Sorry, I think you have the wrong person. I don’t know anybody called Emily Beaumont.
Satisfied that the message has been dealt with, Rupert snatches up his phone and wallet and shrugs on his coat. He’s already decided that he won’t mention the message to Emily – he truly does want a fresh start, and if he’s honest, a protective streak has kicked in. Emily has been through enough with her ex-boyfriend, she doesn’t need anything else to get paranoid about, and anyway, the more he thinks about it, the more he thinks that Henry Carpenter must have contacted him by mistake. The more he wants to think it’s a mistake.
When he leaves the building, it is dark, the weather squally with sheets of rain being blown across the pavement by the strong north-westerly wind. A storm is on its way, and Rupert hurries along the pavement towards the tube station, his head down to avoid getting poked in the eye by wayward inside-out umbrellas that some commuters insist on carrying despite the fact they don’t do a jot of good. He battles his way inside the tube station, remembering now why he doesn’t usually leave work this early – the rush hour is in full swing and he has to force his way onto the platform.
As he stands waiting for the train, he swears he can feel the prickle of eyes on the back of his neck. A bead of sweat inches its way down under his collar and he rubs his hand over the back of his neck. Paranoid, he thinks, with a little internal laugh. Emily’s jumpiness is rubbing off on him. Or maybe it’s the Facebook message. Rupert fumbles in his coat pocket, squeezing the phone out in the tiny space between him and the commuter next to him, but the screen is blank and shows no signal. Of course, there’s no signal, not this far underground.
He feels the prickle of eyes on him again, and he turns slightly, craning his neck to see over the swarm of people that crowd the platform. No one is looking at him, all eyes are on phones, or peering down the tunnel to see the tell-tale light of the approaching train. He shakes himself, tutting under his breath at his idiocy, as the rumble of the tracks and the rush of warm air tells him that a train is approaching. He steps neatly one step to the left and front, to squeeze into a tiny gap between a tall man who is sweating profusely under a bowler hat, and an overweight woman with a large bag slung over one arm, in the perfect position to rush the open doors as soon as possible.
Definitely a mistake. And Rupert shrugs the message from his mind, instead thinking only of Emily.
Chapter Twenty-One
As Rupert goes back to work and we settle into our normal everyday routine, I try to push away the thought of Caro, and the image of Rupert sitting upstairs scrolling through her pictures. Lola has also settled well into the house, and Rupert was right, having a tiny little furry body following me around all day has definitely made me feel less lonely.
Today, I’m following through on my promise to myself and starting on the garden. I’ve spent hours sketching up plans of how I want it to look, and it’s been good to exercise my brain. Maybe, I think, I could go back into IT. Now everything has died down between me and Harry, maybe I could do something from home. I’d be working under a different name, so there’s a chance people wouldn’t even realize I’m back.
Humming to myself, I change into old clothes and head downstairs to make a start outside with the plants I picked up from the garden centre yesterday, all stacked neatly to one side on the drive. Yanking the front door open, I step out and shriek, as my foot almost lands in a sticky, congealed mess.
‘Jesus.’ I press my hand against my chest, feeling my heart thudding frantically beneath my thin flannel shirt. Leaning down, I examine the bundle of blood and gore, deducing from the ragged feathers and remains of a beak that it was once a bird. Nausea washes over me, and I have to swallow back the saliva that fills my mouth. Don’t puke, Emily. I hold my hand over my mouth, anxiously peering up the drive and out onto the road to see if someone is loitering. The road is empty, and there is a chirrupy purr as Lola saunters around the corner looking very pleased with herself. She sits next to the mangled mess and starts to wash.
‘Lola, you naughty thing.’ My heart rate slows to its usual rate as I realize it’s nothing sinister, just the cat acting on her instincts. I scoop up the bird between two pieces of cardboard and throw it in the bin, stopping to pick up Lola on my way back into the house. ‘You gave me a fright.’ The cat yawns and struggles against my shoulder so I set her down and she pads off on silent paws and heads to her bed in the living room.
I work solidly for hours, lugging the heavy boxes of plants down the side path into the garden, weeding and hacking at the bushes until everything starts to resemble more of a garden than a jungle. I sing along to a Spotify playlist as I work, old songs that remind me of my mum, when it was just the two of us. Before husband number two, then three, four, five… you get the picture. I leave one headphone dangling loose, so I am not completely cut off – I still feel a little jumpy, and to have my hearing blocked completely makes me feel vulnerable – but I still jump and utter a sharp shriek, dropping a trowel on my toes as I glimpse movement out
