it. And I’d have to tell her about that night. She’ll never forgive
me. Never. I can’t even forgive myself.
I can’t tell Josh either. This is the man who won’t even con-
template staying in a beach hut overnight because it’s against
council rules. He’ll want nothing more to do with me.
If only I’d had the sense to tell him about my past straight
away, maybe, just maybe, it would have been all right. He
might have been sympathetic, willing to help me. Now, though,
he’ll feel duped. All the things he admires most about me: my
love for my ‘career’, taking time out to look after my ‘depressed’
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
mother – it’s all one great big sham. He’ll despise me. I’ll lose
them both. Mum and Josh.
‘Promise me you won’t let that girl in if she comes back.’
Mum wrinkles her brow. ‘You’re not still on about that, are
you?’ Her face softens. ‘Look, even if she was casing the joint for someone, I’m sure she’ll have told them not to bother.
There’s nothing worth stealing in here.’
I force a laugh. ‘You’re not wrong there.’
But she is wrong. Something has already been stolen. Simon’s juggling ball. And my peace of mind – what little I had in the
first place.
Josh picks me up in his dad’s car. If he notices how bad I look –
and he must do, surely – it doesn’t show on his face. The relief
that I don’t have to walk all the way to Mistden on my own is
overwhelming. Even so, I glance up and down the street before
getting in. She could be watching me right now. I sink down into
the passenger seat and watch Josh’s hands resting on the steering
wheel. The car, a swanky Mercedes, smells of leather and new-
ness, and I wish I could enjoy the luxury of being driven around
in it, but I can’t. I don’t even know why I’m doing this. It’s going to be impossible to get back into the painting zone.
‘I had a peek at your picture last night,’ Josh says, eyes fixed
firmly on the road ahead. ‘I can see all the shapes already. It’s
going to be fantastic.’
His left hand leaves the wheel just long enough to squeeze
my knee.
‘You okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit tired, that’s all.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he says, grinning. ‘Once you’ve knocked back
a quick double, you’ll be fine.’
My stomach clenches. A quick double? What the hell is he
talking about?
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‘A double espresso, that is. I’ve bought you some strong
Columbian coffee to keep you going.’
If I wasn’t a bag of nerves, I’d be laughing out loud.
‘Oh, thanks. That’s great.’
I stare out of the window at the houses we’re passing and the
people walking by. What will I do if I see her? The girl in the
puffa jacket. It has to be her. Who else could it be?
My fingers ache from where I’ve been clenching them into
fists. The moment I’ve dreaded for so long has finally happened.
I’ve been found out. But why is she tormenting me like this?
As Josh turns the car into his dad’s driveway, I’ve made up
my mind. There’s only one way out of this mess. I have to take
matters into my own hands and find that girl myself. Make her
tell me what she wants.
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26
I stand in front of the easel and stare at the blank canvas. I
doubt I’ll be able to keep my hand steady enough to hold the
brush, let alone do anything creative with it.
Josh places his hands on my shoulders and kisses the nape of
my neck. I lean back into him, glad of the solidity of his warm
body against mine. At least I’m safe when I’m here.
‘Dad’s going out later,’ he says. ‘We can have one of our long
coffee breaks.’ His tongue flicks my earlobe and sends shivers
up my spine. ‘Without the coffee.’
I turn round and fling my arms round his neck, kiss him
long and hard on the mouth. Whatever nasty little game this
girl is playing, she’s not going to spoil this for me. She’s not
going to win. I won’t let her. I’m finally sorting myself out and
building bridges with Mum, falling in love again, painting.
Whatever I’ve done in the past, that part of my life is over. I’m
not that person any more.
The hours pass. Somehow or other, I manage to still my mind
for short bursts of time, long enough to play around a little
with the composition, to define the darker areas with a bluish
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grey. I can’t trust myself to do anything that requires more
prolonged focus. And yet, as I stand before the easel, the fin-
ished picture spreads out in my mind. Even with no added
colour, no detail whatsoever, the image is already there, wait-
ing to emerge.
But now more images superimpose themselves over the can-
vas. A nightmarish montage that unfolds before me even when
I screw my eyes tight shut. A crumpled body on the pavement.
A child’s face, contorted with panic. Blood on my sleeve.
