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He Will Find You: A nail-biting and emotional psychological suspense for 2018
Diane Jeffrey
‘A tense, gripping domestic noir that shows just how fast the dream of a new life can turn into your worst nightmare’T.M. LoganNo matter where you hide…Kaitlyn Best is stuck in a rut. So when she discovers she's pregnant after a one-night-stand with Alex, her school crush, she throws caution to the wind and accepts his offer to make a new life together in the depths of the Lake District, far from her home… and her demons.He will find you.But Alex is not what he seems. And when Kaitlyn's world begins to crumble before her eyes, she realises she barely knows the man she has agreed to spend the rest of her life with.Since Alex won't tell her his secrets, Kaitlyn vows to find them out for herself. But when she uncovers the truth, she realises she has made a terrible mistake…Following her 2017 bestselling psychological thriller Those Who Lie, Diane Jeffrey is back with another chilling story of domestic suspense, perfect for fans of BA Paris and Sandie Jones.Praise for He Will Find You‘Tense and compelling, a genuinely thrilling read’Elizabeth Haynes‘Brimming with tension, riddled with doubt and suspicion, insidious and compelling with a terrifying ending that had me catching my breath’Sue Fortin‘A tense, gripping domestic noir that shows just how fast the dream of a new life can turn into your worst nightmare’T.M. Logan
About the Author (#u5450d33b-0b19-5f55-a18a-672f13054af8)
Diane Jeffrey grew up in North Devon, in the UK. She lives in Lyon, France with her husband and their three children, Labrador, cat and kitten. He Will Find You is her second psychological thriller.
Diane is an English teacher. When she’s not working or writing, she likes swimming, running and reading. She loves chocolate, beer and holidays.
Above all, she enjoys spending time with her family and friends.
Readers can follow Diane on Twitter @dianefjeffrey or on Facebook.com/dianejeffreyauthor
PRAISE FOR THOSE WHO LIE (#u5450d33b-0b19-5f55-a18a-672f13054af8)
‘A scorchingly good thriller’ Lisa Hall, bestselling author of Between You and Me
‘A tantalising and taut thriller with more twists and turns than a corkscrew. Red herrings swim all the way through it. An excellent page turner’ Sally (Goodreads)
‘This is a must read for anyone who lives to delve into psychological thrillers!’ Linda Strong
‘With brilliant main characters and a wonderful plot, this book is a real page turner. I would highly recommend this book.’ Stephanie Collins
‘I absolutely adored this book.’ Lu Dex
‘Great book…keeps you guessing!! If you love twists and turns then this book if for you!’ Diane Merrit
‘With twists and turns that will wrong-foot you all the way, a dash of dark humour and a strong emotional punch, this is an excellent debut that more than earns its place within the genre.’ S.J.I. Holliday, author of Black Wood
Also by Diane Jeffrey (#u5450d33b-0b19-5f55-a18a-672f13054af8)
Those Who Lie
He Will Find You
DIANE JEFFREY
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Diane Jeffrey 2018
Diane Jeffrey asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © August 2018 ISBN: 9780008297602
Version: 2018-07-11
No matter where you hide… (#ulink_8304c26f-0590-5840-ad32-3ec3c5d2cd0b)
Kaitlyn Best is stuck in a rut. So when she discovers she’s pregnant after a one-night stand with Alex, her school crush, she throws caution to the wind and accepts his offer to make a new life together in the depths of the Lake District, far from her home… and her demons.
He will find you.
But Alex is not what he seems. And when Kaitlyn’s world begins to crumble before her eyes, she realises she barely knows the man she has agreed to spend the rest of her life with.
Since Alex won’t tell her his secrets, Kaitlin vows to find them out for herself. But when she uncovers the truth, she realises she has made a terrible mistake…
Following her 2017 bestselling psychological thrillerThose Who Lie, Diane Jeffrey is back with another chilling story of domestic suspense, perfect for fans of BA Paris and Sandie Jones.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u803e607f-0e11-5f63-a635-ca4b873fae92)
About the Author (#u9088db87-5b91-5566-9133-8a1ed227f49a)
Praise for Those Who Lie (#u4d6e4cc5-0a43-549e-899a-52662945c173)
Also by Diane Jeffrey (#u0f734092-5ec9-5c02-b206-a7dfb8f241b7)
Title Page (#u65efc3df-2965-575a-80bb-17bd6b04685c)
Copyright (#u14089c84-e706-5c15-913c-f66fa377daf3)
No Matter Where You Hide… (#u55cde44d-8bcd-578d-a804-18986b569b4c)
Dedication (#ua766963e-59ea-5f58-b1ea-350473a5173a)
Epigraph (#ub8a94727-9224-55f9-8d78-4d4f5db9775c)
2017 (#u043574a0-1179-5d70-aacd-4a6dc403731c)
Chapter 1 (#u755bef72-1fff-5832-9e35-60d8ff8b23c6)
Chapter 2 (#ue56002f9-f9e8-5a19-98df-ab0ec12c20dc)
Chapter 3 (#u38376c68-b269-5e0e-b37c-2e0aed1f5e2a)
Chapter 4 (#uc6bcd58f-bca8-5394-abae-ea4a24c4fc23)
Chapter 5 (#u1974e831-1ff3-51b6-8c3d-c15c3267b577)
Chapter 6 (#u2ab4b919-70bc-5ce0-b6b0-fed6bb60e32e)
Chapter 7 (#u1c1e3404-0c83-5996-a428-2bd70a06c7a1)
Chapter 8 (#u7e6cad0f-83e0-56b1-a854-35db14d4e180)
Chapter 9 (#u8be23dec-b17f-551d-9f13-2ca909e574b6)
Chapter 10 (#ua7e86628-01f4-58c7-8fa3-0cc5aaadbfda)
Chapter 11 (#u84fdaa96-6302-5b27-94d1-5014b6b70fee)
Chapter 12 (#u93e56d0e-652a-5705-9843-173f43a4cd44)
Chapter 13 (#ue3bf51cb-b0e1-587a-9b82-f9a9c6099245)
Chapter 14 (#ue9b7b7a8-974c-5d43-ab3c-05baac48d98a)
Chapter 15 (#ub589ef9a-4331-5236-aed3-26eb2af9b403)
Chapter 16 (#u4920f396-6024-54d6-8181-83e527f94d14)
Chapter 17 (#u86e3ad8a-2e49-5362-b27d-05a6e4f84a00)
Chapter 18 (#u45f64cc9-3cc9-5dde-b7ec-61de42f47b32)
Chapter 19 (#ucc3ffdda-e05b-5e4e-98cc-f87b1c288232)
Chapter 20 (#u378bea9e-e1fc-527f-9c0c-875d4604f3e9)
Chapter 21 (#u89066de7-a172-5dbd-b68a-e1b595b4b8c9)
Chapter 22 (#u428ae482-18e6-5b50-bf64-bd6441e74611)
Chapter 23 (#u236554eb-875f-5be5-97fa-e48b5ad5ef5f)
Chapter 24 (#ucf4d05f5-1eb4-55de-8fe0-b830ef80a4be)
Chapter 25 (#u3d64a9a4-b085-5d01-977c-52ba626f06ac)
Chapter 26 (#ub5d80749-1d16-5ad0-9b84-e9c2be4b7672)
Chapter 27 (#u324209a6-fc08-56f1-ab78-e95f382325ca)
Chapter 28 (#ud7126efc-2618-5789-a834-6e05c6a2dd9d)
2019 (#u7442a591-b65e-5d73-b244-f4802efde5db)
Epilogue (#u9eff95e8-2769-5d7f-9c2e-6a6d3a463712)
Acknowledgements (#u45503063-a3b0-59b6-a54c-60d1ec1c0b67)
Read on (#uad3437e2-f6ff-5423-b60e-b087c228d425)
About the Publisher (#u816c52e2-a169-5ffe-898e-9a314f916622)
For my three wonderful children, Benjamin, Amélie and Elise.
You make my world beautiful.
You don’t have to read this book, but if you do, please wait until you’re much older.
I love you,
Mummy xxx
“What the truth is and what we want as the truth are two separate things.
The former sheds light; the latter darkness.”
Unknown
~
2017 (#ulink_19b233bc-488a-5d98-aa23-d13bb0fe5f96)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_f796bbe4-d1e6-5b6e-aa2f-1c1526f28424)
~
This can’t be it, I think, my heart sinking as I see it for the very first time. I pull in to the side of the country lane. Resting my arms over the steering wheel, I lean forwards and study the house through the windscreen. Even from this distance it appears austere. Isolated. Built in cold, dark grey stone, the building dominates the valley from the top of a steep gravel driveway. It is prison-like with its barred sash windows. It must be at least five times the size of the two-bedroom semi my boyfriend – ex-boyfriend – and I bought as our first home ten years ago in Minehead.
I look to the right, observing the lush green grass speckled black and white with sheep, and beyond that the blue-brown water of Lake Grasmere. I’m struck by how incongruous this residence seems against the surrounding countryside. This isn’t the right place. But a quick glance at the black and white chequered flag on the satnav screen confirms that I have arrived at my destination. Even so, I remain hopeful that the right house might be situated a few metres further along the road until I see the slate sign on the wooden gate. The Old Vicarage.
I can’t quite believe it. It has taken me nearly eight hours to drive all this way, but I’m here at last. The Old Vicarage, my new home. I’ve left everything and everyone I know; I’ve left my whole life behind in Somerset. Here I am, moving to a region I’ve never visited, into a house I haven’t laid eyes on before. This is the start of a new existence for me. It should be exciting, but I feel so scared. Butterflies are hurtling around in my stomach. It’s only to be expected, I suppose. This is such a monumental change.
As I get out of the car to open the gate, I notice a mailbox. To my surprise, my name is on it. He has handwritten it on a scrap of white paper and stuck it next to his own name, engraved on the rectangular metal plate. It must have rained since it was added because the ink has run slightly where the Sellotape has come away. I can still make out my name, though. KAITLYN BEST. But even that is about to change.
