The Missing Wife: The uplifting and compelling smash-hit bestseller!

by Sheila O'Flanagan

Genres: Family Life; Marriage & Divorce; Friendship; Women's Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

Readers of Marian Keyes, Lisa Jewell and Santa Montefiore will love Sunday Times bestselling author Sheila O'Flanagan's THE MISSING WIFE - the riveting story of a woman determined to escape, the man who wants to find her and the friends and family unaware of the dark truth. Set in the glorious, sunny south of France.

Have you ever wanted to disappear?

When Imogen Naughton vanishes, everyone who knows her is shocked. She has a perfect marriage. Her handsome husband treats her like a princess. She's always said how lucky she is. So why has she left? And how will she survive without Vince?

What goes on behind closed doors is often a surprise, and Imogen surprises herself by taking the leap she knows she must. But as she begins her journey to find the woman she once was, Imogen's past is right behind her...

Will it catch up with her? And will she be ready to face it if it does?

What readers are saying about The Missing Wife:

'I could not put this down. I've read all of Sheila O'Flanagan's books and loved them all but this was my favourite by far. I was routing for Imogen so much I felt like I was there with her' Amazon reviewer, 5 stars

'Love, love, LOVED IT. The ending was perfect in my opinion' Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars

'Imogen's escape is beautifully detailed and the descriptions of France made my mouth water. A really enjoyable book' Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars

Release date: June 16, 2016

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 512

Sample

Standing in the line of passengers boarding the intercity coach, Imogen started to panic. A cold sweat dampened the back of her white cotton blouse and she froze on the spot, wedged behind a tall man in a brightly coloured Madiba shirt and an impatient Parisian woman who’d been checking her watch every five minutes for the past half an hour. The woman made a disapproving sound, indicating that she should get a move on, but Imogen stayed where she was, on the bottom step of the coach, clutching the handrail, unable to move.

‘S’il vous plaît,’ said the woman through clenched teeth.

‘I’m sorry.’ Imogen moved to one side. ‘Go ahead.’

The woman pushed her way past, followed by the remainder of the passengers, while Imogen remained at the doorway, unsure of whether or not to board.

‘Madame?’ The driver looked at her enquiringly.

‘Yes,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Yes. I’m . . . I’m getting on now.’

But she could hear his words in her head.

What on earth d’you think you’re doing? You can’t manage on your own. You’ll make a mess of it. You always do.

She shut him out. He was wrong. She wasn’t going to make a mess of it. Because she had a Plan.

Don’t make a complete fool of yourself. It was his voice again as her hand tightened on the handrail.

She wouldn’t make a fool of herself if she stuck to the Plan. It was foolproof. Hopefully. And she’d already successfully carried out the start of it. There was no need to doubt herself about the rest. Besides, she thought, it’s too late to back out now.

It’s never too late.

This time the words were her mother’s, one of the many clichés she’d liked to use on a daily basis. But in this case, they were true. It wasn’t too late. She could still walk away without too much collateral damage. Whatever problems that might arise from her actions could be fixed. She could find a way to explain them.

But going back and trying to make excuses wasn’t why she was here now. It wasn’t why she’d spent so long refining the Plan. Nevertheless, she had a choice. Go forward, or go back. She reminded herself that this was the chance she’d been waiting for. Her first opportunity to execute the Plan. How would she feel if she let it slip away?

She took a deep breath and began to climb the steps.

The coach was comfortable and air-conditioned, which was a pleasant relief after the unexpected humidity of the June day. The exhibition hall had been hot and crowded, and she’d spent a lot of time wishing she’d worn something lighter than the navy wool business suit Vince had told her was appropriate for her business trip to France. But whenever she’d broken out in a sweat that morning, she’d been unsure if it was because of the suit, or because she was worrying about what she was intending to do and the way she was going to do it.

She walked down the aisle of the coach. Having let so many people board ahead of her, her choice of seat was limited. She slid into the first one available, beside a long-legged young man with earbuds in his ears who was busy scrolling through playlists on his phone. A student, Imogen decided, as she glanced at his stubbled cheeks, logoed T-shirt and ripped jeans. She felt a pang of nostalgia for her own student years, even though she wouldn’t have considered them to have been typical. Unlike many of her peers, she hadn’t wanted to travel or have assorted life experiences. She’d wanted to put down roots. Her own roots in her own place instead of somewhere decided for her by someone else. That had been very important to her. Unfortunately.

