He continued to wrestle with his thoughts, his crippling, debilitating sense of doubt, the same that Angelica had felt at the end of each season (“Why won’t they keep me on?”, “Am I good enough to stay the whole year?”, “Will they accept me back?”) the following morning as he entered Whitaker’s Jewellers. Rose had called him before nine o’clock, just as he was on his way to work, notifying him that she’d found the invitation in one of Angelica’s jackets that she’d left in the staff room. Tomek had been more than happy to turn round and pop over to inspect.

The front of the shop was entirely floor-to-ceiling windows, showcasing rows of delicate and ornate diamond and gemstone jewels sitting neatly on soft velvet displays. Rings, necklaces, earrings. Some of the prettiest and most intricate designs Tomek had ever seen. And if he thought the exterior was spectacular, he was in for a shock when he entered. As soon as he stepped through the door, he got a sense that this was a safe space, a welcoming place for people – confused boyfriends and husbands who were well out of their depth – to come looking for engagement rings or generous gifts without the threat of some commission-hungry zombie pressuring them into a purchase. This was Rose’s lifeblood, and he sensed she would know when to toe the line and when to step just over it.

The middle of the shop was dominated by a large glass display case. In it, dozens of earrings of varying shapes, sizes and carats dangled from stylish branches, surrounded by a bed of leaves and twigs. To his right, running along the wall, was a similar display case, except it had been littered with sand and various seashells and stones picked up from along the beach. To his left was a large wooden scale-model sailing yacht called The Rose that sat in the centre of the display. Necklaces and bracelets, including their charms and price tickets, hung from the masts and other parts of the boat. At the back of the shop, sitting behind a cash desk, was Rose. She climbed out of her seat and rounded the desk.

‘Each display’s a representation of Leigh-on-Sea and beyond,’ she said, making her way towards the display on Tomek’s right. ‘Our lovely little fishing history,’ she continued. ‘An homage to the fish and oysters that are farmed there. The diamonds and gems in this one are yellow to represent the sand.’ She joined him in the centre of the room, moving slowly, elegantly, almost seductively. ‘This one represents Belfairs, one of my favourite woods. Sometimes Johnny and I would go for walks round there in the summer.’ She pointed to the emeralds, and after her moment of reflection was over, she moved to the sailing yacht. ‘Johnny bought me this when I first opened the shop. Said it was a good luck charm. Shame it wasn’t a real one. That would’ve been nice. Still, next best thing, I guess.’

‘It’s the gesture that counts,’ Tomek replied. ‘Though I think you’re missing one…’

‘One what?’

‘A display.’

‘Oh?’

‘Where’s the mud? You can’t have a display dedicated to Leigh and not have one that contains a shit load of mud.’

The corners of her lips rose. ‘You read my mind,’ she said, as she pointed to a corner of the wall to Tomek’s right. He hadn’t noticed it, but hidden behind a concrete pillar was another display case, smaller, with brown paint on the base and wooden poles protruding from it.

‘Is that supposed to be the pier?’

‘I know it’s cheating. Southend… not quite Leigh-on-Sea. But that one’s for the tourists.’

‘Do you get many?’

‘More than you’d think.’

‘None from Dublin, I hope.’ The words left his mouth before he was able to catch them. His hand flew to his mouth, then he lowered it. ‘I’m so sorry, I⁠—’

‘She’d better hope she doesn’t end up in here by mistake,’ Rose replied, taking Tomek by surprise. ‘I’ve got sharp tools in the back. And machines. Might run her fingers under one of my grinders, then poke her eye out with the fucking stud from one of these earrings.’ She picked one up from the nearest display and, gritting her teeth, stabbed her invisible opponent repeatedly with the tiny pin.

Tomek chuckled, relieved that she saw the funny side of it.

‘I’d say that’s the least she deserves,’ he said, though without realising why. He didn’t know why, but he felt an attraction to Rose. One that he shouldn’t, one that felt wrong. But perhaps that was why he felt that way in the first place; because he knew he couldn’t, because he knew he shouldn’t, that it was taboo. She was attractive, intelligent, and had her own business. She was respectable, successful, driven, hard-working, and he admired that about her. But as he thought about her in that way, what she would be like to kiss, an image of Abigail entered his head, and he quickly turned his attention to the woodland display in the middle of the room. Green, Abigail’s favourite colour.

‘You still need something for your girlfriend?’ Rose asked.

Tomek did a double-take, suddenly shy. ‘Oh, that? No… no, I don’t think so.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Trouble in paradise?’

‘Kinda. Though it’s not quite the same as your situation. I guess people would call it a rough patch.’

‘I was going to say, if you need to borrow any stabbing pins, you know where to find me.’

Tomek did know where to find her. And from the flirtatious grin on her face, she was more than happy for him to come round again, and again, and maybe a fourth time.

An awkward silence came between them. Tomek briefly forgot what he was there for and it wasn’t until a customer came through the doors that they both sprang to life. Rose told the customer that she’d be with them shortly, then gestured for Tomek to follow her to the back office. The room was no larger than a small bathroom. Most of the space was taken up by several coats hanging from a peg and a couple of pairs of shoes stacked atop one another on the floor. Rose reached into a light green jacket on one of the pegs and removed a small white card. As she handed it to him, she said, ‘You’ll have to let me know what it’s like if you end up going. Ever since she told me about it, it’s piqued my curiosity.’