There is a cattle grid and I’m careful walking over it as I push the gate open. I have to get out of the car again to close the gate once I’ve driven through it. It’s only then that I realise how cold it is outside this evening. Even as I shiver, I can’t help but admire the view of the fields and the lake. The daylight is fading fast now, but the scene is breathtaking. I could get used to this place.
But then I turn around and see the house again. It’s late Georgian, although it makes me think of a Gothic castle. It’s been in his family for years, this place, and I know he loves it. Telling myself it’s probably more welcoming inside, I drive up to the house.
I use the heavy knocker to bang on the front door. I wait for several seconds, but there’s no sign of anyone moving inside. I step down from the porch and pace up and down in front of the house, looking around me and pushing my hands into my coat pockets for warmth. Creeper covers part of the wall. I imagine in any other season it must look beautiful and detract from the drab colour of the stone, but at this time of the year the web of spindly branches looks dead and bare. There’s a light on upstairs. He must be here. I’ll try again and then I’ll text him.
Am I making a terrible mistake? I wonder, not for the first time. My dad and my elder sister both tried to talk me out of coming here. After all, I’ve only seen this man once in the past twenty years. I step forwards again and go to grab the knocker, but then I spot a metal handle hanging down to my right and so I pull on it instead. I hear a loud chime sound inside the house. Seconds later, the door opens and he’s standing there. Alexander Riley. My heart beats madly. He’s smiling and it warms me through. Any doubts I had evaporate as I look up into his handsome face.
‘Katie,’ he says, sweeping me into his arms and squeezing me so tightly I can hardly breathe. He smells amazing. ‘Come in. Welcome.’ He releases me, takes my hand and leads me into the house. ‘Would you like something to drink?’ He doesn’t pause for me to answer. ‘I hope your drive wasn’t too long,’ he gushes as we walk side by side through the entrance hall, away from a huge pine staircase leading upstairs.
‘Here’s the sitting room. Go on through and I’ll bring you some tea.’ He pushes me gently into a spacious room to the left with high ceilings and a log fire burning at the end of it. ‘I’ll bring your stuff in from the car later. I’m so glad you’re finally here.’ And with that, he disappears.
I stand with my back to the fire for a couple of minutes, admiring the built-in bookshelves. Many of them have books on them, but there’s more than enough space for some of my paperbacks when I bring up the boxes I’ve stored at my dad’s house.
Feeling exhausted after the journey, I sink into an armchair. I look out of a sash window at the other end of the room. This one has thin wooden bars, too, in keeping with the Georgian period, no doubt. They’re supposed to be decorative, I imagine, but I find them disturbing. The windowpanes are black now; night has fallen quickly.
Alex soon comes back carrying a tray with sandwiches, biscuits, a teapot and two mugs. He puts it down on the coffee table. Then he walks over to the sideboard and pours himself a Scotch. Holding the glass in one hand, he puts his arm around me from behind my armchair and, stroking my breasts and then my tummy, he plants a kiss on the top of my head. Then he bends over the coffee table, and from a little bowl on the tray he takes two ice cubes, which chink as he drops them into the amber liquid. He drags a heavy armchair nearer to mine and sits down.
I watch him as he does all this, his blue eyes bright with excitement. Tall with dark curly hair, he’s very good-looking. I know he has an incredible, muscular body under those jeans and that sweater. When he smiles, dimples appear in his cheeks. He has an aquiline nose. His sideburns are way too long, but I find this endearing. His face has the healthy glow – even in winter – of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors. I have so many photos of him – I’ve kept all the photos he sent me in his emails – but none of them really do him justice.
‘I’m finding it hard to believe we’re finally together,’ he says, picking up the teapot and swirling it around. Then he pours tea into a mug that already has a little milk in it. ‘Do you take sugar?’ he asks.
It seems strange, this question, when we know each other so well. At school, I hardly talked to him. I fancied him like mad, but I kept that a secret from everyone, especially him. Both my sisters had more to do with him than I did back then. But since we reconnected about seven months ago – initially thanks to Facebook – we’ve exchanged hundreds and hundreds of emails and phone calls. We’ve spent hours and hours chatting on FaceTime.
We’ve talked about our respective families in detail. I’ve never met Alex’s children, but he has told me all about them so I feel as if I have. I know that Alex’s favourite dish is shepherd’s pie and that his favourite dessert is tiramisu. I could tell you his place of birth, his date of birth, his hobbies and interests and his tastes in music. I know so much about his education and career that I could probably write his CV.
He read Wuthering Heights when I told him it was the best book I’d ever read and he watched The Piano because I told him I loved that film. Once, he sent me a purple silk scarf and another time, I received a pink T-shirt because these are my favourite colours. He knows I adore roses and lilies and he has had bouquets delivered to both my place of work and home. He knows I hate take-offs and landings on planes. He’s familiar with my deepest fears and darkest secrets. He could even describe my sexual fantasies.
But he has no idea how I drink my tea. I do take sugar, usually, but I can see that Alex hasn’t put any on the tray, so I shake my head.
Alex talks non-stop when he gets excited – I know this from our numerous phone calls – and he babbles away as we eat. He says that tomorrow we’ll visit Grasmere. He mentions a famous gingerbread shop, which he says is open almost every day of the year. And he promises to show me William Wordsworth’s house and his grave.
I love the idea that this Romantic poet, whose works I studied at school, links my old home to my new home. I’ve come from Somerset to the Lake District; William Wordsworth did the opposite. He moved from Cumbria to the village of Nether Stowey, which is only about fifty miles from Porlock, where I grew up. And slightly closer to Minehead, where I lived until this morning. Eventually, Wordsworth returned to his roots. He was homesick. I hope I won’t be.
I have that familiar nervous feeling in my tummy as I wonder again if I’ve made the right decision coming here. But it’s a bit late to be asking myself that question now. The rain starts to beat down all of a sudden and Alex gets up to pull the thick curtains across the two sets of bay windows. Before sitting back down in his chair, he kisses my cheek, and once again I’m reassured and content.
We chat for ages, although Alex does most of the talking. Even though it can’t be that late, I yawn. Alex immediately leaps up and clears away the tray. Then he insists that I stay by the fire while he brings in my things. I protest and get up to help, but he won’t hear of it.
‘You lost a lot of blood,’ he says. ‘You’re not to take any more risks.’
It wasn’t a lot, really, but I’m not going to argue.
The car is packed to the hilt with boxes, suitcases and bags, and it takes him about forty minutes. I feel a bit bad about letting him lug in all my stuff by himself, but I really don’t want to go out in the rain. I’ve had a long drive and it’s all too easy to persuade myself I’m only doing what I’ve been told. So, closing my eyes, I enjoy the heat emanating from the fire.
When he has finished, Alex comes back into the sitting room, combing his wet hair with the fingers of one hand and holding his other hand out to me. He pulls me out of my chair and leads the way upstairs. He has left the boxes and bags in the entrance hall, which he calls ‘the vestibule’, but he has brought my cases upstairs to the master bedroom, which is similar in size to the entire ground floor of the house I’ve just moved out of in Somerset.
It’s cold up here and I’m almost reluctant to take off my clothes. After taking a shower to warm myself up a bit, I climb into bed naked, next to Alex, who is waiting for me. He makes love to me with just the right mixture of passion and tenderness. This is only the second time I’ve been to bed with him and I’m surprised at how natural it feels.
He falls asleep with his arms around me. At first, I relax and breathe in time with him, but after a while he starts to snore. I’m cold again and I begin to shiver. I slip out of his embrace and get out of bed. I manage to feel my way to the en suite bathroom and I turn on the light in there. Leaving the door open just enough to see what I’m doing, but hopefully not so much that the light will wake up Alex, I move silently across the carpeted floor of the bedroom to the suitcase that contains my nightwear. I look over my shoulder as I unzip the case, but he doesn’t stir.
When I climb back into bed a minute or two later, I’m snug in my fleece pyjamas, but I’m wide awake. I can’t get comfortable. The bed is lumpy and the quilt is tucked in tight around my feet, which I hate. For a while, I toss and turn.
After a few minutes, I realise I’ve disturbed Alex because he turns over and asks, ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. Sorry,’ I whisper, feeling a pang of guilt for waking him. ‘Go back to sleep.’
‘Night, princess,’ he says into my ear as he rolls towards me and puts his arms around me.
I lie still even though I can feel a spring digging into my lower back. Reminded of the story of The Princess and The Pea, I smile wanly in the darkness. Alex’s body is like a hot water bottle against me and now I’m sweating slightly. Listening to the rain outside, I wait for sleep to come. It’s a long wait.
~
The phone rings, waking me up with a start. It takes me a second or two to remember where I am. By the time I’m fully awake, the ringing has stopped.
I’ve been dreaming about Louisa, but I can’t remember the details. I reach out for Alex, but he’s not there. I get out of bed, stretch and walk over to my suitcase to find my slippers and dressing gown. I wonder if he could be in the bathroom, but I don’t hear any water running. I open the door anyway and peep inside. Just as I thought, he’s not in here. I freshen up a bit, and then I make my way downstairs to find him.
‘Alex?’ I call out.
I go into the sitting room, where the fire was crackling last night. It’s chilly in here this morning, and I wrap my dressing gown around me and knot the belt.
‘Alex?’
I walk down the hallway and peep into the kitchen. He’s not in here, either. There’s a strong smell of coffee, which makes me feel queasy even as my tummy rumbles.
As I’m hunting in the cupboards for teabags and a mug, I catch sight of the note. He has written a message on a Post-it and left it next to the kettle.
Gone training. Back in a bit.
Make yourself at home.
Mi casa es tu casa.
Alexxx.
I’m disappointed, of course I am. But it was nice of him not to wake me. He has left out some bread, butter and jam on the worktop.
As I wait for the kettle to boil, I look out of the window at a large tree in the back garden – I remember Alex telling me there was a damson tree, so this must be it. Its trunk is leaning at an angle that seems to defy gravity, but perhaps it’s the visual effect created by the grassy slope. Not far from the tree, there’s a swing set, and behind that, a thick wood.
