The next few minutes were the most excruciating of Chloe’s life. DS Hope started by asking her which her favourite bands were and which member she fancied the most, but she could feel her mum’s worried eyes boring into the side of her head as the police officer switched to using phrases like, ‘unwanted attention’, ‘inappropriate comments’ and – worst of all – ‘touching that made you feel uncomfortable or scared’. Had Mike ever asked her to do anything that made her feel bad? Had they spent time alone together? Had he bought her gifts? Had he asked her to keep something secret? Had he threatened her or her family? Chloe did her best to meet the police officer’s eyes but she could feel her cheeks burning as she answered the questions. Mike was her dad’s friend, she told the police officer. They’d chatted but only ever in front of another adult. He hadn’t touched her or done anything inappropriate. He was a nice man who said hello to her if he saw her at work and that was all. DS Hope wrote everything she said down in a little notebook, then made Chloe and her mum sign it. After that she asked to speak to her mum in the kitchen.
When they came back into the living room, her mum had a weird, vacant expression on her face. She didn’t say anything to her though, not even when DS Hope asked if she could have a look through Chloe’s room and made them sign her notebook again to say that they’d agreed. Chloe stood next to her mum at the door to her bedroom, hands clenched into tight fists, as the detective searched her jewellery box, homework books, bed and chest of drawers. Panic rose in her chest as DS Hope lifted up her dressing gown in the bottom of the wardrobe but she didn’t unfold it and her stolen stash remained hidden. When she asked if she could take a look at her mobile, Chloe handed it over. She deleted all the texts Mike sent her as soon as she’d read them (as well as the ones she sent him) and he’d warned her not to keep a diary or any mementoes of the time they spent together. But she couldn’t stop herself from reaching up behind her hairline to touch the necklace around her neck. Mike hadn’t bought her many gifts – a couple of CDs, a book, plus he’d given her forty pounds after he found her crying in one of the sheds at work. She’d accidentally run up a huge bill on her mobile by buying game add-ons and she was too scared to tell her dad. After listening to her sob, Mike reached into his wallet and handed her the money to cover it. ‘Now you don’t need to tell him,’ he said. ‘And you don’t need to cry anymore.’
He gave her the necklace after Chloe got upset about a list the boys at school had made. It ranked the girls in her year in order of the fittest. One of her friends had managed to sneak a look at the piece of paper and Chloe’s name was last. Mike had hugged her close while she cried, then reached into his pocket and pressed something into her hand.
‘It’s beautiful.’ She ran a finger over the delicate edges of the silver daisy pendant. It was the loveliest present anyone had ever given her.
‘It is. And so are you. Those boys are idiots. When they grow up, they’ll kick themselves for not realising how stunning you are.’
She’d shivered as he fastened the necklace around her neck, his fingers brushing her skin. Then, embarrassed by her reaction, she’d pulled away. If Mike noticed her reaction he didn’t mention it. Instead he looked from her face to the pendant, nestling above the top button of her work polo shirt and smiled.
‘It suits you.’
Chloe presses a hand against the cold chain at her neck as she spots a small group of boys hanging around the school gates. They’re the ones who started the stupid list. Five weeks she’s had the necklace and her parents haven’t said a word. There was a time when her mum would notice every little thing about her – a scrape on her knee after a fall at primary school, a new hairstyle after they took turns to braid each other’s hair at break, a spot on her chin, a rash on her chest – but it’s been a long time since her mum did more than give her a passing glance. Sometimes, when it’s just her, Mum and Jamie at home, she feels like a ghost.
‘Chloe?’
She turns sharply as someone says her name. A tall, thin woman with her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail is hurrying along the pavement towards her. It’s the woman who knocked on her front door the night before.
‘Chloe, have you got a second?’
‘No.’ She continues to walk. Two girls she doesn’t recognise laugh as they overtake her and her stomach clenches with anxiety. Great, another reason for people to laugh at her.
‘Please, Chloe, just five minutes. It’s important.’
The hand on her arm makes her stop just long enough to shake it off. ‘I’ve got to get to school.’
‘I know. I won’t take up much of your time. Please, just hear me out.’
It’s the woman’s suit that makes her pause. She looks smart, like a lawyer or something.
‘What do you want?’
