She put her phone on charge, tepidly waiting for it to buzz back to life and silently hoping that there’d be nothing from Matthew. There was, of course, an email from his work account. This time containing a video as an attachment. She didn’t need to click the play button to know what it was. From the pixelated thumbnail she recognised her own naked body. It was a video she’d never wanted to be in and that he’d sworn blindly he’d erased from his phone, before scowling at her for “ruining the fun”.
I know you’re in Brighton.
Jessie froze. Despite all of the precautions she’d taken, she’d failed. Her mouth fell open. She tried hard to think how he could have discovered her whereabouts. Someone must have slipped up. Nicole? Demi-Leigh? Then the thought of her family seeing the video hit. An image of her poor dad’s face looking deeply ashamed. Why hadn’t she tried harder to check that Matthew really had deleted the clip of her, weak and unwilling? He knew all of her friends from school too and could send it to any one of them. He could put it on Twitter, where men from around the world could ogle her and women could vilify her in the comments. Pamela and Juliette might see it, then she’d be fired. That’s what he was trying to say. It was the last weapon in his arsenal, the ultimate trump card when it came to backing her into a corner, and he’d unexpectedly played it with a vengeance on an icy New Year’s Day. It was back to being the rodent in Matthew’s game of cat and mouse, where the rules were she must co-operate with whatever he wanted. He would never change. He thrived on making her feel as though her hands were bound with an invisible rope, that he alone had the power to untie. If only she’d blocked his work email address too, she’d never have been plunged into this state of panic. She placed her head in her hands. Now all she could do was sit and wait for his next move.
The following day, Ian sat in his car and waited for the time to signal exactly 6 o’clock before lowering the radio and dialling Jessie’s number.
She picked up almost immediately. ‘Ian, how are you?’
He drummed his fingers on the dashboard.
‘Sorry for the short notice but your landlord has asked if I can swing by and check the boiler, what with the temperatures seriously dropping this week and it playing up last winter.’
It was already pitch-black and, despite having the heating switched on inside his second-hand BMW, Ian could see his breath spiral into the air as he spoke. The row of takeaways he’d parked outside penetrated the gloom with their buzzing signs and the scent of fried chicken wafted in despite the closed windows.
‘No problem, if that’s what the landlord wants,’ Jessie replied. It sounded busy wherever she was. ‘I’m out at the moment but one of the others should be in if I’m not back in time. Failing that, you’ve got keys in the office, haven’t you?’
He was disappointed to hear that she wasn’t at home.
‘We do. I’ll be over in about half an hour.’
The tenants at 4 Maver Place had been Ian’s responsibility ever since he started working for Happy Homes. He’d seen plenty of faces come and go in that particular property – some lasted just a couple of months before he had to go through the rigmarole of paperwork required for incoming tenants. In that time, he’d only managed to score one promotion, taking him from a property manager to a senior property manager. This new title actually meant nothing really changed in terms of his day-to-day duties but he’d enjoyed updating his email signature and receiving a much-coveted handshake from the company director all the same. It had finally given his mother something to put in the Christmas newsletter that year too, a document blasted out to all extended members of the Palmer family, which his name was usually omitted from, given that his life (especially compared to his siblings) was rather bland. Other than the occasional five-a-side match or a college friend’s stag do, Ian spent his spare time in front of his plasma screen watching Top Gear reruns.
He never minded popping by to help the girls whenever they emailed their various complaints about damp patches, mould or a leaky washing machine. It was company policy that a member of staff ought to inspect any of the properties on Happy Homes’s books before sending a handyman in to help, just as a matter of formality (and as a means of hopefully keeping costs down). Marcus, however, Ian was unsure about. His beady eyes reminded him of a sewer rat, constantly pinballing around the room.
The short drive across town was relatively easy and Ian was pleased to find a parking spot right outside the flat. He couldn’t see any sign of life inside, but gave his cursory knock and bell-ring all the same. As he was about to retrieve the keys from his pocket, which he’d grabbed from the office on his way out, Sofie opened the door.
