As he helps himself to a lemonade from the fridge, I catch a glimpse of the sweat patches around his armpits. ‘Well, she’s got studying to do and she asked very nicely.’
I bet she did. Studying? It’s student night at Fleets and I’d put this week’s wages on her wanting to come in late tomorrow so she can go out and drink her body weight in tequila tonight. If Richard realises, he doesn’t care.
‘Fine,’ I say because I’m not going to win this – not unless I’m willing to flirt for it, but one look at his lip sweat and I know I can’t.
The gaggle of mothers depart and I clear their table. God, working here is like being stuck in an unrelenting Groundhog Day of serving coffee, wiping down tables, and loading the dishwasher. If Darcy offers a book deal, it’ll have been worth it.
As I pass Richard, he says, ‘You’re a stunner, Elodie, you should smile more often.’
I bite back the ‘I do, just not at you’ and beam because that’s what nice girls who want to keep their jobs have to do.
He and Hannah flirt back and forth for the next half an hour and only a few minutes after Richard slopes off, Hannah says, ‘I’m going on a break.’
When I’m sure she’s gone, I sneak a biscotti from the display and wander over to George. He’s nursing a cup of coffee and working on his crossword. Before he retired, he was a cobbler, but now he spends his afternoons at the same window table, pencil in hand. Deftly, I slide the liberated biscotti beside his mug. He looks up, blue eyes twinkling. ‘You’ll get in trouble,’ he warns.
I grin. ‘Only if you tell.’
George is our kindest, most loyal customer, and, despite being a pensioner fast approaching eighty, he always leaves a tip. He glances down at his puzzle. ‘Do you know a ten-letter word for a sense of impending misfortune?’
I pause, seeing the letters take shape in my mind. ‘Foreboding.’
He nods slowly, exchanging his pencil for his biro and carefully writing the letters in his shaky script.
‘George,’ I coo, ‘you’re being bold – you know you can’t erase biro.’
He smiles, unwrapping the biscotti and breaking it in half. ‘You’re my partner in crime.’ He hands me a piece. ‘I trust you implicitly.’
I lock up by myself. It’s still light out, but I do it quickly anyway, wanting to go for a run around the park before dark. As I turn to leave, I get the feeling I’m being watched; despite the heat, icy prickles drip down my spine. When I turn around, my stomach drops. It’s him. He’s barely fifty yards away, wearing the same dark jacket and jeans. The sun reflects off his glasses, making him look inhuman.
We’re the last coffee shop to close and the street is empty. My heart hammers. He starts walking towards me and for a second, I’m frozen, rooted to the pavement as though I were built into it. His stride is determined, purposeful, and the reality that I’m alone with a man who weighs twice as much as me propels me into action. I start walking in the opposite direction, glad I changed into my trainers before leaving.
I live a fifteen-minute walk from town. Usually I cut through Memorial Gardens, but I veer off, taking the long way back across residential streets. He’s still behind me. I can feel it.
Up ahead, a group of people wander slowly down the street on the opposite side. I cross the road, hoping if I stay close to other pedestrians, he’ll back off. Once I’m through the group, I do a quick check over my shoulder and it’s worked – he’s dropped back a little. I dig around in my bag and pull out my phone and house keys. Pinching my key between two fingers, I’m poised to use it as a weapon if needed. My phone is gripped tightly in my other hand. Maybe I should call someone. Like Jack. Or the police. But what would I say? This man hasn’t hurt me. Can I get in trouble for wasting police time? I won’t call. Once I get home, once I reach my front door, I’ll be fine.
I’ll be fine.
I falter; maybe leading him right to my front door is a mistake. But then, he probably already knows where I live; several times, I’ve seen him in the park across from my house. I could turn around, go to a public place, a bar, ask Jack to meet me there. As soon as he sets eyes on me, he’ll know something is wrong and then I’ll either have to explain or lie. Besides, I’m closer to home now than I am to town.
I look back, just a flash – the man’s still behind me. He’s speeding up now. Not quite jogging but too fast to call it a walk. I rush out to cross the road, not wanting to stop in case he catches up. A car blares its horn as it swerves to avoid me. My pulse kicks and blood rushes through my ears. I stumble onto the pavement and round the corner into my street. I’ll be safer inside than I will out here, pounding the pavement. So, I jog up the stone steps, unlock the door with shaking hands and slam it shut behind me, pressing my back against the sun-warmed wood.
Safe.
Chapter Two
28 Days Before
Elodie Fray
My sister lives in a two-storey Georgian house with feature fireplaces, detailed cornicing and eggshell-painted shutters. It’s beautiful, there’s no denying that. It reeks of grandeur and money. Ada’s home is in a part of town that beguiled us as children. We used to walk slowly down Peach Avenue after school, watching girls our age step out of expensive cars in their private school uniforms, their slick ponytails swishing as they glided down the winding drive and into their big houses, followed by parents dressed in diamonds and pearls and thick, gold watches. Ada would point to the men with their crisp shirts and polished shoes and broad, white smiles and say, ‘That’s the kind of guy I’m going to marry when I grow up.’ And she did. For my sister, her accountant husband, Ethan, has a bank balance big enough that it’s a better lubricant than anything Durex could ever make.
Weaving between the many cars parked on the driveway, I hear laughter and music and taste the smokiness of the BBQ drifting over the fence. I didn’t bring anything to Ada’s last gathering and she made a snide comment about party etiquette, so I stayed up last night to make a summer fruit crumble. Balancing the glass dish on my hip, I use the big brass knocker. Nervously, I wait. It’s silly, there’s not going to be anyone here I don’t already know, but seeing my family is painful. My parents don’t agree with my decision to give up a marketing career. They think chasing my dream of being a writer is irresponsible folly. They don’t understand that securing an agent, especially one as talented as Lara, is like taming a mystical beast.
The front door opens, and Ethan greets me, a glass of red in one hand. ‘Elodie,’ he says brightly. ‘Come in, come in. Join the party.’