Chapter Eight #2
There was a lot of faffing about downstairs with Emily snapping that she needed an umbrella. With an almighty slam that made the letterbox rattle, the door closed on her strident tones.
I let out a sigh and waited for my heart to slow again.
Looking round the empty flat, I decided there was no point in being a wounded soldier and not making the most of it. Selecting a large bar of Dairy Milk from my secret stash and with a mug of tea, I switched on the radio, slipped back inside my sleeping bag and settled down.
The night’s disturbed sleep caught up with me and succumbing to the soft-edged focus of the painkiller, I dozed off.
* * *
I woke to the sound of a key in the lock and started. Was that Emily coming home already? Had I been asleep for the whole day? It didn’t feel like it.
No, the clock on the wall said it was only quarter past ten. Puzzled and still half asleep, I called out. ‘Emily?’
No answer. Dopily I swung my feet, still in the sleeping bag, onto the floor. She’d found her keys, then. I called her name again. What was she doing home at this time?
Not coming back to play Florence Nightingale that was for sure.
She still hadn’t answered. I waited and listened. A faint click. The front door closing. My heart lurched.
‘Emily.’ I yelled it louder this time — as if sounding confident and a touch belligerent might scare off whoever it was, if it wasn’t Emily.
Still no sound. Making as much noise as I could, I shuffled across the lounge to the top step, bent and looked down. From there I could see the bottom of the stairs but not the front door at the end of the passage.
‘Hello,’ I called, feeling daft. As if a burglar was going to answer me!
Disentangling myself from the sleeping bag, I crept down the top six steps protectively holding my injured arm and paused. From here I could see the glass front door. There was no one there. I hesitated. It wouldn’t do any harm to put the chain on the door.
As soon as I reached the bottom step I scooted to the front door.
Like a child running and jumping into bed, frightened of a monster lurking underneath.
I was about to shove the chain in place, when I spotted the black bundle leaning against the glass on the other side of the door.
I opened the door carefully. Charlie, the junk shop cat, was curled up in a ball, meowing piteously.
‘Hey, puss,’ I murmured softly, worried by his obvious distress. Gently stretching out my hand, I tried to stroke him but to my surprise he hissed, jumped up and ran off up the street limping. Strange, he was normally so friendly.
I slid the chain on the door home and turned to go back upstairs. That was when I stepped into a cold damp patch.
Looking down, my foot seemed small in the centre of the large sodden footprint outlined on the carpet. Far larger than Emily’s delicate size fours.
Emily’s keys! My mind raced, making terrifying connections. Her keys had been missing since Thursday, the day of Peter’s visit to the office. I tried to remember the scene. Emily had taken everything out of her bag that day. Had Peter taken them?
Heart racing, I fled back up the stairs, grabbed the phone and bolted myself into the bathroom.
* * *
Fingers shaking, I tried to call Emily’s work number, stabbing and missing the buttons on the phone. My heart was pounding double time and my injured arm was throbbing.
‘Emily! It’s me. Olivia. He’s been here . . . he’s got your keys,’ I burst out. ‘He’s—’
‘Olivia, slow down—’
‘He’s been here . . . he must have your keys. He got in.’
‘Who’s been there?’ asked Emily impatiently. ‘What are you on about? I’ve got my keys. ’
‘You’ve got your keys?’ I repeated stupidly.
‘Yes, they were at work all the time. At reception. I must have dropped them here.’
‘Thank God.’ I sighed with relief, my heart immediately slowing but still thudding furiously. ‘Sorry, Em, I really thought . . . I thought . . . Doesn’t matter. I must have been dreaming. Lack of sleep.’
‘I bet the painkillers have confused you as well. It was a bit of an eventful night. No one can believe it here.’
Emily would have embellished the tale, no doubt exaggerating the copious quantities of blood I’d shed.
Putting down the phone and unbolting the bathroom door, I gave myself a stern talking too. You’re tired. Overwrought. It was a bad night. Lots of painkillers. Your imagination is racing.
That wet patch could have been made by Emily or Daniel leaving this morning. It was raining. There were hundreds of reasons why they might have stepped outside and then stepped back in. The carpet was cheap nylon; it probably would have retained the wet for ages.
* * *
When I got off the phone from Mum, who gave me oodles of sympathy, offering to drop everything and come and take charge, I felt a bit better.
Tempting as it was, I knew she needed the time in her studio.
With some big exhibitions in major galleries under her belt, she was well-known in the ceramics world and I knew she was working on a special piece which she was hoping would ‘blow the pants off’ the owner of a famous ceramics gallery in North London.