The window bars give me the unnerving impression that I’m being kept prisoner. The rain is lashing down outside and the sky threatens to keep this up for a while. I don’t expect we’ll be wandering around Grasmere today after all.
The toast pops up and startles me, and this is followed by the telephone ringing again. I’m tempted not to bother answering, but then I think it might be Alex trying to get hold of me. I haven’t turned my mobile on yet, I realise, so he would have to use the landline. I run out into the hall, where the sound is coming from, find the phone and pick up the handset.
‘Hello?’
There’s no answer.
‘Hello?’ I say again.
Still no answer.
‘Alex, is that you?’
I wait for a second, but then there’s a beep as if the caller has hung up. I dial 1471. I think I’d recognise Alex’s mobile number if it was him. But the last caller’s number is withheld. Shrugging, I go back into the kitchen to eat my breakfast.
Sitting at the long wooden table, I feel a bit lost and very alone. To shake off that sensation, I picture Alex and me feeding our children at this table one day. I see myself making cakes with my stepdaughters, whose mother has finally forgiven Alex – for whatever it is she thinks he’s done – and let them come to stay with us. I close my eyes and inhale, imagining the mouth-watering smells wafting towards me from the oven and almost hearing the girls’ laughter.
I’ve always wanted lots of children. At least four. Ideally, two boys then two girls. Having kids was a dream that didn’t come true for me with Kevin. It wasn’t for want of trying. It was the overriding desire to have a baby that killed the passion in our relationship and made it go stale. Looking back, I think it was over long before I left. Or perhaps I’m just telling myself that so I don’t feel so bad about walking out on him.
Alex still isn’t back when I’ve showered and got dressed, so I decide to explore the house. On the ground floor, there are several rooms I haven’t seen yet. There’s another lounge, which also has an open fire, and opposite it, a study. It has alcove built-in wooden cupboards and when I open them, I see they’re empty.
As I discover my new home, I keep mentally comparing it with the house Kevin and I lived in, which we’ve just put on the market. The upstairs bathroom in Minehead would easily fit into either the laundry room or the cloakroom in the Old Vicarage.
Coming back through the hallway, just outside the kitchen, I notice a door near the staircase. I turn the handle, but it’s locked. Briefly, I hunt around for a key – on the wall, in the cupboard under the stairs – but then I leave it. I realise the door probably leads to a cellar and I don’t want to go down there anyway. I walk on towards the staircase.
Upstairs, there are five bedrooms altogether. Ours is the only one with an en suite bathroom, but there is another bathroom and a separate loo along the landing.
Although the views are better from the master bedroom – you can see Lake Grasmere – I prefer the bedroom at the back of the house, which, like the kitchen below, looks out onto the garden. It’s smaller and cosier, with some sort of period fire grate and surround. The walls are painted a warm peach colour, but I notice there are no pictures on them, and it strikes me that I’ve seen no paintings or photos – not even of Alex’s daughters – anywhere in the house.
While I ponder this, I push the last door open wider and step inside. Decorated in pink and lilac, it is a large room with two single beds. Fairies fly around on wall stickers and a giant stuffed cuddly dog lies on a multicoloured rug on the floor.
This must be Poppy and Violet’s bedroom. Then a thought pushes its way into my head. Alex’s daughters would be too old now for fairies and teddies. Alex’s wife walked out on him five years ago and the girls are in their teens now. He said he hadn’t seen them for a year. Surely if they’d come to visit a year ago, they wouldn’t have wanted to sleep in such a childish environment. They would probably each want their own space at their age anyway.
Briefly, this puzzles me. But then I reason with myself. Alex didn’t say the girls had ever come to stay with him before his ex-wife cut off all contact. Maybe they haven’t slept at the Old Vicarage since his wife – ex-wife now – left him. That would explain it.
Sitting down on one of the beds, I run my hand over the hearts on the quilt cover. Quite unexpectedly, a chill runs down my spine. I scan the room. It’s beautifully decorated. There are toys, games and children’s books everywhere. And yet, there’s something I don’t like about it. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. The sense that someone was very unhappy in here? No, that’s not it. Scared more than unhappy. In danger, even. As if something bad once happened in here.
I laugh at my silliness. I’ve always had an overactive imagination. Julie would have taken it seriously, though. My elder sister is into feng shui and mental wellness. She’s reluctant to set foot in Dad’s house now on the pretext that it has had negative energy and bad vibes since Mum died. I’ll have to invite Julie to stay with us at the Old Vicarage. She’ll have the chi flowing, or whatever it is you need to do, in no time.
I decide to start unpacking. Maybe when I’ve tidied away all my things, I’ll feel at home in this house.
Mi casa es tu casa.
Hopefully Alex will be home soon. That will help, too.
Today is the first day of the rest of my life, I say to myself. A completely different life to the one I’ve had until now.
To: kaitlyn.best@newzmail.co.uk
From: alexanderriley9987@premiernet.co.uk
Sent: Mon, 01 Aug 2016 at 23:34
Subject: KISMET, KATE
Dear Katie,
I was thinking today how lucky I am that you sent me a friend request on Facebook. You can’t imagine how glad I am that we’ve reconnected after all this time. And speaking of Facebook, I was beginning to think I’d never get to see a photo of you other than with your family and friends on your wall. Thank you so much for your selfie! You’re beautiful!
I love you being part of my day. Thanks to all your emails and texts, it feels like you’re close even though you’re so far away. Plus I like to know what you’re doing and where you are. You’re very funny, and you made me laugh out loud this afternoon when I was in a boring meeting with my accountant.
Katie, you said this is moving too fast for you and you feel a bit overwhelmed, but I’ve never felt a connection like this before. We’ve only been in touch again for a month, but it’s as if I’ve known you for so much longer. Perhaps it’s because of all we have in common. At the same time, I have this urge to make up for lost time. Two decades! You understand, don’t you?
I don’t believe in fate or anything like that. But I do wonder if things sometimes happen for a reason, and I think that you coming back into my life at this moment in time was meant to be! It feels so right. You’re the real deal.
You said Kevin was going to the pub with his mates tomorrow evening. Would you like to FaceTime? I love hearing your voice on the phone, but it would be even lovelier to see you!
Sorry if I’ve come on a bit strong this evening. I’ve been on the single malt! I’ll say goodnight now and leave you in peace! You’ll be my last thought before I go to bed and my first thought when I wake up. And I’ll probably dream about you, too. Hope that’s all right with you.
Night,
Alexxx
Chapter 2 (#ulink_aa1ef98a-7c08-5b57-a4ab-dc0193c75048)
~
I’m desperate to get out of the house, but it doesn’t look like we’re going to be able to go outside the next morning, either. The rain is still beating down, although, looking out through the bars of our bedroom window, I can see a tiny patch of clear sky over the lake. My mother used to say if there was enough blue to make a pair of trousers for a sailor, the weather would turn out fine. Wishing I’d inherited her optimism as I stare at the sky, I reflect that the seaman in question would have to be fairly small.
I sigh, and Alex pleads with me to get back into bed. He’s lying on his back, his hands clasped behind his head. He seems to be appraising my bare body. I kneel on the bed next to him.
‘Lie on your tummy,’ I order. He doesn’t move for a second or two, but then he turns over. I start to knead his shoulders. He groans – in pleasure, I hope, rather than pain, but just in case, I massage his muscles more softly.
‘Is this new?’ I ask, running my fingers over his right shoulder. ‘I haven’t seen it before.’
‘Is what new? Oh, the tattoo. Well, I had it done before Justin Bieber if that’s what you mean.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Bastard has the same tat. It’s Banksy.’
‘I know that,’ I say, admiring the artwork inked onto Alex’s skin. The picture is of a girl with her hand stretched out towards a red balloon. ‘My nephew Oscar is a big fan. We’ve taken him to Bristol a couple of times to see Banksy’s street art and some of his works on display at M Shed.’
‘Well, Girl with a Balloon appeared on a wall somewhere in London, not Bristol,’ Alex informs me. ‘I still haven’t decided if I want the caption inked on next to it.’
‘What is it?’
‘There is always hope,’ he says.
I examine it again. The balloon is heart-shaped. It’s not clear to me if the girl has let go of the balloon or if she’s trying to catch it. Either way, it’s out of her reach. Before I can ask Alex any more about it, he jumps out of bed.
‘Breakfast in bed,’ he says. ‘You wait here.’
I’m left for a while to muse on Alex’s choice of body art design. I would have thought he’d go for something more athletic, but I’m not sure what exactly. I suppose you wouldn’t have the five Olympic rings unless you’d actually competed in an Olympic Games. Or the Nike logo unless they sponsored you. And a slogan like “no pain, no gain” would be a bit trite. But something along those lines. I didn’t even know he had a tattoo. I’m surprised at this, although I’d only seen him naked once before coming here, and on that occasion the lights were dimmed.
I allow myself to reminisce about that night. It was four months ago. I close my eyes and can feel myself smiling. I remember Alex stripping off his clothes in a few seconds flat and then climbing into bed. He lay on his back, propped up on his elbows, watching me undress as he waited for me to join him. I’d been amused and turned on by how keen he seemed. Thinking about it now, it’s hardly surprising I didn’t see the tattoo on the back of his shoulder.
I noticed the scars, though. At the time, I didn’t dare ask him about those. Now, I’m burning with curiosity.
Alex comes back into the bedroom, carrying a tray. Smelling the toast, I’m conscious of how hungry I am. I plump the pillows up behind me and sit up straight as he puts the tray down carefully on my lap and gets into bed next to me.
‘Don’t get too used to this,’ he warns, twirling a strand of my red wavy hair between his fingers and then taking a mug from the tray.
At first I don’t understand what he’s referring to, but then I catch him looking down pointedly at my tummy.
‘Lie-ins will soon be nothing more than a distant memory,’ he adds. ‘Or is the plural lies-in?’ He slurps his tea.