‘Jessie messaged to say you’d be popping round.’
She stepped aside, letting Ian pass down the hallway, before closing the door.
‘Isn’t it a bit late for you to still be at work?’
Her new haircut made her look different, as did that buttoned-up shirt. She looked more like Jessie. As Sofie reached up to re-tie her hair, she revealed the small gold hoop protruding from her navel. She was still the same underneath these new clothes, then. Ian tried not to stare at her stomach, but told himself it was only human to be intrigued by bare flesh – it was an innate, animal instinct to want to drink in the smooth skin of a woman. Sofie had probably started dressing that way for a reason, to encourage smart men like him to notice her. That made him feel less guilty about the stirring in his trousers.
‘It’s on my way home, so it’s no trouble,’ replied Ian cheerily, pulling his knee-length coat closer to his body. ‘The boiler is in that little storage room on the ground floor, isn’t it?’
Sofie nodded and pointed to the cream door opposite Marcus’s bedroom.
‘Go for it; I’ll be in my room if you need anything.’
Ian slid the bolt across and entered the little room-cum-cupboard on the ground floor that went largely ignored. When the flat first came on the market the landlord had been keen to turn it into an extra bedroom, regardless of the fact that a futon would barely fit inside. Ian felt for the light switch and blinked when the bulb sprang into life. The space was full of junk; shelves of cardboard boxes and binbags lined the walls either side of him, and at the end of the room was the rotund boiler. Cobwebbed copper pipes emerged from behind it and ran all along the edges of the skirting boards. They’d be hot to the touch. He stood still in the middle of the room and got his phone out, checking the Sky Sports app for match updates. Even if the landlord had asked if someone from Happy Homes could check that the boiler was working efficiently, Ian wouldn’t really know how to tell either way. Maintenance wasn’t his forte.
Still, he went through the motions of checking around the barrel-shaped object and couldn’t see anything obviously amiss. Then, after hearing the soft thump of music from upstairs, he let himself back out into the hallway. He was disappointed that Jessie wasn’t around. Perhaps, seeing as he was already here, he ought to check that the radiators in both her and Lauren’s bedrooms were running okay too? He could always say he was acting upon the landlord’s instructions again. That was the beauty of it: none of them ever having met the landlord.
There was no strip of light poking out from underneath Marcus’s door, so it was just Sofie he’d need to avoid. Padding gently up the stairs, Ian made his way into Jessie’s bedroom and knocked, before trying the handle. It wouldn’t budge. Good thing he’d also brought a spare key for that too. Opening the door, the smell of Jessie’s jasmine perfume hit his nostrils as soon as he stepped over the threshold. It was feminine and comforting, exactly how he’d like a girlfriend to smell. She’d make a good partner, he just knew it; she was friendly and unaware of how pretty she was. Plus, he’d noticed her full cleavage that day she’d leant forward in his office to sign the contract and had been unable to stop thinking about it since. Ian took in the magazines stacked on Jessie’s busy dressing table, which the radiator was situated behind. Listening to the internal voice that told him to further push hims
elf uninvited into her world, Ian crouched down so that if anybody unexpectedly came into the room it would appear he merely was checking the valves. It was then that he spotted the ball of black lace curled up by a foot of the wardrobe. The opportunity was too irresistible to ignore. She’d never notice them missing. He slid the knickers into his pocket and smirked, feeling a flutter in his stomach. Finally, a piece of Jessie that he could keep all for himself. Back downstairs, he bumped into Lauren in the hall. It was almost as though she’d been waiting for him.
‘I was just using the bathroom.’
‘No problem,’ she said, the faintest trace of suspicion in her tone. ‘Are you off now?’
‘Yes, all sorted,’ Ian replied, with a breezy smile.
Lauren folded her arms and looked at him, her eyes giving nothing away.
