Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
‘Nice gaff.’ Diana prowled around Beth’s small living quarters, straightening a cushion here, a coaster there – her natural habitat was any place she could impose order.
‘Thank you, my neat-freak friend.’ Beth forced a smile. She’d shoved her drying underwear into a drawer minutes before Diana arrived; small victories. ‘It’s not Bilberry Cottage, but I’m trying to make it feel like home.’
Diana nodded, her dark curls swishing. ‘So, how are you really settling in? We’ve talked on the phone but seeing you in person … something’s off. Am I right?’
Beth twisted the stem of her wine glass until her knuckles whitened. She’d opened Diana’s favourite rosé; Diana had taken only a tiny measure, pleading driving. The rest of the bottle – well, Beth was on dangerous terms with temptation.
‘It’s hard to explain. Something happened. And you’re the only person I can talk to.’
Diana gave Beth that look. The one usually reserved for obscenely rude shop assistants and patients who thought ‘deep tissue massage’ meant ‘inappropriate touching’. It said: Don’t you dare fob me off.
‘I’m assuming you haven’t been fired,’ she said. ‘Your bosses greeted me like I was a celebrity. Is it Luke? Has he been in touch?’
For the briefest moment, Beth wanted to lie. To fabricate a text, a phone call, a miraculous reconciliation. To pretend Luke missed her, regretted everything, wanted her back. Instead—
‘No, it’s not Luke. I … saw something. In the basement where I store some of my stuff. And it’s seriously freaking me out.’
Diana froze mid-stride.
As if reciting a recipe in a language she barely remembered, Beth explained the pinball machine, the flickering bulbs, the sequinned apparition calling himself Gigi.
‘It’s called The Wish Master. It’s ancient, maybe seventies or eighties at a push.
No modern tech. But I hit my head when I tried to get away.
I must’ve blacked out. Because when I came round …
there was nothing and the machine was off. ’
‘OK.’ Diana stretched the word like elastic, lacing it with equal parts caution and disbelief.
‘OK what?’ Beth snapped, exasperation spilling over. She poured herself more wine and slopped some on the floor.
‘Steady, hon.’ Diana leapt up, grabbed a cloth, and mopped up the spill with military efficiency.
‘You think I’m nuts.’ Beth felt the tight coil in her chest twist tighter. ‘Of course you do. If you were telling me the same thing, I’d think you were nuts.’
Diana’s gaze softened. ‘Hon, absolutely not. Look, you’ve been under major stress. The whole Luke thing. And not being able to … you know.’
Anger flared, bright and immediate. ‘We don’t need euphemisms, Diana. Not being able to carry a baby to full term. There, I’ve said it. None of which explains what I saw.’
The tears shining in Diana’s eyes mirrored Beth’s own, and for a moment the room blurred.
‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart.’ Diana grasped her hands, warm and steady. ‘I’m just worried about you. Are you sleeping? Are you drinking too much?’
Beth eyed her glass. ‘You know I quit for ages. No alcohol, no raw fish, yoga until my limbs screamed, all the healthy stuff. It got me pregnant several times but didn’t give me the one thing I wanted.’ Her voice thinned. ‘So I have the odd glass now. But I’m not drunk. And I’m not losing my mind.’
Silence settled. Not their easy, companionable kind, but one that crackled with unspoken pain.
Diana broke it first. ‘You said you hit your head. Maybe see a doctor? Just to be safe. Concussion can be sneaky.’
Beth touched the tender spot at her scalp. ‘I’m fine. Honestly. Let’s just forget it.’
Diana didn’t look convinced, but she let it go. She gathered her things, pausing at the door. ‘Call me, day or night. Even if I’m mid-massage with some hunky footballer, I’ll drop my oils for you.’
‘Since when have you massaged a hunky footballer?’
‘Never.’ Diana pulled her into a hug. ‘But a girl can dream.’
Beth worked the rest of the afternoon with Rose: chopping, stirring, planning, pretending normality came naturally. Rome wasn’t built in a day, Ed had said. Beth suspected her confidence would take at least a century.
Later, after a bout of menu research on her laptop, she found herself restless. Buzzing, and not in a good way. She needed fresh air – or closure.
Instead, she went to the basement.
The cold air hit her like an open fridge. The pinball machine sat in the gloom, silent as a tomb. Dust. Cobwebs. A forgotten relic.
It’s fine. Nothing to see here.
Beth took a step forward.
One of the flippers twitched.
Beth’s pulse spiked.
A single bulb flickered to life – weak, amber, unsteady.
She heard a faint strain of the tune she’d heard before. That haunting, vaguely Middle Eastern melody that wormed its way under her skin.
Beth pressed a hand to her chest.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No, no, no.’
A metallic clatter sounded in the coin return tray. A coin rolled out, circling, clinking against the metal.
Then the laugh. Low, gurgling. Teasing. Knowing. ‘Back again? Let’s play.’
Beth’s blood froze.
The room spun. She bolted. Feet pounding, breath torn from her throat. Up the stairs, heart in freefall.
She burst through the door into the hum and chatter of the pub – warm air, human noise, life – slamming the door behind her and pressing her back against it as if she could hold the world in place.
Her pulse thundered.
Her hands trembled.
‘This isn’t real,’ she whispered to herself. ‘I imagined it.’
But her brain told her otherwise.
And somewhere, deep in the darkness below, a single bulb flickered again.