‘No. You were right first time. Lie-ins.’
‘Ask the language expert,’ he says. He puts his mug down on the bedside table, and then he starts to fondle one of my breasts. ‘And is it my imagination, or have these already got a bit bigger?’
‘It’s wishful thinking on your part, I’d say,’ I reply, mirroring his grin. ‘Seeing as we’re on the subject of bodies …’ I begin in a more serious voice.
‘Ye-es?’
Gently, I take his arm and stroke his wrists. ‘Can I ask about your scars?’
‘OK,’ he says, but then there’s an awkward silence and I regret bringing it up. ‘Well, it’s not a big secret. I was nineteen,’ he says eventually. ‘I’d left school. I was supposedly on a gap year, but I ran out of money very early on, got dumped by my girlfriend when we were in Australia and came home. I started to hang out with the wrong crowd, we were taking drugs, I got depressed …’
‘Go on,’ I say when he pauses.
‘Long story short, one evening I decided to end it all. I was a stupid, self-absorbed teenager. I ran a hot bath, got in and slit my wrists.’
I’d only seen scars on his left wrist. I resist the urge to turn over his right arm, particularly as he’s holding his mug and I don’t want to scald him.
He sees me peering at his other hand, though, and adds, ‘Well, my wrist. I did it wrong. Used my right arm. Apparently if you’re right-handed, like I am, you should start by slitting your right wrist. That way, you can finish the job off better when you need to swap hands. And I managed to cut into a tendon in my left arm. I was in agony even though I hadn’t cut nearly deep enough to kill myself. So, it was a botched job.’
I can hear my own breathing. It has become shallow. I’m uncomfortable talking about his suicide attempt, so I don’t say the words that have just wormed their way into my head. There are more foolproof methods than slitting your wrists. Nor do I point out that he should have cut vertically rather than across his wrists. How do I even know that? ‘I’m so glad it was a botched job,’ I say instead, nuzzling in to him as much as I can without upsetting the breakfast tray on my lap or the mug in his hand.
‘So am I,’ he murmurs, kissing the top of my head.
And then it hits me like a punch to the stomach. If Alex was nineteen, I would have been seventeen. My chest tightens at that thought and I feel nauseous. I have a sudden vision of Alex throwing himself off a cliff and plummeting to his death.
I leap out of bed, making Alex cry out as I cause him to spill his tea. I make it to the bathroom just in time. Seconds later, he is next to me, holding back my hair with one hand and rubbing my back the other as I throw up into the toilet.
‘Morning sickness,’ he comments wryly when I’ve finished retching.
It’s not, but I don’t contradict him.
~
The sun comes out in the early afternoon and so Alex drives us the short distance into Grasmere. I’d rather walk, but I don’t protest; I’m just happy to get out of the house. There are lots of people out and about. From the car park, it’s a short walk to St Oswald’s church, where William Wordsworth is buried. We follow the path round to the back of the church, walking on paving stones with people’s names and hometowns engraved on them. From a much bigger paving slab, I read aloud the first verse of ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud’, Wordsworth’s most famous poem.
After Alex has shown me the Wordsworth family’s tombstones, we go by foot to Dove Cottage, a little further up the road. The sign on the house says The loveliest spot that man hath ever found. ‘It is really beautiful here,’ I say. ‘I can see why the area inspired him to write his poetry.’
‘He lived in this cottage with his sister, Dorothy,’ Alex says informatively. ‘They were very close.’
Unbidden, tears well up in my eyes, and I brush them away with my sleeve before Alex can see. I miss Louisa terribly. When we were little, we swore we would live together in the same house, with our husbands. Being without her is like being without a part of myself. Even now, all sorts of things remind me of her. Smells, songs, phrases. Not for the first time, I wonder if one day the void in me can be filled.
By now I’m used to feeling I’m not quite complete, but I feel a very special bond with Alex, similar to the one I once had with my twin sister. Alex and I like the same music, the same activities, the same TV programmes. He often reads my mind, just like Louisa did.
‘There’s a walk that goes from here to Rydal Mount,’ Alex says, interrupting my thoughts. ‘That’s the house he bought once he became rich and famous.’
‘Ooh, can we go and see it?’
‘Well, it’s about five and a half miles altogether,’ Alex says, ‘and there’s a bit of a hill.’
‘I won’t break, Alex.’
‘Yes, but you’re supposed to be taking things easy, the doctor said.’
‘She also said it would do me good to walk.’
‘It’s a bit chilly, though. Wordsworth died because he caught a cold you know,’ he says, elbowing me playfully in the ribs.
‘That was in 1850,’ I say, pleased with myself for remembering the date on the tombstone. ‘Anyway, if you show me the way instead of standing around pretending to argue with me, we’ll soon warm up climbing that hill you mentioned.’
Alex chuckles. ‘Come on, then.’
He takes my hand and leads me along a country lane. He proves himself to be a great guide and he knows a lot about the area, its geography and its history. He points out Helm Crag, whose distinctive peak, according to Alex, has earned it the nickname the Lion and the Lamb. I stare at it, shielding my eyes, but I can’t see anything remotely resembling a large feline or a woolly ruminant.
‘That sounds more like the name of a pub than of a fell,’ I comment, but if Alex hears me, he doesn’t respond.
It’s a lovely walk and the sun stays with us the whole time. I’m so glad that the weather has brightened up and we weren’t stuck in the house all day today like we were yesterday, although after my journey up here, it was great to have a lazy day, too, especially as it was spent mostly in bed with Alex. I look at Alex and he smiles at me. A warm feeling of happiness engulfs me as I beam back.
‘This route is part of the Coffin Trail,’ Alex announces, a little further up the hill. That wipes the smile off my face for a moment.
‘The Coffin Trail?’
‘Yes. People used to carry the coffins down this hill to St Oswald’s church to bury their dead.’
We continue to walk up the hill and after a while, we arrive at the tiny village of Rydal. A dog barks as we walk around the grounds of Wordsworth’s home, and again as we walk away, down the hill. On our left is a large sloping field.
‘This is Dora’s field,’ Alex resumes. ‘Dora was Wordsworth’s favourite daughter and he was heartbroken when she died.’
‘What did she die of?’ I ask, intrigued.
He shrugs. ‘No idea,’ he says. ‘He lost all his children. Dora was the only one left but then she died, too. He planted hundreds of daffodils in this field as a memorial to her. It’s quite impressive in the spring when the flowers are in bloom.’
A line from the verse I read on the church paving stone echoes in my head.
A host of golden daffodils.
‘That’s so sad,’ I say.
‘Yes, it is,’ Alex agrees. ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like for a father to lose his children.’
It crosses my mind that in a way Alex has lost his daughters. For the moment, at least. His ex-wife won’t let him see them. I wonder if that’s what is going through his head. Then my thoughts turn to my own father. And my mother. It seems to me that it’s somehow far worse for a mother to lose a child, but I keep this to myself.
Alex and I sit down on a wooden bench and admire the view over Rydal Water.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ Alex says, letting go of my hand and thrusting his hand into the pocket of his jeans. He brings out a small blue jewellery box.
I open it and gasp at the necklace inside. ‘Thank you. It’s beautiful,’ I say. And it is. It’s a red heart crystal pendant on a silver chain and I’m instantly reminded of his tattoo.
Alex puts it around my neck and I hold my hair up and bow my head so that he can do up the clasp.
‘Maybe you can wear it on the day,’ he suggests.
I tilt my head upwards to kiss his lips, suddenly aware that the sun has gone behind a cloud and the air has become cooler since we’ve been sitting on the bench. Alex must feel me shiver as he suggests we get on with our walk.
I take his hand as we get up from the bench, but he pulls it away to scratch his nose. I turn my head to follow his gaze and see a woman coming down the path towards us, chatting away to her little white dog. I’m not sure what breed it is. I sense Alex hesitate next to me before striding more purposefully up the path. I have to quicken my pace to keep up.
The woman widens her dark oval eyes, which seem to bore into me as she approaches. I think she’s about to say something as she opens her large mouth, revealing a rather prominent set of very white teeth. She has short dark brown hair with red highlights, and severely plucked eyebrows, which only serve to heighten the look of shock on her face. She brushes my arm as we pass.
‘Do you know her?’ I whisper.
‘Never seen her before in my life.’ He has answered me so loudly that I nudge him, certain that the woman has heard him.
But I can tell something is not quite right. I look at him askance.
He glances over his shoulder. ‘I’m just a bit wary of dogs,’ he admits in a much quieter voice than before.
This amuses me. That white dog is so small, after all, and Alex is tall and strong, and he doesn’t seem to be afraid of much.
Something else I didn’t know about him. Perhaps I don’t know him quite as well as I thought. This idea makes me a little uneasy, but that feeling is quickly dispelled as I imagine the fun we’ll have getting to know each other better.
To: kaitlyn.best@newzmail.co.uk
From: alexanderriley9987@premiernet.co.uk
Sent: Sat, 10 Sept 2016 at 22:56
Subject: SEE YOU!
Dearest Katie,
I’m sorry if my replies to your emails have been so brief lately. I’ve been really busy at work. I promise to make it up to you. Maybe I can do that very soon …
I’ve got a proposition for you: would you do me the honour of dining with me one evening? I have a supplier in Exeter and he has just brought out a whole new collection of sports clothing, which I’d like to go and see for myself. I’m planning to go down by train next month. If you’d like to meet up, I can time it so it’s on a day when you’re working at the university. I’d love to meet up with you again after all these years!
Now I know we’ve been getting kinky in our emails recently (I love it when you talk dirty – you’re so hot!) and I know you wanted to try and slow things down a bit, but I assure you that I can be the perfect gentleman and I’ll be on my best behaviour. I’m just asking you to let me take you … out for a meal.
If you don’t think this is a good idea, please say so. If I walked through the door of a restaurant with you on my arm (or at my side) I would probably burst with pride anyway, so you’ll be saving me from that fate if you turn me down.
What do you think?
