Chapter 12
Things That Have Bloody Annoyed Me This Morning:
The shower curtain that clung on when I had specifically told it not to.
The shape of Heather’s cereal spoons – ugh, all her cutlery in fact.
Automatic toilet on the train which flushed as I was still sitting on it.
Woman on the train eating a meaty burrito at 6:00 a.m.
My tight socks.
The guy stalking me no matter where I go.
Last night, I started and finished the third book in the Sweetpea series by Freddie Litton-Cheney.
In this book, it detailed how Freddie met Rhiannon when she was on a layover in New York, and she came to one of his book signings.
Supposedly, she slipped through his fingers as he was about to call the police.
Believe that, you’ll believe anything, especially as Book Three was his bestseller to date.
Book Three detailed everything Rhiannon had told him during their meeting, including how she ended up in Mexico, who she killed along the way, how she found herself living with an ex-cartel hitman in the hills above a place called Rocas Calientes at the southern end of the Baja California peninsula, why she cut off her own hand with a machete, and how she met the love of her life: Rafael.
He sounded too good to be true. The perfect man, who wasn’t put off by her criminal connections or her past?
Who supported her, no matter what she did, who she chopped up, no matter what dead bodies she slept with, and loved her more than anyone else in the world?
Pull the other one. I knew for a fact she eventually killed him too, along with practically everyone else she ever met.
It all sounded so far-fetched to me; like Freddie had just written all that to shift copies cos romance had been the trend at the time.
Why the change in tone from the latter half of Book Three onwards?
Had she really cleaned up her act just because she’d fallen in love?
Did she actually come back for me and kidnap me when I was two?
There were so many unanswered questions gnawing at me.
Freddie Litton-Cheney had met Rhiannon, eaten dinner with her, bought her doughnuts, been close enough to smell her perfume.
And for some inexplicable reason best known to somebody else, I needed to get close to her too.
In lieu of that though, getting closer to him was the best I could do. So that Sunday morning, with nothing to lose and only a car boot sale and a decidedly meaty roast dinner with Heather’s family on the horizon, I went to visit Freddie and find out the truth for myself.
I sneaked off just before five, getting the early bus to Axminster Station for the 6:20 a.m. train to Clapham Junction where I would switch to the 8:37 a.m. train to Richmond.
Heather didn’t usually get up until six anyway, even on a weekend, so once I’d fed Maddox and let him out into the garden, I was free.
On the train, I read the first chapter of Book Four online because I didn’t have a physical version yet.
Though after one chapter in, I wasn’t sure I wanted one.
By this point I decided I hated Rhiannon all over again.
I found Old Palace Place where I knew Freddie lived with little trouble, thanks to my online sleuthing.
I actually had a pretty good sense of direction and could read maps effortlessly.
I don’t know who I get that from, maybe AJ, cos apparently he loved to travel.
I recognised Freddie’s townhouse from his Insta; the steps, the shiny red door, the polished silver-fox-tail knocker and the two potted olive trees either side.
It looked like the house in Mary Poppins and was directly opposite a large green where people were walking dogs and sipping coffee cups.
I went up the steps and clanked the knocker three times.
I decided right then I would wait there as long as it took.
But seconds later, the great red door opened, and I was faced with someone who looked nothing like the author picture on his website.
‘Hello?’ said the man. He had closely cropped ginger hair, a kind smile and wore high-top trainers and too-tight jeans even though he was about fifty.
‘Um, hi. I’m looking for Freddie Litton-Cheney?’
‘Okay, who can I say is calling?’
A shadow appeared along the corridor behind him, holding a mug and a dishtowel he was drying it with. ‘Oh my God!’
The doorman, Jason, turned out to be Freddie’s husband, who was mentioned on his website along with their kids but there weren’t any pictures of them on his Insta unless covered by emojis.
Freddie was fiercely protective of his privacy, especially, as he said in one interview, how Bad Seeds often camped on his doorstep, begging for autographs or Rhiannon trinkets.
Jason turned to him, more confused than ever. ‘For you?’
Freddie came forwards so they were both in the doorway staring at me. ‘You’re Ivy.’ I nodded.
Jason’s eyebrows went up. ‘Ivy? You mean, the Ivy?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Sorry to turn up unannounced but I need to talk to you.’
‘Of course,’ said Freddie, stepping back. ‘Come in. Uh, can we get you a coffee or—?’
