‘Me. Yeah, that’s abundantly clear.’ He brushed past her.
‘That’s not what I meant.’
He swiped up his jacket from the chair. ‘I’ll be in the spare bedroom if you need me.’
Why did he always do that? Back away before things had been resolved? ‘Is that it? You’re quitting?’ She followed him to the door. ‘Martin? Martin …’
He didn’t reply.
A few moments later a door slammed upstairs. The shudder rattled a vase of giant yellow roses balancing on the hall table. The words ‘Happy Anniversary, darling’ danced in front of her wet eyes.
Crap.
So much for a romantic night.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Saturday, 1 March
Evie pressed her hands against the wall and pushed her heel into the floor, trying to get the maximum stretch in her calf muscle. There wasn’t really enough room inside her tiny hallway for stretching, but running without warming up would only result in a torn muscle and as she hadn’t exercised for a while she needed to take it easy, allowing her body time to adjust.
Satisfied she was fully loosened up, she closed the door behind her and skipped down the steps onto the pavement. Adjusting her headphones, she set off down Folkestone Road, pleased to discover some bounce left in her old trainers.
Running at night wouldn’t usually be her chosen time to exercise. She much preferred the early mornings when the dew still glistened on the ground and the air was fresh and crisp, but early starts at The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop had put an end to any kind of activity before work. She was up at five most days, either visiting the wholesalers or waiting for them to deliver. It wasn’t that she minded getting up early – managing the florist’s was what she wanted – but the upshot of her new regime meant that if she was going to exercise then it needed to be after the shop closed.
Sport had always featured in Evie’s life. To deny herself exercise was like not eating or sleeping; her body just didn’t function as well without it. As a kid she’d been a member of her local athletics club, competing at events and showing promise as a sprinter until she’d developed hips, at which point her times had slowed and she’d had to accept Olympic gold wasn’t within her grasp. But it hadn’t stopped her enjoying running, and she’d switched to middle distance instead. In recent years she’d tried joining a gym, but with nothing to stimulate her mind or senses, other than watching others struggling with the machinery or showing off their bulging muscles, it felt too claustrophobic. She wanted to be outside, feeling the air in her lungs and the road beneath her feet, not constricted by a monotonous treadmill.
She turned into Biddenden Lane, ran past the church and headed towards the post office. There was a nice loop of the village, giving her a good five miles in which to stretch her legs and get the blood pumping. Running a circuit meant there was less temptation to turn back. Each time she ran she tried to improve her time. It was the incentive she needed to not stay tucked up indoors with a hot chocolate and mindless TV.
Ten minutes into her run she was feeling the effects. Her lungs were stinging from the chilly night air and her thighs were burning with a desire to stop. But Evie always hit a wall ten minutes into training. She just needed to jog through it, keep taking in oxygen and allow the acid in her muscles to reduce.
Distraction always helped, which was why running outdoors was so much better than a gym. There was more to look at, something to focus on other than how knackered you were.
As Evie reached the main crossroads she passed under the illuminated sign for Heatherton, a large feature depicting an image of the Allsop twins. According to legend, the twin sisters were born in the early 1100s, joined at the shoulders and hips. They lived in this state for thirty-four years, never leaving the village. When Rosetta died, Louisa refused to be separated from her sibling and took to her bedroom, where shortly after she too died. So attached to Heatherton were they that the sisters bequeathed the income from twenty acres of land to the church, hence their image being a permanent fixture in the village. Evie couldn’t imagine being conjoined to her sister Holly for three decades. They would have throttled each other before their second birthday.
As Evie crossed the bridle path adjacent to the cricket pitch, she became aware of someone behind her. There was nothing unusual about this – it was a well-populated area, the streets rarely deserted, even at nine o’clock at night. But still she glanced over her shoulder, spotting another jogger some thirty metres behind. He was male, dressed in dark clothing, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up, masking his face.
For one horrible moment she imagined it was Kyle – the man had a similar running style – but she quickly realised it wasn’t, it was just her mind playing tricks. Kyle was miles away. Thank God.