See you soon, maybe?
Alexxx
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Diane Jeffrey
‘A tense, gripping domestic noir that shows just how fast the dream of a new life can turn into your worst nightmare’T.M. LoganNo matter where you hide…Kaitlyn Best is stuck in a rut. So when she discovers she's pregnant after a one-night-stand with Alex, her school crush, she throws caution to the wind and accepts his offer to make a new life together in the depths of the Lake District, far from her home… and her demons.He will find you.But Alex is not what he seems. And when Kaitlyn's world begins to crumble before her eyes, she realises she barely knows the man she has agreed to spend the rest of her life with.Since Alex won't tell her his secrets, Kaitlyn vows to find them out for herself. But when she uncovers the truth, she realises she has made a terrible mistake…Following her 2017 bestselling psychological thriller Those Who Lie, Diane Jeffrey is back with another chilling story of domestic suspense, perfect for fans of BA Paris and Sandie Jones.Praise for He Will Find You‘Tense and compelling, a genuinely thrilling read’Elizabeth Haynes‘Brimming with tension, riddled with doubt and suspicion, insidious and compelling with a terrifying ending that had me catching my breath’Sue Fortin‘A tense, gripping domestic noir that shows just how fast the dream of a new life can turn into your worst nightmare’T.M. Logan
About the Author (#u5450d33b-0b19-5f55-a18a-672f13054af8)
Diane Jeffrey grew up in North Devon, in the UK. She lives in Lyon, France with her husband and their three children, Labrador, cat and kitten. He Will Find You is her second psychological thriller.
Diane is an English teacher. When she’s not working or writing, she likes swimming, running and reading. She loves chocolate, beer and holidays.
Above all, she enjoys spending time with her family and friends.
Readers can follow Diane on Twitter @dianefjeffrey or on Facebook.com/dianejeffreyauthor
PRAISE FOR THOSE WHO LIE (#u5450d33b-0b19-5f55-a18a-672f13054af8)
‘A scorchingly good thriller’ Lisa Hall, bestselling author of Between You and Me
‘A tantalising and taut thriller with more twists and turns than a corkscrew. Red herrings swim all the way through it. An excellent page turner’ Sally (Goodreads)
‘This is a must read for anyone who lives to delve into psychological thrillers!’ Linda Strong
‘With brilliant main characters and a wonderful plot, this book is a real page turner. I would highly recommend this book.’ Stephanie Collins
‘I absolutely adored this book.’ Lu Dex
‘Great book…keeps you guessing!! If you love twists and turns then this book if for you!’ Diane Merrit
‘With twists and turns that will wrong-foot you all the way, a dash of dark humour and a strong emotional punch, this is an excellent debut that more than earns its place within the genre.’ S.J.I. Holliday, author of Black Wood
Also by Diane Jeffrey (#u5450d33b-0b19-5f55-a18a-672f13054af8)
Those Who Lie
He Will Find You
DIANE JEFFREY
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Diane Jeffrey 2018
Diane Jeffrey asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © August 2018 ISBN: 9780008297602
Version: 2018-07-11
No matter where you hide… (#ulink_8304c26f-0590-5840-ad32-3ec3c5d2cd0b)
Kaitlyn Best is stuck in a rut. So when she discovers she’s pregnant after a one-night stand with Alex, her school crush, she throws caution to the wind and accepts his offer to make a new life together in the depths of the Lake District, far from her home… and her demons.
He will find you.
But Alex is not what he seems. And when Kaitlyn’s world begins to crumble before her eyes, she realises she barely knows the man she has agreed to spend the rest of her life with.
Since Alex won’t tell her his secrets, Kaitlin vows to find them out for herself. But when she uncovers the truth, she realises she has made a terrible mistake…
Following her 2017 bestselling psychological thrillerThose Who Lie, Diane Jeffrey is back with another chilling story of domestic suspense, perfect for fans of BA Paris and Sandie Jones.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u803e607f-0e11-5f63-a635-ca4b873fae92)
About the Author (#u9088db87-5b91-5566-9133-8a1ed227f49a)
Praise for Those Who Lie (#u4d6e4cc5-0a43-549e-899a-52662945c173)
Also by Diane Jeffrey (#u0f734092-5ec9-5c02-b206-a7dfb8f241b7)
Title Page (#u65efc3df-2965-575a-80bb-17bd6b04685c)
Copyright (#u14089c84-e706-5c15-913c-f66fa377daf3)
No Matter Where You Hide… (#u55cde44d-8bcd-578d-a804-18986b569b4c)
Dedication (#ua766963e-59ea-5f58-b1ea-350473a5173a)
Epigraph (#ub8a94727-9224-55f9-8d78-4d4f5db9775c)
2017 (#u043574a0-1179-5d70-aacd-4a6dc403731c)
Chapter 1 (#u755bef72-1fff-5832-9e35-60d8ff8b23c6)
Chapter 2 (#ue56002f9-f9e8-5a19-98df-ab0ec12c20dc)
Chapter 3 (#u38376c68-b269-5e0e-b37c-2e0aed1f5e2a)
Chapter 4 (#uc6bcd58f-bca8-5394-abae-ea4a24c4fc23)
Chapter 5 (#u1974e831-1ff3-51b6-8c3d-c15c3267b577)
Chapter 6 (#u2ab4b919-70bc-5ce0-b6b0-fed6bb60e32e)
Chapter 7 (#u1c1e3404-0c83-5996-a428-2bd70a06c7a1)
Chapter 8 (#u7e6cad0f-83e0-56b1-a854-35db14d4e180)
Chapter 9 (#u8be23dec-b17f-551d-9f13-2ca909e574b6)
Chapter 10 (#ua7e86628-01f4-58c7-8fa3-0cc5aaadbfda)
Chapter 11 (#u84fdaa96-6302-5b27-94d1-5014b6b70fee)
Chapter 12 (#u93e56d0e-652a-5705-9843-173f43a4cd44)
Chapter 13 (#ue3bf51cb-b0e1-587a-9b82-f9a9c6099245)
Chapter 14 (#ue9b7b7a8-974c-5d43-ab3c-05baac48d98a)
Chapter 15 (#ub589ef9a-4331-5236-aed3-26eb2af9b403)
Chapter 16 (#u4920f396-6024-54d6-8181-83e527f94d14)
Chapter 17 (#u86e3ad8a-2e49-5362-b27d-05a6e4f84a00)
Chapter 18 (#u45f64cc9-3cc9-5dde-b7ec-61de42f47b32)
Chapter 19 (#ucc3ffdda-e05b-5e4e-98cc-f87b1c288232)
Chapter 20 (#u378bea9e-e1fc-527f-9c0c-875d4604f3e9)
Chapter 21 (#u89066de7-a172-5dbd-b68a-e1b595b4b8c9)
Chapter 22 (#u428ae482-18e6-5b50-bf64-bd6441e74611)
Chapter 23 (#u236554eb-875f-5be5-97fa-e48b5ad5ef5f)
Chapter 24 (#ucf4d05f5-1eb4-55de-8fe0-b830ef80a4be)
Chapter 25 (#u3d64a9a4-b085-5d01-977c-52ba626f06ac)
Chapter 26 (#ub5d80749-1d16-5ad0-9b84-e9c2be4b7672)
Chapter 27 (#u324209a6-fc08-56f1-ab78-e95f382325ca)
Chapter 28 (#ud7126efc-2618-5789-a834-6e05c6a2dd9d)
2019 (#u7442a591-b65e-5d73-b244-f4802efde5db)
Epilogue (#u9eff95e8-2769-5d7f-9c2e-6a6d3a463712)
Acknowledgements (#u45503063-a3b0-59b6-a54c-60d1ec1c0b67)
Read on (#uad3437e2-f6ff-5423-b60e-b087c228d425)
About the Publisher (#u816c52e2-a169-5ffe-898e-9a314f916622)
For my three wonderful children, Benjamin, Amélie and Elise.
You make my world beautiful.
You don’t have to read this book, but if you do, please wait until you’re much older.
I love you,
Mummy xxx
“What the truth is and what we want as the truth are two separate things.
The former sheds light; the latter darkness.”
Unknown
~
2017 (#ulink_19b233bc-488a-5d98-aa23-d13bb0fe5f96)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_f796bbe4-d1e6-5b6e-aa2f-1c1526f28424)
~
This can’t be it, I think, my heart sinking as I see it for the very first time. I pull in to the side of the country lane. Resting my arms over the steering wheel, I lean forwards and study the house through the windscreen. Even from this distance it appears austere. Isolated. Built in cold, dark grey stone, the building dominates the valley from the top of a steep gravel driveway. It is prison-like with its barred sash windows. It must be at least five times the size of the two-bedroom semi my boyfriend – ex-boyfriend – and I bought as our first home ten years ago in Minehead.
I look to the right, observing the lush green grass speckled black and white with sheep, and beyond that the blue-brown water of Lake Grasmere. I’m struck by how incongruous this residence seems against the surrounding countryside. This isn’t the right place. But a quick glance at the black and white chequered flag on the satnav screen confirms that I have arrived at my destination. Even so, I remain hopeful that the right house might be situated a few metres further along the road until I see the slate sign on the wooden gate. The Old Vicarage.
I can’t quite believe it. It has taken me nearly eight hours to drive all this way, but I’m here at last. The Old Vicarage, my new home. I’ve left everything and everyone I know; I’ve left my whole life behind in Somerset. Here I am, moving to a region I’ve never visited, into a house I haven’t laid eyes on before. This is the start of a new existence for me. It should be exciting, but I feel so scared. Butterflies are hurtling around in my stomach. It’s only to be expected, I suppose. This is such a monumental change.
As I get out of the car to open the gate, I notice a mailbox. To my surprise, my name is on it. He has handwritten it on a scrap of white paper and stuck it next to his own name, engraved on the rectangular metal plate. It must have rained since it was added because the ink has run slightly where the Sellotape has come away. I can still make out my name, though. KAITLYN BEST. But even that is about to change.