She gave the young man a brief smile, but he was far too busy with his phone to notice.

The driver put the coach into gear and it moved slowly away from the station.

A few minutes later, they turned towards the Boulevard Périphérique and Imogen’s phone buzzed.

She counted to ten before she looked at the text.

Are you at the airport? she read.

On the way now, she replied.

How long?

She looked at the facades of the buildings around her as the coach driver waited for the lights to turn red. They were mainly office blocks of glass and steel. They could have been anywhere in the world.

Twenty minutes.

Text me when you arrive.

OK.

Love you.

She hesitated before sending her reply. Love you too :)

She saw a sign for the airport as they moved forward again. The coach gathered speed, then turned in the opposite direction. She exhaled slowly. The student beside her was still absorbed in his music. Imogen stared out of the window. When the coach passed an exit marked ‘Disneyland’, she sent another text.

At airport, it said. Phone battery about to die. Talk later. This time she didn’t add a smiley face.

She picked up her handbag from beneath the seat in front of her and opened it. Then she slid her engagement and wedding rings from her finger and dropped them into the bag. After that, she took a hair clip from a small bundle in one of the side pockets and used it to pop out the SIM card holder on the phone. She took the card from the cradle and held it between her teeth while she closed the phone again. As she bit down hard on it, she realised that the student had begun to watch her.

‘You’ll damage it,’ he said in French as he removed one of the buds from his ears.

‘I know,’ she said in the same language once she’d taken the card from her mouth.

She balanced it between her thumb and forefinger and began to squeeze. After a while, the SIM card started to bend. She kept the pressure on until it had doubled over and the tiny metallic bands had cracked. The student shrugged. Imogen sat back in her seat and stared straight ahead.

Vince Naughton always had a plan. He liked to have his day scheduled and he hated being taken by surprise. Years earlier, at one of those corporate think-ins and staff bonding days, which he thought were a total waste of time, a colleague had called him controlling. Irritated by her snap assessment, Vince had said that he wasn’t controlling but he did like to be in control, a comment that resulted in a round of applause from the group and left his colleague looking embarrassed. A few months later, Vince had been promoted and she’d left the company, which made him feel vindicated. It was good to know how things were supposed to pan out, he thought. And good to ensure that they did.

Which was why, when he turned into the car park at the hotel in Cork, he was within ten minutes of the arrival time he’d set himself – the ten minutes was to allow for the unexpected. Vince believed in allowing for the unexpected. It was why he was one of the company’s better associates. He thought of every eventuality. Very few things ever surprised him. He planned for the worst and hoped for the best. It had served him well all his life.

He parked the car, checked in at reception and went to his room. He’d specified a first-floor room if possible, and he was pleased that the conference organisers had met his request, although the room itself overlooked the car park instead of the river, which he would have preferred. Nevertheless, everything else was fine: the Wi-Fi worked, there were tea- and coffee-making facilities, and the TV was a modern flat-screen on the wall.

He sat on the bed and sent a text.

Arrived on time. Room OK. Text me when you’re home.

Then he left the phone on the bed and went into the bathroom to have a shower.

According to the bus timetable, the journey would take more than eleven hours. There were, of course, infinitely quicker ways to travel from Paris to the south-west of France than by road (although if she’d driven herself, Imogen knew she could easily have cut the time in half). A flight would have taken less than ninety minutes, but catching a flight meant having to give your name and credit card details, and she hadn’t wanted to do that. The train would have been the best option of them all, given how superb the French rail system was, and would have had the added advantage of taking her exactly where she wanted to be. However, although she might have been able to buy a ticket without having to reserve it, she felt sure there were plenty of CCTV cameras throughout the marble concourse of the ultra-modern Montparnasse station, and she didn’t want to be caught by any of them. She’d watched too many news reports with grainy images of unsuspecting people going about their daily business not to know that public places were hotbeds of CCTV surveillance. She realised that it was possible she’d been caught on camera buying the coach ticket too. But she didn’t think so. Besides, nobody would have expected her to take a bus. That was why it was part of the Plan.