‘I need to talk to you about Mike Hughes.’
‘Oh god.’ She sighs dramatically. ‘Not that again. I already talked to the police.’ She lowers her voice as a boy from her year swerves around them. ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong.’
‘He has,’ the woman says. ‘I saw him kiss you.’
Chloe stares at her, her throat dry, her mind empty. ‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not. I was in the garden centre. I saw him kiss you in the summer house.’
‘No you didn’t.’
‘Chloe,’ the woman touches her on the shoulder again. ‘I know what you’re going through. I know what he’s like. He makes you feel special, doesn’t he? Beautiful? You feel understood and cared for, like he’s the only person in the world who really gets you.’ The woman is speaking softly and quickly, like she’s running out of breath, and she’s leaning in far closer than Chloe is comfortable with. ‘Has he told you that he loves you yet?’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes you do. I can see it in your eyes. You need to tell the police what’s going on. He’s a dangerous man. You think he’s kind and generous and caring but he’s manipulating you. He’s a paedophile, Chloe. This is all about control and nothing to do with love. Have you slept with him yet?’
‘What? No!’ The horror in Chloe’s voice is real and the other woman seems to sense it because she raises her eyebrows.
‘Good. Don’t. Whatever’s going on between you and Mike Hughes, you need to end it now. No good can come of it. You need to trust me on this.’
‘Trust you? I don’t even know who you are.’
‘I’m—’
‘Chloeeee!’ A red-haired girl with thick black eyebrows barges between them. ‘Sorry, Miss, I need to talk to Chloe. Chlo, did you do last night’s biology homework because I, like, well, didn’t. I need to borrow yours. Is this it?’ She yanks at one of the books Chloe is clutching to her chest. Normally there’s no way in hell she’d let Misty Engles anywhere near her but right now she’d take an atomic bomb over spending one more minute talking about Mike Hughes with this weirdo.
‘Course you can borrow it,’ she says, then she threads her arm through Misty’s and heads for the gates.
‘Chloe,’ the woman calls from behind her. ‘Let me give you my phone number. You can call me if—’
‘Fuck off!’ Chloe shouts without looking back. ‘Just fuck off.’
Misty Engles giggles. ‘Who was that?’
‘Just some freak. I think she fancies me.’
Chloe’s laughter lasts all of thirty seconds, then her phone bleeps with a text from her dad. She’s been sacked from the garden centre. They know about the thefts. And so does he.
Chapter 10
Wendy
It’s six minutes past nine. Wendy’s irritation at being late is reflected back at her in the bathroom mirror, along with a face of carefully, if heavily, applied make-up.
‘Warpaint,’ Wendy says to her reflection, then sighs heavily. Monty, the springer spaniel at her feet, nudges her leg with his nose and she reaches down to rub him behind the ears.
She’s being ridiculous, she knows she is. Wearing a faceful of make-up isn’t going to impress Lou Wandsworth. Nor will it give her the upper hand. In fact the only message it’ll give Lou is that Wendy needs to get down to Boots for a new mascara because the clumpy eyelash look isn’t fetching on catwalk models, never mind on fifty-nine-year-old women. She reaches for a make-up wipe and roughly scrubs at her cheeks, lips and eyes. She doesn’t need make-up for what she’s about to do.
She walks into the office with her shoulders back, her chin tipped up and an uncomfortable prickling sensation under her arms. After she dropped Monty off at her sister’s house she had to put her foot down to compensate for the ridiculous amount of time she’d spent applying, and then removing, her make-up, but she parked up outside Consol eLearning right on time. And with a minute to spare too.
‘Good morning,’ she says merrily to the matronly- looking receptionist. ‘My name is Wendy Harrison. I’m here to see Louise Wandsworth.’
‘She’s expecting you. I’ll just ring through. Would you like a coffee or tea?’
‘A cup of tea would be lovely. Milk no sugar.’
There’s something very pleasing about people making a fuss of you, Wendy thinks as she sits back in her chair and sips at her tea. Ever since she arrived at Consol eLearning ten minutes ago, she’s been greeted with warm smiles and firm handshakes. She was even given a plate of nice Marks and Spencer biscuits as she was shown into the meeting room by Lou and a rather balding man who introduced himself as Gary Lambley, head of sales. Wendy felt a wave of disappointment as he thrust a sweaty hand at her. She’d assumed her meeting would be with Lou and Lou alone, but actually the presence of someone else in the room has meant that she can study the other woman without being too obvious.
