I stared at him in the half-light. ‘You read it?’
‘It’s brilliant. Don’t you dare give up trying to get that book published.’
There are some moments in life you want to keep, to dip into over and over. This was one of them. I can still feel his strong hands resting in the violin curve of my waist and the reassuring weight of his chin on my shoulder as we talked and talked and talked.
A wave of longing breaks over me; I push the memory away and start marking off landmarks as I pass them. It takes me a few minutes to find my rhythm again but when I do, it’s glorious.
Right foot forward.
Breathe in.
Left foot forward.
Breathe out.
When I spot the gazebo, I remember the night sky cracking open and rain pouring out in a blinding torrent. We abandoned our picnic and ran for cover, laughing as icy water streamed down our jackets. On the decking, we huddled together, soaked and shivering. Noah’s breath was hot against my neck as he pulled me closer.
I smile now, remembering him making a heroic dash across the sodden grass to save my phone which was lying in a puddle on the blanket.
The sun is blinding as I emerge from the shadow of the trees, the heat from it pressing down on me like a hand. I’m on my third lap and starting to slow, the hangover catching up with me. I turn my music up and keep going, breathing through the stitch forming in my side.
I’m still lost in the memory of that night with Noah, and how we had sex on the gazebo ledge, the sweet hum of the moon above our heads and the taste of chocolate strawberries on our lips.
Then I’m ripped away as I swing around a corner and collide with someone.
‘Sorry,’ I say, yanking my headphones out.
I look up.
My blood runs cold.
It’s him. The man with the serial-killer glasses.
My heart leaps about like a rabbit caught in a snare.
Frozen, I wait for him to speak or lunge for me. He does neither. He stares.
‘Sorry,’ I say again, taking a cautious step back.
Then I turn and run.
The jog home is less of a jog and more of a sprint. I check over my shoulder a thousand times, but he doesn’t follow. Did I see him on my way to the park? Was he standing outside my house, waiting for me to leave? Or maybe I’m seeing this guy around more because I’m constantly on the lookout. I should confront him, ask if he’s tailing me. Even as I think it, I know I won’t do it.
By the time I reach my front door, I am sweating.
I stop.
And stare.
My fear gives way to confusion; on my step is the biggest bouquet of flowers I have ever seen. A pastel rainbow adorned with a cream sash that reads, ‘Congratulations on your book deal, El!’ in looped rose gold script.
I rush forward and scoop them up before anyone can see them. They’re heavier than they look. I fumble with my key and stagger inside on legs made of marshmallow. Seefer dashes inside, almost tripping me up. I set the flowers down on my kitchen counter and pluck the thick cream card from between the stems of two roses even though I already know who they’re from.
‘So proud of you, Elodie. Love you always, Margot XOXO’
I’m breathing hard, not just from the sprint back here, but from the guilt. I don’t deserve her. This is all my fault. I should never have let Margot think I have a book deal.
I get a bowl from the cupboard and pour a generous helping of stinky cat food into it for Seefer. Then I log on to my laptop and order Margot an even bigger bouquet, throwing in a bottle of champagne and chocolates too. Maybe I should care more that it drains what little savings I had left, but, of the two of us, Margot’s the one who deserves gifts and praise.
Later, I rip the sash from my own bouquet and throw it into the bin along with the card.
Chapter Six
24 Days Before
Elodie Fray
I’m sitting in Jack’s living room on the dreamiest forest green sofa that I helped pick out last year. The rest of the furniture is a little industrial, all distressed oak and steel. His house is immaculate. Everything is pressed and folded and polished and so clean, it’s as though he’s been around the entire place with a toothbrush and a bottle of Dettol. Maybe he has; he always carries hand sanitiser and one of those little travel toothbrush sets. As well as being a glittering beacon of cleanliness, his house is also a piece of architectural art, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a balcony leading off the main bedroom. Jack designed it himself and used the inheritance from his father’s passing to build it.
‘Sure you don’t want wine?’ Jack calls from the kitchen.
‘No thanks, elderflower’s great.’
Today, I am together Elodie. I am out of my pyjamas and in a blue summer dress. I’m wearing light-reflecting undereye concealer and a petal pink lip tint. I am the-world-is-still-my-oyster Elodie. The Elodie who walked into this house is bright-eyed and hopeful. She is drinking only soft drinks so she doesn’t spend her night crying and vomiting. And yesterday, after her run, she got an email from her agent telling her Harriers was reading the new, grittier pitches she’d sent. Everything is possible and as long as she keeps saying this to herself, she can get out of bed each day.
The smell of garlic, tomato and chopped basil makes my mouth water. ‘Want a hand?’
He pops his head around the archway between the kitchen and living room. ‘If I need something burning, I’ll give you a shout.’
‘One time. I burned noodles one time. How was I supposed to know you had to add water?’
He gives me a look. ‘The packet, Fray. You read the damn packet.’
We eat homemade pizza while I flick through our true-crime documentary options on Netflix. ‘We’ve seen most of these – Jaycee Lee Dugard, Elizabeth Smart, Natascha Kampusch …’
‘Kampusch? Who’s that?’ asks Jack. ‘I haven’t seen that one.’
‘She’s the Austrian girl who went missing when she was ten and escaped eight years later. She was kept in a tiny cellar by some creepy middle-aged loner with a monobrow and OCD. Wolfgang … something.’
‘Wolfgang?’ He scoffs. ‘Are you making this up?’
‘It’s an Austrian name, I think.’
‘How’d she escape?’
‘He used her as a slave, cooking and cleaning for him. One day she was hoovering his car, and he got a call. He moved away from her to answer it because of the vacuum noise and when his back was turned, she ran.’
‘Jesus.’
‘I know. It’s awful.’
‘Why did he let her outside? I wouldn’t have let her out,’ says Jack.
‘I suppose he grew to trust her not to run. Eight years is a long time. Some people think she has Stockholm syndrome because she cried when he killed himself. But she doesn’t think she has it. She wrote a book about it – it was huge. I think it’s a film too.’
Jack is googling her. He scrolls through his phone, clicking on link after link. ‘Jaycee Lee Dugard, Elizabeth Smart and Natascha Kampusch,’ he repeats. ‘Know what they all have in common?’
‘Horrific kidnapping stories?’
‘Pretty, blonde and book deals. Every single one of them.’