It began to rain as they arrived at their first stop, four hours into the journey. Imogen dodged the languid, heavy drops as she hurried into the service station and made her way to the ladies’. In the cubicle, she took the battery out of her phone and threw it into a red plastic bin. At their next stop, another four hours later, she disposed of the phone itself in a blue bin near the coach park. It was the first time in more than fifteen years that she hadn’t had a mobile phone, and it was a strange sensation. Even though the phone had been useless without the SIM and then the battery, it had been a part of her. Now it was gone. She wanted to feel that everything it signified was gone too, but the truth was that she wasn’t feeling anything at all. Other than apprehensive. Or maybe just scared.

When she got back on to the coach, the student was playing a game on his own mobile, his fingers tapping urgently at the screen. He looked up as Imogen settled herself in her seat and gave her a faint smile before turning back to the game.

She was pretty sure that she’d received more texts by now.

Are you home yet?

Where are you?

And then perhaps the voice message.

‘Haven’t you charged your damn phone? Ring me.’

But she wouldn’t be ringing. That was part of the Plan too. And because she’d destroyed her phone, she had to stick to it.

She held her hands out in front of her. They were shaking.

The student finished playing his game and took the buds from his ears. He turned to Imogen and asked if he could get by her so that he could take his rucksack from the rack. She stood up while he got his bag and rummaged around in it. Then he slid back into his seat and she sat down again. He lowered the plastic tray in front of him and put a bottle of water and a triple-decker sandwich wrapped in cling film on it. He had other food too – a KitKat, a chocolate muffin and a couple of bananas. He offered one of the bananas to Imogen.

‘No, thank you.’ They continued to speak in French.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘Maman packed all this for me. I like my food, but two bananas is one too many.’

‘It’s good of you to offer,’ said Imogen. ‘But I’m not hungry.’

‘Fair enough.’ He unwrapped the sandwich and took a large bite.

Imogen tried not to look at him. Without a phone or a magazine to distract her, it was hard to stare straight ahead.

‘Do you mind me asking why you trashed your SIM card?’ he asked when he’d finished the sandwich.

She hesitated before replying. ‘I wanted to get away from it all.’

‘You could’ve simply switched the phone off.’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘A bit drastic nonetheless.’ He grinned at her.

‘But at least I know I can’t be tempted by it,’ she said.

He nodded and turned his attention to the muffin. It disappeared in two bites and he spoke again.

‘Are you on holiday?’ he asked.

‘Um . . . sort of,’ she said. ‘I was working and now I have some time off.’

‘Cool,’ said the student. ‘I’ve got summer work in a vineyard.’

‘That’ll be fun.’ Imogen’s plan hadn’t included talking to anyone, because she hadn’t anticipated casual conversation with random strangers. She wasn’t used to it. Besides, she’d wanted to remain anonymous, forgettable. But it was an unexpectedly welcome distraction. Anyhow, the student was doing most of the talking. All she needed to do was nod a few times.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked, during a pause.

‘Imo . . . gen,’ she mumbled.

‘Nice to meet you, Jen,’ he said, apparently unfazed by her hesitation over what was a simple question. ‘I’m Henri.’

She didn’t correct him.

He talked a lot. He was twenty years old and studying environmental sciences at Orléans University, and he was interested in winemaking and viniculture. The previous year he’d travelled to California to visit the vineyards there, which had been great, he said, but he was looking forward to Bayonne. Would she like to meet up for a coffee?

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled with genuine amusement, but she did now. Henri was at least ten years younger than her, but he was happily hitting on her. Which was sort of flattering, she supposed, if very French.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I won’t be staying in Bayonne. I’m travelling further.’

‘Dommage,’ he said. ‘It would have been nice to have coffee with you. But perhaps another time? Where are you from?’

‘Provence.’ She’d lived near Marseille when she was small.

‘My family holidayed in Cannes once,’ said Henri. ‘But I don’t remember very much of it.’

‘It’s a nice town,’ Imogen said. ‘Though very bling-bling.’

He laughed at the English words. And she smiled again.

It was midnight when they finally pulled into the terminus, near the train station in the Aquitaine city of Bayonne. It had stopped raining about an hour previously and the sky was completely clear. Imogen sat in her seat while everyone around her stood up. She’d felt herself relax talking to Henri, but suddenly her hands were shaking again. She’d been protected for the last eleven hours, cocooned from the rest of the world as the bus made its way through the country. Now she had to step outside and face it all once more. And she was having to do it on her own. There was nobody to organise her, to tell her what to do. Nobody to help with the Plan.