‘No, thanks, I don’t like coffee. A water would be good, thanks.’
Jason took the hint and headed for the kitchen with Freddie’s mug as he ushered me into a living room to the left of the hall – plush and high-ceilinged with huge squashy grey sofas, a cinema-style screen on the fireplace wall and a multitude of books.
There was a stack of family board games in the nook by the TV and pictures of their kids at varying ages all over the place.
‘Where are your kids? They’re called Milo and Tilly, right?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. They’re both at uni. One at Bristol, one at Bath. classics and chemical engineering. Couldn’t be more different for twins!’
A thought flew in – maybe Freddie and Jason were grieving their children’s absence so much they’d be delighted to have me stay with them for a while. Or forever.
This is how you think when you’re sixteen and one mum’s dead and another’s in jail for killing people, and you really don’t want to go to Australia to live with your real dad’s urn.
Jason appeared with my water and handed it to me, before making his excuses and closing the lounge door quietly behind him.
‘How did you know where I lived?’ asked Freddie as I sipped. Even their water tasted rich.
‘Social media. One of your photos shows you in the gym. I noted the branding on the equipment and tied it to a chain of gyms in this area. Your website said you lived in Richmond and one of your posts showed the green opposite, where you run and where you used to take your kids to play, and your local bakery where you’re always having those Italian pastries you like. Sfogliatelle …’
‘Yeah …’
‘So I just triangulated all those places to one area on Google Maps, then noted all the trees and post boxes where you post pictures of yourself on your runs. And then I looked for the red door which was on your family Christmas photo from last year. And then I found you.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Good work. You must have really wanted to find me.’ He went over to a large wooden bureau in the bay window. He opened the front and sifted through a pile of papers. ‘I guess you’ve come for this?’
‘What’s that?’ I said, not taking the white envelope as he offered it.
‘It’s yours,’ he beamed. ‘It’s a trust I set up for you years ago.
You don’t actually get to inherit any of it until you’re legally an adult, but when you’re eighteen it’s yours to do with as you wish.
It’s all legal and above board – it’s just some money left over from book sales and merch and stuff. ’
I opened it up. I looked at the most recent bank statement and noted the balance. ‘Jeeeeezus Christ!’
‘It’s not everything – I wrote the things, after all. And the publisher takes their cut. And my agent. And the tax man. But it didn’t feel right making so much money from someone else’s tragedies. And this is partly your tragedy. So I’d like it if you had it.’
‘There’s nearly two million quid in here.’
‘The books have done well and we sold TV rights so that’s gone in.’
‘What the hell do I do with it all? I can’t take this.’
‘Ivy, it’s to set you up.’
‘I don’t need setting up! I’ve got money coming out of my arsehole!
My mother’s just died. I stand to inherit our two-million-pound house in the next few years, plus antiques.
She left me everything. Last thing I want is more bloody money.
What I’d like is a …’ The sentence petered out in my mouth.
I handed the envelope back and folded my arms across my chest. ‘It’s Rhiannon’s, it’s not mine. ’
‘She doesn’t want it.’
‘Give it to charity then. The dogs’ home, the cats’ home, homeless—’
‘You could do that when you’re old enough. Send some of it to charities – maybe somewhere your dad might have approved of. What was he into?’ He sat back down on the armrest, clutching the envelope.
‘I don’t know, do I? She killed him when I was still a fertilised egg. I’ve just read all the intricate details of it in your bloody book.’
‘You’ve read them?’
‘I just finished Book Three.’
His eyes seemed to light up. ‘How do you feel about it all?’
‘I’ve no idea. One minute I hate her, crying over my dad and the next …’
‘You’re rooting for her?’ he finished.
‘Yeah. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know if I’m more her or more him.’
‘Maybe you’re neither. Maybe you’re just you.’
‘I want to belong to someone.’ I don’t know why saying that made me cry but it did.
He handed me a tissue from the box on the bureau.
I snapped it out of his hand. ‘I belonged to Rhiannon but she dumped me. Oh yeah, she felt bad about dumping me but she never tried to get me back, did she? She wondered about me, she cared that I wasn’t being abused by my stepdad – I wasn’t, by the way – but she never came back for me, did she? ’
‘I thought you said you’d read Book Three,’ he said.
I frowned. ‘I have.’