Chapter 43
Alyssa and Devan took separate cars from the spa hotel.
Devan was whizzing off to an app developer event in Liverpool, and Alyssa was keen to get back to the little barn and bask in her bubble of love.
There would be social media followers to respond to and coaching clients to check in with.
At last, she was feeling more excited about her work, as though helping couples held a whole new level of meaning now her own relationship was a true one.
She pressed her phone screen, the quiet journey back to The Cow Shed giving her chance to fill in her post-love task questionnaire.
And the quicker she filled it in, the sooner ’Appy Together would concoct the seventh and final task.
As much as their last mission felt like the end of a journey, she was keen for more quality time with Devan and to know what the app would come up with.
And then, they’d need to work out what was next for them, in the real world.
They hadn’t set anything in stone, but she hoped they were moving towards ongoing commitment and her sticking around.
She might even get the sign fixed on the barn, so it didn’t read The ’ow ’hed.
Yes, she could see herself getting that wild.
Devan had already filled out his questionnaire after breakfast that morning, where she’d fancied a cinnamon quinoa breakfast bowl – not even for the photographs – and had genuinely enjoyed it.
Her lips curved gently upwards at the thought of Devan, who’d ordered the same, to avoid anyone getting food envy.
The lush green fields of the Cotswolds slid by beyond the window, rising up into distant hills dotted with yet more apple trees, old stone cottages and grazing sheep.
It was a backdrop that was quickly seeping back into her soul.
In truth, she hadn’t missed the busyness of London, the sometimes-smoggy streets and the crowded rush of the underground.
To her surprise, she’d barely even missed the city’s impersonal nature, even though she’d once told herself that was her favourite part.
In hindsight, she could see it had made her lonely.
All those people. All the online followers.
Yet not a single person to stop and grab coffee and caramel apple tiramisu with, nor to bail her out at midnight if she’d broken a heel and got drenched in a downpour.
Just grab an Uber. But that wasn’t the same.
She closed her eyes for a moment, wondering who she’d call now in a ruined-heel emergency.
She could already imagine Sylvie rocking up in her tiny blue Renault, no doubt with Emmalina and a bag full of alternative footwear.
Or Mrs Halfpenny rounding up folk like she was on an impromptu ‘love your neighbour’ crusade, probably stopping off to get T-shirts printed.
And somebody would no doubt bring cake. She wouldn’t even feel averse to calling her parents to help these days, as long as they could stop with the snogging.
Then there was Devan. Reliable even when she told him not to be. Gorgeous, clever, capable …
‘We’re here, miss.’
The driver interrupted her thoughts. It was just as well, because her list of Devan’s good bits might have been longer than Rapunzel’s locks.
‘Thank you.’
She helped the driver with her bags and then made her way into the barn, which felt cold after a weekend of being uninhabited.
Pikachu and his girlfriend were being mouse-sat by Jess from the shop, which happened a lot these days.
Though things would soon settle with just one more task to go.
Then she could be more present. She could look at renewing her lease and maybe getting more cheerful paint on the walls.
Buy real plants instead of fake ones. Perhaps in the longer term, she and Devan would even live together.
But it was early days, and it was enough that she was serious about leaving her London life behind.
One step at a time and they could enjoy things as they naturally progressed.
Alyssa filled the kettle and switched it on, then made her way to the living room, flopping down on a beanbag.
She should probably invest in a sofa if she was staying on.
One of those big, L-shaped ones that you could lounge on with friends, or snuggle up on with your boyfriend, watching movies and eating crinkle-cut crisps.
The polystyrene beans wriggled underneath her as she tried to get comfortable, phone in hand.
She was ready to navigate whatever had been happening online since she’d last checked in, which – now she’d shaken off her phone addiction and was less worried what strangers thought of her – had been some point the day before.
She clicked onto Instagram, coolly noting that she hadn’t lost any followers after her weekend of being more honest. In fact, she’d gained quite a few.