‘Well, that’s pretty much everything about us and what we do,’ Gary says as his presentation finally draws to a close. ‘Do you have any questions?’
‘No, I think you’ve covered pretty much everything.’ Most of the presentation went over Wendy’s head but she’s not about to admit that.
Lou gets up from her seat and switches on the lights. She smiles warmly at Wendy as she sits back down. ‘As I mentioned on the phone, I am quite new here, but I’ve got over seven years’ experience in managing eLearning projects and I’d be your first port of call.’
‘It sounds as though I’ll be in very safe hands.’
‘You would. Absolutely. So, now we’ve told you all about us perhaps you’d like to share a bit more about the training you’d like us to develop. You said on the phone that …’ her hair falls over her face as she glances down at her notebook ‘… the nursing faculty at the University of Worcester are considering adding some eLearning to the bachelor’s degree?’
‘That’s right yes.’ Words tumble out of Wendy’s mouth like stones from a bucket. Her nursing degree is over thirty years old but she can still recall the fundamentals of her training. And besides, she practised for this question when she was out walking Monty yesterday. When she’d come up with the idea of finding out a little bit more about Lou Wandsworth by masquerading as a new customer, she’d worried that there was a flaw in her plan – that Lou might ask for a landline contact number in addition to the mobile number she’d provided, or the details of someone more senior at the university. She hadn’t. She’d taken Wendy completely at her word.
It’s astonishing how gullible and naïve some people are, Wendy thinks as Lou nods and smiles at everything she says. They’re traits you’d associate with the weak and vulnerable – children and the elderly – and yet here is a woman that’s neither of those things. Is she really that gullible? Or – Wendy sits up a little higher in her chair and looks towards the door – it could be a trap. She’d assumed that Lou wouldn’t know who she was when she walked into the office. Why would she? They’d never met before; Lou hadn’t even glanced at her when she was behind her in the queue at the café. They’d never spoken other than Wendy’s initial enquiry about a meeting and there are no photos of her on the internet for Lou to google but there’s still a small chance she might know who she is.
‘That all sounds great, Dr Harrison,’ Lou says and Wendy suppresses a smile. It was a bit of silliness, deciding to award herself a doctorate seconds before she picked up the phone to ring Consol eLearning, but she has to admit that she quite likes the sound of it.
‘Wendy, please.’
‘Do you have any questions for us?’
The male voice makes Wendy twitch. She’d been so focussed on Lou – on the muddy green hue of her irises, the enlarged pores on either side of her nose, the visible tendons in her neck and the sharp collarbones beneath them – that she’d quite forgotten they weren’t alone in the room.
‘I’d love another cup of tea please.’ She smiles tightly as she pushes her saucer in his direction.
Lou moves to get up from her seat. ‘I’ll get one for you.’
‘No, no.’ Wendy flashes her eyebrows at Gary. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, would you Gary? I’ve got a few questions for Lou. If that’s okay?’
‘That’s fine. No problem at all.’
Wendy registers a fleeting glance between Lou and her colleague as he leaves the room, but the second the door closes behind him, Lou is all smiles again. Wendy reaches down beside her and pulls her handbag onto her lap. I could have a knife in here, she thinks as she unclips the fastener and reaches in for her Laura Ashley glasses case, and no one would ever know. I could plunge it into her chest and make it back out onto the street, before anyone realised anything was wrong.
Gosh, she thinks as the case opens with a satisfying pop and she takes out her glasses. That was a bit of a dark thought. I don’t know where that came from. I’m just here to find out a little bit more about Lou Wandsworth. That’s not a crime, is it? I could have introduced myself to her in the café instead but social situations are so awkward. She could have excused herself and walked away. Office protocol means she’s got no choice but to sit here and talk to me. Whether she likes it or not.
‘So,’ she says as she hooks her glasses over her ears and pushes them up the bridge of her nose. ‘Tell me a bit about you, Lou.’
The other woman shuffles awkwardly in her chair. ‘Well, um, as I said, I’ve got seven years’ experience—’
‘No, no. Not all that corporate stuff. You as a person. If we’re going to be working together for a while it makes sense to get to know each other a little better. Doesn’t it?’