I back away from the easel, almost tripping on a ruck in the
dust sheet that Richard has spread on the floor. Righting myself
by flinging a hand out to the wall, I run out of the room and
into the downstairs cloakroom, lock myself in and perch on
the edge of the closed toilet lid, elbows on my knees, hands
clasped between my legs. My mind swings wildly from one
incoherent memory to another, but nothing makes any sense.
Just when I think I’ve nailed something down, something that
will make sense of it all, it slips away again.
I try to slow the rhythm of my breath, holding lungfuls of air
for as long as possible then exhaling slowly through my nose,
till at last the panic subsides and I feel strong enough to stand
up. I run the cold tap in the little sink and splash my face. I
hardly recognize my reflection in the mirror. The pale, pinched
face. The puffy eyes.
Above my head comes the sound of footsteps. The cloak-
room has been installed into the space under the stairs, so the
vibrations follow the slope of the ceiling. I’ve no idea how long
I’ve been holed up in here. It could be ten minutes; it could be
twenty. I flush the toilet and wait for a few moments before
sliding the little bolt across and opening the door, stepping out
into the hallway.
Richard is pulling on his jacket and slipping on a pair of deck
shoes he’s left by the front door. His blond- grey hair is flecked
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
with white paint, his clothes too. He smiles broadly when he
sees me and lifts his hand in a fixed wave.
‘See you in a couple of hours, Astrid. I’m going to see a man
about a boat.’
When Josh appears in the doorway of the small room just
five minutes after the front door closes I’m sorting my brushes
out, giving myself time to summon up the courage to face the
canvas again.
‘Are you ready for your coffee break yet?’ he says, and we
both know exactly what kind of break he has in mind. At least
he doesn’t seem to notice how little progress I’ve made with the
painting.
‘What if your dad comes back early?’
‘He won’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I think he’s gone out to give us time alone. And no, I didn’t
ask him to, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
I force myself to sound normal, to make a joke. ‘Maybe he’s
having a secret tryst of his own. He must have loads of women
after him.’
Big mistake. Josh looks as if I’ve just slapped him round the
face.
‘Not to my knowledge,’ he says.
I’m taken aback by the unexpected sharpness of his tone.
He sighs. ‘Look, I know you must think I’m being oversensi-
tive. But it’s taken us both a long time to come to terms with Mum
not being around any more. I just can’t imagine him falling for
another woman. Mum was . . . Mum was pretty special.’
He takes the brushes from my hand and lays them down on
the table.
‘You’re special too,’ he says softly.
I feel his heartbeat as he holds me close against his chest,
and for a few moments we just stand there, our arms wrapped
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tightly round each other. Am I special enough that he’ll still
love me when he realizes I’ve been lying? Special enough that
he’ll forgive me for the things I’ve done in the past? For what-
ever it was I did that terrible, terrible night?
His voice, when it comes, is barely more than a whisper.
‘Let’s go upstairs, Hilary Phelps.’
My whole body stiffens. I shrink from his touch. How on
earth does he . . .?
He takes a step back. ‘Hey! You really don’t like that name,
do you?’
Stupid girl. I told him on the beach. He’s just teasing me. But still, hearing it so soon after seeing it written on that death
notice is a shock. I attempt a smile and Josh grins back at me.
The noise of my own heart beating furiously is, of course, in
my ears only.
He pulls me towards him again, but I wriggle out of his
arms. I need time to recover. ‘Let me wash my brushes out first.’
He pretends to look hurt. ‘How to make a guy feel wanted.’
‘Acrylic paint dries really fast and these are expensive. You
have to look after them.’
‘Can I help?’
‘If you want to. You’ve got to work this soap into the bristles
all the way down to the ferrule . . .’
He drags his teeth over his bottom lip and takes the bar of
soap from my hands. ‘I love it when you talk dirty.’
The corners of my mouth turn up. The tension of the last few
minutes is starting to recede.
‘And then rinse thoroughly with lukewarm water.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
I follow him with my eyes as he carries my brushes and soap
away. I love everything about this man: his walk, his voice,
those eyes that go from kind to sexy in a heartbeat. The way his
hair curls over his ears. The smell of him.
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
Then I think of those words on the back of the photo. What
goes around comes around. It’s time to pay for what you’ve done.
That’s karma, isn’t it? Actions have consequences. I don’t
deserve to be this happy. That’s what it means.