Tomek nodded. He thanked her, then left her to the customer. As she wandered off, addressing the man who’d just entered, Tomek surveyed the document. It was smaller than A5, made from thick, expensive card. In the middle, handwritten in black calligraphy, was Angelica’s name. Beneath it were the words, “…is cordially invited to a night of dalliance and debauchery with other devilish debutantes.” At the top of the card was an image of a masquerade ball mask with a small emblem emblazoned in one eye. At the bottom was the address.

Melback Manor, Burnham-on-Crouch.

With the owner’s name and contact number on the reverse.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The man they were looking for was called Micky Tatton. The woman behind the reception desk at the sprawling countryside estate had told them he would be on his way down in a few minutes. In that time, Tomek and Rachel asked her a few questions about the place, pretending to be a couple that were looking to have their wedding ceremony there. Melback Manor, she said, was first built over five hundred years ago by the Tudors, and had been in the Tatton family for nearly two centuries. Opening to the public in the early two thousands, the mansion and adjoining cottage had become a favourite for soon-to-be newlyweds, with over a thousand weddings conducted in twenty years. They were open forty weeks of the year, with the remaining twelve shut for maintenance and refurbishment.

As a prospective customer, that little detail stuck out to Tomek, so he asked more about the estate and what needed repairing.

‘The cottage on the south side is the newest part of the property, but it’s the one that needs the most work, sadly,’ she explained. ‘We have a lot of guests who stay with us, as I’m sure you can imagine, and all that movement in and out of the rooms means there are always things that suffer from wear and tear. But fortunately, our teams are always on hand to fix or replace anything should you need it. We have several packages, each one unique to you, depending on your price range and requirements. I can get one of our staff to take you through them if you’d like?’

Mercifully, before Tomek could answer and get himself deeper into the rabbit warren of lies, a man appeared in a wooden framed doorway.

‘Mr Tatton!’ she said, as she rounded the desk and placed a hand on his arm.

The man came to an abrupt stop and, despite the obvious grievance at the interruption, he wore a pleasant, welcoming, if somewhat forced, smile. He was in his mid-fifties and was dressed in a light blue suit and matching tie. His hair was thick, wavy, and combed backwards stylishly. His jawline was rough and handsome, and he had a messy beard that hugged his face. He looked like he’d come from somewhere in Mayfair or Westminster, with a silver rod shoved so far up his arse that it was visible in his mouth every time he spoke – but what else did you expect from someone who’d inherited his family’s two-hundred-year-old fortune?

‘Good afternoon,’ he said in a deep baritone voice, polite and formal. ‘How may I assist you? Are you guests or looking to take out one of our packages?’

‘Neither,’ Tomek answered.

‘Yet,’ added Rachel, with a little side glance to Tomek.

Micky chuckled nervously. ‘Well, whatever it is, I’m sure we can accommodate you.’

‘Fantastic, just what we wanted to hear.’ Tomek reached into his pocket and produced the invitation, covering Angelica’s name with his finger.

As soon as the man recognised what it was, his mouth fell open, and he began to babble. He stood there, surveying Tomek and Rachel intently. Tomek could see confusion on the man’s face as he tried to work out whether he recognised them.

‘I understand,’ he said quickly. ‘Why don’t you follow me? My office is occupied at the moment, a business meeting, boring stuff really, but I’m sure we can find a room somewhere to discuss things further. Why don’t we walk and talk?’

Tomek and Rachel obliged. He took them through a large open doorway into a small seating area, through another door, into a larger space, this one filled with enough sofas and chairs for them to get comfortable. In the corner was a grand piano, sitting with its lid down, closed, unloved. The room, and to an extent the entire building, smelled of old, hundred-year-old furniture that was well past its restoration date, wooden beams that had soaked up so much moisture over the centuries that they were beginning to rot, and thick layers of dust that had formed in the nooks and crannies of the walls and ceilings. Some might have called it rustic, original, part of the identity of the place. Tomek called it stale and in need of a clean. Which, given the fact the place was closed for twelve weeks of the year for restoration purposes, begged the question of what they spent all that time cleaning?

‘We currently have a wedding going on,’ Micky Tatton explained, ‘so I won’t be able to take you through the gardens. But, depending if we get lucky, you might get to see the cottage.’ Micky came to a stop, raised a finger for them to wait, then checked the nearby corridors. When the coast was clear, he closed the door and returned. ‘Forgive me, I don’t recognise your faces, but then again I wouldn’t, would I?’

Tomek didn’t know to what he was referring, but decided to indulge him.

‘No. No, you wouldn’t.’

Micky leant in, keeping his voice low. ‘I don’t… I don’t usually discuss The Nights in public, especially in such an open space, but… I guess I can make an exception. Did you… did you meet at one of The Nights of Eden?’

Tomek and Rachel glanced at one another. How far were they willing to take the deceit? In the end, Micky beat them to it.