by Lucy Dawson
For Grace and Henry
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THREE MONTHS LATER
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
HALF TITLE
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
I am disturbed at about twenty past two, in the early hours of Saturday morning.
I sleep lightly when Marc is away, noticing the slightest noise in the street, and always position myself in bed so that I’m facing the open door. I leave the bathroom light on too – just bright enough so that I’m able to see out into the hall beyond. My mum says I was fine until I watched The Woman in White at a friend’s house aged about eight. I’m now thirty-nine, and I still have to make sure I don’t accidentally stumble upon any scary TV when I know I’ll be sleeping alone.
Jolting awake suddenly, I sit up, blinking. It is pitch-black in the room. Confused, I stare into the darkness, my already panicky brain fumbling around for an explanation. It must be a power cut, but before I can think anything else, I hear a soft click, and a small, bright sun appears on the carpet, to the right of the wardrobe.
I stare at the circle of light stupidly for a second, but as my eyes begin to adjust, I notice a larger, unfamiliar shape above it. I scan the outline rapidly – and freeze.
It’s a figure.
Someone is in my bedroom, sitting on the low chair in the corner, watching me.
Jerking up what seems to be a surprisingly powerful pencil torch, they shine the blinding beam right in my face.
‘Don’t move to turn on the light, and don’t try to reach for your phone. I’ve got it here.’ He holds it aloft in confirmation. As I try to focus, the familiar image of my niece – my screen saver – briefly illuminates, along with the ‘Slide to unlock’ bar. I see the metal rim of his glasses and staring eyes, before the phone returns to standby mode and simultaneously he swings the torch beam down again.
He must be a burglar. I want to scream, but there is no sound as my mouth falls open, just a breathy leak of air from my lips, as if I’ve been punctured.
The chair creaks as he leans forward. ‘Don’t, Sophie.’
Oh my God, he knows my name. Hard little shunts of just audible sound begin to gurgle in my gullet.
‘Shhh,’ he says softly. ‘You realize when people hear screams at night, they mostly don’t report it? Everyone thinks someone else will. A woman was beaten to death by her husband in New Zealand over a period of several hours, and not one of her neighbours called the police.’
I don’t recognize his voice. I know I don’t. A confident stranger is sitting in my bedroom, as calmly as if he were out for dinner at a nice restaurant. This isn’t the first time he has done something like this.
But what, exactly, is he here to do?
Apparently reading my mind, the floorboards groan as he gets to his feet… and I scrabble backwards, thumping into the headboard behind me. I have nowhere to go.
The torch beam bounces around as he starts to move towards me. He is not especially tall, but has the kind of wiry physique other men underestimate – until it’s too late. He stops alongside my chest of drawers, reaches into his pocket and pulls out an envelope, before propping it up carefully against the freestanding mirror.
‘You’re going to open this in front of all of your family and friends at your birthday party.’
My eyes widen. How does he know about that?
‘You’re to read it under the clock in the foyer of the hotel at 8 p.m. precisely – NOT before. My client has other stipulations too. You will not mention to a single living soul that I have visited you here, neither will you discuss the existence of this letter with anyone. And Sophie.’ He pauses. ‘I will know, and I will find you. Don’t think about not showing up tomorrow night either, OK?’
He takes two steps to the bed and is immediately right alongside me. ‘I don’t like hurting women. Men, I’m OK with – they mostly deserve it… But someone like you, who has no idea…’
He reaches out and touches my hair. I can feel his fingers shaking with excitement. He’s lying – I have no doubt this is a man who relishes his job, and would not hesitate to cause me pain.
He shines the torch up sharply, right in my eyes again, tipping my chin with the other hand to get a better look. He is wearing gloves. ‘Pretty,’ he says, quietly. ‘You look like your sisters – or rather, they look like you. You’re the oldest, aren’t you?’
My mouth falls open, horrified. I watch him reach into his pocket and pull out another mobile. ‘This is your youngest sister, Alice, yesterday.’ He holds up the screen, and I stare at a picture of Al holding a thermos and concentrating on crossing the busy road outside her flat. ‘See? No mistaking the family tie there. And this is Imogen dropping off your niece at nursery.’ He scrolls along, and there is Gen, struggling with a key code on a door while holding a clearly crying Evie in a car seat. ‘Here they are arriving back at home later… I know where all of your family live, Sophie.’
‘If you hurt them…’ I whisper.
He looks up with interest. ‘Oh, I will hurt them, Sophie. That’s entirely my point. If you so much as breathe a word, Alice will wake up to find me standing over her like this. Then I’ll go to Imogen’s – her husband works late a lot, doesn’t he? And I’ll finish up at your mum’s.’ He puts the phone back in his pocket. ‘I will be watching you until 8 p.m. tomorrow night. Just do exactly as I’ve said and you’ll have nothing to worry about.’
He abruptly flicks the torch off, and I sense him straighten up. ‘Happy birthday. Life, so they say, begins at forty.’
I lie completely still in the stifling silence that follows, eyes wide open in the darkness, not daring to breathe.