Perhaps the universe liked it when she took the right path.
Though her stomach twisted a little at the notification that she had direct messages to catch up with. They might be nice words from coaching clients or kind followers. But not all messages were good ones.
Her heart sank when she spied another private message from @whoami23456 – the unknown troll. She must have accidentally accepted a follow request from them at some point, if they were right there in her main inbox. Urgh.
@whoami23456 – Saw the announcement about you and big biceps Devan.
Cute that you’ve decided to be all ‘honest’.
Shame that guy wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him on the butt cheek.
Did you know he created ’Appy Together with the ONE intention of trying to get back with you, then he fixed it so you two would 100% be matched together?
Signs of a stalker, much? Or probably just wanted to shag you. (Clearly, THAT plan worked.)
Bile rose up Alyssa’s throat. How dare this person throw accusations around about Devan and her relationship with him?
Of course Devan hadn’t spent months, or even years, creating an app on the off chance she’d take him back.
And he’d assured her he hadn’t engineered things to pair them.
Who was this whoami loser? She thrashed her arms and legs, struggling to get up from the beanbag, which was now threatening to swallow her.
‘What a load of bullshit,’ she barked at her screen, marching to the kitchen.
Would it even matter if Devan had pressed a few buttons to pair them together?
If she’d have discovered that at the beginning of this journey, she would have been infuriated.
And though she didn’t love the idea he hadn’t confessed this when she’d asked – if it was even true – at this point in their relationship it was unlikely to be a deal breaker.
She was tempted to reply: ‘Get back under your troll bridge, you absolute douchnozzle.’ But it was best not to engage. So she grabbed the teabags and started making a strong, sweet cuppa.
Though annoyingly, the online hobgoblin could see she’d opened the message – and they were typing a reply.
@whoami23456 – I’ve got you thinking, haven’t I? Ever wonder why he put up with you lying to everyone that you weren’t together? It was because he knew he had even more lies of his own. Unluckily for him, I know them too.
Even more lies? Alyssa felt her mind spiralling. But no. She was not going there. And she was not about to start believing an anonymous keyboard warrior over the people she had come to love and trust again – when loving and trusting had been such a fight.
Her fingers twitched, the temptation to type an evil essay overwhelming.
She took a few deep breaths. Stay classy.
This was nonsense, and it had no place in her real life.
Common sense told her this was her disgruntled ex-client Gary Pratt trying to stir up trouble, because he had nothing going on for him outside of itching his scabies.
Or perhaps it was someone she’d never even met and never would.
She’d had trolls before – it was part of being online.
And they usually ran out of steam. Eventually.
She swigged her tea and stormed to her bedroom, dragging her suitcase to unpack.
Her phone was still in her hand as she reached her bed, vowing to block this outrageous person and their messages.
But then a series of photos pinged through.
Photos of parts of her life she’d still been hiding, even if she’d promised to be more honest, going forward.
Her stomach clenched at images of herself coming out of the World’s Grottiest Flat building in Hackney, pulling her suitcase.
And a picture of her in mismatched old pyjamas accepting a lot of greasy takeaway, the broken sign outside her current home, The ’ow ’hed, looming above her.
It was unfortunate she’d been carrying three empty wine bottles for the recycling, because she’d only drank hot chocolate, leaving the wine to Sylvie, Jess and a few of the others who’d popped round. Terrible timing.
What was scarier was that someone had been following her.
Someone had been that close to her, and she hadn’t known.
Taking a freakish interest in her movements.
She squeezed her eyes shut as she thought.
If this person shared these photos publicly, as the message threatened, then so what?
She’d already begun admitting her life was sometimes messier than her perfectly curated Instagram grid – even if this intrusion felt like a shove too far.
Her hand moved to the zip on her suitcase, but her screen lit up again.
She should have pressed the ‘block’ button – yet something told her to keep her friends close and her enemies closer.
