The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [141]
Some customers came in. Two women, early forties, wanting to start a book club. Did I have any ideas? Obviously as the weeks went by they'd ask for suggestions from the rest of the group, choose the titles that way, but what would be a good book to start with, did I think? Not too heavy, said one, glancing nervously at her companion, and not too – you know – frivolous, countered the other. Something middle groundish, they agreed, to get the ball rolling, to get together and have a chat over, maybe a bite to eat. Remarkably I managed to lose myself in their enviable dilemma, watching as their brows furrowed and they argued this way and that, discussing the relative merits of John le Carré or Martin Amis. Oh, to be starting a book club. Oh, to be choosing my first book and for that to be keeping me awake at night. They left with eight copies of Atonement.
The next day, I got another text. ‘I've booked Carluccio's for Friday night. LOL Ant x.’
Carluccio's. Where we always went for major chats. The biggies. Which school for Anna? Should she board? As an only child, wouldn't she enjoy the companionship of others? Or would I miss her too much? Where to holiday? Should we ski, because once you start, there's no stopping, they want to do it every year.
I texted back: ‘Fine.’
That night, as I lay in bed, in that slightly delusional state halfway between sleep and wake, I conjured up what seemed an entirely plausible scenario. One that had Bella and her father blackmailing Ant. Yes, that was it. Caro had been right all along. They were after his money. And once I'd gone, it had all turned ugly. Bella had hissed bitterly that Ant had ruined her life by getting her up the duff, Ted had pinned him to a chair to make him listen, Stacey had slumped in another, glaring at him, chewing gum. Ted had slapped him across the face, or maybe even pistol-whipped him, yelling, ‘Bastard!’ I vowed sleepily to myself that I'd go and rescue him tomorrow. Drive up first thing and spirit him away. Bring him home, which I had a vague, fuddled idea was at the farm, in the kitchen, where, as Ant came in, face swollen from pistol-whipping, I was the child standing on a stool by the Aga, helping Mum – or was it Maroulla? – make cakes. Clearly I'd slipped my moorings and drifted into sleep.
I was woken some hours later by the sound of a sash window sliding up. Still in the folds of a disappearing dream I groped groggily for the clock in the dark. Ten past two. I lay there listening. No. Nothing. Must have been the wind. The veils of sleep swathed me once more and I began to doze off, when another noise jerked me into consciousness. A creaking noise from below, in the kitchen. I sat bolt upright. Soft footsteps were stealing around down there. I jumped out of bed and threw on my dressing gown. I'd often wondered how I'd react to a break-in. Lying doggo and simulating sleep whilst the masked intruder went through my jewellery box, then realizing there was nothing of value, decided to rape me instead, whereupon I'd simulate death, which would surely put him off, I'd once laughed to Ant. It was a surprise, therefore, to find myself on my feet, clutching the lapels of my dressing gown at my neck, my heart pounding.
It occurred to me that I'd forgotten to lock the kitchen window. I listened, terrified in the dark. Faint, deliberately cautious footsteps crept towards the foot of the stairs. I prickled with fear; felt the hairs on the back of my neck literally rise. Panic button. I knew we had one, or even two, one downstairs in the study, the other – under the bed. I dived underneath. But it was pretty crowded. Over the years I'd stashed a lot of rubbish behind the valance, and the panic button, up by the wall, had mountains of detritus in front of it: old duvets, shoe boxes, plastic crates of Lego. I couldn't