Mimi and the girls sat in silence as I scraped butter over my toast, pretending to read the paper. Eventually, Mimi got up and said that she was going to finish packing and would be getting the train at noon.
Once she’d left the room, the twins began arguing in hushed tones. While pretending not to listen, I heard Ceecee hiss to Beebee that she was going to leave today, too; as soon as her mother had left, she would head back to uni. Perhaps I should have said something to stop her, or given Mimi the heads up before she left, but the twins were nineteen years old and as far as I was concerned, it was none of my business.
And besides, I understood. We were all itching to escape. All eager to go our separate ways, having being cooped up together for what felt like forever.
We passed the rest of breakfast hinting at our plans for the day, each plotting and making excuses to be where the others were not.
Later, after showering and getting dressed, I grabbed my laptop, a pen and a notepad and headed down into the village to do some admin and… ‘writing’.
I went into my favourite chintzy café, where they still had net curtains and red and white gingham tablecloths. I sat in the window seat and ordered cream tea for one, with extra clotted cream for the scones. Now that I had done my bikini reveal I was going to treat myself to a carb-heavy Christmas until we reached Australia. Heaven.
Opening my laptop, I saw an unread email from the ghostwriter. Butterflies whirled in my stomach as I opened it, and not the good kind.
Ten thousand pounds to write 90,000 words in ten days, and that was his reduced rate because I was a returning customer. I don’t know what I had been expecting, but it wasn’t that. I pushed the heels of my palms into my eyesockets. How the hell had I managed to get myself into this completely avoidable predicament? Well, I knew how, the real question waswhy, and that question was wholly redundant now anyway.
The fact of the matter was, if I didn’t deliver, my publisher could ask for my £20,000 advance back, and we had already spent that and more on our upcoming move to Australia.
Could I ask Jeannie for the money? As a loan? I thought of Clem and Fergus, about to lose their roof from over their heads, and decided that me asking for money to pay a ghostwriter because I had been too pathetic, too bone lazy and caught up in my own shit to do my job would be a big fat no.
I closed my laptop with a sigh, pushing it away. The weight of my predicament settled heavily on my shoulders and the old self-loathing settled like a slick of oil on my insides. I stirred my tea absently, watching the steam curl up from the delicate china cup.
Lost in my thoughts, I stared idly out of the window and saw Fergus hurrying across the street. He was wearing a huge mushroom-coloured trench coat and tweed fedora, looking every bit like he did not want to be seen. So, he did decide to leave the house after all… I wondered what had changed his mind. The need for alcohol was the most likely. He trotted across the road, stopping at the red postbox. He looked both ways before fishing a letter out of the inside of his jacket and depositing it in the box. Then he scurried off down the street and out of sight.
As I spread a generous dollop of clotted cream onto the warm scone, my mind raced through the potential solutions of my predicament, each one seeming more unlikely than the last.
I bit down into the still warm fruit scone with a little shudder of delight, licking my fingers free of the jam and cream. A dark-haired woman bustled straight past the window. Even with her back to me, the flowing black-and-white houndstooth coat instantly told me it was Mimi. She clip-clopped hurriedly in her patent heels, which were completely unsuitable for the slush and ice on the pavements. I watched her with interest as she headed towards the small train station; the roads must still be a nightmare if she was willing to try to get to work– or wherever she wasactuallygoing– by train.
I stayed in the café, thinking, drinking cup after cup of tea, whiling away the time on my own until the light dimmed and the owner informed me that it was closing time in half an hour. As I was finishing up what could well have been my forty-second cup of tea, the bell above the café door jingled, and I looked up to see a familiar face. It was Miles, his cheeks flushed from the cold. He spotted me and made his way over, a small smile playing on his lips.
‘Fancy seeing you here,’ he said, sliding into the seat across from me. ‘I thought you might like a lift home?’
‘How did you know I was here?’ I asked in surprise.
Miles shrugged, ‘I know you. I know you love this café. And… well, there’s only four other places you could be in this tiny village.’
I smiled. I wanted to tell him that I wished we could go home, to our real home… but it was all packed up and ready to be sold; and besides, I didn’t think that would be helpful or make any of this any easier.
He glanced at the closed laptop and asked tentatively, ‘How was writing?’
‘Yes, good,’ I said, not meeting his gaze. ‘I think I’m getting somewhere.’
And I was getting somewhere. Ten minutes before he walked in, I had agreed to spend ten grand that we didn’t have.
‘Good,’ he said, his eyes lighting up with his brilliant broad smile. He put twice the amount down on the table than the bill had come to, put his arm around me and we headed out towards the car. As we neared the car park, I could have sworn I saw Jeannie’s silver BMW turn off the road ahead of us, speeding in the direction of the house.
17
FULL DISCLOSURE
As I traipsed back up the stone steps of Weiss Manor, the frigid winter air struck my cheeks. I remarked to Miles, raising my voice over the freezing wind, that I hoped to God it wouldn’t snow again. He merely nodded, looking back towards the stranger’s car that was parked on the driveway.
Inside, we followed muffled voices towards the sitting room.
Upon entering, we found Jeannie stood in front of the fire. A tall, smartly dressed man in a suit came over to greet us and a short woman with blonde hair, who didn’t rise from her seat, sat perched on the edge of the couch with a notepad.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Miles as the man turned to him to offer his hand.
Jeannie spoke first. ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector… Randolf, was it?’
