve never met a real-life poet before,’ she said. ‘What’s he like? To talk to, I mean.’

‘Dad?’ Niall shrugged. ‘You should have something in common with him.’ He gazed at her across the table, disconcerting her.

‘Me?’

‘You’re both involved in the written word.’

‘Hah, Niall, you always know how to make me laugh. Being an assistant editor on a beauty magazine who can wax lyrical about ten shades of lip gloss is nowhere near Leo Blake, award-winning poet. It would be wonderful to meet him.’

‘He’s the same as anyone else’s dad I guess,’ Niall said.

Oh no, he’s not, she wanted to say.

‘He’s quiet, a bit introverted,’ Niall went on. ‘After Mum … he went into himself, but he poured something dark into his poetry that seemed to click with people. His health is not great now, though, which I guess is one of the reasons for the gathering. He’s eighty-three this year and his arthritis is seriously bothering him, which is sad to see.’

‘It must have been amazing to grow up with him for your father.’

‘I suppose … yeah, when he wasn’t out lecturing in universities, he spent a lot of time in his library, Mum playing games with us, trying to keep us quiet. They were mad about each other.’

It was the most he’d ever told her about his family. As though conscious of that, he gave her a careless shrug.

‘So yeah,’ he said, ‘have a think about it anyhow. See if you can get time off work first. If you do decide to come, it’s going to be a very relaxing, chill-out get-together, according to Lainey, so just be your usual self.’ He pulled a menu towards him. ‘Now, down to the most important business of the moment,’ he said, as though inviting her to his family home for the weekend was a natural enough occurrence instead of a total game-changer. ‘Another drink and maybe a bite to eat?’

‘Perfect.’

She watched him summoning a waiter to place their order. There were times when she couldn’t take her eyes off him and this was one of them; he’d come straight from the NHS hospital where he worked as an administrator, the sleeves of his blue shirt were rolled up, and red-gold hairs glinted along his forearm. Fine stubble ran along his jawline. He had a very kissable mouth, high cheekbones, a strong nose and a wide forehead. His hair was thick and wavy. His eyes … she tore her gaze away and looked out at the river before he caught her staring at him.

She couldn’t pinpoint the moment when her affection for Niall had deepened. Their relationship had begun in a very ordinary way at a party for one of his mates that Vikki had gone to with Mia and Steve, her fiancé. Niall hung around the edges of the same circle of acquaintances as Steve, and she’d found herself chatting easily and naturally to the relaxed Irish guy. They both seemed to have the same attitude towards life – determined not to take anything too seriously and to find the fun element in everything, no matter how ridiculous it was.

They’d picked up where they’d left off when she’d bumped into him at another party, then at the afters of a wedding, then at a concert in Wembley Arena – which they’d both agreed was rubbish, contrary to all their friends’ opinions – and feeling like two teenagers on the run from school, they’d sloped off early and gone to the pub instead. He’d said to her at the outset that he wasn’t in the market for a serious relationship. She’d said that suited her perfectly as neither was she.

Six months ago, Niall had celebrated his fortieth birthday by taking over the first floor of a Hammersmith restaurant and filling it with mates. ‘They’re more casual acquaintances,’ he’d admitted, when he’d sought her out and they’d had a quiet moment together on the balcony. ‘I count you as one of my few real friends. You’re like a breath of fresh air to me. You’re great. Thing is, Vikki …’ he’d paused.

She’d waited.

‘Something went badly wrong, years ago,’ he’d said, giving her a regretful look as they’d stood together, leaning against the balcony. ‘Something I can’t bring myself to talk about, but it’s the reason why I can’t let myself get serious about anyone. I just wanted you to know.’

She’d allowed the silence to rest between them, their arms touching.

‘Anyhow,’ he’d continued, straightening up, ‘birthdays, especially milestone ones, have a habit of making you pause and resurrect old memories. But that’s enough about me, we’d better get back to the party.’

He’d had that vulnerable look in his eyes then, and it was significant moments such as these that made her determined never to do or say anything to spoil what they had.

Their friendship had played out against the backdrop of their favourite London haunts, occasional dinners, trips to the movies and the theatre, Friday-after-work drinks, Saturday brunch, then came the odd night when he’d see her home and come up to her Putney flat.

But by degrees, in spite of her best intentions to avoid becoming entangled in any significant relationships, she’d found he was occupying more and more space in her head. A weekend without seeing him was an empty weekend; being in his company filled her with a mixture of excitement and the certainty that this was where she was meant to be. She was hungry to know everything about him, from his opinion on movies and music, books and box sets, his favourite food and chill-out places, to the running of the country.

Then she’d realised that these were all only subtexts to wanting to know how Niall Blake felt deep down inside about big life issues and deeply personal stuff – hopes and dreams, love and death. But these were the places neither of them had gone to yet. Likewise, their past lives were never spoken of; it was as if they’d both come into the friendship as blank slates.

He’d even stayed over the odd time, on the sofa in her flat, looking so ridiculously uncomfortable as well as touchingly vulnerable, with his stockinged feet suspended over the end, that the next time they’d lost track of the hours, chatting until the early morning over a bottle of wine, watching BBC4 on a Friday night, she’d allowed him to crash out, fully clothed, on her bed. He didn’t know that she’d spent half the night lying in the dark, listening to him breathe, inhaling his scent, absorbing the precious nearness of him in through her pores and senses until they overflowed.

Then there had been that one night, six weeks ago; she wasn’t sure who’d reached for the other first, but they’d slept together as in ‘slept together’.