Has he left the room? I don’t hear the stairs creak; there is no slam of the front door. It must be at least another five minutes before I reach out with trembling fingers and put the lamp on.
I’m alone. The letter is still there but my mobile is gone. So much for always keeping it beside me on the bedside table, in case of an emergency. He must have picked it up while standing over me as I slept, completely oblivious to his presence.
I listen again, but there is no sound at all.
Pushing the duvet back and shivering as the cold air hits my bare legs, I slip out of bed and snatch up the very ordinary cream envelope. The sort you might use to send a thank-you letter. My name – Sophie Gardener – is printed neatly on the front. I turn it over. It is sealed with an anonymous red wax stamp. Nothing else; no clues.
This has to be a mistake.
But how can it be, when it’s addressed to me? And that man knew that I would be here alone. Someone told him Marc was away. My client? Someone sent him here?
Terrified, I let it fall from my fingers. Dropping to my knees and reaching under the bed for a bag, I drag one out, then quickly mak
e my way to the wardrobe. Flinging the door open, I slide a top that I barely look at off a hanger, and tug at a pair of cords until they also come free. I bundle them both into the holdall and then edge around the letter to my underwear drawer, yanking it open to grab a pair of knickers. Shoving them in too, as well as the bra from the chair, I put on yesterday’s jumper over the top of my pyjamas and pull on some socks.
I hesitate, not wanting to touch the letter again, but dart forward, thrusting it into my bag before rushing from the room. I don’t stop to turn the lights off.
Pausing at the top of the stairs, and peering down into the dark, quiet hall below, I take a deep breath and, as if I’m plunging into icy cold water, dive down them. At the bottom, by the front door – one hand on the latch – I struggle to shove my feet into boots, grabbing at my coat on the hook, not daring to look behind me, before fumbling to turn the keys that are still in the lock.
Flinging the door open, I run out into the freezing night. Some distant neighbour’s dog barks as I hurry down the drive, bleeping the car to unlock it. But wait – is he expecting me to do this? What if he’s already in my car, crouched down low in the footwell at the back, poised for me to innocently get in and drive off?
I draw up short, and just stand there, my breath forming clouds as I stare at the dark windows. I run a desperate hand through my hair. Shit – what do I do? What do I do?
I exhale sharply and grasp the handle on the driver’s side. Feeling like I’m going to faint, I fling it open.
The interior light comes on: the front seats are empty. I scan the rest of the inside, throwing the bag onto the passenger seat, then make my way around the outside of the car, peering into the now-illuminated rear seats – nothing. I straighten up and glance at the boot. It’s not that small a space. Someone could get in there. Biting my lip, I move over to the catch and release it, stumbling back as if I’m opening a jack-in-the-box, but he doesn’t burst out. There is just Marc’s rain mac bundled up in the corner, an empty oil container I keep meaning to throw away, and a candy-striped windbreak.
Slamming it shut, I hurry back to the driver’s door and get in, turning the engine on. The wipers start manically swishing – I can’t have switched them off the last time I got out of the car – and the windscreen is almost completely misted over, but I lurch blindly out into the road anyway. I just want to get away.
Grinding the gears, like I’ve completely forgotten how to drive – Marc would be wincing at the sound – I fumble to turn the fan on and the wipers off. I huddle over the steering wheel like an OAP so that I can peer under the fogged-up glass.
As the condensation starts to recede, I manage to settle into a slightly smoother speed to continue the drive to Alice’s. The contents of my bag have spilled out everywhere. The letter is lying on the mat, visible out of the corner of my eye. I swallow. Someone broke into my house.
He was standing right over me.
Starting to shake, I grip the steering wheel more tightly in total disbelief.
My client?
MY CLIENT.
There is only one person who hates me enough to have done this.
CHAPTER TWO
I have never met Marc’s ex-wife, Claudine – I’ve only seen photos.
Isabelle showed me one the first time I met her at Marc’s flat. ‘This is my mother,’ she said, in very precise English, fixing me with a direct stare as she passed me the picture she had carefully taken out of her backpack.
‘She’s very pretty,’ I said truthfully, looking at the grown-up version of the child seated in front of me – except Claudine was laughing. A slim, small, brunette woman, with very white teeth and dark eyes, she was standing slightly behind Marc, her arms tightly around him, on what looked like the balcony of a hotel. It certainly seemed to be a holiday snap; they were both lightly tanned and Marc – seated at a table – was wearing a wide smile, a short-sleeved white shirt and stone-coloured linen trousers. He was also holding a cigarette. He only ever smokes when in hot countries. I’ve teased him about it before, at which he’s shrugged ruefully as if he knows how daft it is, but what can you do? Claudine’s hands were resting on his chest, fingers spread, nails painted a just-the-right-side-of-trashy scarlet, her wedding and enormous engagement ring catching the camera flash. Next to Marc on the table stood a mostly drunk bottle of wine, with someone else’s hand reaching for a glass, and a half-naked Isabelle and Olivier pulling funny faces in the foreground. A happy family portrait. For a moment it had crossed my mind that Claudine had intended Isabelle to show the picture to me, but I dismissed that as idiotic.