‘Excuse me, Jen.’ Henri, who’d fallen asleep a little while earlier, had been roused by the activity and was ready to get off.

‘Yes. Sorry,’ she said, standing up. ‘Enjoy the vineyards.’

‘Enjoy your break. If you come back to Bayonne, please call me.’

‘No phone,’ she reminded him.

‘I’m at the Bernard Noble,’ he said. ‘Look me up.’

She knew she wouldn’t.

She followed him off the bus and waved as he walked away, his rucksack on his back. She waited while the driver took the rest of the luggage from the storage area. Her silver-grey case was one of the last to be retrieved. She picked it up and looked around her. Beyond the car park, the surrounding buildings were typically French, their warm brick illuminated by street lights, wrought-iron balconies at their shuttered windows.

She’d memorised the location of the hostel where she hoped to stay, and so, after taking a moment to orientate herself, she crossed the road and walked down a narrow side street. At the corner, she could see the dark green canopy over the door, embossed with the name. She hesitated when she reached it. She’d never stayed in a hostel before. Not having done the student travel thing.

She pushed open the glass door, which was set into a brick surround. The interior of the building was clean and renovated, with a black and white tiled floor and exposed walls decorated with iron sculptures. A middle-aged woman was seated behind a small reception area, engrossed in a book. She didn’t look up until Imogen stood in front of her and cleared her throat.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Um . . .’

You can’t manage without me.

Imogen whirled around, convinced he was standing behind her. But there was no one there.

‘Mademoiselle?’

You’ll fail. You know you will.

‘I . . . I’m looking for a room.’

She realised that she was waiting for the woman to ask her why she’d turned up so late at night. And why she was on her own instead of with him. And where she was planning to go. And what she planned to do. And . . .

‘For how many nights?’ The woman sounded bored.

‘Just one.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper. She cleared her throat and spoke a little louder as she repeated herself. ‘Just one.’

The woman took an electronic key from the desk, coded it and handed it to her.

‘Premier étage, mademoiselle,’ she said.

Imogen wondered if it was fetching up at a hostel that had turned her from a madame to a mademoiselle again. She glanced at the bare finger on her left hand before starting up the stairs with her bag. She stopped outside the door of room 14. The card didn’t work the first time.

You can’t manage without me.

She dropped the key and it slithered along the corridor. It took her a while to pick it up because it kept sliding out of her grip. When she finally had it in her trembling fingers, she inserted it into the lock again the right way up. The light turned green and the door opened.

The room was better than she’d expected. The walls were painted pale cream, brightened by some framed floral prints. The single bed was surprisingly firm. There was a net curtain at the long window, which led out to a tiny balcony overlooking the street. The window also had a pair of green-painted shutters, which Imogen pulled closed. Apart from the bed, the only furniture was a tall, narrow wardrobe, with interior shelving. A full-length mirror was on the wall beside it. The en suite bathroom (the reason she’d picked the Hostel Auberge in the first place; whatever else, she wasn’t going to share a bathroom) boasted a shower, toilet and hand basin. Two dark green towels hung on the rail beneath the sink. Though nothing was luxurious, it was impeccably clean.

It was also empty. She realised that she’d half expected to see him there, waiting for her. She sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed, a wave of relief washing over her. Her breath was coming in short gasps. She put her head between her knees, terrified that she was going to faint.

‘I am a strong, capable woman,’ she muttered to herself. ‘I can look after myself.’

But she wasn’t sure she believed it.

He’d always told her that she was no good at planning, and that without him her life would be a chaotic mess. It was certainly true that she was the sort of person who hoped things would turn out for the best rather than ensuring they would by micro-managing every detail. But she’d micro-managed the Plan, which had been in the making for two years. Its main attribute was flexibility, so that she could take advantage of the first opportunity that presented itself. When it had, she’d been ready, because she’d gone over it a million times in her head before. But even as she’d packed her cabin bag – not caring that she had to leave so much behind – she hadn’t really believed that she was actually doing it. She hadn’t trusted herself to carry it out because she’d mislaid the part of her that made her own decisions and she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to find it again.

Vince had dropped her at Dublin airport and told her to enjoy herself, even though he’d been unhappy about her going in the first place.

