One Small Mistake
Dandy Smith
Before
Chapter One
31 Days Before
Elodie Fray
He’s back. I’m certain he’s following me. He was outside the library late Monday night, then in the park across from my house yesterday morning, and it’s the fourth time he’s come into Mugs coffee shop this week.
‘Jesus, Elodie,’ snaps Hannah.
I look down and realise I’ve overpoured the milk. It pools onto the wooden counter.
‘Shit.’ Dumping the carton on the side, I grab a towel to clean up the mess, and while I do, I look at this stranger who’s become a regular eyesore. Whenever I’ve seen him in the street, it’s been a hurried glance before clutching my bag tight to my side and picking up my pace. Now though, safely separated by a counter and a line of customers, I take my time. He’s in his late thirties, broad and solid with close-cut dark hair and black, round-rimmed glasses that make me think of a serial killer. I imagine him standing over a woman’s lifeless body, calmly wiping blood splatter from the lenses.
He stares up at the boards above the counter, scanning the menu, pretending to consider his options even though he always orders the same thing. Hannah’s served him four black coffees this week and it’s only Wednesday.
There’s something off about him. He’s so … still. He doesn’t bring in a newspaper or a book or scroll through his phone like most people who come in alone; he usually takes the table in the corner with the best view of the coffee shop, and stares. Mostly at me. I always thought of a gaze as hot, two cigarette ends burning into your skin, but his is icy, the tips of two knife-sharp blades pressing against my spine.
Looking up now, our eyes meet, just a flash, but it chills me. I turn away from him, wiping the counter even though there isn’t a drop of milk left to clean.
‘Elodie,’ calls Hannah briskly, ‘little help.’
It only takes a couple of minutes to place the fresh order beside the till, but Hannah sighs as though I’ve gone out of my way to be exceptionally slow.
I glance up and he’s still staring at me like I’m something he can sink his teeth into. Maybe I’m being paranoid … but what if I’m not?
Before Hannah can stop me, I slip into the back and grab a carton of semi-skimmed from the fridge in case she comes looking for me. She wasn’t very sympathetic when I mentioned my potential stalker last week. She said, ‘Yep, customers only come to catch a glimpse of Elodie Fray, Queen of Hearts, because men just fold before you like undeserving kings.’
The storage cupboard smells of rich, bitter coffee and even though I don’t love the taste, I do love the smell; it reminds me of cosy winter mornings in the Wisteria Cottage kitchen during the Christmas holidays, where a fresh pot was always waiting to chase away the cold after a walk along the windy seafront.
I pull my phone from my apron and type out a message to my best friend, Jack.
15.26 Elodie: That creepy guy is here. Again. I’m going to end up on one of those tragic news stories where I go missing and months later my body is dredged up from the bottom of a lake.
My thumb hovers over the ‘send’ button. The moment Jack reads it, he’ll drop whatever he should be doing and rush over here. Tempting … but, really, other than giving me the heebie-jeebies, this guy hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s not a crime to stand outside a library or sit on a park bench; it’s not a crime to be a caffeine addict either. Crosshaven is a small town; not so small you know everyone, but small enough that you often see the same faces.
I delete the message but linger in the storage cupboard a little longer, sweat gathering in the hollow between my collarbones. It’s mid-July and so hot in Somerset you could fry an egg on the pavement.
Briefly, I close my eyes and imagine wading into the Cornish sea, feeling the cool water lapping against my skin, and that familiar longing for Wisteria rolls over me. It’s been years since we visited – Jack talks about going back to his family’s holiday home but there are always other things to do, other things to pay for. After giving up my marketing career for writing, my disposable income is at an all-time low. There’s precious little of my ACH Marketing savings – all spent on rent and bills.
It’s only been ten minutes since I last looked, but I check my email again to see if I have anything from my agent, Lara. There’s a flare of hope that maybe, just maybe, today is the day – but my inbox is empty. Disappointment stirs.
I wait for an email that holds a glittering, life-affirming ‘yes’ from a publisher. One specific editor – Darcy Wilmot from Harriers. She’s the only one who hasn’t turned my manuscript down, making her my last shot at publication. She’s sent Lara several gushing emails about how much she loves the book, but she hasn’t offered a deal yet.
Gripping the carton, I force myself to concentrate on the mundane day job. But the second I step out of the storage room, the tension returns. What if he’s still out here, staring at me through those round-rimmed serial-killer glasses?
Oblivious to my panic, Hannah glares over her shoulder at me. I hold up the semi-skimmed like a white flag then shove it on the top shelf of the fridge.
My heart thrums as I turn to look for him.
Please be gone.
I scan the room.
Please, please be gone.
Relief washes through me like sunlight; he isn’t here.
‘If you’re going to disappear, you could at least give me a heads-up first,’ says Hannah with barely contained hostility. ‘It’s been really busy out here.’
It hasn’t. It never is during the strange limbo that falls between the weekday lunch rush and closing time. There are only a few occupied tables: an older gentleman, George, who always sits by the window doing the crossword; a gaggle of mothers bouncing babies on their knees and gossiping over skinny lattes; a college student plugged into her laptop, fingers flying across her keyboard.
‘Yeah,’ I say, making a show of scanning the mostly empty coffee shop. ‘Manic.’
The bell above the door rings. It’s Richard. Great. I busy myself, cleaning out the coffee grinder. He makes his way around the counter and, as usual, he stands too close – I can smell his cheap aftershave – but he’s my boss so it’s awkward to remind him of personal space. I glance up. ‘Everything okay, Richard?’
‘You’re switching shifts with Hannah tomorrow. You’re on an early.’
‘But I’m on a late tonight, and I’ve opened and closed every day this week.’
He shrugs. ‘Hannah needs to study for an exam.’
I glance at Hannah who is de-crumbing the muffin display and pretending not to eavesdrop on this exchange. ‘It’s summer. She doesn’t have any exams.’