That was in the early days, of course, before I learnt that pretty much everything Claudine does is calculated.
‘Are you staying here tonight?’ Isabelle had watched me from her vantage point on the top bunk like a suspicious kitten, legs crossed on her pretty flower bedspread, the fairy lights, especially threaded around the curtain pole behind her, twinkling.
‘No.’ I smiled. ‘I’m not. You’ll be up there and I expect Olivier will be below decks.’ I motioned to the freshly ironed pirate duvet cover on the bottom bunk. ‘There’s no room for me!’
‘I don’t want to share with Olivier, I want to be in my own room at home.’ She swallowed, looking suddenly much smaller than her eight years, and I instinctively stepped forward to take her hand. It must have been horrible for her, dragged over from France and forced to meet some random woman she couldn’t care less about. But, understandably, she shrunk away from me. Instead I gently passed back the picture, putting it on the duvet in front of her.
‘I’ve been very excited about meeting you, Isabelle. We’re going to have lots of fun while you’re in England.’
She hadn’t answered, just picked up the photograph and stared at it furiously, tears welling up in her eyes.
Marc came in, carrying Olivier on his back, who had his arms wrapped tightly around his father’s neck, his head resting contentedly on Marc’s shoulder. Marc’s happy smile vanished, however, at the sight of his little girl. ‘What’s wrong, Issy?’
She said something in French that I didn’t understand. Marc glanced quickly at me, then replied, ‘Well, we can swap you over if that’s better. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but remember, we speak English here.’
Isabelle had lifted her gaze and looked at me piercingly. ‘So she can understand.’
Taken aback by the hostility in her voice, I nonetheless smiled apologetically and shrugged.
‘No, not just that,’ Marc said smoothly. ‘We’re in England now.’
Her bottom lip trembled, and she said something else in French, eyes downcast.
Marc knelt down, gently releasing Olivier, and, straightening up, opened his arms out to Isabelle, who clambered into them like a koala bear. ‘Because Sophie is my girlfriend.’
Isabelle looked sideways at me, with barely concealed dislike, and I tried to remind myself that everyone had warned me to expect a bumpy ride. It wasn’t personal, and I just had to give the children time.
Later that evening, once they were finally in bed – Isabelle on the bottom bunk – Marc got a bottle of wine from the fridge, came over and gave me a kiss. ‘Well, I think you did great. The thing you have to remember, Soph, is that I have no idea what Claudine says to the children when I’m not there. I wouldn’t put it past her to be telling them a million shitty things like, “We could all be living together again but Daddy only wants to be with Sophie now.” She’s hardly going to own up to the truth, is she? And, to be honest, I don’t want them to know what really happened until they’re much older – if ever, actually.’
Marc told me on our first date that he was separated from his wife, whom he’d met while living in Paris on secondment with the London-based corporate law firm he worked for. ‘I don’t think she realized they only sent me to Paris purely because I spoke French, not because I was some legal hot-shot,’ he joked. There was a pause. ‘We’re in the process of getting divorced.’
‘She was sleeping with someone else,’ he said quietly, reading my mind. ‘Claudine fell pregnant just four months after we met. By the time my daughter Isabelle was one, we were married, had a house – Claudine went back to work shortly after that.’ He reached for the bread. ‘My son, Olivier, came along a year later and we kind of spent the next few years in a sleepless blur. Having small children can test the strongest of relationships, but it was only once the kids were a bit older that we actually realized we just didn’t have the foundations to shore us up, full stop. We’d been arguing a lot anyway – Claudine is quite an… intense person. Anyway, she came to a work do with me one Christmas and met Julien, the managing partner of my firm…’ He shrugged. ‘When their affair finally came to light – Julien’s wife told me – I moved out. That was last year. I wanted to stay in Paris to be near the children, but the firm made it clear that Julien wanted me transferred back to London and I was told that my employment had only ever been a “secondment”. This was after some seven years’ loyal service, of course, but’ – he raised a rueful eyebrow – ‘you don’t argue with a bunch of lawyers. It was come back to London or lose my job, and I couldn’t afford to rock the boat because I have responsibilities to the children. Although, to be truthful, Claudine makes a lot more money than me.’
I was completely taken aback. ‘I’m so sorry.’
I was actually apologizing for assuming he was the guilty party, but he misunderstood me.
‘Don’t be.’ He took a mouthful of food. ‘I had a wonderful time in Paris. I fell in love and have two incredible children to show for it. The hard bit is not being around them now as much as I’d like. Claudine travels a lot with work and sometimes when I speak to the kids and they’re at their grandmother’s again, or the nanny is putting them to bed or, worst of all, they’re with Julien, it breaks my heart. It ought to be me.’ He spoke factually and without self-pity, but in the pause that followed, I instinctively reached across the table and quickly squeezed his hand – before realizing what I was doing. He looked surprised at my touch and I blushed, quickly pulling back again.
