by Alison James
You shouldn’t have said that, she chastises herself as she walks back to the tube station. This isn’t the X Factor: they don’t want a sob story, or to give a sympathy job.
It’s a warm, sunny afternoon, so she gets off the tube at Hammersmith and walks the rest of the way home. As she’s reaching the parade of shops in Barnes, she gets a text.
Hi, this is Noah. Fancy meeting for a cup of tea? x
She smiles to herself and types back.
Too nice to be inside. How about a walk instead? x
Twenty minutes later, they meet at Rocks Lane and walk along Beverley Brook towards the bank of the Thames. She tells Noah about the interview she’s just come from.
‘Well done,’ he says, adding kindly, ‘They’d be silly not to snap you up.’
Lucy pulls a face. ‘Not sure I’m exactly what they’re looking for, but it was good experience. A step in the right direction.’
They walk and walk, talking about all sorts of stuff: their childhoods, their idiosyncratic culinary likes and dislikes, the point of watching sport, where they would live if they didn’t live in central London. Noah – who has the faintest northern burr – says he would return to Cumbria, where he spent his childhood. Lucy tells him about her short-lived plan to move to Bristol and how she would probably choose that or Bath, where Vicky lives. They’re still walking when it starts to go dark.
‘I should be getting back,’ she sighs, though, in reality, she has no reason or desire to be back in her empty house.
‘I’m starving,’ Noah says disingenuously. ‘There’s a nice tapas place just on the other side of the bridge: why don’t we grab a bite and a glass of wine. Celebrate your return to the world of employment.’
‘It’s a bit early for that, but… why not?’
Lucy isn’t especially hungry, but she’s happy to pick at some pickled anchovies and patatas bravas over a glass of chilled Albariño, and happier still that the conversation continues to flow organically. Losing track of time in this way feels at once unfamiliar and a luxury.
‘That was fun,’ she says, as they part company halfway across Hammersmith Bridge; Noah has insisted that it’s gentlemanly to at least walk her to the midpoint.
He smiles at her, then cups her chin and kisses her very gently on the lips. Lucy’s first instinct is to pull away, but she successfully fights it, and obeys her second instinct, which is to lean in and enjoy it. It turns into something much longer and more passionate, something that makes other pedestrians turn their heads as they pass.
‘Thank you,’ she says simply, before walking away.
Surfacing from a deep sleep a few hours later, Lucy becomes aware of an unfamiliar noise. A creaking noise.
She tells herself that it’s just the contracting of floorboards and door frames as the house cools and settles into itself. But it’s early June, she remembers. The night air is mild and the central heating hasn’t been in use for weeks. She pushes herself up on her elbows and listens.
There’s something deliberate and rhythmic about the creaking, and as sleep recedes she realises that she can hear footsteps. The heavy footsteps of someone large. And then there’s a thud that can only be a door closing.
Lucy’s body is fuelled by a surge of terror, and without meaning to, she has jumped out of the bed. If it’s a burglar, she needs to call the police, but even the thought of using her voice seems impossible. What if the burglar hears her and comes upstairs to attack her?
Worse still: what if it’s not a burglar.
She stands stock-still for a few seconds, listening. The footsteps recede, there’s another thud, then silence. Tiptoeing across the carpet, she edges open the bedroom door and steps out onto the landing. She can hear nothing, except for the ticking of the antique clock in the dining room.
‘Hello?’ she calls, feeling ridiculous as she does so.
Nothing.
For the first time, she truly understands the expression ‘can’t think straight’ as her mind veers in all directions. The thud could have been the front door closing, she tells herself, but maybe whoever it was opened and closed it so that she thinks they’ve gone. Maybe there’s more than one of them. She creeps along the landing and peers down the stairs to the hall. There’s no sign of life, and the house is still quiet, but she is quite certain there was someone in the house. And that means they could come back.