‘Oh, um. Sure. What … er … what sort of thing do you want to know?’
‘Anything you want to tell me!’
Wendy’s chest tightens as the younger woman glances towards the door. She’s overdoing it. Her convivial tone sounds forced and she’s making Lou feel ill at ease.
‘Me for example,’ she says quickly as she picks up her pen, ‘I’m fifty-nine, no children, live alone with my little dog Monty. I’m a big fan of gardening, crosswords and crime dramas.’ She laughs lightly but the pen in her hands is strained to breaking point. If the other woman notices, she doesn’t let on. ‘How about you?’
Lou shrugs. ‘There’s not much to tell you really. I’m thirty-two and er … I live just outside Malvern.’
‘Oh yes. Whereabouts?’
‘Near Bromyard.’
‘Oh, out in the sticks.’
‘Yes. It is a bit.’
‘And do you live there with your husband?’ Wendy’s gaze flicks towards the naked ring finger of Lou’s left hand.
‘I live alone.’
‘That’s something we have in common then.’
And it’s not the only thing.
‘Woah!’ Lou jerks back in her seat and raises her hands to her face as something flies across the desk towards her. ‘Your … your pen.’
‘My what?’ Wendy is genuinely surprised to look down and see two halves of a biro in her hands. She’s snapped it clean in two.
‘Tea!’ Gary walks backwards into the room, carrying a tea tray in his hands. ‘What did I miss?’ He looks at Lou as she stands up. ‘Bloody hell. What happened to you?’
‘It’s ink.’ She pulls the white shirt away from her body, but the sticky red ink isn’t only on the crisp white cotton. Her cheeks, her forehead and her throat are splattered too. ‘Wendy’s pen broke. I’d better go and clean myself up.’
‘I really am very sorry,’ Wendy says as Lou slips from the room. ‘I don’t know what happened.’
‘It’s fine,’ Gary says as he places a fresh cup of tea in front of her. ‘Accidents happen.’
Wendy picks up her tea cup and raises it to her mouth.
‘They do, don’t they?’ she says, then she takes a small sip.
Chapter 11
Lou
When we woke up this morning we had breakfast, but not in the restaurant. We ate sandwiches in bed – Tesco sandwiches that Mike bought before he picked me up yesterday – and washed them down with warm Fanta. Afterwards, Mike told me to shower and pack up my things because we were off to Rouen. I was a bit disappointed that we weren’t going to Paris (if you have to go to France you should at least see the Eiffel Tower), but I tried not to let it show on my face. I don’t care where we go, as long as I’m with Mike.
Not that I’ve seen much of Rouen, just a few old buildings and a glimpse of the river on the way to the hotel. We had sex again, pretty much as soon as we walked into our door. This time we did it face to face and Mike didn’t roar when he came. He did cry though, after he rolled off me, which I thought was a bit weird. When I asked him what was wrong he said that he’d never loved anyone as much as he loved me and that it would break him if I ever left him. I wiped the tears from his cheeks, covered his face with kisses and told him that would never happen. He was the love of my life and we were going to spend the rest of our lives together. He looked at me then for a really long time without saying anything, then he rolled away from me and got out of bed. When he started pulling on his clothes, I moved to get out of bed too but he told me to stay where I was. He had a surprise planned and he’d be back soon. I begged him to tell me what it was but he refused, laughing and saying it wouldn’t be a surprise if he told me. When he left the room, I heard the key turn in the lock.
That was six hours ago. The sun is going down, it’s seven o’clock and I’m really pissed off. I thought we’d go sightseeing together or something, walk hand in hand along the river, visit a few shops and see the ruined buildings Mike was talking about on the way here. Some romantic break this has been. It’s Saturday and we’re due to go back to the UK tomorrow and all we’ve done is have sex twice and eat sandwiches. And I’ve been stuck here alone all day. There isn’t even a TV and I didn’t bother bringing a book. All I’ve done is nap, throw balled-up socks into the bin, write my diary in the back of an exercise book and stare at the stupid painting on the wall opposite the bed. I could probably draw it with my eyes shut now. I can’t ever remember being so bored in my life.
