Chapter 42
Kate headed downstairs to open up, filled with newfound purpose. She’d run the shop for the last two days without incident, glad of the distraction to keep herself from constantly checking her phone.
The Sunday Times delisting notice had had the predicted effect—reignition of the speculation over who the real author was and a deepening of the scandal and disparagement toward Kate.
Liv’s trifle-throwing incident had taken on a viral meme life of its own, and the fact that Kate had made no attempt to defend either herself or her sister was seen as admission of both her guilt and her shallowness.
Her fingers itched to reply, and her heart burned with shame at the suggestion that she couldn’t be bothered to defend her sister.
Prue had been in touch most days to reassure her that no reply was the best reply, that you don’t stick your finger in a piranha tank and expect it not to get bitten. It was starting to feel like losing a finger might actually be worth it. Her wedding finger, maybe. She didn’t need it anymore.
She sent Liv a quick “good morning” text to check all was well in Portugal as she put the kettle on in the tiny kitchen behind the shop, then headed across to unlock the door.
It took her a couple of confused seconds to register that something wasn’t quite right, her hand resting on the door to flip the Closed sign over to Open .
She couldn’t see clearly through the glass.
Frowning, she peered closer, then opened the door carefully to find something smeared all over it and pooling in a congealing heap on the step.
The plastic bowl was the give-away clue: trifle.
She looked left and right along the street, but all was quiet.
“Bloody hell.” She twisted her bangle, pressing the solid silver between her fingers for comfort, relieved Liv wasn’t here to see this because her blood pressure would have shot through the roof.
It was only trifle, but the subtext of the attack said I know where you live, where you work, what you did.
She went back inside and slammed the door behind her, heart thumping, trying to decide what she should do.
Clean it up, obviously, but should she tell the police?
What would she say, someone’s thrown a trifle at my window?
Surely they had more important things to worry about, she’d feel ridiculous.
Filling a bowl with soapy water, she headed back outside and washed the door down, watching the pink-and-yellow mess slime away toward the drain on the road.
It’s only trifle, she kept telling herself. Probably just kids.
She could rationalize it, but nonetheless it had struck a vulnerable note within her.
When she was much younger, her first car had been stolen.
She’d got it back, luckily, but her first few times behind the wheel afterward had left her unsettled by feelings of invasion.
Those same emotions ran through her now.
Anger, because how bloody dare they come for Liv?
Fear, because what if they did it again, or worse?
And on top of that, a creeping sense of shame, as if she somehow deserved to be punished.
Her phone bipped as she went back inside. A message from Liv, a photo of the kids jumping into the pool with their clothes on the moment they arrived at the villa.
She sent back smiley faces and thumbs-up emojis, then sat down on the stool in the quiet of the morning and stared at the closed door, unnerved.
—
It happened again the following morning.
Kate had slept badly, her senses on high alert, and she saw it as soon as she came down to the shop floor.
She hadn’t heard a thing—the obscured bathroom window in her flat upstairs overlooked the street, a setup which was better in every way apart from not being able to watch out for trouble.
She took photographs of the mess, and then, just like the morning before, used several bowls of hot soapy water to wash away the evidence.
And just like the day before, she didn’t tell a soul.