Evie picked up her pace. Maybe jogging alone at night wasn’t such a sensible idea, after all. She wasn’t exactly being streetwise. She switched off her music, figuring she’d better pay attention to whatever was going on around her.
Thankfully, her second wind had kicked in and she was now comfortably in her stride.
Letting her legs stretch out with each movement, Evie’s mind drifted back to a time before she’d met Kyle. Having finished her college course in floristry she’d moved into a shared house with three other girls and landed her first job at a big garden centre. Within two years she’d been promoted and joined a larger florist’s as assistant manager. Things were on the up. It was a time of personal achievement, transitioning from adolescence to adulthood, partying with her friends and enjoying life to the full.
And then she’d met Kyle Caplin.
Kyle had recently left the army, having served two tours of Afghanistan. At first he’d been charming and funny, always the life of the party, showering her with compliments and supportive of her career aspirations. But after ten months of dating the laughter had started to subside. Little cracks appeared. He started suggesting she change outfit when they went out, discouraged her from learning to drive, guilted her into staying at home rather than socialising with friends. When Kyle suggested they move in together, Evie hadn’t been keen, preferring to keep things as they were. He hadn’t taken the rejection well, wanting to know why she didn’t want him around. Was there someone else? Was she cheating on him? Who was she ‘dressing up’ for?
Unable to reason with him or cope with his irrational jealousy, Evie had broken things off. But he wouldn’t accept it was over and kept begging her for another chance, promising to change. So she’d relented. It became a constant cycle of breaking up and getting back together. Everything would be fine for a while, and then his old habits would return and things would deteriorate.
In hindsight, Evie knew her attempts to keep Kyle happy hadn’t been about loving him, but a fear of rocking the boat. Toning down her appearance, declining social invitations, constantly reassuring him she didn’t want anyone else – it had been exhausting. Ironically, it was Kyle who’d ended up cheating, hooking up with a woman at the support centre he attended for ex-army personnel struggling to readjust to civilian life. He’d tried to justify his infidelity by twisting the blame onto Evie, claiming his actions had been driven by his insecurity over her finding someone else and leaving him. Far from evoking forgiveness, his actions only strengthened Evie’s desire to end the relationship for good. So she moved away, severing all ties, leaving her friends and job behind.
Eager to rid her mind of Kyle, Evie glanced over her shoulder. The man was still there. She ducked into the porch of the brightly lit Bell Inn, letting him run past and disappear into the distance.
Digging out her phone, she called Laura, needing a companionable voice as she set off at walking speed, needing to keep her muscles from seizing up.
The moment Laura picked up, Evie knew something was wrong. ‘You sound terrible. Are you ill?’
Laura sniffed. ‘I’ve been crying. Damon’s just been killed.’
Evie skidded to a halt, her brain frantically scrolling through Laura’s famil
y, trying to place someone called Damon. ‘Laura, I’m so sorry to hear that.’ A beat passed before she added, ‘Er … Remind me again who Damon is?’
Laura sniffed. ‘The hot brother in The Vampire Diaries.’
Evie resumed jogging, albeit at a slower pace, relieved Laura wasn’t talking about a real person. ‘You’re crying over a TV programme?’
Laura sniffed again. ‘I’ve also downed half a bottle of Shiraz. Why are you panting?’
‘I’m running.’
Laura groaned. ‘God, why?’
Evie laughed. ‘Because it helps clear my head. You should try it.’
‘Don’t you start. Martin’s always on at me to exercise.’ Her voice sounded slurred.
Although Martin could be a grumpy sod at times, Evie didn’t feel he was as ‘off’ Laura as her friend imagined. ‘Maybe you should take up tennis. You said you wanted to spend more time with him.’
‘I do, but getting sweaty running around a bloody tennis court is not my idea of fun.’ She hiccupped. ‘I want to get hot and sweaty playing a different type of game, but he’s not interested. I’ve tried everything.’ Laura let out a big sigh. ‘My marriage is dead. Swept into the afterlife like Damon Salvatore, leaving Elena mourning for her loss, sucking blood from random strangers for eternity.’