‘I have to,’ she told him when he remarked that it seemed a waste of her time. ‘It’s my job.’

‘It wasn’t your job last year,’ he pointed out.

‘Last year Conor hadn’t broken his wrist,’ she said. ‘He could take photos and notes at the fair himself. It’s different this time.’

‘I don’t see why it has to be you.’

‘Because I’m his PA,’ she reminded him.

‘Surely that means you should be holding the fort for him back at the office?’

‘I’ll be doing that from Paris on the mobile.’

‘I don’t like you going without me,’ he said. ‘Especially not with a man who isn’t your husband.’

‘Don’t be silly!’ It was important to hide her anxiety, so she kept her tone light and cheery. ‘I could hardly bring you with me, and nothing’s going to happen between me and Conor. He’s married, for heaven’s sake!’

‘And that shows how naive you are,’ Vince said. ‘Being married won’t stop him from propositioning you in a warehouse.’

‘We won’t be in any warehouses,’ she said. ‘We’ll be at the exhibition hall the whole time.’

‘Or propositioning you in the hotel.’

‘If he does – and I think that’s highly unlikely – I’ll remind him of his marital responsibilities,’ said Imogen.

She knew that Vince wasn’t satisfied. But there was nothing he could do about it. As she got out of the car, he asked her once again if she had her passport and her boarding card. ‘You won’t need much money,’ he’d added. ‘Everything will be on expenses.’

He got out and came around to the passenger side. ‘Stay safe,’ he said.

‘Of course.’

‘Call me if you need anything.’

‘I won’t need anything.’

‘Well if you do, just call. It doesn’t matter what time.’

‘OK.’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

He kissed her.

When she glanced back after walking inside the terminal building, she could see him standing there, looking after her. But by the time she’d gone up the escalator to the departures area, he’d driven away.

She waited until she’d gone through security before finding a cash machine and withdrawing the maximum she could from their current account. Then she checked the balance on the other account. Her account. The one he didn’t know about.

She’d made three transfers into it. Each of them was from the company she worked for, bonus payments from the head office in Paris. She’d managed to arrange with the Dublin accounts office to pay her bonuses separately. Annie Costigan, the company’s accountant, had looked at her curiously.

‘But we have your account details on file,’ she said.

‘That’s our joint account,’ Imogen explained. ‘I want the bonus money to go to my personal account.’

‘Why don’t you get your salary paid to your personal account?’ asked Annie. ‘Then you could set up a transfer to the joint account . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she saw the expression on Imogen’s face.

‘I’d rather have it this way,’ Imogen said. ‘Please, Annie.’

Annie hesitated, her fingers poised over her keyboard.

‘Is everything all right at home, Imogen?’ she asked.

‘Of course it is.’ Imogen spoke sharply. ‘Absolutely. It’s just that . . . it’s his birthday soon, and I want to surprise him with a gift. But I can’t do that if he sees the information on the statement.’

‘Oh.’

‘And as for transferring my salary to my own account, I know I could do that, but we agreed to have a joint account for both our salaries so—’

‘Fair enough,’ said Annie. ‘I’ll set it up for you.’

‘Thanks,’ said Imogen.

She didn’t get huge bonuses. PAs, even ones as dedicated as Conor said she was, never did. But it was enough to start her off. Enough to make the Plan more than just something to think about. Enough to carry it through. At least this far. She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. Nearly there, she murmured. Nearly there.

At half past six the following morning, they snapped open again and she was wide awake. It took a moment for her to realise that she wasn’t in Dublin. That she wasn’t in Paris. That she really had done it. Adrenalin shot through her and she sat up, surprised to find that she was still wearing her navy suit. She didn’t remember falling asleep in her clothes.

She opened the shutters, allowing a weak beam of morning light to filter through the net curtain. Then she got undressed, went into the bathroom and stood under the tepid shower, leaning to one side so that she didn’t get her hair wet, because the Hostel Auberge didn’t run to shower caps and it wasn’t something she’d thought about. A hiccup in the Plan, she said to herself, but a minor one. She got out of the shower, dried herself with one of the thin green towels and walked back into the bedroom. She dressed in a plain T-shirt and faded jeans. Then she looked at herself in the mirror.

