CHAPTER 8
Ella
There are two possible options. Someone I know, or someone working for Henry.
My eyes ache from spending most of the night gazing into the bright light of my phone, researching through the depths of the internet only to find he’s safely locked where I left him.
And yet, he’s everywhere. Since the moment I unravelled the cryptic message, he’s been crawling under my skin and hovering at the edges of my vision.
Even with him locked away, Henry’s stench weaves over this.
“Can I say, this wine is lush.” The pitchy voice of a woman with a high ponytail crashes into my thoughts.
I pull at my smile, scanning across Immi’s garden.
The deck is decorated with neatly placed bouquets and a smoking cooking display, her annual autumnal party feeling more relaxed than previous years.
And yet my skin itches to leave. The guests, made up of neighbours and friends, mill around to the gentle sound of music. Could one of them have left the letter?
A nauseous feeling grows as my phone chimes in my pocket. I’ve received a daily social media message since the letter, but unlike most messages these are cold, harsh and cruel.
You think you’re so smart, don’t you?
I’m going to destroy you.
You spoiled princess, those in glass houses better watch out.
Die, bitch.
Laughter pulls me back to the garden.
“Oh it is, isn’t it? Immi said that Benji picked it up on his last trip to Procida.
It’s divine, isn’t it,” Emilia from across the village says with that odd intimacy neighbours have.
I catch sight of Immi moving across the lawn, her hair in a high ponytail, face glowing.
She looks perfect. A tailored peach dress cinches at her waistline and floats to kiss the floor, her feet are bare, and her toenails are a deep pink to complement her outfit.
Benji’s name strikes a frustrated chord through me.
It seems that despite our conversations, Benji is back in her life.
I lean across the table to pick up my drink, forcing down my opinion on Benji with a quick swig. The frustration of the past week mingles with the fact Benji has sunk his teeth in again. No matter where we turn, men have the power to rip our lives apart.
“She’s so lucky to have someone like Benji in her life,” another of the neighbours says.
I don’t recognise her but I nod along. I know they’re all expecting me to chime in, I’m the key addition to the group right now, as Immi’s closest friend and Rufus’s partner.
When I first moved in, Emilia made a point of commenting that I wouldn’t last here, like all of Rufus’s other girlfriends.
Now, I rotate the engagement ring with my thumb and smile out at the table.
“Hmm,” I add to everyone’s frustrations.
“It’s a shame she couldn’t go to Italy with him, but the business is just taking off,” Emilia chimes in, glancing at me for verbal confirmation of the story.
Something bubbles beneath the undercurrent of concern but I offer nothing.
Immi is lying, we all know that, but I doubt anyone here knows why she didn’t go to Italy.
Or how it was me who had to scoop up her remains and help mould her into the functioning member of society we see today.
Again. I glance at Benji, who seems to be all smiles and backslaps as he stands under the pergola.
Would he have a reason to threaten me? I’ve never hidden my dislike for him.
He’s a powerful man, with more money than sense, who could easily find an excuse to throw his weight around.
This whole thing is making me paranoid. I smile.
“If you’ll all excuse me,” I say, but no one is listening.
As I descend the steps to Immi’s immaculate lawn, I run my finger along the edge of the flowers that still bloom against the autumnal sun.
This party should be a moment of relaxation and yet the alcohol in my near-empty stomach sloshes with anxious bile.
It’s an effort not to turn and run, Jude’s words still lingering in the back of my mind. Who is doing this to me?
Rufus is standing in a group of our neighbours.
When I first moved in with him, Rufus was keen for me to become part of the social network.
Dinners, lunches, sports on the weekend – it was packed full of smiling faces and small talk.
It was all so new to me, an exciting experience of being known and envied.
I smile now at Martha from number one; she offers me a bouncing wave, much like she does every morning as she shoves her son into the car for school while he yanks leaves from the bushes.
Her hair is drawn off her face and the lower part of her dress is covered with cat hairs.
“Hi,” I nod at her, stepping into the group.
Next to Martha is the man from number seven, Jack.
He drives a sports car and scowls when he walks with his briefcase in hand and suit jacket over his shoulder.
I smile, nodding at them as I slip in next to Rufus, his hand running around my waist without breaking the conversation.
For a moment there is no threatening letter or worry in my chest.