Just be your usual self, Vikki. Oh yeah, easier said than done. She knew how he felt about her: she was his breath of fresh air; he was her London-Irish guy. She sensed there were parts of his life he was keeping under wraps. But, equally, Niall didn’t know the real Vikki Gordon, behind the happy-go-lucky face, or the dark thoughts that disturbed her sleep. He didn’t know there was a part of her she kept hidden from him, hidden even from herself, squashing it away when it threatened to emerge. Staying light, staying friendly, staying funny, at all costs.

*

He called her on Monday evening. ‘Have you a minute to talk?’

‘Sure. I’m at home.’ He’s changed his mind.

‘I thought you might be out having a ball on the bank holiday.’

‘Oh, I was,’ she lied. ‘I’m at home now, trying to recover.’

She wasn’t about to admit she’d spent most of the afternoon in her bedroom feverishly scrutinising the contents of her wardrobe to see what might be suitable when she met Niall’s family. Very little. Zilch, actually.

‘About the weekend, there are a couple of things …’ he said, his voice trailing off.

Things. Here goes. Her heart tumbled down inside her like a brick. ‘Go on.’

‘I told Lainey I was bringing you; she’s organising the arrangements and getting the house in order. It’s been more or less unoccupied for the last three years after Dad moved into the town. When she assumed we were an item, I didn’t …’ a taut silence, then, ‘Vikki, I didn’t correct her.’

‘What does that mean, exactly?’

‘Thing is, it means we’ll be sharing a room,’ he said. ‘The spare bedrooms up in the attic haven’t been touched in years and are a bit damp so Lainey’s just getting the main bedrooms ready. I thought it was only fair to give you advance warning. Scout’s honour, I’ll behave myself,’ he assured her.

‘Just as well you did,’ she said, her cheerful tone belying the swell in her heart. ‘I’ll bring my granny PJs in case you hog the duvet and I have industrial ear plugs in case you snore too much. Then again you’d better be warned, it could be me hogging the duvet and snoring my brains out.’

‘There’s something else …’

*

‘What do you mean you won’t be at the conference? Are you mad?’

On Tuesday evening, in a restaurant tucked into a quaint laneway in Putney, Mia’s reaction was just what Vikki had expected. She pushed her pilau rice to one side, took a deep breath and said, as nonchalantly as possible, ‘I’m double-booked for next weekend.’

Mia laughed. ‘The hell you are.’

‘I’m going to Ireland with Niall.’ Even saying the words out loud gave her a thrill.

‘How nice.’

She knew by Mia’s face that she didn’t believe her. ‘No, seriously … he’s actually asked me. Over to Mayo. To meet the family.’ She leaned across the table. ‘Don’t you see what this means?’

Mia sloshed more white wine into their glasses. ‘It means you’ve had far too much of our unseasonal heat and sun. Or wine. Or your Irish guy has turned your head.’

‘Maybe he has.’

‘Cripes.’ Mia put her hand up to her dropped jaw. ‘You are serious, aren’t you? You’re going to miss Saturday’s conference because you’re going to Ireland.’

‘Yep.’

Vikki had become good friends with Mia almost ten years ago, when they’d started together in Rosella Incorporated, a large magazine-publishing company, at a time when Vikki had cut all ties to her murky past, changed address, changed job, changed her hairstyle and reinvented herself. Or so she’d thought. Some habits, though, had been hard to break and in recent years, Mia, the older and wiser sister she’d never had, had provided a shoulder to cry on when, one after another, both of Vikki’s serious relationships had bitten the dust. Mia had helped her to figure out for herself that she’d been looking for love in all the wrong places; she’d been attracted to the wrong type of guy, giving them permission to walk all over her.

‘You need to go out there with a kick-ass attitude,’ Mia had said, one of the many nuggets of advice she’d offered to a weeping, snotty-nosed Vikki. Her eyes had been so kind and empathetic that Vikki knew Mia guessed she gravitated towards men who treated her less than she deserved because of a damaging legacy from her past. Mia was the only person in the world she trusted enough to take into her confidence about her feelings for Niall.

Mia shook her head. ‘How can you do this, knowing your job could be on the line?’

She wasn’t exaggerating. There had been rumours and counter-rumours circulating around Rosella that the magazine Beautiful Me where Vikki had a role as assistant editor was going to be subsumed into a sister company magazine, The Body Perfect, and Vikki knew there would be no room for two assistant editors. She needed to be there to fight her corner in front of Jo Morgan, the clever, ambitious Rosella CEO.

‘This is more important to me than any job. What do you think meeting the family means?’

Mia sat back and studied her face as though she was finally taking Vikki seriously. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, her blue eyes full of warm concern. ‘It could mean nothing at all. I’m just being real here. I always had Niall pegged as the kind of guy to run a mile from any kind of serious intention. I’ve seen you burnt before and I don’t want to see that look on your face again. You could lose your job if you don’t show this weekend. If Niall was that good of a friend, he’d pick another weekend to introduce you to the family. Of all the crap timings.’

‘He doesn’t know.’

‘The most important weekend of your working life and he doesn’t know?’

‘Before I mentioned the conference, he invited me to the family get-together. I’ve said “yes”.’

There was a long silence while Mia absorbed her words.

‘Well then,’ she said, ‘Plan B. The conference starts at eight o’clock on Saturday morning. We’ll be hitting the critical business decisions after coffee break. We can Skype. Jo Morgan doesn’t have to