Mine: The hot new thriller of 2018 - sinister, gripping and dark with a breathtaking twist

As Martin entered the room, my heart juddered with anticipation, excitement and anxiety. He hadn’t seen us, he was too busy shaking hands and slapping backs, a handsome charismatic centre of attention in a dark suit, moving like a jungle cat, at ease but powerful. I glanced at Clare, watching her watching him, and it was obvious his magic was already working on her – and I felt smug in the knowledge that I was the one who would be going home with him.

‘He’s sexy,’ she said, not taking her eyes off him. I couldn’t help feel disappointment, but what did I expect her to say? He’s fascinating, he’s brilliant, he’s damn-near perfect?

Clare didn’t know Martin, hadn’t met him, how could she see him as I did? And did friends ever really approve of partners? I didn’t much like her husband Dom, that was true. Perhaps Clare, with her shrink’s hat on, could explain it to me, but for some reason it was deeply important that the two people I was closest to should get along, impossible though that seemed.

Finally Martin saw me and I felt a crackle in the air as our eyes met. Murmuring something to the woman he was talking to, he made a beeline for us.

‘Francine, you came,’ he said, kissing me on the cheek. ‘And you must be Clare. I’ve heard a great deal about you.’

I thought he would turn the full force of his laser-beam charisma on her, but instead he gave a shy smile. ‘Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I hope you weren’t too bored.’

I noticed Martin kept his eyes on Clare as he said it, paying attention to her, deferring to her. He knew the charm playbook inside out, but then I was sure Clare knew exactly what he was doing: tics, tells, all of those little manipulations people used to deceive were a psychiatrist’s bread and butter. It was like watching two grand masters try to out-think each other.

‘Martin’s one of the sponsors of tonight’s event,’ I said nervously.

‘And a friend of the artist,’ added Clare.

‘More like client of the artist.’ He shrugged. ‘I can’t lie, it’s a business move,’ said Martin with the ghost of a smile. ‘High-level contacts are vital to the Gassler Partnership, and I don’t think you’ll find a greater concentration of wealthy individuals than at an art gallery opening. Especially when the artist is as hot as Helen North.’

‘I do actually like her stuff,’ said Clare.

‘You do?’

‘Really. I wasn’t joking when I said about the light and shade. I’m all about the light and shade.’

Martin laughed. ‘Me too,’ he said, taking Clare by the arm. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you.’

As he led her away, Clare turned and grinned, giving me a discreet thumbs-up. She was a tough nut to crack at the best of times and had always been suspicious of my boyfriends, so to get her approval was everything. I let out a long breath and took a swallow of my champagne: it was already making me fuzzy.

‘I think you’re good for him.’

I turned. Alex was watching Martin work his way around the room.

‘Well, I am a very good barrister,’ I said.

He twisted his mouth. ‘You know what I mean, Fran. I’m his friend, not the Bar Council,’ he said, his expression softening into a smile.

I’d wondered how much Alex had worked out at our dinner at Ottolenghi. Whether he had guessed that I was Martin’s lover as well as his lawyer.

‘Besides, you’re two consenting adults and he’s my business partner. We’ve built something good together. I don’t want it destroyed because of that woman.’

‘Well, I don’t think it will come to that.’

He nodded, but I don’t think he was really listening.

‘After Donna, before you, he was drinking Jack Daniels for breakfast. Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it, because he’s in a better place now than he was three months ago, and I think that difference is you.’

I was stunned to silence. On the one hand, it was what I longed to hear – confirmation of Martin’s feelings for me. But Alex’s words also unsettled me. I had worked long enough as a divorce lawyer to know that toxic relationships brought a lot of emotions to the surface, not all of them positive. Jack Daniels for breakfast suggested a different version of events to the one Martin had given me about the breakdown of his marriage.

I could see him through the crowd and felt an unsettling prickle of envy at how good he looked standing next to Clare. I was about to look away but our eyes met and he smiled, and it was so intimate and reassuring that I felt a little bit lighter.

I almost didn’t notice Tom Briscoe. At first he blended in so well with the smart surroundings that I didn’t recognize him, but then there he was, helping a Sloaney blonde out of her coat. I felt bound to the spot, until a voice in my head told me to get out of there. This wasn’t like bumping into my neighbour Pete by the bus stop near our flat. This was Tom, my colleague. He couldn’t see me with Martin; it would take an analytical mind like Tom’s half a nanosecond to put two and two together.

‘I’m just going to the cloakroom,’ I said to Alex as I made my excuses and crossed the gallery.

Clare was deep in conversation with Sophie Cole. Mouthing ‘sorry’ to Sophie, I pulled Clare to one side.

‘I have to go,’ I said quickly, glancing at my watch.

‘But we’ve only just got here,’ she said with obvious disappointment. ‘Sophie was just telling me who else she knows in the food world. She reckons she can get Giles Coren along to the opening of Dom’s restaurant.’

‘I’ll make sure she does, but I really do need to go.’

I pulled out my phone and texted Martin:

Colleague here from chambers. Got to leave.

‘Sure you don’t want to stay for the dessert canapés?’ pressed Clare. ‘I just saw some mini éclairs and strawberry tarts doing the rounds.’

She frowned, then followed my gaze towards Martin.

‘Ah, I see,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘I’m not surprised you want to shoot off for a shag.’

‘For an educated woman, you can be very crude,’ I said, struggling to sound light-hearted. My mobile phone beeped in my hand. Martin.

I’ll come with you. Just let me say my goodbyes.

I glanced around the room but I had lost sight of Tom. Wherever he was, it gave me the opportunity to collect my things from the cloakroom. I handed over my ticket and waited impatiently as the coat-check girl gossiped with her friend, moving at a glacial pace. Come on, come on. My head was beginning to whirl. My throat tightened and I longed for a breath of fresh air.

‘Fran?’

Feeling a tap on my shoulder, I closed my eyes in defeat. Of course he’d seen me. Of course.

‘Tom!’ I said, turning and forcing surprise into my voice. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Don’t sound so surprised – I have an appreciation for the arts,’ he smiled. He was wearing a sharp navy suit with one of those stripy old-school ties you’re supposed to be able to decipher but I never can. Tom gestured to the girl next to him, the same blonde I’d seen him with earlier.

‘Fran, this is Hannah. Francine is my colleague from chambers.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ I said, extending a hand. ‘Unfortunately, I’m just leaving.’

I saw Hannah shoot a look at Tom, the kind that said, I told you we’d be late. Any other time I’d be interested in that nugget of information and what it told me about Tom’s relationship, but I was far too distracted and focused on escape.

‘Sorry to be a bore, shooting off,’ I said, looking over Hannah’s shoulder, convinced I’d see Martin bearing down on us. ‘You must go and speak to the artist, she’s fascinating.’

‘Surely you can stay for one drink,’ said Tom. ‘It is Friday night, after all.’

‘No rest for the wicked,’ I said with a thin smile as I was finally handed my coat and made a bolt for the door.