“Have you eaten at Devuon, it’s a beautiful Vietnamese place just off Cawdor Lane?” Martha asks, her bony shoulders tilting as she talks.
Rufus turns his head, his face mirroring her excitement as she explains the details of the dishes she tried. The moment is warm, familiar and safe, just us neighbours exchanging comfortable, pointless, small talk.
But moments like that never last.
Immi slides in next to me, wiggling her shoulders before she turns to the thin-lipped lady. Benji steps in behind her. His eyes, sharp and framed with long lashes, stare unwavering. A familiar feeling hits as he slides a hand around Immi’s waist, his fingers are a hair too low on her hip.
I look away, fixing my smile to greet him.
“Eleanor,” Benji says. Despite constant reminders, he still calls me Eleanor, not that it’s my name. At this point, it’s clear he wants a reaction.
“So good to see you,” I say.
Benji leans over, kissing Immi with an excessive emphasis which leaves her giggling, the eyes in the group diverting. We are all used to this, the showmanship between them when they’re good and the spiral down when they’re bad.
As they pull apart, Benji’s blue eyes land on me, his intensity drawing me back to the eerily calm phone call. A chill sweeps across the back of my neck.
“How have you been?” Rufus turns to Benji, cutting off Martha as she begins to talk again. She falters, before raising a brow at Jack, who offers a shrug in response.
“Oh, so good. I was off the coast of Italy, one of the islands. Oh man, you should go. You’d love it,” Benji replies.
“I do love Italy,” Jack mutters, his voice above the ruckus coming from the patio table.
His statement is ignored as Immi joins the conversation. “You had the best time, didn’t you? The food!” Immi shimmies her shoulders at him and winks.
“Man, the food! You’d die for it,” Benji says, and the three of them are off, bouncing between them in excited conversation about delicacies and local cuisine.
There it is again: a look shared between Martha and Jack.
At any other time, I doubt I’d have noticed it, but now it sends a shiver through me.
Is envy enough of a motive? If so, there’s a garden full of people with strong enough reasons to threaten us. Marcus and Rufus sit at the top of the invisible social hierarchy here, closely followed by Immi and Benji. I’ve jumped right in with them. Would I be the weakest link?
I turn my head, watching as Rufus and Benji stand together, their faces animated.
Poppy has joined them, her brown bob shaking as she looks up at both of them.
I like her despite the bouncy energy she brings.
But now, the way she looks at Rufus with her flushed cheeks and wide smile? Could she have sent it?
“Are you doing okay darling?” Immi appears by my side, eyes sparkling.
There it is, a look I haven’t seen in years, a look that sends a pang across my chest and causes my jaw to tighten.
It’s only flickering on Immi, appearing for a moment as she blinks her long lashes down at me, but I recognise it instantly as the look the police shared between them while my mother sobbed on the sofa.
“I’m great, and the house looks gorgeous, Im, you’ve outdone yourself.” I tilt my chin upwards and raise my voice, aware of the neighbours’ constant listening ears. No one but Jude and Immi know that I’m being threatened.
Immi laces an arm through mine and pulls me aside, stepping us into the shadow of a gently billowing blossom tree.
“I contacted a PI for you.” Immi slips me a card.
“A – what?” My fingers fumble into place. “A private investigator?”
The name reads Tobin Ruydard, there’s a website and a number.
“To help with your little problem.” Immi leans in, but she uses a stage whisper that carries in the lull of the music.
I grab her arm. “What did you tell him?”
Heat pricks up across my neck and spreads through my cheeks. What if he’s already digging into my life? What if he holds a folder of all the things that happened, ready for anyone to find?
“Owh, darling.” Immi snatches her arm back. “Nothing, I’ve said nothing. I simply set up a call with him and prepaid for a few hours.” She flushes. “To help you.”
“Sorry, I–”
“I’m not stupid, you said no police. This isn’t the police. He’s very discreet, I got the number from Colin.” Immi raises her brow.
Colin, the only other thorn in my side. I noted him moving around the garden earlier.
It seems that moving around the edges of the law is standard around here.
“And you didn’t say anything to Colin?” I look over her shoulder, watching as Colin takes a deep swig from a dewy bottle. One hand is pushed into his dark linen trouser pocket, his shoulders back and his top tight across his chest.