I sit up sharply, pulling my knees into my chest as the locked bedroom door rattles and Mike steps into the room. He looks exhausted, and a tiny bit pissed, but he smiles as our eyes meet. ‘Hey, hey. How’s the love of my life then?’
I don’t return his smile. ‘Where’ve you been?’
He takes a step back, as though I’ve just landed a punch in his belly. ‘What?’
‘Where the fuck have you been?’
‘Woah.’ His smile vanishes. ‘You don’t get to speak to me like that.’
‘I do if you leave me locked in here so you can go and get pissed.’
‘Who said I’m—’
‘You are! I can smell it. You smell like my dad. You’re a—’
‘Don’t you dare compare me to him. Don’t you dare!’
‘Get out!’ I reach for the pillow and launch it across the room. It hits him weakly on the hand and drops to the floor. ‘Get out and leave me alone. I want to go home.’
Mike crosses the room, his hands clenched into fists, jaw tight, nostrils flaring. I scoot as far back on the bed as I can and wrap my arms around my body. But he doesn’t touch me and he doesn’t say a word. Instead he stops at the end of the bed and glowers at me until I break eye contact, then he marches straight back out of the room and turns the lock.
I stare at the door, too shocked to react, but the numbness doesn’t last long and I howl with frustration and despair, then burst into tears. I cry, curled up on the bed, until the world beyond the window turns black and I pass out with exhaustion. It’s still dark when I wake but the radio alarm clock on the bedside table glows red with the time. 1.13 a.m. I pull the thin duvet up to my chin and roll over. As I do, I catch sight of a figure sitting in the armchair on the other side of the room. It’s Mike. And he’s watching me.
I’ve been living in Dad’s house for over a week now but, despite hours spent hoovering, cleaning and scrubbing, the smell still hits me the second I open the front door and step into the porch. Dampness, mustiness and cold. It’s the scent of neglect.
I glance at my watch as I step into the kitchen. Twenty to six. Mike said he would be here a little after six thirty.
I trail from the kitchen to the living room and sit down on the sofa. Dad’s chair, in all its horrible tweedy green worn glory, is closer to the TV, but I haven’t sat in it once since I got here. I’m trying to work up the nerve to throw it away.
Dad’s friend Bill was the one who found him. He realised something was wrong, he told me on the phone, when the local pub landlord told him that Dad hadn’t been in in over a week. He went to check on him after closing time. The curtains weren’t drawn, the lights were on and the TV was blaring away in the corner of the room. Bill said he could tell by the way Dad was slumped in his chair that he was dead. A heart attack, the coroner said.
It wasn’t hard to pick Bill out from the mourners at Dad’s cremation. Other than me, the only other people in the room were the celebrant, the funeral director and three elderly men. Unsure what to do after the ceremony ended, I stood by the door and shook hands with the scant group of mourners as they left. Bill gripped my hand in both of his.
‘I know your dad was a grumpy old bugger,’ he said, his voice rough and rasping, ‘but he was proud of you. He told me a few times that he had a daughter living the high life and earning herself a small fortune in London.’
I smiled and thanked Bill for his good wishes. I didn’t mention that Dad and I hadn’t spoken in over ten years – other than a brief and awkward phone call when I rang him five years ago to tell him that Mum had died of cancer – and that he had no idea what I was doing or how much I was earning in London (certainly not a small fortune). I did cry though, when I got back to my car. Proud was not a word in Dad’s vocabulary when it came to me. Disgrace – yes. Embarrassment – that too. While Mum rushed up to me and wrapped me in her arms after I was brought back from France, Dad could barely look at me. When he did it was to ask whether I had been harmed. Harmed. He meant, had I had sex with Mike? I could tell by the way his eyes swept the length of my body then focussed on a spot on the floor near my feet. Afterwards, Mum and I went back to our flat. We stayed there, locked together on the sofa with the TV on loud while the phone rang off the hook and journalists tapped at the kitchen window and thumped on the front door. One night I heard an argument between Mum and Dad on the phone. She was trying to keep her voice down but I heard her snap, ‘I can’t believe you’d suggest that, Steve. This is your daughter we’re talking about and she’s fourteen years old.’ Dad thought I’d brought it all on myself. He wasn’t the only one who thought that. I did too.
