Chapter 2
Lara was unable to shake off this unsettling thought.
In the end, rather than head home to her empty cottage she turned in at her local pub, the Wentworth Arms, drawn by the glow of the lights.
She told herself it was so she could check with the landlord, Ron, what flowers he needed for an upcoming anniversary party.
But hadn’t she also wondered if Julian and his friends might be in?
She had certainly tidied her hair and added a bit of make-up before heading into the warmth.
She had stayed far too long drinking and loitering – just in case Julian appeared – accepting a final large glass of red from Ron.
There had been no sign of Julian, and to make things worse, at the table in the corner were two women having the sort of time she wished she was.
Laughing and chatting like the old friends they probably were: Sarah from the deli and Kate the local hairdresser.
She had sat at the bar and turned her back to them, concentrating on catching up on local gossip with Ron.
She had caught him glancing towards Kate and Sarah and his face reminded her strongly of her mum, when she used to urge her, ‘Why don’t you just say hello and make friends? ’
Now, out in the car park, Lara was regretting drinking on an empty stomach.
The cold night air made her suddenly giddy and it took her some time to balance her van keys on the back tyre.
She would text Becky and ask her to pick the van up on her way in tomorrow.
It would save her assistant a longer walk to work and there was no way Lara could drive now.
Ten minutes later Lara reached the back door to her cottage, and she set about the unexpectedly complicated job of unlacing her boots.
There was no doubt about it, she really shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine.
Eventually, one sock on, one sock off she made it into the sitting room.
There she began turning on lamps with one hand while picking up the post and some washing that had fallen off the radiator with the other.
The first sign Lara noticed something was wrong was when she spotted something fluffy lying on the footstool.
It went through her mind that she didn’t have a cat, and yet she had the impression she had seen this creature somewhere before.
It was then Lara turned and saw the woman from the store sitting beside the wood burner.
The intruder had her chin on her hands and was clearly very much at home in Lara’s favourite armchair.
A memory flashed through Lara’s mind of those hands tucked into the muff that was now lying on her footstool.
With this thought, Lara froze. ‘You!’ was all she could say as her arms fell to her sides, dropping the post and laundry on the floor.
Abigail decided it was time to take command of the situation.
Rising gracefully, she moved to stand in front of the unlit wood burner and extended an elegantly gloved hand towards the armchair.
‘Lara, please take this seat. I will sit over here on the sofa. Then we can both be comfortable and I can explain why I am here.’
Lara did not move.
Abigail continued in a calm, reasonable voice, ‘I know this is unusual and it is a trifle off-putting to have a complete stranger appearing in your home, especially uninvited. But I am also aware that you are not really frightened by the situation… that is true, is it not?’ She paused, casting Lara a friendly but questioning look.
‘So what could be the harm in listening to what I have to say?’
‘Who the hell are you?! What are you doing here?’ Lara exclaimed as if Abigail had not spoken. ‘And how did you get in?’ She looked around wildly. The front door that opened into the sitting room was clearly still bolted and the wooden shutters were securely latched.
Abigail neatly sidestepped a pile of washing and sat on the sofa. She was an incongruous figure, neat as wax, in an otherwise shambolic room. With her head turned to one side Abigail looked at Lara. ‘Do you ever talk to yourself?’ she asked.
Lara was surprised into answering, ‘Doesn’t everyone?’
Abigail paused. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘but you are aware, I think, that you do it more than most.’
Unconsciously Lara dropped into the armchair and pulled her jumper over her knees, worming her finger in and out of one of the holes. ‘What has that got to do with anything?’ she replied defensively.
‘Well,’ Abigail continued, ‘consider for a moment. You are happy to talk to yourself, or to imaginary people in your head. Therefore, what could be the harm in talking to me?’
‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ Lara replied, nettled.
‘But of course you do,’ said Abigail, with what to Lara was misplaced confidence. ‘I would not be here unless you had sent for me.’
This was too much for Lara. She had been half-wondering if this woman’s appearance had something to do with the wine she had consumed in the Wentworth, combined with the cold evening air.
But this was taking things too far. ‘There is one thing I know for absolute certain, I have never invited you anywhere!’ Lara exclaimed loudly, grabbing a bottle of wine off the rack beside her.
She was pretty certain she didn’t need any more to drink but it seemed the only answer to the madness of the situation.
If there was one thing she was sure of, it was that now was not the time to give up drinking.
She rose, and with her rose her indignation.
‘I don’t know you. I don’t want to know you.
You dress like, I don’t know what. You break into people’s homes.
And you clearly have some serious “personal space issues”.
’ She marked the air with quote marks, waving the full bottle of red dangerously near her head.
Lara paused and started pulling open drawers and turning over piles of baskets that were propped up by the sofa.
Why did her dad insist on sending her wine with corks, rather than the screw tops she normally bought?
‘What?!’ she asked Abigail, as if the woman had interrupted her.
Abigail said nothing but leant back on the sofa with a look of considerable amusement on her face.
‘Have you seen a corkscrew?’ Lara continued more moderately, turning on the spot like a person who has lost all sense of direction.
‘I believe you will find it in the blue and white tulip vase on the dresser.’ Abigail said helpfully.
‘Oh.’ Lara stepped over to the dresser and pulled the vase closer. ‘How did you know that?’ she muttered, as she began peeling the foil off the bottle top.
‘It’s a knack,’ Abigail replied.
Lara sank back into the armchair as if exhausted. Indeed she thought she had never felt so tired or so worn out by life. ‘I give in,’ she said, starting to pull the cork from the bottle. ‘What makes you think I sent for you?’
‘That is very simple,’ Abigail said, her face now serious. ‘You believe that someone close to you has been murdered.’