Retreating into the bedroom, she throws on a pair of leggings and some flip-flops and then runs down into the hall, grabbing her bag with one hand as she flings open the front door with the other. The moonlit driveway is void of life, apart from a large dog fox. It pauses and regards her curiously with glittering eyes until the squawk of her car unlocking makes it hurry on.
Lucy throws herself into the driver’s seat and locks the doors internally before pulling her mobile from her bag and phoning Noah.
‘Hello?’ He answers after five rings, his voice thick with sleep.
‘Can I come over?’ she asks without preamble.
‘Sure…’ Even half-asleep he sounds pleased. ‘Is there a problem, or can you just not live a moment longer without me?’
‘I’ll tell you when I get there. What’s your postcode?’
It’s hard to discern much about Noah’s flat with the benefit of only a small lamp in the sitting room, apart from it being clean but somewhat untidy. In the semi-darkness, Lucy can make out a lot of framed posters on the walls, some houseplants, piles of books on every surface and clothes drying over an airer.
‘If I’d known you were coming, I’d have tidied up,’ Noah says, ruffling the hair on the back of his head and yawning. ‘Might even have changed the sheets in your honour.’ He realises what he’s just suggested and backtracks quickly, ‘Not that you’re obliged to get into my bed, obviously.’
While he makes them both tea, Lucy explains why she’s visiting him at 2.15 a.m.
‘And you have no idea who the intruder might be? Can’t think of anyone who’d want to scare you?’
‘No,’ Lucy lies.
‘The sensible thing would have been to call the police anyway and get them to check the place over,’ Noah reproves her, handing her a mug with the teabag still in it. ‘But I’m sort of glad you didn’t opt for the sensible thing, or you wouldn’t be here now.’
Since she has disturbed his sleep, it seems only fair to Lucy that they take their mugs through into the bedroom and lie down on either side of his bed.
‘Are you sure you’re all right with this?’ he asks her. ‘I can kip on the sofa and you can be in here: it’s no problem.’
‘No,’ says Lucy simply. ‘I’d rather not be alone.’
They finish their tea in a comfortable silence, then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, Noah switches off the light and with the same lack of self-consciousness they roll into one another’s arms. He strokes her back gently, then kisses her, and as naturally as if they’ve discussed it beforehand, they start to have sex. Not sleepy, ‘couple’ sex, but the passionate, abandoned coitus that Lucy had all but forgotten about. She allows herself a few hours of thrilling sensuality before, as the midsummer morning dawns, her mind returns inevitably to Marcus.
Noah senses the shift in her mood and, without saying anything, goes to the bathroom and showers, before coming back with a tray of orange juice and coffee.
‘I’ve got croissants too, but you don’t strike me as the sort of woman who’s ever hungry before nine in the morning.’
Lucy grins. ‘And the crumbs in the sheets are a nightmare.’
Noah eases himself down onto the bed beside her, looking straight ahead as he sips his coffee. ‘Do you feel guilty?’ he asks, as though reading her mind.
She shakes her head. What she feels, she decides once she is in her car and heading back to Barnes through rush-hour traffic, is plain old shock. Shock that she was capable of acting so spontaneously, and enjoying it. She refused Noah’s offer to come with her as a bodyguard, and in the golden light of a Jun
e morning, the house looks as benign as it ever has. She unlocks the door cautiously, having first checked it for signs of damage or forcing. There’s nothing, or at least nothing that she can discern. A check of the other rooms, and all their windows, reveals nothing either. Her jewellery is untouched on the dresser, her laptop is on her desk, and next to it her iPad. All fine. But still, something doesn’t feel right.
Lucy glances at the way the iPad is positioned on her desk. Is it her imagination or has it been moved slightly? Just a centimetre or two. She opens the cover and presses the home button and it comes to life, seemingly untampered with. The truth is dawning on her, and it forces her to sit down heavily, as though winded. If there was someone in the house – and she’s certain there was – then there was no breaking in. Whoever it was used a key. And if they didn’t steal anything, that means they must have had a more sinister purpose.