‘You’ve been around a lot lately. Has Jessie got you at her beck and call or something?’
Ian pushed the stolen underwear further into his pocket and gave an awkward laugh.
‘Not Jessie, no, just your landlord,’ he said, heading towards the front door. ‘Sorry to have disturbed your evening, I’ll try to give more notice next time.’
Half an hour later, a few miles across town, Ian buzzed himself into his rented flat overlooking Brighton Marina. He headed to the fridge and pulled out a chicken tikka ready meal and stabbed a fork through the plastic film lid. He enjoyed the cracking sound that accompanied each jab, then turned the heat dial on the microwave all the way to maximum power. Five minutes. That should be enough time, he thought, slumping into his favourite armchair and loosening his belt. The buckle clinked as he pushed it to one side and hurriedly unzipped the crotch of his trousers. He slipped his right hand beneath the waistband of his boxers and brought the black lace knickers up to his face.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jessie awoke to a text from Rob asking if she was free the following evening. It had been a couple of weeks since she’d met with him last, despite constantly exchanging messages ever since, so she was relieved he was still interested. Matthew, meanwhile, would be waking up in their flat alone – or maybe not alone – but still trapped in their tiny hometown, whereas she’d flown away for good. But what good was flying when he’d just hunt her down? When he could be waiting for her at the bottom of any street. She’d barely slept since receiving that video, nor had she dared speak to anybody about it. The cold snapped at her cheeks on the way to the office. All the trees lining the car park outside the entrance were skeletal and bare, the gravel crunched underfoot as she punched in the same door code as last year. Cheryl was sitting beaming behind the reception desk as usual, her hair twirled into a neat chignon like an air hostess. Everything looked both different and the same. That stale coffee smell would certainly take some reacclimatising to.
‘Did you have a lovely Christmas, sweetheart?’ Pamela trilled, as Jessie automatically hung her coat on the last peg next to Juliette’s.
She was so tired she could barely manage more than a ‘Fine, thanks’.
Jessie tuned out as Pamela began going into detail about how her grandchildren had been delighted with the toy kitchen set she’d bought them – and had then spent most of the day playing in the box it came in instead. Jessie made cutesy noises at the right moments, but her gaze was focused on the top patient file stacked on Juliette’s desk. She recognised the name on the front. Henry Goldsmith-Blume. It had to be Sofie’s Henry – his surname was too unusual for it to be a coincidence.
Jessie knew they had all kinds of clients come through the doors here at Tulip Court, the majority of whom were completely harmless, people suffering with an array of disorders from deep depression to severe OCD. It would be wrong to look him up on the system, to sneak the blue paper folder off her colleague’s desk and pry into the medical history of a patient who believed they were being treated with confidentiality. There were laminated posters all around the building, preaching the importance of privacy and not breaking trust. If she felt in serious danger that would be one thing, but Henry didn’t seem to be a serious threat, just a bit boisterous and full of himself. Wasn’t he? As if reading her mind, Juliette picked up the folder, humming to herself, and began adding paperwork into it. Given that it was on a pale yellow sheet of paper, Jessie knew it was the summary of an appointment. A recent one.
‘Drink, love?’ asked Pamela, cutting through her thoughts.
Maybe that would be a good idea, something to help her regain focus and get back into working mode.
‘I’d love a coffee, thanks. Are you sure I can’t go for you?’
‘Don’t be silly, I need a quick word with Cheryl anyway.’
Jessie took her seat opposite Juliette and studied her face carefully, analysing it for any tiny mark of distress resulting from something she may have just read in Henry’s file. Nothing. She seemed perfectly normal. A sea of calm. Jessie reminded herself that after her therapy sessions for anxiety she would’ve had her own folder somewhere too, back in an equivalent office in Chesterbury. She fiddled with the radio volume, upping it ever so slightly.
