The Woman Who Lied(24)
‘No, they were all closed when I went in, but I think they shut automatically when it rains. Maybe a dodgy switch had opened them. Have you got them on a timer?’
‘That’s the weird thing. They haven’t been opened in months.’
Trevor moves aside. She squeezes past him and Elliot’s bike, the handlebars almost poking her in the ribs, into the hallway and then the kitchen. Trevor follows. She calls to Alexa to turn on the kitchen lights.
‘You’ve got her well trained.’ Trevor laughs and folds his arms. He looks like he’s put on a bit of weight. It suits him. She wonders again if he’s met someone.
‘Blame your son. I’d love to use a light switch now and again, but he’s got everything hooked up to Alexa, even the radio.’ She clicks the kettle on. Trevor pulls out one of the wooden bar stools at the island and sits. The whole kitchen is awash with a bluish hue now that what little is left of the afternoon sun is at the front of the house. ‘I have to pick up Wilfie soon but I’ve got time for a quick coffee. What would you like?’
‘Tea would be great, thanks.’
‘I’m sorry I wasted your time.’ She turns to face him while the kettle boils noisily. ‘What excuse did you give to leave work so urgently?’
‘Oh, just that I had to pop out because there was a family emergency. It’s okay, it’s a quiet day. Elliot says you’ve now got cameras front and back. That’s reassuring. And you didn’t waste my time. It’s better to be safe than sorry, Emilia.’ He frowns and she knows the open skylights are still troubling him. Her too, but she doesn’t know what else to do. Trevor has assured her that nobody is in the house and the cameras haven’t shown anyone breaking in.
Trevor picks up the lily petal that sits on the counter from this morning and starts rolling it between his fingers, getting yellow stains on his thumb. ‘The person sending you this stuff is obviously a coward and doesn’t want to show their face,’ he continues. ‘It’s like those trolls you get behind keyboards, writing insulting twits online.’
‘They’re called tweets, Trevor.’ She laughs. He knows what they’re really called and she suspects he’s just trying to lighten the mood.
‘Ah, tweets, twits, whatever.’
She makes him some tea, builders’, just as he likes it, and joins him at the island. They chat a bit more, about his job, about Elliot’s business trip to Iceland, about Wilfie and his newfound love of classic cars, which have always fascinated Trevor.
Half an hour later he’s left and she’s standing outside the school gates waiting for Wilfie. She finds herself evaluating the other parents, wondering if they could be behind everything that’s happened. She feels suspicious of everyone. Even Frances, Louise’s monster-in-law, who comes barrelling out of the main school doors clutching Toby’s hand as he’s wriggling to get away. Toby must be in trouble again. She knows from Louise that he can be mischievous, lacks attention, can sometimes be disruptive in class. Frances acknowledges her with a nod. She’s a big woman, large feet clad in sensible walking shoes, and is brisk, a bit abrupt, but her love for her grandson shines from her. Emilia can see why she’d bug Louise, though. Frances isn’t a woman who likes hearing the word ‘no’.
Wilfie is waltzing out behind them, shirt hanging out, hair standing on end, so like Elliot’s. She ruffles it when he approaches, and he tries to dodge her. ‘Too late,’ she says, laughing. He grins, conker-brown eyes shining, and hands her his backpack. ‘Please, Mum,’ he wails, when she refuses to take it. ‘It’s heavy.’ She rolls her eyes in mock-irritation and slings it over her shoulder. As they walk the ten minutes home he chatters on about his day, what he had for lunch, who got told off for talking in class (Toby, inevitably) and how he doesn’t like his new art teacher.
She tries to concentrate on what Wilfie is saying, but all she can think about is what might await them when they return home.
17
‘Your dad, thankfully, came over and there was nobody in the house,’ she’s telling Elliot, in hushed tones, on the phone later that evening. Jasmine and Wilfie are watching Ghosts for the tenth time, and she’s just thrown a garlic and herb chicken in the oven. Of the two of them, Elliot is the one who loves cooking.
It’s started to rain again and it drums on the skylights. She doesn’t like the thought of spending the night alone in the house. Thank goodness for the cameras.
‘So all three skylights were open?’ Elliot sounds shocked. ‘But Dad didn’t find anybody in the house?’
‘Nobody. I checked the app, too, and couldn’t see anyone on the cameras.’
‘I don’t like the thought of this going on at home when I’m not there. Can’t you ring someone to stay the night?’
‘It’s fine.’ She hadn’t wanted him to know about the skylights but she was worried that Trevor might ring to tell him.
‘Do you think this is the work of another writer?’ he asks. She imagines him sitting on the edge of a pristinely made bed in some minimalist hotel in Reykjavik. She wishes he was here, with her. Or, rather, that she was there with him. ‘An enemy you’ve made perhaps?’
She isn’t in the habit of making enemies, and all the writers she’s met, mostly at festivals or through events, have been lovely. Supportive. She can’t imagine any of them doing something like this. This, she realizes, with a stab of fear, is the work of some sociopath. She suspects she doesn’t even know the person, that it’s just someone who has read her books and become a bit fixated. ‘I’ve reported it to the same policeman I spoke to before. A PC Clayton.’