Her mind races back to the night at the Dog and Fox. She went to the bar to get a drink of water, leaving her bag hanging over the back of the chair. Someone could have taken out her front door key and made an impression of it to use for a copy. Someone who knew just how to do such a thing.
Someone like Denny Renard.
Twenty-Five
As she continues to stare warily at her iPad, the mail app bleeps with an incoming email. It’s from Pink Square.
Hi Lucy
We all enjoyed meeting you yesterday afternoon, and I’m delighted to tell you that we were so impressed, we’d like to offer you the position of Client Accounts Coordinator. This offer is subject to a check of your references, but I’m sure that won’t be a problem. I’d be grateful if you could get back to me and let me know if you’d like to accept before the end of tomorrow. Best wishes, Ellen.
A little shiver of pleasure and surprise runs through her, and she hugs her arms across her chest as she re-reads the email three times. Then, as if fearing it might vaporise, she hits ‘reply’ and types a hasty acceptance. Once it has sent, she enters a name into the search bar: Denny Renard.
Immediately, the search engine spits back at her: Do you mean Denny Reynolds?
She tries ignoring this and looking at the results for Denny Renard, but there is nothing linking those two words. She clicks on the results for Denny Reynolds instead and finds a site engineer on an oil drilling platform in Texas and a woman called Denny Reynolds in Inverness. But nobody resembling ‘her’ Denny emerges. Denny could be short for Dennis, so she tries Dennis Renard next, but this yields nothing of relevance. Nor does Denny Renard Redgate.
After making herself more coffee and some toast, Lucy sits down at her desk again. then logs onto Facebook and revisits Chelsee Watts’ page. She presses ‘Add friend.’
While she’s waiting for a response, she fires off a text to Noah, telling him she’s got the job. And thank you for your hospitality, she adds, with a winking emoji.
I knew you’d do it! And thanks for your visit ;) How are things back at the house? All okay? xx
All fine. I was probably just imagining I heard someone. xx
Call the police anyway, and get them to check xx
I will, Lucy replies, though she has no intention of doing so. Because if she does, she will be forced to explain her connection to ex-convict Denny Renard and why she engaged him to illegally change her identity.
When she logs onto Facebook again twenty minutes later, Chelsee has accepted her friend request. Lucy fires off a direct message.
Hi Chelsee, don’t know if you remember me from back in the day… I’ve been in touch with Adele again recently, but since she gave me her number I’ve switched phones so I don’t have a way of getting in touch with her. Can you ask her to contact me? Thanks, Lucy (Gibson).
She adds the number for her new phone at the end of the message and presses ‘Send’.
There’s no response to the message, but that evening, as she’s going through her wardrobe and trying to assess what would constitute suitable workwear at the Pink Square Agency, her mobile rings.
‘Hey. It’s Adele.’
Instantly, she can picture Adele appearing at the front door of the house in Haverleigh Park, balancing the weight of her bike with her toes, her backside still on the seat. That same blend of eagerness and bullishness is discernible in her voice.
‘Hi Adele, thanks for calling.’
‘Why did you message me?’ Her tone is distinctly wary.
‘I wanted to talk to you about Denny Renard.’
There’s a beat of silence. ‘Why?’ Adele asks coolly. ‘I mean, I thought that was all over and done with now.’
‘How much do you know about him?’
‘Nothing, okay?’ A defensive note creeps into her voice. ‘Like I said, I heard of him through someone I met inside.’
‘Who exactly, though?’
‘She’s called Pauline. Pauline something.’
‘Can I talk to her?’
Adele is scornful. ‘Not unless you get a visiting order from HMP Bronzefield, no: she’s still inside. Anyway, why does it matter?’ A distinct belligerence has crept into her manner.
‘I’d rather not go into that now.’ Lucy sticks to her decision not to tell Adele what Denny is up to, fearing it will only complicate matters. ‘I just want any background information you can give me. Like, where does he live? And who with?’