There is a cattle grid and I’m careful walking over it as I push the gate open. I have to get out of the car again to close the gate once I’ve driven through it. It’s only then that I realise how cold it is outside this evening. Even as I shiver, I can’t help but admire the view of the fields and the lake. The daylight is fading fast now, but the scene is breathtaking. I could get used to this place.
But then I turn around and see the house again. It’s late Georgian, although it makes me think of a Gothic castle. It’s been in his family for years, this place, and I know he loves it. Telling myself it’s probably more welcoming inside, I drive up to the house.
I use the heavy knocker to bang on the front door. I wait for several seconds, but there’s no sign of anyone moving inside. I step down from the porch and pace up and down in front of the house, looking around me and pushing my hands into my coat pockets for warmth. Creeper covers part of the wall. I imagine in any other season it must look beautiful and detract from the drab colour of the stone, but at this time of the year the web of spindly branches looks dead and bare. There’s a light on upstairs. He must be here. I’ll try again and then I’ll text him.
Am I making a terrible mistake? I wonder, not for the first time. My dad and my elder sister both tried to talk me out of coming here. After all, I’ve only seen this man once in the past twenty years. I step forwards again and go to grab the knocker, but then I spot a metal handle hanging down to my right and so I pull on it instead. I hear a loud chime sound inside the house. Seconds later, the door opens and he’s standing there. Alexander Riley. My heart beats madly. He’s smiling and it warms me through. Any doubts I had evaporate as I look up into his handsome face.
‘Katie,’ he says, sweeping me into his arms and squeezing me so tightly I can hardly breathe. He smells amazing. ‘Come in. Welcome.’ He releases me, takes my hand and leads me into the house. ‘Would you like something to drink?’ He doesn’t pause for me to answer. ‘I hope your drive wasn’t too long,’ he gushes as we walk side by side through the entrance hall, away from a huge pine staircase leading upstairs.
‘Here’s the sitting room. Go on through and I’ll bring you some tea.’ He pushes me gently into a spacious room to the left with high ceilings and a log fire burning at the end of it. ‘I’ll bring your stuff in from the car later. I’m so glad you’re finally here.’ And with that, he disappears.
I stand with my back to the fire for a couple of minutes, admiring the built-in bookshelves. Many of them have books on them, but there’s more than enough space for some of my paperbacks when I bring up the boxes I’ve stored at my dad’s house.
Feeling exhausted after the journey, I sink into an armchair. I look out of a sash window at the other end of the room. This one has thin wooden bars, too, in keeping with the Georgian period, no doubt. They’re supposed to be decorative, I imagine, but I find them disturbing. The windowpanes are black now; night has fallen quickly.
Alex soon comes back carrying a tray with sandwiches, biscuits, a teapot and two mugs. He puts it down on the coffee table. Then he walks over to the sideboard and pours himself a Scotch. Holding the glass in one hand, he puts his arm around me from behind my armchair and, stroking my breasts and then my tummy, he plants a kiss on the top of my head. Then he bends over the coffee table, and from a little bowl on the tray he takes two ice cubes, which chink as he drops them into the amber liquid. He drags a heavy armchair nearer to mine and sits down.
I watch him as he does all this, his blue eyes bright with excitement. Tall with dark curly hair, he’s very good-looking. I know he has an incredible, muscular body under those jeans and that sweater. When he smiles, dimples appear in his cheeks. He has an aquiline nose. His sideburns are way too long, but I find this endearing. His face has the healthy glow – even in winter – of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors. I have so many photos of him – I’ve kept all the photos he sent me in his emails – but none of them really do him justice.
‘I’m finding it hard to believe we’re finally together,’ he says, picking up the teapot and swirling it around. Then he pours tea into a mug that already has a little milk in it. ‘Do you take sugar?’ he asks.
It seems strange, this question, when we know each other so well. At school, I hardly talked to him. I fancied him like mad, but I kept that a secret from everyone, especially him. Both my sisters had more to do with him than I did back then. But since we reconnected about seven months ago – initially thanks to Facebook – we’ve exchanged hundreds and hundreds of emails and phone calls. We’ve spent hours and hours chatting on FaceTime.
We’ve talked about our respective families in detail. I’ve never met Alex’s children, but he has told me all about them so I feel as if I have. I know that Alex’s favourite dish is shepherd’s pie and that his favourite dessert is tiramisu. I could tell you his place of birth, his date of birth, his hobbies and interests and his tastes in music. I know so much about his education and career that I could probably write his CV.
He read Wuthering Heights when I told him it was the best book I’d ever read and he watched The Piano because I told him I loved that film. Once, he sent me a purple silk scarf and another time, I received a pink T-shirt because these are my favourite colours. He knows I adore roses and lilies and he has had bouquets delivered to both my place of work and home. He knows I hate take-offs and landings on planes. He’s familiar with my deepest fears and darkest secrets. He could even describe my sexual fantasies.
But he has no idea how I drink my tea. I do take sugar, usually, but I can see that Alex hasn’t put any on the tray, so I shake my head.
Alex talks non-stop when he gets excited – I know this from our numerous phone calls – and he babbles away as we eat. He says that tomorrow we’ll visit Grasmere. He mentions a famous gingerbread shop, which he says is open almost every day of the year. And he promises to show me William Wordsworth’s house and his grave.
I love the idea that this Romantic poet, whose works I studied at school, links my old home to my new home. I’ve come from Somerset to the Lake District; William Wordsworth did the opposite. He moved from Cumbria to the village of Nether Stowey, which is only about fifty miles from Porlock, where I grew up. And slightly closer to Minehead, where I lived until this morning. Eventually, Wordsworth returned to his roots. He was homesick. I hope I won’t be.
I have that familiar nervous feeling in my tummy as I wonder again if I’ve made the right decision coming here. But it’s a bit late to be asking myself that question now. The rain starts to beat down all of a sudden and Alex gets up to pull the thick curtains across the two sets of bay windows. Before sitting back down in his chair, he kisses my cheek, and once again I’m reassured and content.
We chat for ages, although Alex does most of the talking. Even though it can’t be that late, I yawn. Alex immediately leaps up and clears away the tray. Then he insists that I stay by the fire while he brings in my things. I protest and get up to help, but he won’t hear of it.
‘You lost a lot of blood,’ he says. ‘You’re not to take any more risks.’
It wasn’t a lot, really, but I’m not going to argue.
The car is packed to the hilt with boxes, suitcases and bags, and it takes him about forty minutes. I feel a bit bad about letting him lug in all my stuff by himself, but I really don’t want to go out in the rain. I’ve had a long drive and it’s all too easy to persuade myself I’m only doing what I’ve been told. So, closing my eyes, I enjoy the heat emanating from the fire.
When he has finished, Alex comes back into the sitting room, combing his wet hair with the fingers of one hand and holding his other hand out to me. He pulls me out of my chair and leads the way upstairs. He has left the boxes and bags in the entrance hall, which he calls ‘the vestibule’, but he has brought my cases upstairs to the master bedroom, which is similar in size to the entire ground floor of the house I’ve just moved out of in Somerset.
It’s cold up here and I’m almost reluctant to take off my clothes. After taking a shower to warm myself up a bit, I climb into bed naked, next to Alex, who is waiting for me. He makes love to me with just the right mixture of passion and tenderness. This is only the second time I’ve been to bed with him and I’m surprised at how natural it feels.
He falls asleep with his arms around me. At first, I relax and breathe in time with him, but after a while he starts to snore. I’m cold again and I begin to shiver. I slip out of his embrace and get out of bed. I manage to feel my way to the en suite bathroom and I turn on the light in there. Leaving the door open just enough to see what I’m doing, but hopefully not so much that the light will wake up Alex, I move silently across the carpeted floor of the bedroom to the suitcase that contains my nightwear. I look over my shoulder as I unzip the case, but he doesn’t stir.
When I climb back into bed a minute or two later, I’m snug in my fleece pyjamas, but I’m wide awake. I can’t get comfortable. The bed is lumpy and the quilt is tucked in tight around my feet, which I hate. For a while, I toss and turn.
After a few minutes, I realise I’ve disturbed Alex because he turns over and asks, ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. Sorry,’ I whisper, feeling a pang of guilt for waking him. ‘Go back to sleep.’
‘Night, princess,’ he says into my ear as he rolls towards me and puts his arms around me.
I lie still even though I can feel a spring digging into my lower back. Reminded of the story of The Princess and The Pea, I smile wanly in the darkness. Alex’s body is like a hot water bottle against me and now I’m sweating slightly. Listening to the rain outside, I wait for sleep to come. It’s a long wait.
~
The phone rings, waking me up with a start. It takes me a second or two to remember where I am. By the time I’m fully awake, the ringing has stopped.
I’ve been dreaming about Louisa, but I can’t remember the details. I reach out for Alex, but he’s not there. I get out of bed, stretch and walk over to my suitcase to find my slippers and dressing gown. I wonder if he could be in the bathroom, but I don’t hear any water running. I open the door anyway and peep inside. Just as I thought, he’s not in here. I freshen up a bit, and then I make my way downstairs to find him.
‘Alex?’ I call out.
I go into the sitting room, where the fire was crackling last night. It’s chilly in here this morning, and I wrap my dressing gown around me and knot the belt.
‘Alex?’
I walk down the hallway and peep into the kitchen. He’s not in here, either. There’s a strong smell of coffee, which makes me feel queasy even as my tummy rumbles.
As I’m hunting in the cupboards for teabags and a mug, I catch sight of the note. He has written a message on a Post-it and left it next to the kettle.
Gone training. Back in a bit.
Make yourself at home.
Mi casa es tu casa.
Alexxx.
I’m disappointed, of course I am. But it was nice of him not to wake me. He has left out some bread, butter and jam on the worktop.
As I wait for the kettle to boil, I look out of the window at a large tree in the back garden – I remember Alex telling me there was a damson tree, so this must be it. Its trunk is leaning at an angle that seems to defy gravity, but perhaps it’s the visual effect created by the grassy slope. Not far from the tree, there’s a swing set, and behind that, a thick wood.
