“Why do you need to know every detail? Are you hoping for a juicy, scandalous story at my expense?”
“No! I know it must sometimes be hard for you to—”
“You don’t know athingabout me.”
I slam forward against my seat belt as we come to a sudden stop in front of the station. Her hands remain on the wheel, her expression thunderous, her eyes ahead, refusing to look at me.
“Cordelia, I’m sorry if you thought I was prying—”
“You can leave now.”
She’s so angry, there’s no point in trying to reason with her. I climb out, heading round to the boot to get my bag. I’ve purposefully left the car door open so that I can come back and say goodbye, hoping she’ll have calmed down.
“Thanks so much again for the weekend,” I say, bending down to peer in at her. “I—”
“Shut the door. I have to get back.”
“Cordelia—”
“I said,” she begins, her voice low and quiet, much more menacing than if she was shouting, “shut the fucking door.”
I step back and do as instructed. She puts her foot down, does a sharp U-turn, mud spitting out from under the spinning tires, and accelerates much too fast down the narrow lane.
Oh, well.I watch the car disappear, my heart sinking.That was nice while it lasted.
Over the next couple of days I feel as though I’m constantly waiting for a message from Lady Meade or Cordelia inviting me to the dress appointments, but nothing comes through. I send a WhatsApp to Cordelia reminding her of the meeting with Clio Vaughn later in the week, but she reads it and doesn’t reply. I guess I’ll go without her.
On reflection, I was too pushy about the whole Annabel thing. I wanted to know what had happened so I’d understand Cordelia a bit better. I thought it might bring us closer. But we don’t need to be closer. We don’tneedto be friends. In the end, I was pushing her to tell me something personal that she was uncomfortable talking about.
This one is definitely on me.
When she didn’t reply about the Clio meeting, I sent a follow-up message apologizing for what happened in the car. She didn’t reply to that one either.
On Wednesday evening, I suddenly get a message from her out of the blue.
Can you be at St. James’s Park
for 2 p.m. tomorrow? Meet at Duck Island
Yes, of course. I’ll be there
Good. Do you have a colorful scarf?
I have a red one
Please wear that
I start typing back, asking her why I’d need to wear a red scarf, then delete my message and leave it. She won’t tell me. She didn’t last time. And part of me doesn’t want to know. As long as we’re not going to break in anywhere again, which seems unlikely, I’ll do as she says.
The next day, I get to Duck Island a few minutes early, so that I’m standing right in front of it when the clock strikes two. While I wait, I imagine I’m being extremely naïve. Even knowing Cordelia as little as I do, I feel certain she’s out to get revenge on me. Maybe there’s a sniper lurking in the trees of St. James’s Park who’s been told the target will be standing in a red scarf exactly where I am now.
I shiver. It could happen.
I can’t make Cordelia out at all. I’ve been thinking about it ever since I got back to London. Beth, the florist, really threw a spanner in the works when she described Cordelia as a hardworking, enthusiastic employee, who was loyal to her friends andthrew buckets at anyone who dared disrespect them. I can barely imagine Cordelia having any friends, let alone sticking up for them.
“Emily?”
A man has approached me while I was lost in thought, puzzling over the enigma of Cordelia. He looks like he’s in his late thirties, with a whiskery graying beard and heavy sideburns, and is wearing a duffel coat and a bobble hat, with a large canvas bag slung over his shoulder. “Are you Emily?” he says again, looking at me expectantly. “Cordelia’s friend?”