There’s another silence, longer this time. ‘Sorry, but I don’t know any of that stuff.’
‘But can you try and find out for me? Please?’
‘I’ll ask around, okay? But I’m not promising anything.’
And with that, she rings off.
Noah is insistent that the two of them go out to celebrate her new job.
‘I don’t know,’ Lucy prevaricates when he phones her. ‘I’m not sure I want a big fuss made. Apart from anything else, I might be hopeless at it. The job, I mean.’
‘Nonsense,’ Noah tells her briskly. ‘And I wasn’t lobbying for a big fuss. Not my style. Maybe just a drink in a bar. Or two drinks, if we really decide to go wild.’
They agree to meet the following evening, at a newly opened cocktail bar in Ravenscourt Park. Despite not wanting a fuss, Lucy takes great care over her appearance, wearing a clingy top with a pleated silk skirt and high-heeled sandals. She has her hair blow-dried and spends more time than usual over her make-up. It’s not a date, she tells her reflection, feeling more than a little foolish. It’s too soon to be dating. But if getting all dressed up and heading to a bar to meet a man she fancies isn’t a date, then what is it?
This question is still unresolved when she reaches the venue, but the expression on Noah’s face when he sees her pushes it to the back of her mind.
‘Wow, don’t you scrub up well!’ he teases. He’s wearing a clean shirt but the same chinos he was wearing when she last saw him.
They sit on high stools at the bar because it somehow feels more grown-up and decadent and, as ever, the conversation flows easily.
‘So, is this a date?’ Noah asks eventually, as though reading her mind. His hand has strayed to the top of her thigh and rested lightly there.
‘No,’ says Lucy firmly, though she’s smiling. ‘It’s not.’
‘Why not? I put on a clean shirt: doesn’t that qualify?’
‘Because I can’t do dating, not right now.’ Lucy’s tone becomes more serious. ‘My husband only died a couple of months ago. It wouldn’t be—’
‘Seemly? Isn’t that all a bit Jane Austen?’
‘Maybe.’ She shifts her leg subtly so that Noah’s hand slides off. ‘But it just happens to be where my head’s at. For now, at least, I have to think about how this might look to people.’
He frowns, puzzled, then musters a smile and raises his Long Island iced tea. ‘Well, here’s to you anyway, and to your new career.’
‘Thank you.’ Lucy raises her mojito in return. ‘And look, Noah, I’m not saying we can’t see each other. But let’s just keep it very low-key. Just for a bit. I’m used to being an old ma
rried woman, and this is all very unexpected and a little bit weird.’
Noah responds with a mock salute and they go back to talking about her new daily commute to work.
At the end of the evening, as they walk out into a pink summer twilight, he kisses her lightly. ‘I won’t ask to come back with you. On account of the not dating thing.’
At home alone, Lucy instantly regrets her puritanical approach. The house is in complete darkness, and as she approaches the front door, it looks bleak and somehow ominous. Her phone starts ringing the instant she switches on the lights in the hall. As she answers it, she’s already decided that if it’s Noah, she’ll backtrack completely and plead with him to come over.
‘Hello, sweetheart.’
‘Hello?’
Lucy pulls her phone away from her ear so she can squint at the screen. ‘No ID’ appears where the caller’s name would be.
‘Don’t tell me you don’t recognise my voice, Blondie.’
Denny.
She feels the hairs on her bare arms stand up and her breathing quickens. ‘How the hell did you get this number?’ It emerges as a croak.
‘Ways and means, ways and means. Because you and I, we still have a bit of business to attend to.’
‘No, we do not.’ Lucy tries to inject some steel into her voice, even though she feels far from steely. ‘I’ve already made it clear: if you want to take your so-called evidence to the police, then go ahead. In fact, if you ever call me on this number again, I’ll go to them myself.’
‘Aw, come on now, don’t be like that. Don’t spoil things.’
‘What things?’
‘Well, you’ve had such a lovely night out. And you look so pretty.’