The window bars give me the unnerving impression that I’m being kept prisoner. The rain is lashing down outside and the sky threatens to keep this up for a while. I don’t expect we’ll be wandering around Grasmere today after all.
The toast pops up and startles me, and this is followed by the telephone ringing again. I’m tempted not to bother answering, but then I think it might be Alex trying to get hold of me. I haven’t turned my mobile on yet, I realise, so he would have to use the landline. I run out into the hall, where the sound is coming from, find the phone and pick up the handset.
‘Hello?’
There’s no answer.
‘Hello?’ I say again.
Still no answer.
‘Alex, is that you?’
I wait for a second, but then there’s a beep as if the caller has hung up. I dial 1471. I think I’d recognise Alex’s mobile number if it was him. But the last caller’s number is withheld. Shrugging, I go back into the kitchen to eat my breakfast.
Sitting at the long wooden table, I feel a bit lost and very alone. To shake off that sensation, I picture Alex and me feeding our children at this table one day. I see myself making cakes with my stepdaughters, whose mother has finally forgiven Alex – for whatever it is she thinks he’s done – and let them come to stay with us. I close my eyes and inhale, imagining the mouth-watering smells wafting towards me from the oven and almost hearing the girls’ laughter.
I’ve always wanted lots of children. At least four. Ideally, two boys then two girls. Having kids was a dream that didn’t come true for me with Kevin. It wasn’t for want of trying. It was the overriding desire to have a baby that killed the passion in our relationship and made it go stale. Looking back, I think it was over long before I left. Or perhaps I’m just telling myself that so I don’t feel so bad about walking out on him.
Alex still isn’t back when I’ve showered and got dressed, so I decide to explore the house. On the ground floor, there are several rooms I haven’t seen yet. There’s another lounge, which also has an open fire, and opposite it, a study. It has alcove built-in wooden cupboards and when I open them, I see they’re empty.
As I discover my new home, I keep mentally comparing it with the house Kevin and I lived in, which we’ve just put on the market. The upstairs bathroom in Minehead would easily fit into either the laundry room or the cloakroom in the Old Vicarage.
Coming back through the hallway, just outside the kitchen, I notice a door near the staircase. I turn the handle, but it’s locked. Briefly, I hunt around for a key – on the wall, in the cupboard under the stairs – but then I leave it. I realise the door probably leads to a cellar and I don’t want to go down there anyway. I walk on towards the staircase.
Upstairs, there are five bedrooms altogether. Ours is the only one with an en suite bathroom, but there is another bathroom and a separate loo along the landing.
Although the views are better from the master bedroom – you can see Lake Grasmere – I prefer the bedroom at the back of the house, which, like the kitchen below, looks out onto the garden. It’s smaller and cosier, with some sort of period fire grate and surround. The walls are painted a warm peach colour, but I notice there are no pictures on them, and it strikes me that I’ve seen no paintings or photos – not even of Alex’s daughters – anywhere in the house.
While I ponder this, I push the last door open wider and step inside. Decorated in pink and lilac, it is a large room with two single beds. Fairies fly around on wall stickers and a giant stuffed cuddly dog lies on a multicoloured rug on the floor.
This must be Poppy and Violet’s bedroom. Then a thought pushes its way into my head. Alex’s daughters would be too old now for fairies and teddies. Alex’s wife walked out on him five years ago and the girls are in their teens now. He said he hadn’t seen them for a year. Surely if they’d come to visit a year ago, they wouldn’t have wanted to sleep in such a childish environment. They would probably each want their own space at their age anyway.
Briefly, this puzzles me. But then I reason with myself. Alex didn’t say the girls had ever come to stay with him before his ex-wife cut off all contact. Maybe they haven’t slept at the Old Vicarage since his wife – ex-wife now – left him. That would explain it.
Sitting down on one of the beds, I run my hand over the hearts on the quilt cover. Quite unexpectedly, a chill runs down my spine. I scan the room. It’s beautifully decorated. There are toys, games and children’s books everywhere. And yet, there’s something I don’t like about it. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. The sense that someone was very unhappy in here? No, that’s not it. Scared more than unhappy. In danger, even. As if something bad once happened in here.
I laugh at my silliness. I’ve always had an overactive imagination. Julie would have taken it seriously, though. My elder sister is into feng shui and mental wellness. She’s reluctant to set foot in Dad’s house now on the pretext that it has had negative energy and bad vibes since Mum died. I’ll have to invite Julie to stay with us at the Old Vicarage. She’ll have the chi flowing, or whatever it is you need to do, in no time.
I decide to start unpacking. Maybe when I’ve tidied away all my things, I’ll feel at home in this house.
Mi casa es tu casa.
Hopefully Alex will be home soon. That will help, too.
Today is the first day of the rest of my life, I say to myself. A completely different life to the one I’ve had until now.
To: kaitlyn.best@newzmail.co.uk
From: alexanderriley9987@premiernet.co.uk
Sent: Mon, 01 Aug 2016 at 23:34
Subject: KISMET, KATE
Dear Katie,
I was thinking today how lucky I am that you sent me a friend request on Facebook. You can’t imagine how glad I am that we’ve reconnected after all this time. And speaking of Facebook, I was beginning to think I’d never get to see a photo of you other than with your family and friends on your wall. Thank you so much for your selfie! You’re beautiful!
I love you being part of my day. Thanks to all your emails and texts, it feels like you’re close even though you’re so far away. Plus I like to know what you’re doing and where you are. You’re very funny, and you made me laugh out loud this afternoon when I was in a boring meeting with my accountant.
Katie, you said this is moving too fast for you and you feel a bit overwhelmed, but I’ve never felt a connection like this before. We’ve only been in touch again for a month, but it’s as if I’ve known you for so much longer. Perhaps it’s because of all we have in common. At the same time, I have this urge to make up for lost time. Two decades! You understand, don’t you?
I don’t believe in fate or anything like that. But I do wonder if things sometimes happen for a reason, and I think that you coming back into my life at this moment in time was meant to be! It feels so right. You’re the real deal.
You said Kevin was going to the pub with his mates tomorrow evening. Would you like to FaceTime? I love hearing your voice on the phone, but it would be even lovelier to see you!
Sorry if I’ve come on a bit strong this evening. I’ve been on the single malt! I’ll say goodnight now and leave you in peace! You’ll be my last thought before I go to bed and my first thought when I wake up. And I’ll probably dream about you, too. Hope that’s all right with you.
Night,
Alexxx
Chapter 2 (#ulink_aa1ef98a-7c08-5b57-a4ab-dc0193c75048)
~
I’m desperate to get out of the house, but it doesn’t look like we’re going to be able to go outside the next morning, either. The rain is still beating down, although, looking out through the bars of our bedroom window, I can see a tiny patch of clear sky over the lake. My mother used to say if there was enough blue to make a pair of trousers for a sailor, the weather would turn out fine. Wishing I’d inherited her optimism as I stare at the sky, I reflect that the seaman in question would have to be fairly small.
I sigh, and Alex pleads with me to get back into bed. He’s lying on his back, his hands clasped behind his head. He seems to be appraising my bare body. I kneel on the bed next to him.
‘Lie on your tummy,’ I order. He doesn’t move for a second or two, but then he turns over. I start to knead his shoulders. He groans – in pleasure, I hope, rather than pain, but just in case, I massage his muscles more softly.
‘Is this new?’ I ask, running my fingers over his right shoulder. ‘I haven’t seen it before.’
‘Is what new? Oh, the tattoo. Well, I had it done before Justin Bieber if that’s what you mean.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Bastard has the same tat. It’s Banksy.’
‘I know that,’ I say, admiring the artwork inked onto Alex’s skin. The picture is of a girl with her hand stretched out towards a red balloon. ‘My nephew Oscar is a big fan. We’ve taken him to Bristol a couple of times to see Banksy’s street art and some of his works on display at M Shed.’
‘Well, Girl with a Balloon appeared on a wall somewhere in London, not Bristol,’ Alex informs me. ‘I still haven’t decided if I want the caption inked on next to it.’
‘What is it?’
‘There is always hope,’ he says.
I examine it again. The balloon is heart-shaped. It’s not clear to me if the girl has let go of the balloon or if she’s trying to catch it. Either way, it’s out of her reach. Before I can ask Alex any more about it, he jumps out of bed.
‘Breakfast in bed,’ he says. ‘You wait here.’
I’m left for a while to muse on Alex’s choice of body art design. I would have thought he’d go for something more athletic, but I’m not sure what exactly. I suppose you wouldn’t have the five Olympic rings unless you’d actually competed in an Olympic Games. Or the Nike logo unless they sponsored you. And a slogan like “no pain, no gain” would be a bit trite. But something along those lines. I didn’t even know he had a tattoo. I’m surprised at this, although I’d only seen him naked once before coming here, and on that occasion the lights were dimmed.
I allow myself to reminisce about that night. It was four months ago. I close my eyes and can feel myself smiling. I remember Alex stripping off his clothes in a few seconds flat and then climbing into bed. He lay on his back, propped up on his elbows, watching me undress as he waited for me to join him. I’d been amused and turned on by how keen he seemed. Thinking about it now, it’s hardly surprising I didn’t see the tattoo on the back of his shoulder.
I noticed the scars, though. At the time, I didn’t dare ask him about those. Now, I’m burning with curiosity.
Alex comes back into the bedroom, carrying a tray. Smelling the toast, I’m conscious of how hungry I am. I plump the pillows up behind me and sit up straight as he puts the tray down carefully on my lap and gets into bed next to me.
‘Don’t get too used to this,’ he warns, twirling a strand of my red wavy hair between his fingers and then taking a mug from the tray.
At first I don’t understand what he’s referring to, but then I catch him looking down pointedly at my tummy.
‘Lie-ins will soon be nothing more than a distant memory,’ he adds. ‘Or is the plural lies-in?’ He slurps his tea.