Laura appeared to bordering on the delusional. ‘I’m not sure drinking wine and watching US teen horror shows is the best way of coping, Laura. Do you want me to come over?’
‘My head’s spinning. I’m going to bed.’
‘Sounds like a good idea.’ Laura was normally a happy drunk. Not tonight. ‘By the way, how was your anniversary dinner?’
‘Disaster. Martin slept in the spare bed.’ The slur in Laura’s voice became more pronounced.
Oh dear. The flowers Martin had purchased obviously hadn’t done the trick.
‘He doesn’t love me any more.’ Her friend sounded downright morose.
‘I’m sure that’s not true. Are you sure you don’t want company?’ Evie switched hands, trying to balance out her running rhythm.
‘No, thanks.’ She let out a sob. ‘You still love me, right?’
Definitely too much booze. ‘Yes, sweetie. I still love you. Stop watching programmes about dead people and go to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning.’ Laura had already hung up.
Evie pocketed her phone. Things were not good in the Harper household, which was a shame. She was sure Martin did still love Laura, they were just miscommunicating. Still, coming from the woman who’d failed to rectify her own flawed relationship, she was hardly equipped to pass judgement.
A noise behind made her jump. She spun around to find the jogger had returned. Where had he come from? He must have done a loop.
Instinct made her speed up, increasing her pace. He upped his stride too. Was he really following her, or was she being paranoid? Only one way to find out.
She swerved across the road, looping around the traffic island, trying to get behind him rather than in front so she had the upper hand. He was too quick, his pace keeping him behind her. She was at full stretch now, her lungs burning from sprinting. She was running out of steam. She couldn’t keep this up.
She had two options, try and make it to the police station a few streets away, or stop running and confront her pursuer. Her body made the decision for her, cramping her calves, warning that if she continued she was likely to end up on crutches.
She spun around and stopped dead. The man had to swerve to miss her. He stumbled off the pavement, landing heavily on the road.
Evie stood over him, struggling for air. ‘Why are you following me?’
He groaned, trying to right himself. ‘What the fuck?’
She waved a fist at him as he stood up. ‘I said, why are you following me?’
‘I’m not.’ He backed away, looking at her like she was all manner of crazy. ‘Why the fuck would I be following you?’
‘You sped up. Why did you do that if you weren’t following me?’
He looked bewildered. ‘I’m training for an Iron Man competition. You were setting a decent pace, it was a challenge to keep up.’
‘Well, next time think about how it looks to the person you’re chasing. I’m a woman. It’s dark. A man is behind me and when I speed up to get some distance, he speeds up too. How do you think that looks from my perspective, eh?’
His anger seemed to abate as he rubbed his arm. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
Evie started to feel foolish. It was clear he wasn’t about to attack her. ‘How’s your shoulder?’
‘Sore.’ He turned and ran off, a distinctive limp in his gait. ‘Fucking nutter.’
Evie took a deep breath, trying to ease the panic from her system. Go home, she told herself. But when she tried to jog she discovered her legs were spent. Feeling a mixture of embarrassment and utter exhaustion, she ambled home, still routinely checking over her shoulder.
Not exactly the best start to her new confidence regime, was it?
CHAPTER NINE
Sunday, 2 March
Anyone watching Patricia Robinson playing tennis would be full of admiration. Aged forty-five she was still a trim size ten, her hair tinted several shades of warm blonde, her youthful exuberance around the court keeping her opponents fully on the back foot. It was only after the game had finished and she was in the privacy of the changing rooms that her carefully honed veneer slipped. Stepping into the hot shower she allowed her face to display the discomfort she felt, rubbing away the ache in her left knee. But as her mother had always reminded her, appearance was everything. Like animals in the wild, it was imperative to hide any pain. It was the only way to avoid being eaten. Patricia’s mother had always favoured the dramatic. The sentiment, however, was clear enough. Never let your guard down.
