I squeeze her arm and turn back to our guests. To Willa I say, “I thought you might want to sit next to Michael tonight. He always asks how you are.”

“The egghead, hey? So you two are great pals, are you? Darling, you never told me that.” Jamie fills up his glass and, smiling broadly, growls, “Should I be jealous?”

“Who’s he bringing?” Willa says.

“Some girl called Liv. I don’t know much about her. I get the impression she’s a bit younger than us. He did say she reminds him a bit of you.”

“Me?” Willa’s eyes widen. “In what way?”

“Not a clue. His messages always read like flipping telegrams, like he’s paying for every word.”

“Doorbell,” Cat says. “I’ve got it.”

Flushed from the cold and ushering a slim woman ahead of him, my brother lumbers softly into the kitchen. “Liv, meet my little sis,” he says, “and this is the lovely Cat.” Michael embraces my wife with genuine warmth, kissing her on both cheeks, before enveloping me in a bear hug. I bury my head in his woolly brown jumper, wrap my arms around his back and inhale deeply. How does Michael always manage to smell of home? Heather and applewood; peat, grassland, wet dog. He embraces Willa too, landing an awkward kiss somewhere between her cheekbone and ear before quickly introducing her to Liv. Then he turns to Jamie.

“Jamie,” Michael says. “Good to see you.”

“The man of the moment,” Jamie says, flashing Willa an amused look. He leans across the table to shake Michael’s hand and then rises out of his chair to meet Liv, an affable smile on his broad, handsome face. He bends to kiss her cheek, offers to take her coat, admires the flowers she’s brought and, smiling, questions her about their journey into London. Liv replies affably, but I think she looks somewhat ambushed by all that attention: I see her glance at Michael, giving him a slightly quizzical smile. She’s young, well, younger than me anyway—maybe in her early to mid thirties. And, yes, I can see what Michael meant when he said she reminded him of Willa. Liv’s coloring is darker and she’s not as tall, but she certainly has Willa’s slender frame and fine hair. She has a similar sort of beauty, with full lips and an oval face with high cheekbones. Then I look over to where Willa is standing quietly off to one side, behind the main nub of the group, as still as a painting. She’s also watching Liv, really watching her, in fact, her gray eyes taking her in.

And not just watching Liv, I think. Willa is examining her.

Willa is transfixed.

“Nate and Claudette are running late,” Cat says, looking up from her phone.

“Claudette?” Jamie says.

“French,” Cat says, “doesn’t speak a word of English.”

“What?” I say. “You never told me that. You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m not, seriously. Nate just sent me a text. How’s your French?”

“Rusty. I’ve barely used it since school. You?”

“You know I did Spanish. Sounds like you’re on your own there, then.”

“You’re joking. Bloody hell, Cat.”

“Anyway, they’re stuck in traffic,” Cat says. “I’ll stick the wontons on the table, just to stop everyone from starving.”

Jamie pulls out the chair opposite his own and, with a flourish, offers it to Liv. Slowly, she sits.

“So, Liv,” I say, “how did you meet Michael?”

Liv tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m at the university,” she says, “writing up my doctoral thesis. Michael said you’re at St. Bart’s?”

“I’m a radiographer. I mainly work with cancer patients—”

“I’m an ambassador for Pearl River Wines,” Jamie says, refilling his glass. He waits for Liv to look at him again, then lowers his voice, smiling. “But my genuine passion is for conservation.”

Liv hesitates. Then she says, “Antiques?”

“Lions.”

“Interesting,” she says. She sounds polite.

“It is,” Jamie says. He leans across the table. “I’d love to tell you more.”

I throw a look at Cat, but she’s busy checking her phone. “They’re still about ten minutes away,” she says. “Sorry, everyone. It’s bloody typical of Nate to be late.”

I think Liv looks grateful for this quick change of subject. “At least he let you know,” she says. “Don’t you hate it when people don’t do that?” A dark expression moves across her face. “You’re waiting and waiting and then you end up worrying that something truly awful’s happened—”

Hang on, I think, where’s she going with this? “Drink, anyone,” I say, “Liv?”

“—and you’re never going to see them again.”

Too late. Willa stares at Liv. She makes a sound, a small, high ha, and the rest of us seem to take a small collective intake of breath. Cat looks at me fast.

Jamie shifts in his seat. “Willa,” he says, his voice low, and I’ve a feeling he would reach out and put a giant hand firmly on my friend’s arm, were it not for the fact that I’m sitting between them both.

Willa stares at Liv, hard-eyed and silent. She makes that sound again, the small ha, but lower now, softer; an expelled, held breath. Then, speaking slowly, her eyes still fixed on Liv, she says, “My sister disappeared when she was thirteen.” With some force, she adds, “I mean, she just vanished. We didn’t have a clue—”

Cat makes a tiny movement. I catch her eye and she throws me a Do something look, a microscopic expression of alarm. I reach out and take Willa’s pale hand in mine.

“Her birthday was a month ago, November the third.”

“That’s always going to be a difficult date,” I say; “anniversaries are hard.”

Willa stares hard at Liv. “She was just a child. She’d be a grown woman now, thirty-five. She would have changed a lot, of course.” She gives a high, humorless laugh. “The awful thing is, I could pass her on the street and not even recognize her. She could be anyone.” Her gray eyes dart around the group, then land again on Liv. “I mean, she could be you.”

There is a moment of stunned, horrible silence.

A bell chimes from the hallway.

“They’re here,” Cat says, rising rapidly from the table, “Finally. Thank Christ for that.”

***

Nate, apologetic, loud, shaking off the cold night air like a cat, strides into the kitchen. He’s tall, with closely cropped hair, dark freckled skin and a wide mouth that breaks easily, fluidly into smiles. He drops the hand of the woman he’s with to hug first me and Cat, then Michael and Liv. Then he makes to move toward Jamie and Willa, but Cat touches his arm and shakes her head. Jamie is talking to Willa quietly by the back door, holding her close, and secretly I’m relieved to see him stepping up to comfort her. It’s obviously what she needs. We give them some space.

“Eh voilà,” Nate says, “je vous présente ma magnifique Claudette, ma petite amie.” He introduces his girlfriend to Cat and translates his sister’s warm welcome into French. Based on past experience, Claudette is not the woman I’d expected him to bring: most of Nate’s previous girlfriends looked like models. Claudette isn’t tall; rather, she’s my height or shorter, with a lithe, impish body and cropped, boyish hair, a strong nose and a full mouth. Her clothes—black jeans, white blouse and a thin orange chiffon scarf draped loosely round her neck—are worn with the sort of easy chic that I’ve always envied in the French. Behind tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses, her eyes move evenly around the room, taking in my brother and Liv, me, then glancing at Jamie once, and then again, where he still stands at the back of the kitchen with his arms folded protectively around Willa.

“And Robyn,” Nate says, turning to me, “I’m right in thinking you speak some French, right?”

I nod with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. “I can certainly give it a go,” I say, turning to Claudette and smiling; and then, with some hesitation, “Bienvenue, Claudette, je suis ravie de te recontrer.”

“Moi de même,” she says, talking rapidly, gesturing with her hands. “Je suis désolée d’arriver en retard. La circulation était chaotique, mais je pense que l’on a pris une mauvaise route.”