Wasn’t it safer to stay in the know? And if she blocked them, they could trick her through another new profile. So she tapped to open the message.
Alyssa took a sharp inhalation of breath as the images appeared on her screen.
They were pictures taken inside The Cow Shed.
In her actual home. She felt sick. This person had access to where she slept.
Photos of her general disorganised chaos, which looked a world away from the orderly, on-top-of-life love coach image she needed to portray.
And she was usually tidy-ish, but life had been busy, and she still hadn’t got her head around storage solutions or the fact the dishwasher rarely worked.
And who had time for dusting? Her eyes darted around, her flesh turning cold as she tried to fathom when this vile person had infiltrated her sanctuary.
More words were appearing on her screen.
Threats to expose her for being a screw-up of a love coach who’d been scraping by with no work, no stable love life and a sniping belief that true love was a farce.
A woman who sold services she didn’t believe in.
A failure who’d been publicly dumped by Devan years ago, and who was only playing along now for the money, pretending to be falling for Devan, when in truth, she had a heart of stone.
She wasn’t sure why her shocked eyes were still reading.
But the venom of the words was so strong, it was like a morbid curiosity.
Why did this stranger hate her so much? She couldn’t not know what she was up against, even though some of it wasn’t true.
How did this person know about her past?
How had they got inside her kitchen, her bedroom?
Who the hell was this?
She dropped onto her bed, her legs giving way beneath her.
Panicked sobs rose up her throat, coming out as gasping breaths.
She’d tidied and done the dishes before she’d gone on the spa weekend, so the photos weren’t that recent.
But had this person been in here again this weekend?
How were they gaining access? Not that it was anybody’s business how often she cleared up her cereal bowls, because she was only human.
But what if they’d tampered with something?
Poisoned her strawberry yoghurt or set a woman-sized trap in her shower?
Or installed some kind of pervy camera system to catch her dancing in her underwear to The Spice Girls?
Alyssa racked her brains, trying to work out who could or would do this.
She wasn’t stupid enough to keep a spare key under a plant pot, though she did sometimes leave one behind the sign outside the barn, for Jess to collect Pikachu.
She rubbed her creased forehead. No, not Jess.
Surely? She was sweet and honest and wore her heart on her sleeve – and she was going out with her best friend.
There was nothing sneaky about her, although she wasn’t always great at keeping secrets.
She worked in the shop and loved to natter.
It was possible she’d inadvertently mentioned it to someone.
But Jess couldn’t have gone leaking details of her past.
Sylvie? Her parents? Devan? Her heart was sinking further with every possible name.
Surely none of those people, whom she’d come to know and trust again.
Why would they? Why would anyone? Her insides squirmed at the fact she was doubting these people, and that this horrible, sneaky keyboard-wielding idiot had pushed her to. What did this person even want?
Alyssa looked at her suitcase again. She should just unpack it.
She could thoroughly search the place. Check for dodgy traps and weird-smelling yoghurt.
Get the locks changed. Be more cautious.
This monster should not get to dictate how she felt.
Her chest was tight with the unease of knowing that they seemed hellbent on exposing her past secrets, even if she’d changed so much since she’d been here.
She hadn’t been planning to lay every awkward part of her history bare.
But now her hand was being forced.
Whatever this person wanted to spill, she could get past it.
Couldn’t she? When she’d first arrived back in Hartglove, she would have died of humiliation at those truths coming out.
But she’d been on such a journey since then.
Yes, it was embarrassing that someone had photos of her unmade bed, and her followers might hear she’d once drunkenly declared her love to Devan, only to find out he was marrying her best mate.
But she’d promised herself she was going to be more honest about who she was – and if people were only there for the polished version, they weren’t her people.
She pushed herself up from the bed, willing her legs to support her. ‘Do your worst, keyboard troll,’ she said to her phone screen, even though nobody could hear.
Or could they? Because just as she threw her suitcase onto the bed and began unzipping it, the next download of photos began.