By the time I hear the sound of Richard’s tyres on the gravel
driveway I’m back at my easel, trying to work on the reflections
of light in the water beyond the jetty. I wanted to stay in Josh’s
bed for ever, curled up next to his strong, warm body, pretending
everything was normal. But it isn’t, and the harder I try to con-
vince myself otherwise, the more ominous the whole thing
seems. The more chilling. Who would do such a thing? And why?
Richard’s voice floats through the window I opened earlier.
He must have walked round to the side of the house, be stand-
ing with his phone just out of sight by the garage. His voice has
a low, measured intensity I don’t recognize. My brush pauses
mid- air.
‘No. I haven’t told him yet.’ There’s a long pause. ‘Yes, she’s
here now.’
My chest tightens. There’s no reason to think he’s found out
about me – he could be talking about anything – but still, it’s
the first thing that comes into my head. I hold my breath and
strain my ears for more, but as I’m leaning towards the window
he walks further into the garden and our eyes meet. He frowns
and I dart back to the easel as if I’ve been caught doing some-
thing I shouldn’t. A minute later the front door opens and he
make out what. Their voices are muffled and indistinguishable
from down here.
The paintbrush slips through my fingers and on to the floor.
This is absurd. I need to get a hold of myself. She’s made me like this. That nasty fucking girl and her cruel games. Who is she?
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I keep imagining her opening the envelope. The feeling of dread in the pit of her belly as she realizes I know her darkest secret. Scaring her is the only fun I’ve had in a long while. Almost more fun than actually killing her.
Almost.
But there comes a time when fantasizing about something isn’t
enough. The release when it happens – if it happens at all – is less sat‑
isfying. Less pleasurable. It’s like a drug I’ve developed a tolerance for.
It’s time to up the dosage.
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27
It’s unbearable going back into the cottage. What if there’s
another brown envelope waiting for me?
The relief when there isn’t doesn’t last long. Because she’s
still out there somewhere, plotting her next move. And for the
next two days, there’s no chance of escaping to the house in
Mistden and being with Josh, because he and his dad won’t be
there. They’re going away for some long- standing family event
in Berkshire.
I can’t get Richard’s face when I said goodbye earlier out of
my mind. He could barely look me in the eye. Has that girl told
him something? Is that what that phone call was about? If he
has, he’ll tell Josh while they’re away. He’s bound to. Why the
hell didn’t I tell them sooner? Why am I such a coward?
Mum’s getting ready to visit Pam for the evening. A few weeks
ago I’d have been delighted to have had the house to myself for
once, to watch what I want on TV, or listen to music without
her complaining it’s too loud. But tonight, I don’t want to be
alone. Tonight, I need company. I think of Helen’s number
upstairs in my room. Maybe I could invite her over when Mum’s
gone.
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‘There’s some quiche and salad in the fridge,’ Mum says. She
pecks me on the cheek. ‘You look done in, darling.’
‘I am. I’m not used to standing up all day.’
‘Why don’t you have a nice early night?’ she says, and for once,
I don’t resent the suggestion. For once, I appreciate that she isn’t just nagging, that she has my best interests at heart. Not that
there’s much chance of me getting any sleep.
Helen’s voice sounds different. At first I think it’s the signal,
but then she laughs as if I’ve said something funny, and I haven’t.
The realization judders through me like an electric shock. She’s
been drinking. Of course she has. The timbre of her voice has
altered. It isn’t distorted from bad reception – her speech is starting to slur.
‘Helen, are you okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?’
There it is, that defensive tone hovering just below the sur-
face. It sounds like something I would have said. Back in the
day, when Mum used to keep calling to check up on me.
My mind races. Loath as I am to admit it, perhaps I should
have listened to Rosie. The very last thing I need right now is a
friend who’s still drinking. I need to disassociate myself from
all that. Self- preservation, that’s what’s important now. In any
case, we’ve only known each other a few weeks. We’re hardly
best buddies.
I’ll talk to her, though, try to persuade her to stop. It’s the
least I can do after she’s been so kind and listened to all my crap.
I change tack quickly and tell her about my day, about starting
the painting for Josh’s dad. About the house and how beautiful
it is. Anything to keep her on the line, keep her talking.
‘Things are really taking off for you, aren’t they?’ she says,
but not in a snide way. She sounds sad and wistful.
I’m trying to think of how to respond when she speaks again.