‘Is this okay, Juliette? Not disturbing you?’ she asked, letting a familiar pop song fill the room.
Anything to drown out the constant angst pounding in her head.
‘Not at all.’
Juliette gave one of her sweet, dopey smiles and put the file into her drawer, then reached for another. As if suddenly remembering why she was sitting behind the desk, Jessie booted up her computer and began to write a to-do list for the day. She checked her emails. Nothing exciting. A few frazzled doctors asking about booking in their annual leave, a round robin from the area manager wishing everybody a great start back. The patient database logo sat temptingly in her toolbar, but she ignored it. Pamela came back with a latte from the machine in reception and placed it next to her, the scent of her Chanel No 5 lingering for a while afterwards. Before long the lunchtime news and weather report came on, then eventually the Drivetime playlist and a new presenter took over the airwaves, signalling it was almost time to head home. Another cycle completed.
It was difficult to make out what colour the parked cars were on either side of the street, given that they were all bathed in amber from the streetlights, but none of them were Fiats, thank God. Reaching the flat, it took Jessie a few seconds to realise that something was amiss. It was only when she went to put her key in the front door that she noticed it was already open. Not wide open, but a good few inches and, inside, the flat was dark. She dithered in the doorway, not daring to go in. It could have been a simple error on one of her flatmate’s parts. Sofie was notoriously ditzy, after all. Or maybe Marcus was actually in his room, having walked in with his headphones on and not twigged that the door hadn’t slammed shut behind him. But the welcome mat was at an angle too, when usually it was perfectly straight. Jessie pulled Lauren’s number up on the screen, willing her to answer with every ring.
‘This is the Vodafone voicemail service for oh, seven, four—’
She hung up and tried Sofie instead. It was almost 5.45 pm, meaning she’d be in the café a while longer yet. Jessie moved closer to the door and tried to see if anything had moved from the hallway. At the very end of it, she thought she could see smashed glass on the kitchen floor. Her skin began to crawl.
‘Hello?’
Her voice echoed down the corridor.
‘Is anybody in?’
Priya was still in New York visiting Zoe’s parents, not due to return to Brighton for another week, and it didn’t feel appropriate to call Rob – they still barely knew one another and she didn’t want to come off as a damsel in distress or incapable. What could she say? ‘Hello, I think my flat has been broken into, it could be my psychotic ex-boyfriend or maybe not, actually, I might just be making a fuss over nothing and Sofie’s forgotten to shut the door.’ Marcus was her last resort. He picked up almost immediately.
‘Hey, it’s Jessie. Sorry to call you randomly, you’re not in the flat, are you?’
; She heard herself garbling, the words all fighting to leave her mouth at the same time. Marcus leant against the cash register, his brows knitted together. She sounded panicked. He was instantly concerned.
‘I’m at the shop, but almost finished. What’s happened? Is it Lauren?’
She could hear people talking and heavy rock music playing in the background.
‘No, she’s fine. Well, I’ve not spoken to her but I’m sure she is. I’ve just got home and it looks as though there’s been a break-in. The front door was left open and I can see smashed glass in the kitchen.’
Jessie’s mind took an itinerary of everything in her bedroom which could have been stolen. Her door was locked, but if Matthew, or whoever it was that had broken in, had come with tools, she didn’t think it would take much to crack it open. Her laptop, Magda’s necklace, which was still in the top drawer of her dressing table, her charm bracelet from Lauren … They could all be gone.
‘Shit! Shit, my guitars. Okay, stay calm and go and wait somewhere nearby until I can get there.’
To her surprise, Jessie suddenly felt grateful that Marcus had picked up. For somebody usually so mute, he sounded in control.
‘Maybe you should phone the letting agency as well; if there’s any damage they’ll need to sort that. They don’t close until 7 o’clock. I’ll call the police when I get back after we’ve looked to see what’s missing, if anything.’
Jessie felt braver with his voice at the other end of the line.
The Wrong Move Page 11
