I sit forward on the chair again, leaning closer to him. Catch a hint of his aftershave, fresh like the ocean. ‘You’re not a failure, Stuart.’
He colours a little, then lifts his eyes to mine. ‘Neither are you,’ he says. ‘Neither are you. In fact, you’re the most—’
And then I’m kissing him, my lips meeting his, not even really knowing what I’m doing, only that Iamdoing it and it feels good. It feels right, and it’s been so long since I kissed someone properly that I can’t believe how much I’ve missed it, the intimacy of it. The surrender of two lonely people to each other, each of us looking for a glimmer of light in the darkness.
He pulls away, the whisper of his stubble against my cheek.
‘Ellen, I—’
I kiss him again, longer this time, a deep slow kiss as he leans into me and I’m surrounded by the smell of him, thetasteof him, mint and red wine and the faintest hint of cigarettes that makes me think of stolen teenage kisses from a lifetime ago. My skin feels alive with him, electricity flashing up and down my spine and as I pull away this time I’m breathless.
His forehead rests gently against mine, his palms cupping my cheeks. When he speaks again, his voice is breathy and low, barely above a whisper. ‘Do you want me to stay?’
In answer, I kiss him again.
SUNDAY
61
He’s gone when I wake up, and in the first delicious moments after I open my eyes I wonder if I’ve dreamed the whole thing. Lying there in tangled sheets, enjoying the half-awake warmth of the duvet, I close my eyes again and remember. Not a dream. Flesh and blood reality. The edge of a hangover lingers but it doesn’t matter: this morning is the first time in a long, long time that I have woken without a feeling of dread for what the day holds.
The room is dark, the thick blackout curtain blocking all but a tiny slice of daylight. His scent lingers on the pillows and when I breathe him in it’s as if I can still feel his touch on my skin, the way he held me afterwards, one arm curled around my back, a finger tracing up and down the line of my spine. As if we’d known each other for years. As if we’d done this a thousand times before. I’ve not been held like that in so long, a feeling of being totally safe and secure, protected from the world.
I sit up and reality creeps back in, bringing the guilt with it, the feeling of transgression, of crossing a line that shouldn’t have been crossed. Of doing something that can’t now be undone. I unmute my phone and check the time. It’s almost 10 a.m. On the desk, between the empty wine bottle and my handbag, is a note written on the top sheet of a hotel stationery pad. Looping handwriting that is at once strange and yet familiar.
Didn’t want to wake you. Can I see you tonight? Take care and stay safe – remember what I said.
- S x
Despite the guilt gnawing at me, I can’t help but smile as I re-read the note, a little pulse of happiness in my chest.Can I see you tonight?
I send him a text.
Thanks for your note, the answer is yes. Call me when you can x
I search through my handbag for a couple of paracetamol. It takes an age to find the packet but I eventually track it down in a side pocket and swallow two down with a handful of tap water. I’ve been taking a lot of these the past few days and make a mental note to buy more. I could do with some cash too. I scan the room. Something’s different about the desk this morning, but I’m still too fuzzy-headed from lack of sleep to remember what. I smile. Maybe it’s just the empty bottle of wine and the handwritten note, Stuart’s tie still hanging over the back of the chair. I fold it up and put it in my handbag to return to him later.
I shower and dress, going downstairs for breakfast, taking time to check the corridors and stairs in case Leon has returned. But it feels better in daylight, safer, the normality of people in the restaurant queuing for their coffee and fruit juice and full English breakfasts. By the time I get back up to my room it’s gone 11 a.m., the day stretching out in front of me.
Part of me wants to tell Tara about last night but it doesn’t feel right, not yet, I want to keep it for myself a little while longer. Instead I send her a WhatsApp asking how everything’s going and she responds with a picture of Dizzy, my cat, sitting on Noah’s lap. Noah is grinning as if he’s just won the lottery.
Dizzy settled in OK then??? x
Says he’s moving in with us now x
We trade some more messages back and forth and she makes me promise to call her later. But the glimmer of well-being I woke up with is gradually melting away, every message from Tara a fresh reminder of the tragedy that’s descended on the Clifton family. I wish I had a phone number for Angela, so I could at least check she’s OK today.
Talking things over with Stuart last night, I’d convinced myself that Holt was involved with Zoe’s case somehow, that he was hiding something. But a new day has brought new doubts, a nagging sense that there is more going on just beyond my eyeline. Dominic Church has dropped out of sight since I met him on Friday. Stuart’s team is looking for him, so how does he connect to all this and what’s he planning? Does he know another DNA sample is being taken from Mia tomorrow? Leon’s chilling warning returns to me, his voice soft and precise on the hotel landline.That child is going to pay the price.All of my certainty has melted away in the cold light of a new day.
I call Matt Simms to ask if he has a number for Dominic, a workplace or a last known address, but the call goes to voicemail so I leave a brief message.
I think about Kathryn, her flat in Little Missenden, my confrontation with her boyfriend Max on Friday night. Something wasoffabout him too, his aggression, and I wish I’d asked Angela about him and how he fits in. He knew both sisters, he knew the Clifton family – could he be the Ghost? Was that why Zoe wouldn’t tell her sister about the new man in her life, why the relationship had been a secret – because she’d been seeing her sister’s boyfriend? Had he bribed or blackmailed Holt into botching the DNA test to cover up his involvement? I think back to Holt’s solo visit to see Max on Thursday. Come to think of it, both men seemed cut from the same cloth – both good-looking white guys in their twenties, same private-school home counties inflection, both gym-toned types who clearly looked after themselves. Did they know each other from way back? I make a mental note to flag this to Gilbourne. And I will visit Angela again to give her an update.
I go down to the car park and within a few minutes I’m on the A40, making good time heading out of London in the Sunday morning traffic. Thinking about Max and the barely-contained violence in his words, his posture, his whole attitude when he had confronted me in Prestwood Ash on Friday night. A man on the edge.
I’m halfway to the village when my phone pings with a new message in its hands-free cradle on the dash. I expect to see Matt Simms’s name on the display, but it’s an unrecognised number. I click on the message.
Mia’s almost out of time