Which was particularly testing when your joints had started to wear and your husband was a philandering charmer. But no one’s life was without challenges, and adversity only served to strengthen her resolve. After all, she had a daughter to protect. Amy’s happiness was far more important than her own.
On cue her mobile rang, allowing her just enough time to wrap herself in a towel. Lifting the phone to her ear, she forced a smile, checking her complexion in the harsh changing room mirrors. Time was definitely catching up with her.
‘Amy, love. How did you get on?’ Her daughter had been competing in a dance competition in London. It was the first time in eighteen years Patricia hadn’t been present at a key event in her daughter’s life. Amy had invited her boyfriend to go with her instead, and although the rejection stung, Patricia would never let on. Amy wasn’t being deliberately cruel. Far from it. She was just growing up, flying the nest, being the independent, talented, resourceful woman Patricia had raised her to be. Patricia could hardly complain, could she?
‘Mum, it was brilliant! I won both solo categories and placed second in the group section.’ The background noise was deafening.
Patricia battled with the conflicting emotions rising in within her. How she would’ve loved to see her daughter perform. ‘Darling, that’s amazing. Well done. I’m so proud. I’ll bet Miss Leigh is over the moon.’
Her daughter laughed. ‘You’d think! She’s accusing the judges of favouritism. The Jayne Middle dance team placed first. Miss Leigh’s furious.’
‘I can imagine.’ Her daughter’s dance teacher had never taken failure well. It was first or nothing. ‘Are you heading home now?’
‘Not yet. Ben’s taking me for a celebration dinner. There’s a Caribbean restaurant in Ealing he’s excited about.’
Patricia tried to keep her voice neutral. ‘Sounds wonderful.’ Her daughter finding love was yet another development Patricia was struggling to adjust to. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Ben – he was a great kid, smart and funny. She just wished her daughter wasn’t quite so absorbed by the relationship. Amy was too young to be tied down. She should be seeing what the world had to offer. But then who was Patricia to talk
? She’d been the same at that age, swept away by the attentions of a boy, married before she was twenty-one. Maybe that was the problem. Perhaps her own experience was clouding her judgement.
‘Don’t be home too late, darling. You have school in the morning and exams looming.’
Her daughter’s giggle rippled down the phone. ‘Stop it, Ben! Sorry, Mum, I’ll call when we’re on the train. Got to go, it’s prize time. Bye!’
Patricia was left clutching the phone, her heart aching along with her knee. She wanted so much to see her daughter collecting her awards, but there was no way she’d ever let Amy know how she felt. She’d do what she always did and present a happy front, encouraging to the last, even if it killed her.
Regaining her composure, she set about fixing her face, applying blusher to warm her complexion, mascara to open her eyes and lip gloss to cheer her mouth. With a brush of her hair and quick whizz over with the travel straighteners, she was good to go. Appearance was everything, she repeated for the umpteenth time that day. It didn’t matter what was going on underneath. To the outside world you needed to appear perfectly content, in control, happily married and successful. No wonder she felt like a Stepford Wife.
Spraying herself with Estee Lauder’s Beautiful, Patricia pulled on her skinny jeans and wrapped her shoulders in a soft camel cardigan, ready to join her tennis partner for a post-match drink.
As she left the changing rooms and headed across to the Bell Inn, she ignored the looks from the other women and their envious comments about her Pilates-toned physique. Don’t be fooled, she wanted to tell them, appearances can be deceptive. On the surface, Patricia appeared to have the perfect life, a beautiful home, a healthy, smart daughter, with regular holidays to the most luxurious places, but no amount of money could ever compensate for a faithless husband.
Patricia entered the pub and found Martin seated in the conservatory, checking his phone. The new owners had transformed the old-world pub into a pristine wine bar with modern artwork and quirky industrial lighting. Despite its monochrome theme the owners had managed to retain an intimate atmosphere, both welcoming and fashionable.
The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop Page 6