The arrival of a very garrulous glazier from The Glass Brokers — ‘The people who take the pane out of shattered glazing’ — later that afternoon did a lot to reassure me.
Phil was a big fan of antisocial behaviour because it kept him in business.
My little broken window was, ‘Nuffink’. He got ten of these every week, more when the weather was warm.
Apparently the real money was in the commercial stuff.
‘Triple time, between nine and midnight — after that licence to print money.’
Grumpily I reflected, as I made him a mug of tea, one person’s tragedy was another’s silver lining — Phil’s was made of ￡50 banknotes.
After he’d gone, I rattled around the flat growing steadily more irritable. I’d had enough of smug daytime presenters, I didn’t have the energy to tackle any job in the flat and I was too tetchy to read. My arm was itching and the pinprick scabs looked unsightly. I was fed up. Fed up and bolshy.
I knew what was wrong and it had nothing to do with my arm. Determined to take my mind off things, or rather one person, I logged on to my laptop. No joy there either. No new emails apart from the ones from complete strangers offering me Biggadik penis enlargement patches.
A good time to tidy up my inbox. Get rid of all those emails going back six months. My eyes were drawn to the name Ned Hillard. I re-read his email. It was funny. Was he the answer to all my problems? Perhaps he could take my mind off Daniel?
Kate put paid to any more dithering when she called.
‘Olivia. It’s me. I just heard what happened. Are you OK?’ Her voice oozed concern and sympathy down the phone line.
‘I’m fine. Bit of an exciting night, though.’
‘Well, that’s a first,’ she mocked.
‘Ha, ha.’
‘Bloody yobs. It’s the same everywhere. Even here. Last weekend someone in the village had his car covered in paint. Some lads found a can on their way home. Bet your window was broken by some lagered-up louts. In that state they don’t give a toss if they damage something.’
‘Well, that something was me,’ I said crossly. ‘And I mind a lot!’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Crap.’
Kate didn’t deal well with other people’s problems. Her own life ran so smoothly that she hadn’t had the practice. I wasn’t surprised when she changed the subject.
‘So have you arranged to see Ned yet?’
What! Was she psychic or something?
‘No, not yet.’ Why do I have to be so honest? It was the last thing I should have said, to Kate of all people.
‘You’re joking. He’ll think you’re not interested.’
‘I don’t know that I am.’
‘Of course you are.’ He sounds a laugh.
I rolled my eyes even though she couldn’t see.
’I’m not sure . . .’ my voice trailed off. The painkillers were wearing off and my arm was throbbing. Where was my magic bottle of pills?
‘Know what your problem is?’
I just had to find those tablets. The pain was suddenly excruciating. Kate was still twittering in my ear.
‘OK,’ I snapped. ‘I’ll go on a date with Ned.’ Anything to get her off the line. There was a surprised silence, followed by a laugh of triumph.
The minute I said it, I knew I shouldn’t.
* * *
‘I hear you’re going on a date, darling.’ That was my mother’s opening gambit on Saturday morning when she phoned under the pretext of asking how I was. It hadn’t taken long for the family grapevine to rev itself up.
‘Very sensible of you,’ she said happily. I could virtually see her hopping from foot to foot in the kitchen at home. ‘You need something to take your mind off the accident.’
If only she knew. It wasn’t the accident I needed to get off my mind. It was the accident waiting to happen. I had to get Daniel out of my head. She warbled on enthusiastically for another five minutes before suddenly remembering that Dad was in the car waiting to take her to the supermarket.
Perhaps I could get away with just making up the date. I slumped back on the sofa and dreamed up details of the perfect imaginary date ? nice wine bar, long boozy lunch followed by a walk around Covent Garden, stopping along the way to watch the street entertainers.
But no such luck. Kate rolled up in person at lunchtime to check up on me. I struggled down the stairs to let her in as Emily had abandoned me in favour of a shopping expedition to Westfield.
‘God, you look awful’ she said, marching past me into the flat, with a bag of Marks & Spencer goodies. Funnily enough, I thought the same about her. Her hair, as always, was perfect but there were dark shadows under her eyes. There was something she wasn’t telling me.
I’d only got an inch of water into the kettle before she asked, ‘So where are you going with Ned?’
No ‘How are you feeling? How’s your arm?’ Trust her to go straight for the jugular. I should have answered her immediately to distract her but I left it that fraction too long. My silence told her everything she needed to know.