Her brown eyes were huge in her pale face. Her dark mocha hair had survived the shower and was curling gently under her ears. It was the hair that startled her the most. The day before, it had been long and luxuriant; the shining, tumbling tresses of a shampoo advertisement. Now it was a sleek bob, slightly shorter than shoulder length. Imogen hardly recognised herself. Which was a good thing, she told herself. Making herself unrecognisable was the reason she’d had it cut. Her Swarovski earrings – a twenty-first birthday present from her stepfather – were more visible with the new hairstyle. The tiny crystals glittered in the sunlight that was now beaming through the window.

She dabbed some tinted moisturiser on her face, which dealt with the pallor, then sprayed Nina Ricci perfume on her neck and wrists. After that, she folded her suit and put it in the suitcase. She thought about leaving it behind, but discounted the idea. Although it was unlikely, she might be remembered if she left clothes hanging in the wardrobe. Besides, if things worked out, she might need the suit for a job interview in the future. Having zipped up the case again, she put on her flat shoes and left the room.

It was a twenty-minute walk to the bus stop, but the next bus wasn’t due for nearly an hour, so – in a random, unplanned moment – she sat down at a pavement café, which was already open and serving fragrant coffee and the hot, flaky croissants that tasted so different in France than anywhere else in the world. The coffee and croissants revived her, as did the summer sun, which was rising in the clear blue sky. In the distance, for the first time, Imogen saw the purple and green peaks of the Pyrenees.

She finished and paid for her breakfast and also bought a ticket for the bus. It was already at the stop when she arrived, and she hurried along the uneven pavement, worried in case she missed it. Even though there were other buses later in the day, it was important to stick to the Plan, to get it all exactly right. Getting everything right was her insurance policy. It proved that she could do it. It helped maintain the confidence that she struggled so hard to hold on to.

The other passengers were a mixture of old and young, commuters and other travellers. There were more students too, like Henri, laden down with rucksacks and engrossed in their mobile phones.

Imogen wondered what the messages on hers might be now.

What the hell is wrong with you? Why aren’t you answering my texts?

Have you forgotten to charge your phone?

Tried ringing you. FFS, Imogen, you’re hopeless!

Gone to meeting. P**d off. Talk later.

The journey on the bus, although not as comfortable as the coach, was still beautiful. Even the part through the streets of Bayonne before heading towards the coast was pretty. Imogen leaned her head against the window and gazed out at the deep blue of the Atlantic as the waves pounded the shore. Then the bus wended inland again, passing low rolling hills that reminded Imogen of Ireland before approaching the high mountains that were so very different. The houses were different too, resembling alpine chalets with their shallow sloping roofs and wide eaves. Imogen pictured them covered in snow. She’d lived in this area after they’d left Provence, but she didn’t remember snow. She didn’t remember as much as she’d like. She wondered if anything would be familiar when she arrived. But it didn’t matter if it wasn’t. She was looking to the future and leaving the past behind.

Nearly two hours after they’d set off, the bus finally entered the coastal town of Hendaye, nestling at the foot of the Pyrenees. At first glance, nothing seemed familiar there either, but it was a long time since Imogen had returned to the place she’d once called home. The truth was that her sense of home was fractured. She didn’t know whether she should think of herself as Irish or English or French. She didn’t know where she belonged. That was why roots had been so important to her.

Vince had made her feel as though she belonged with him, anchored and secure in Dublin. But she didn’t feel that way any more. And that was why the reasons for leaving had finally outweighed the reasons for staying and she’d followed the Plan.

She’d chosen to come to the French Basque country because she’d been happy here and she’d always promised herself she’d return. But more importantly, she’d come because very few people actually knew that it had been part of her life. Whenever she talked about her time in France, she talked about Provence and Paris. She didn’t mention Hendaye because people might ask why she and Carol had left, and that wasn’t something she wanted to discuss. Provence and Paris were easier to explain. Besides, they were the places in France that most people knew.

The bus stopped near the train station. As she stepped on to the pavement with her bag, Imogen told herself that Vince would have laughed at her train paranoia. In the warm sun of the Basque town, surrounded by chocolate-box scenery and houses, her fears of the past couple of days seemed totally unwarranted. Yet the coach and bus had been an important part of the Plan. And it had been comforting to follow it.

Vince was more annoyed than worried that Imogen hadn’t texted him the previous night as he’d asked her to. He’d checked the airline’s app on his phon