PROLOGUE

       Valentine’s Day, Dublin

       Two years ago

      In this day and age, is there anything that says ‘I love you’ more than a Chubb padlock fastened tight onto a bridge? And like a growing number of landmarks around the world, the Ha’penny Bridge is only coming down in them. You’ll often catch couples sneakily fastening locks to the metal grills on either side of the bridge’s arch, pledging undying love (weather permitting), then tossing the key down into the River Liffey beneath.

      Every red-letter date in the calendar without fail, you can be guaranteed the Ha’penny Bridge will groan under the weight of all these tiny little love locks, with particular spikes around Valentine’s Day and New Year. After all, it’s a romantic and slightly different way to show your commitment to that someone special, isn’t it? Plus it sure as hell beats a bunch of overpriced red roses from Tesco.

      But every so often you’ll see a forlorn single revisiting a lock, maybe touching it wistfully, then sadly walking away. And you’ll find yourself wondering what their story could possibly be.

      Like tonight, for instance.

      A woman was standing tall and proud beside one such lock and from behind you’d think absolutely nothing at all was the matter with her. She had choppy, blonde, bang-on-trend hair and stood ramrod straight with her head held high as she stared out over the Liffey swirling beneath.

      It was only when you caught her profile sideways on, you could see how upset she was. This woman looked all out of place here; there was something way too regal and composed about the way she stood all alone on the bridge, while backpackers in puffa jackets and exhausted tourists barged past her on their way to and from the pubs and restaurants of Temple Bar.

      No way was a lady this classy and elegant on her way to some booze-up or hen night in Temple Bar, that was for certain. She was older, late thirties at a guess, slim and elegant in red-soled Louboutin high heels and huddling a blonde fur coat around her shoulders, to ward off the icy February rain and chill. Real fur too, you could tell at a glance. She had no umbrella either, but didn’t seem to care that she was slowly getting drenched. Instead she just stood right beside the lovelocks, staring out over the river and clinging onto the coat; silent, unchecked tears running down her coldly angular face.

      But if this lady thought she was passing by anonymously and completely unnoticed, she was wrong. At that exact moment, a much younger woman taking a short cut across the bridge spotted her, and even though she was running late for a movie screening, suddenly found herself stopping dead in her tracks.

      Because she’d recognised the lady standing proudly beside all the lovelocks. As would anyone who’d bothered to look closely enough. This was Kate King, the Kate King. There was hardly anyone in the country who wouldn’t have known who she was, barring if they’d lived inside a cave for the last fifteen years.

      Everyone knows a Glamazon like Kate King; or at least, everyone thinks that they do. She’s the type who’s forever in the papers flaunting her statement homes – and yes, that’s homes plural – or gracing high society dos, or else maybe perched on a TV sofa discussing her ‘charity work’. Always glossy and smiley and skinny, with her filthy rich husband never too far from her side. Kate King really was the woman who had it all.

      But why the woman who had it all was now crying on a bridge in public in the lashing rain was quite another thing. It was a bit like stumbling across the Queen bawling her eyes out over the Thames; one of those things that you just couldn’t imagine happening.

      Tess hesitated. She was dead late for the movie now and Bernard would probably be furious with her, but it felt wrong to just walk by when there was someone beside her clearly distressed and needing help. Kate King really did seem to be in a right state; supposing she was on the verge of doing something stupid like throwing herself over the bridge? Then Tess would have to read all about it in the next day’s papers, knowing that she might have been able to do something, but instead chose to keep on walking, just so she could be on time for some obscure Mexican art house movie that Bernard insisted on seeing.

      ‘Excuse me,’ she said gingerly, approaching the lady. ‘I’m so sorry to bother you, but are you OK?’

      Kate King turned sharply to look at her and Tess was shocked to see two puffy, red eyes with mascara running all the way down that famously beautiful, sculpted face. You never saw a woman like this looking anything less than flawlessly composed and immaculate in magazines and on the telly. Tess almost wondered if this could possibly be one and the same person.

      No response.

      ‘Maybe you’d like me to get you a taxi?’ Tess asked her gently. ‘You could shelter under my umbrella till we find you one?’

      ‘Please just go away,’ came the clipped response.

      ‘But you’re getting soaked!’

      ‘I don’t care.’

      ‘Oh, well … sorry to disturb you,’ said Tess, taken aback. ‘I only meant to—’

      ‘Look, I’d really like some privacy. Can’t you just leave me in peace?’

      Her tone was brusque now, dismissive. She meant what she said. So Tess backed off, wondering what the hell could possibly have gone so wrong in Kate King’s flawlessly perfect A-list life that someone like her was left all alone and sobbing on the Ha’penny Bridge in the pouring rain. For a split second, she hesitated, overwhelmed with guilt for leaving and walking away. Should she turn back? Maybe try to engage with her a bit more?

      ‘Whoever you are,’ Kate King said, sensing Tess wavering right by her shoulder. ‘I’m sure you mean well, but I’d really like you to move on.’

      So, left with little choice in the matter, Tess did as she was told, shook the excess rain off her umbrella and quietly went on her way.

      She could barely concentrate on the movie though. Instead, all she could do was think about Kate King, and wonder.