‘No. You were right first time. Lie-ins.’
‘Ask the language expert,’ he says. He puts his mug down on the bedside table, and then he starts to fondle one of my breasts. ‘And is it my imagination, or have these already got a bit bigger?’
‘It’s wishful thinking on your part, I’d say,’ I reply, mirroring his grin. ‘Seeing as we’re on the subject of bodies …’ I begin in a more serious voice.
‘Ye-es?’
Gently, I take his arm and stroke his wrists. ‘Can I ask about your scars?’
‘OK,’ he says, but then there’s an awkward silence and I regret bringing it up. ‘Well, it’s not a big secret. I was nineteen,’ he says eventually. ‘I’d left school. I was supposedly on a gap year, but I ran out of money very early on, got dumped by my girlfriend when we were in Australia and came home. I started to hang out with the wrong crowd, we were taking drugs, I got depressed …’
‘Go on,’ I say when he pauses.
‘Long story short, one evening I decided to end it all. I was a stupid, self-absorbed teenager. I ran a hot bath, got in and slit my wrists.’
I’d only seen scars on his left wrist. I resist the urge to turn over his right arm, particularly as he’s holding his mug and I don’t want to scald him.
He sees me peering at his other hand, though, and adds, ‘Well, my wrist. I did it wrong. Used my right arm. Apparently if you’re right-handed, like I am, you should start by slitting your right wrist. That way, you can finish the job off better when you need to swap hands. And I managed to cut into a tendon in my left arm. I was in agony even though I hadn’t cut nearly deep enough to kill myself. So, it was a botched job.’
I can hear my own breathing. It has become shallow. I’m uncomfortable talking about his suicide attempt, so I don’t say the words that have just wormed their way into my head. There are more foolproof methods than slitting your wrists. Nor do I point out that he should have cut vertically rather than across his wrists. How do I even know that? ‘I’m so glad it was a botched job,’ I say instead, nuzzling in to him as much as I can without upsetting the breakfast tray on my lap or the mug in his hand.
‘So am I,’ he murmurs, kissing the top of my head.
And then it hits me like a punch to the stomach. If Alex was nineteen, I would have been seventeen. My chest tightens at that thought and I feel nauseous. I have a sudden vision of Alex throwing himself off a cliff and plummeting to his death.
I leap out of bed, making Alex cry out as I cause him to spill his tea. I make it to the bathroom just in time. Seconds later, he is next to me, holding back my hair with one hand and rubbing my back the other as I throw up into the toilet.
‘Morning sickness,’ he comments wryly when I’ve finished retching.
It’s not, but I don’t contradict him.
~
The sun comes out in the early afternoon and so Alex drives us the short distance into Grasmere. I’d rather walk, but I don’t protest; I’m just happy to get out of the house. There are lots of people out and about. From the car park, it’s a short walk to St Oswald’s church, where William Wordsworth is buried. We follow the path round to the back of the church, walking on paving stones with people’s names and hometowns engraved on them. From a much bigger paving slab, I read aloud the first verse of ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud’, Wordsworth’s most famous poem.
After Alex has shown me the Wordsworth family’s tombstones, we go by foot to Dove Cottage, a little further up the road. The sign on the house says The loveliest spot that man hath ever found. ‘It is really beautiful here,’ I say. ‘I can see why the area inspired him to write his poetry.’
‘He lived in this cottage with his sister, Dorothy,’ Alex says informatively. ‘They were very close.’
Unbidden, tears well up in my eyes, and I brush them away with my sleeve before Alex can see. I miss Louisa terribly. When we were little, we swore we would live together in the same house, with our husbands. Being without her is like being without a part of myself. Even now, all sorts of things remind me of her. Smells, songs, phrases. Not for the first time, I wonder if one day the void in me can be filled.
By now I’m used to feeling I’m not quite complete, but I feel a very special bond with Alex, similar to the one I once had with my twin sister. Alex and I like the same music, the same activities, the same TV programmes. He often reads my mind, just like Louisa did.
‘There’s a walk that goes from here to Rydal Mount,’ Alex says, interrupting my thoughts. ‘That’s the house he bought once he became rich and famous.’
‘Ooh, can we go and see it?’
‘Well, it’s about five and a half miles altogether,’ Alex says, ‘and there’s a bit of a hill.’
‘I won’t break, Alex.’
‘Yes, but you’re supposed to be taking things easy, the doctor said.’
‘She also said it would do me good to walk.’
‘It’s a bit chilly, though. Wordsworth died because he caught a cold you know,’ he says, elbowing me playfully in the ribs.
‘That was in 1850,’ I say, pleased with myself for remembering the date on the tombstone. ‘Anyway, if you show me the way instead of standing around pretending to argue with me, we’ll soon warm up climbing that hill you mentioned.’
Alex chuckles. ‘Come on, then.’
He takes my hand and leads me along a country lane. He proves himself to be a great guide and he knows a lot about the area, its geography and its history. He points out Helm Crag, whose distinctive peak, according to Alex, has earned it the nickname the Lion and the Lamb. I stare at it, shielding my eyes, but I can’t see anything remotely resembling a large feline or a woolly ruminant.
‘That sounds more like the name of a pub than of a fell,’ I comment, but if Alex hears me, he doesn’t respond.
It’s a lovely walk and the sun stays with us the whole time. I’m so glad that the weather has brightened up and we weren’t stuck in the house all day today like we were yesterday, although after my journey up here, it was great to have a lazy day, too, especially as it was spent mostly in bed with Alex. I look at Alex and he smiles at me. A warm feeling of happiness engulfs me as I beam back.
‘This route is part of the Coffin Trail,’ Alex announces, a little further up the hill. That wipes the smile off my face for a moment.
‘The Coffin Trail?’
‘Yes. People used to carry the coffins down this hill to St Oswald’s church to bury their dead.’
We continue to walk up the hill and after a while, we arrive at the tiny village of Rydal. A dog barks as we walk around the grounds of Wordsworth’s home, and again as we walk away, down the hill. On our left is a large sloping field.
‘This is Dora’s field,’ Alex resumes. ‘Dora was Wordsworth’s favourite daughter and he was heartbroken when she died.’
‘What did she die of?’ I ask, intrigued.
He shrugs. ‘No idea,’ he says. ‘He lost all his children. Dora was the only one left but then she died, too. He planted hundreds of daffodils in this field as a memorial to her. It’s quite impressive in the spring when the flowers are in bloom.’
A line from the verse I read on the church paving stone echoes in my head.
A host of golden daffodils.
‘That’s so sad,’ I say.
‘Yes, it is,’ Alex agrees. ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like for a father to lose his children.’
It crosses my mind that in a way Alex has lost his daughters. For the moment, at least. His ex-wife won’t let him see them. I wonder if that’s what is going through his head. Then my thoughts turn to my own father. And my mother. It seems to me that it’s somehow far worse for a mother to lose a child, but I keep this to myself.
Alex and I sit down on a wooden bench and admire the view over Rydal Water.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ Alex says, letting go of my hand and thrusting his hand into the pocket of his jeans. He brings out a small blue jewellery box.
I open it and gasp at the necklace inside. ‘Thank you. It’s beautiful,’ I say. And it is. It’s a red heart crystal pendant on a silver chain and I’m instantly reminded of his tattoo.
Alex puts it around my neck and I hold my hair up and bow my head so that he can do up the clasp.
‘Maybe you can wear it on the day,’ he suggests.
I tilt my head upwards to kiss his lips, suddenly aware that the sun has gone behind a cloud and the air has become cooler since we’ve been sitting on the bench. Alex must feel me shiver as he suggests we get on with our walk.
I take his hand as we get up from the bench, but he pulls it away to scratch his nose. I turn my head to follow his gaze and see a woman coming down the path towards us, chatting away to her little white dog. I’m not sure what breed it is. I sense Alex hesitate next to me before striding more purposefully up the path. I have to quicken my pace to keep up.
The woman widens her dark oval eyes, which seem to bore into me as she approaches. I think she’s about to say something as she opens her large mouth, revealing a rather prominent set of very white teeth. She has short dark brown hair with red highlights, and severely plucked eyebrows, which only serve to heighten the look of shock on her face. She brushes my arm as we pass.
‘Do you know her?’ I whisper.
‘Never seen her before in my life.’ He has answered me so loudly that I nudge him, certain that the woman has heard him.
But I can tell something is not quite right. I look at him askance.
He glances over his shoulder. ‘I’m just a bit wary of dogs,’ he admits in a much quieter voice than before.
This amuses me. That white dog is so small, after all, and Alex is tall and strong, and he doesn’t seem to be afraid of much.
Something else I didn’t know about him. Perhaps I don’t know him quite as well as I thought. This idea makes me a little uneasy, but that feeling is quickly dispelled as I imagine the fun we’ll have getting to know each other better.
To: kaitlyn.best@newzmail.co.uk
From: alexanderriley9987@premiernet.co.uk
Sent: Sat, 10 Sept 2016 at 22:56
Subject: SEE YOU!
Dearest Katie,
I’m sorry if my replies to your emails have been so brief lately. I’ve been really busy at work. I promise to make it up to you. Maybe I can do that very soon …
I’ve got a proposition for you: would you do me the honour of dining with me one evening? I have a supplier in Exeter and he has just brought out a whole new collection of sports clothing, which I’d like to go and see for myself. I’m planning to go down by train next month. If you’d like to meet up, I can time it so it’s on a day when you’re working at the university. I’d love to meet up with you again after all these years!
Now I know we’ve been getting kinky in our emails recently (I love it when you talk dirty – you’re so hot!) and I know you wanted to try and slow things down a bit, but I assure you that I can be the perfect gentleman and I’ll be on my best behaviour. I’m just asking you to let me take you … out for a meal.
If you don’t think this is a good idea, please say so. If I walked through the door of a restaurant with you on my arm (or at my side) I would probably burst with pride anyway, so you’ll be saving me from that fate if you turn me down.
What do you think?
See you soon, maybe?
Alexxx
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