The Woman Who Lied(20)

The room spins. What the fuck? ‘And that’s all you have?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he didn’t give his name?’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

‘Okay, thanks.’ She’s just about to end the call when she has a thought. ‘Would it be okay to check whether this Miranda Moody has sent me anything before? A bouquet of flowers arrived a week or so ago, with no card attached.’

‘Let me just have a look,’ the woman says, in her over-enthusiastic voice, which seems at odds with the situation Emilia is finding herself in. She stares out into the garden. It’s overcast and gloomy, a mist hanging over the trees. From here she can see the edge of Elliot’s office and she feels a sense of unease that he’s not in there.

There is a rustling sound and then the woman is back on the line. ‘Hi, yes. Miranda Moody also ordered you a bouquet of lilies on the first of March, again over the phone. I wasn’t in that day but my colleague was here. I’ll ask him if he remembers anything about the order and whether it was the same gentleman who came in to pay.’

‘Thank you. That would be really helpful.’ She gives the woman her name and telephone number. ‘Would it be possible to let me know if this Miranda Moody makes another order before you send anything? I don’t want to receive anything else from this person.’

The woman’s voice is more subdued now. ‘Oh, I’m very sorry. Of course. We’ll make a note.’

Emilia ends the call, her mind reeling. A man. She clicks the kettle on, then runs up the two flights of stairs to her office, still in her coat. She’ll fetch the notebook Jasmine gave her for her birthday and start writing down everything that happens, like the policeman she spoke to advised. She’ll also call Louise and tell her about this latest development, just to be on the safe side. She refuses to let whoever is doing this freak her out. She’s not the little mouse she was when she was married to Jonas. She can handle this.

She’s panting slightly when she gets to the second floor. She should really use the exercise bike she spent a fortune on, but it’s like a form of torture. She’s never liked exercise, despite trying her hand at most forms of it, hoping that maybe, this time, she’d have found her ‘thing’.

She pulls out the drawer to her desk, finds the notebook and gazes at the first lined page with a sinking feeling. This was supposed to contain her plans for her standalone novel, not that she has any ideas yet. It had been bad enough trying to think of a plot for Her Last Chapter. Grabbing a pen she sits at her desk and lists everything that’s happened so far, however minor.

By midday Emilia feels like she’s going mad, alone in the house, unnerved by every strange sound, every bang of the old-fashioned radiators, the creak of the floorboards. She’s thankful she’s arranged to meet Ottilie for lunch in Richmond.

The day has brightened up, a weak sun struggling to come out from behind the clouds even though there is dampness in the air.

When Emilia arrives, Ottilie is already seated at an outside table wearing a floor-length powder-blue coat with a fake-fur collar and a matching fluffy hat pressed down over her blonde hair. She waves a gloved hand as Emilia approaches, then gets up to air-kiss her. They hardly sit indoors when they come here; a habit formed during the pandemic, she supposes, but she prefers to be out in the fresh air.

‘I’ve already ordered you a cappuccino,’ Ottilie says, as they sit down.

‘Are you saying I’m predictable?’

‘Not at all, darling.’ Ottilie grins at her. ‘I nearly ordered you a glass of wine but remembered you need to pick up the kids later.’

Emilia takes off her gloves. ‘Only Wilfie. Jasmine makes her own way home now, with Nancy.’

‘And so she should. She is fifteen.’

Emilia knows she’s a bit protective of Jasmine. But her daughter has always been a sensitive child, and then there was the divorce, her remarrying Elliot and them having a baby so soon.

‘So,’ says Ottilie, leaning back in her chair. ‘I’ve only got an hour unfortunately. I’m seeing a new client this afternoon over in Hampton.’ Ottilie has her own interior-design business that she set up back in 2010. It was doing well until it took a hit in the pandemic, and now she’s having to work longer hours to get it back up and running. ‘But we’ve got lots to talk about. Not least what happened the other weekend.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘At dinner, when you received that broken seagull, you seemed a bit on edge afterwards, that’s all.’

‘Oh, Lordy. Where to start.’ Emilia’s just about to launch into it all when the waitress arrives with their coffees and to take their lunch order. They opt for the quiche and salad. When she’s gone, Emilia says, ‘I had a wreath delivered today with a sympathy card attached.’

Ottilie leans forwards, her clear green eyes widening, and Emilia fills her in on everything that’s happened since she last saw her.

‘Fuck,’ she says, in response. ‘That’s quite a campaign.’

‘I know.’ She tells her friend about the information she’d received from the florist.

‘It sounds like you’ve got yourself a stalker, Mils. You’d better be careful.’ She stares at Emilia with concern. ‘Have you reported it?’