Gently, she unpeeled the sticky note from the glass over the photo of herself and, as she descended in the lift, read the words again. When Nick had first left her one of his notes, the morning after they’d moved into the apartment, she had told him that evening that she’d loved carrying it about with her all day, like a talisman. ‘A talisman,’ he had repeated slowly. ‘I like that.’ And then, almost shyly, diffidently: ‘Will you always take one with you? It would make me feel . . . I don’t know.’ But he didn’t need to say it. She knew what he was thinking, as they so often knew one another’s minds. It would be as if the physical evidence of his love could act as protection when he wasn’t with her. But this was soppy, illogical nonsense, so of course he couldn’t say it out loud.
‘Of course I will,’ she had said.
The lobby the lift opened onto had security cameras everywhere and a porter’s desk with pigeonholes behind it for mail. There was a 24-hour porterage service, and Lulu always felt sorry for the poor guys who had to sit here all day.
She couldn’t blame them for deserting their post rather frequently. Nick had complained about it a couple of times to the company that supplied the porters and CCTV cameras and the security for the building generally, and they’d assured him they would ‘address the issue raised’。 But Harry, who was on most days, was just a young bloke, and Lulu felt it wasn’t fair to expect him to sit there on his skinny behind doing nothing all day. He seemed to spend a lot of time walking round the block and lingering on the Thames walkway under their balcony, and checking out the boats in the harbour, as if it were entirely possible that the multimillionaires who hung out on them could be a security threat.
Harry wasn’t at the desk now, which was a little annoying as she needed to speak to him about something. Her fuzzy brain wouldn’t immediately tell her what – the caffeine hadn’t kicked in yet. And then she remembered. She needed to tell Harry about the delivery she was expecting. Last week, he’d signed on her behalf for delivery of a rug, her attempt to add some colour to the apartment, not realising he was signing a form to say he’d checked the goods for damage, which he hadn’t. The rug must have been caught in machinery or something as it was being rolled up – it had a big, black, greasy line down it, and she’d had a terrible time getting them to accept a return and send a replacement.
She went round behind the desk and looked about for a pen and paper. There was a small notebook on the shelf under the desktop. She took it out and opened it, intending to tear off a sheet of paper.
Inside was some sort of log of dates and times, with comments opposite. She leafed through, looking for a blank sheet, but then her eye was caught by one of the comments. It was dated 12 May. A week ago.
Happy, chatted.
Weird.
And the next one, for 13 May, was Seemed preoccupied and tired. Followed by Small cut on right hand, about 1 cm long for 14 May.
She looked down at her right hand, at the now fading cut on the base of her thumb, where she’d scratched it opening a tin of sardines.
Harry had been watching her?
Making notes about her, timed and dated?
Why?
She knew what Jenny and Beth would say, rolling their eyes: Because he’s a creep!
Harry?
Lovely Harry, with the nervous blink? Really?
And the thought hit her: was it possible that Nick obsessed about her safety not because he was unreasonably paranoid, but because Lulu was a ditzy idiot who lost her credit card about once a month and got herself locked in shops and hadn’t a clue that the lovely young porter she bantered with was a sleazy creep who was –
The front door swished open.
Lulu ducked down behind the desk, the notebook clutched to her chest.
She held her breath as footsteps clomped across the polished floor. Coming closer . . .
Coming, suddenly, round the desk!
And then Harry’s face was looming over her, eyes blinking rapidly. ‘Mrs Clyde! Are you okay?’
She scrambled away from him, the notebook still clutched in one hand, and then she was up and running for the door, and he was running after her shouting, ‘Hey, Mrs Clyde! No, wait!’ but Lulu was out of the door and off, her trainers pounding the cobbled wharf that ran round the harbour, and there were people here, a couple on one of the boats, a woman walking ahead of her with a heavy bag on her arm, a man talking on his phone who looked up at her in surprise as she ran past.
When she’d reached the other side of the harbour, she stopped and turned. Harry was standing at the door of the building, watching her. When he saw her looking, he shook his head at her in a defeated gesture.