Her Last Breath: The new gripping summer page-turner from the No 1 bestseller. Tracy Buchanan

late for more visitors,’ Seb said. He stood up and walked down the hallway, unsteady on his feet now, the bottle of wine he’d consumed showing. Once a teetotaller, he’d been drinking a lot since the injury that had taken him out of competitive rowing. Estelle’s heart went out to him. It must be tough, not being able to do what he loved.

      Christina topped up Estelle’s untouched glass. ‘Here, more wine for the superstar author. Let’s raise a toast,’ she said, raising her wine glass.

      ‘An organic toast,’ Silvia said.

      ‘Of the finest gluten-free variety,’ Kim added with a raised eyebrow.

      ‘All wines are gluten-free, silly,’ Estelle said.

      They all laughed.

      ‘To Estelle!’ they all said, holding up their glasses. She looked at each of them. Her friendships with them might not be very old, but they were all she had and she was so grateful.

      She thought then of one of her few friends from childhood, and saw an image of a girl with long red hair biting into a rotting apple against a stormy sea.

      She forced the image away as Seb appeared in the hallway with a small bouquet of bright red flowers. ‘Flowers for the hotshot writer,’ he said, bringing them over to Estelle.

      ‘What a strange time for flowers to be delivered,’ Silvia declared, peering at the clock.

      Estelle followed her gaze. Nearly ten at night.

      ‘It is a weird time,’ she said. ‘Maybe they got ten at night mixed up with ten in the morning.’

      She took the flowers from Seb, breathing in their scent, then picked out the card that came with them.

       To Stel. Congratulations on the birth of your book. x

      Estelle felt a shiver run through her. She hadn’t been called Stel for many years. That was another lifetime, another world, long before she became the person everyone around this table now saw. The memory filled her with anxiety.

      ‘What flowers are these?’ Silvia asked, brushing her finger over one of the crimson petals.

      ‘Poppies,’ Christina said. ‘How unusual.’

      Seb took them from Estelle. ‘I’ll put them in water,’ he said.

      As he walked to the kitchen, one of the poppies tumbled to the floor, where it was trampled by Seb’s foot.

       Chapter Two

       Wednesday, 3 May

      Estelle stared out at the Thames in the distance, watching as the bricks from the new development being built there crumbled onto the river’s banks.

      The doorbell went. Estelle cursed, realising her fingers were gooey from the honey she’d been using for a recipe. How long had she been stood there in her kitchen, staring into space? She peered at the clock. Ten minutes wasted. She wiped her hands on a damp cloth and took a deep, nervous breath. She knew who would be at the door: the national newspaper journalist who’d once exposed the ‘Queen of Calm’.

      Estelle took a deep breath then jogged to the door, opening it to see a young dark-haired man smiling at her. She smiled back, feeling a little relieved. He seemed nice enough.

      ‘Louis?’ she asked.

      He nodded.

      ‘Come in!’ Estelle said, holding the door open wide.

      ‘Gorgeous place,’ he said, looking around him at the stark white hallway as he walked inside. It was actually Seb’s house, but she’d moved in the year before, renovating it from a run-down mews house near the South Bank to a contemporary home for them.

      ‘Yes, we adore it here,’ she said, leading him to the kitchen. ‘People always seem surprised; I think they expect me to live in a cottage in Wales or something!’

      ‘No, that’s what I love about you,’ Louis said. ‘Clean city living. It’s realistic. Not everyone is able to up sticks and move to the country.’

      ‘Nor indeed wants to,’ Estelle said, gesturing to a row of stools by an oak-topped kitchen island. ‘I love the city.’

      ‘Baking something?’ the journalist asked, looking around at the busy kitchen surfaces.

      ‘When am I not? I thought you’d like to take something away with you.’

      He slung his bag onto the island’s surface, pulling his laptop out. ‘I’m in heaven. Looks like flapjack mix?’

      Estelle nodded. ‘With a twist. But I’ll leave it up to you to guess what that twist is.’

      Louis peered around the kitchen. ‘Hmmm, are those chia seeds?’ he asked, pointing to a mason jar of small seeds.

      Estelle laughed. ‘I’ve hidden the evidence. Here, have a sniff.’

      She handed the bowl of gooey mixture to him and he took in a deep inhalation. ‘Dates, banana, honey.’ Estelle smiled. He seemed to know his stuff. Louis frowned, then added, ‘Is that a spice in there?’

      She snatched the bowl away, laughing. ‘You’ll have to wait. I have another batch on the go that will be ready in five minutes, so you can do a taste test then.’

      He smiled to himself, flipping open his laptop. ‘Woman of mystery,’ he said, raising an eyebrow.

      Estelle shot him a nervous smile before slathering the mixture into a ceramic dish and placing it in the oven. She loved the baking and the writing. But the publicity, not so much. She hated talking about herself. It had to be done though; that’s what her editor and publicist had told her.

      ‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked Louis. ‘Water? Green tea? Organic beer?’ She leaned forward, lowering her voice. ‘Or we do have normal drinks that Seb keeps stowed away in a cupboard somewhere.’

      He laughed. ‘Water would be perfect, thank you.’

      She poured them both some water from the jug she kept in her fridge, then sat down across from him, brushing her blonde fringe from her eyes.

      Louis peered towards the oven. ‘Don’t you use a timer?’

      ‘No. I’ve been baking so long I have an instinct for time.’

      He laughed. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me? So, just a month until your book launch. How are you feeling?’

      Estelle felt a tremor of nerves. She’d been waiting so long for this moment and thought she was ready for it, but the closer she got, the more she felt like a fraud. Did she really deserve this? A friend of hers who’d had a novel published said she’d felt the same. Despite the fact she knew how hard she’d worked, it still felt alien, unearned. She called it ‘imposter syndrome’ and Estelle had it bad.

      ‘Nervous,’ she admitted. ‘Excited too though.’

      ‘No need to be nervous. So, let’s start at the very beginning. Where do you think your interest in food first came from?’

      Estelle hesitated a moment. She could tell the journalist it had all started with how scarce good food was when she was a child, pale meals shoved in a microwave, cheap takeaways bought by her parents. She could tell him how, when she went into care and foster homes, it wasn’t always much better so she’d had to learn from an early age how to prepare food, the simple things like making scrambled eggs. She could tell him about how she paid attention in cooking classes at school because of this, unlike her peers, because she had no choice if she wanted to feed herself. She could then go on to tell him about Lillysands and the Garlands. Finally a place where food was something to be treasured and enjoyed, making dishes with her foster mother Autumn, helping to serve