When Doug had rung, Melody had started awake, finding herself almost nose to nose with a carton of congealed Indian takeaway teetering on the edge of the coffee table. Beside the carton stood an empty bottle of wine, a cheap Italian red. Had she really drunk it all? Surely she hadn’t . . . But when she ran her tongue around her teeth, they felt as fuzzy as her head.
The last thing she remembered was watching grainy YouTube videos of Andy and Poppy playing in a club in Munich, trying to stay awake in case Andy called. It was difficult to find a time to have a proper conversation, with him playing late nights and sleeping during the day. By the time he finished evening gigs, it was usually well after midnight London time. He’d be wired and wanting to chat, and she’d be half dead from exhaustion. So she’d been particularly looking forward to Saturday night, when she could afford to stay up, but he hadn’t rung.
Probably just as well, she thought now, considering the empty wine bottle. Had she been mad to think this relationship would work? The buttoned-down cop and the suddenly famous rock guitarist? When she met Andy Monahan, he’d been doing session work and playing in a mediocre band, barely paying his bills. Then his manager had paired him up with twenty-year-old Poppy Jones, a vicar’s daughter from Twyford with an amazing voice and virtuoso chops on the bass guitar. The duo had made a breakout video and were now touring Europe, getting more notice with every date they played.
Melody couldn’t see where she fit into any of this, and certainly nothing she had to say about her days on the job could compete with Andy’s tales of life on the road.
The bathroom was filling with steam from the shower, obscuring her reflection as she glanced once more in the mirror. She closed her eyes, glad to shut out even her foggy image. The truth was, she couldn’t compete with Poppy. And the thought of losing Andy made her hurt in a way she didn’t even want to contemplate.
Well, if there was nothing she could do about Andy, she could at least try to make things right with Doug. She rubbed the steam from the mirror, looked herself in the eye, and said, “Bloody buck up, Melody Talbot.”
After a quick shower, Melody had rubbed her hair dry with a towel, then pulled on jeans and a leaf green T-shirt that was, she thought, appropriate for gardening. She left her flat in Notting Hill without breakfast or coffee, and it was only as she was driving across Putney Bridge that she realized she had no gardening gear, not even a pair of gloves. Well, it wouldn’t hurt her to get a few blisters, and hopefully Doug had at least bought a spade.
The day had turned bright and hot, and even though the shower had made her feel considerably better, she still had a nagging headache. Tea. She needed tea, the great restorative. There was a Starbucks on Putney High Street, just round the corner from Doug’s house. She’d take him a cuppa, too, as a peace offering.
A few minutes later, mission accomplished, she’d parked in Lacy Road and had managed to maneuver the two paper cups of tea out of the car when her mobile rang. “Bloody hell,” she muttered, trying to set the tea safely on the bonnet and retrieve her mobile from her handbag. When she saw who it was, she almost didn’t answer. The screen read simply “Mum.” If Melody didn’t answer, her mother would keep ringing. She took a breath and tapped Answer.
“Mum,” she said warily. “I’m just in the middle of—”
“You’re always in the middle of something, darling. Did you forget Sunday lunch again?” Lady Adelaide asked, disapproval evident in her tone.
“Oh, sh—” Melody caught herself. She had forgotten. Again. And it was her family’s weekly ritual, not to be missed on pain of death. “Sorry, Mum.” Taking a sip of her tea, she winced as it scalded her mouth. “Look, I do have other plans, and besides, I’m not the least bit presentable for lunch.”
“Come anyway.” There was a hint of steel in Lady Adelaide’s voice. “You haven’t been here for weeks, and your father is getting quite cross.”
Ivan Talbot was not referred to as “Ivan the Terrible” at home and at the paper without reason. But while Melody could easily weather one of her father’s temper tantrums, she knew his feelings were hurt, and that was much harder to ignore. As was her mother’s displeasure. Addie Talbot had enormous charm and impeccable breeding, and she used both to ensure that her husband’s life ran as smoothly as possible.
“Look, Mum, I promised a friend. I’m gardening—”
“Gardening? Don’t be silly, darling. You don’t know a thing about gardening. Just have a wash. You can change into something when you arrive. I’ll tell your father you’re coming.”
The connection went dead.
This time Melody swore loudly and long. A woman pushing a pram down the other side of the street gave her an affronted look and walked faster. When the woman glanced back, Melody raised her hand in a little wave of apology.
She looked a right idiot, standing in the street muttering to herself. But there was no point in ringing her mother back.
She would go, then, but it would bloody well be in her own time. First she had to at least speak to Doug.
Collecting herself, she shouldered her handbag and picked up both cups of tea. The blinds in Doug’s front bow window were open, but she’d seen no sign of activity. Reaching the front porch, she awkwardly pushed the bell with her elbow. The ring was clearly audible through the door, but there were no answering footsteps. She waited a moment, then set the cups down on the step and pounded smartly on the door itself. Dead silence. Nothing moved behind the green-and-gold stained glass set into the door’s upper half.
“Damn you, Doug Cullen, if you’re pouting,” Melody said aloud. Taking her mobile out again, she dialed his number. There was no answer, and she didn’t hear the phone ringing in the house. If he’d come back from the river and gone out in the garden by himself, why wouldn’t he pick up?
Unless he was hurt . . . Or he’d done something stupid and fallen. Again. Her palms started to sweat.
The house was terraced. There was no access into the garden except through the house, and she didn’t have a key. Now her hands were trembling. If only she could make sure he was okay. Maybe the neighbors had a key, or there was a way through their gar—
No. Melody took a breath and flexed her hands, forcing herself to relax. That was stupid. Of course he was all right. For all she knew, he’d turned his mobile off when he was out on the boat. Or he’d decided to stop in one of the riverfront pubs for a drink and hadn’t heard the ring tone. Assuming he’d not had an accident in the boat . . . No, she thought again. She’d sat on Putney Bridge for ten minutes waiting for the traffic light to change. There had been nothing on the river but some rowing eights and coaching launches. No accidents. She was being ridiculous.
Fishing in her bag for a piece of paper, she scribbled a note to Doug on the back of her Starbucks’ receipt. She hesitated for a moment, then took the much-creased and folded garden plan she’d drawn from her bag and put it and the note by the doorsill, weighting them both with the cup of now-cooling tea.