Grace, having made her way slowly down the cottage’s small corridor, took Bertie from Amy so she could pick up the parcel and examine it. It was addressed to her. She put it down inside, then took the letters and sorted through which of them were hers, placing them on top of the smooth black box.
‘Looks interesting,’ Simon said, nodding towards it. ‘Swanky, too. Gift from a secret admirer? Should I be jealous?’
Grace had warned Amy after the litter pick that listening too politely to one of the postman’s history lectures would give him the wrong idea, and it seemed she had been right. The note of disappointment in his voice would have made Amy feel sorry for him if his general air hadn’t been so entitled– and if his question about her post weren’t so blatantly nosy.
‘I seriously doubt it,’ Amy snorted. That said, she couldn’t think of many people she knew who’d send her something this posh-looking for no clear reason … In fact, this sleek package reeked of vintage Hugh.
Amy felt a creeping, scratchy sort of dread crawling up her spine. She hadn’t heard from him in almost a month, and quite frankly she preferred things that way. If thiswasa gift from Hugh, what would it mean?
‘Ach,’ Simon said, throwing Amy what he seemed sure was a winning smile. ‘Girl like you? You must have people queuing up for dates.’
Grace scrunched up her nose in disapproval. ‘Girl?Good heavens, Simon, she’s thirty-one years old!’
At this, Simon’s face turned roughly the same shade as a plum tomato.
‘I’ll take the term as a compliment,’ Amy told him, not wanting to encourage any kind of crush but unable to bear the sight of him wilting beneath Gran’s withering frown. ‘It’s a while since I’ve been ID’d buying wine in Tesco.’
He smiled at her bashfully, and the look on his face made it plain that he was searching for something else to say.Not today, Satan,Amy thought.
‘Well, nice to see you, Simon,’ she said briskly. ‘I need to get a shift on and start work.’ In truth, she also felt a compelling need to find out what was in her parcel.
‘Oh, bye, then … bye …’ the postman mumbled, retreating reluctantly, as if he didn’t have a sack full of other items to deliver.
‘Nicely done,’ Grace said after Amy had shut the door behind him. ‘Being able to extricate yourself from a conversation with that man is a skill it usually takes newcomers years to develop. You’ve gone native in a matter of weeks.’
Amy felt a little glow of pride, then glanced down at her parcel. The box was made of thick, matt black cardboard and the large cream label bearing her name and address was handwritten in a sweeping, elegant script. When she opened it there was another box inside, protected by puffy wads of pale tissue paper. It was made of the same dark, high-quality card as the outer parcel– but this time topped with a proper lid and tied with rose-pink grosgrain ribbon rather than neatly taped shut.
Even the air that had been trapped inside this package reeked of luxury and expense: it smelled floral but powdery as it wafted up at Amy, reminding her a little of Chanel No 5. With real trepidation, she pulled at the ends of the ribbon, then eased the lid off the inner box to reveal what was in it.
Hmmm. This was … unexpected. Beneath delicate layers of fragrant, gossamer-light tissue was an array of costly items that– presumably– had been put together by Epitome London, the ‘lifestyle concierge service’ whose logo was embossed on the inside of the box’s lid. What in the name of God was a lifestyle concierge service, Amy wondered. And why would anyone need one?
As she looked at the items more closely, any doubt as to whether Hugh had sent them completely dissolved. She felt a strange, sinking feeling– a weird mix of annoyance, alarm and temptation.
Every item in this package was the sort of expensive, high-end indulgence she struggled to afford but felt inexorably drawn to. These were the kind of items that had seen Amy run up a credit card balance that occasionally kept her awake at night– but which Hugh could lavish on her with barely a moment’s consideration.
There was a huge, highly scented candle from a high-end French perfumer in a fragrance so delicate and beautiful it made her sigh. There was also a bottle of bath oil to match it: a chunky little cut-glass vial with a cork and crystal stopper. It had probably cost more than most people in Rowton spent on the weekly shop, which– at the same time as thrilling her– made Amy feel slightly sick.
On one side of the package was a bottle of her favourite, very expensive red wine and a massive slab of her preferred dark chocolate– the artisan, ‘bean to bar’ sort that didn’t come cheap but promised subtleties of flavour that, at least to some degree, justified its wince-worthy price tag. The scent of it, seeping from beneath layers of gold foil and thick paper wrapping, was mouth-watering. Amy buried the confectionery beneath a handful of scented tissue paper before the desire to tear it open and devour it became irresistible.
Finally, snuggled in a black cardboard frame at the bottom of the box was a selection of carefully curated skincare products. They bore the label of a famous Harley Street clinic: one that Amy had frequently told herself she couldn’t possibly afford to set foot in, even with plastic in her pocket. As she read the labels on the elegant boxes that contained cleanser, moisturiser, serum, eye balm and high-factor SPF, she actuallywhimpered.
This was her dream routine, there was no use denying it– and it had clearly been designed by someone who’d seen photographs of her face, presumably provided by Hugh. Again, she fought an urge to prise open the expensive boxes, withdraw the glass bottles she knew they housed and discover the scents and textures of the potions within. Instead, she placed each one back into its perfect recess so they stared up at her enticingly, imploring her to give in to their promise of a preternaturally perfect complexion.
But Amy knew that wouldn’t beallshe was giving in to if she chose to throw caution aside and slather her face in ‘silk and honey quenching cream’. She was aware this gift was her own, personal kryptonite– and that Hugh knew it, too.
It seemed beyond doubt that inspiring conflict in her– playing up to her weakness for fancy stuff– had been his intention. Somewhat shamefully, she had realised since their break-up that this was a key part of his modus operandi: by showering her with the ‘finer things’ he knew she craved, he gradually, insidiously indebted her. And for six months, she had let him.
How many times had she gone along with what he wanted because she felt, on some ill-defined level, that sheowedhim? It had taken the shock of the proffered engagement ring to jolt her into standing her ground and saying no. Now, it appeared, Hugh thought he could revert to their old pattern from a distance, despite having ruthlessly edited Amy out of his life mere weeks ago for failing to fall in with his plans.
Looking wistfully at the box in front of her, so alien in Grace’s hallway and yet so appealing, she had to hand it to him: after a month of silence, this was a strong move. Tucked into a pocket on the side of the box she spotted a small sealed envelope, again dressed with the Epitome London logo. Amy’s stomach griped as she reached for it, her bagel threatening an untimely return. She knew she had to read it, but shereallydidn’t want to.
Amy,
Please consider this a peace offering– and a token of how sorry I am that you felt the need to leave the London office as a result of my behaviour. As you know, I was devastated by our parting, and that hurt manifested in ways I now regret. I hope these little gifts will brighten life in the sticks for you while you’re away. I also hope that your absence won’t be prolonged. I miss you.
With humble apologies, and in anticipation of future friendship,
HH x
