‘Yes. And I told Louise. My detective friend,’ she clarifies, when Ottilie looks blank. ‘You haven’t met her yet, but she’ll be at my book launch hopefully. She told me to install cameras and one of those Ring doorbells.’ Emilia weaves her fingers around her warm mug. ‘The fact it’s the same as my plotlines freaks me out a bit.’
‘Not surprised. It’s harassment. At least you’ve reported it now. Some people are just weird.’ Ottilie sighs and glances towards the river as a family of swans swim by. She turns her attention back to Emilia. ‘They get a kick out of this kind of thing.’
‘It worries me that they know where I live. And what my married name is.’
‘You only use Rathbone at school, don’t you? Could it be someone from Jasmine’s or Wilfie’s place?’
She thinks back to all the parents she knows from her children’s year groups. She can’t think of anyone who would have a grudge against her. ‘No. Not at all. They seem like decent people. Some have even become friends.’ She thinks of Louise and Marcie, Nancy’s mum, whom Emilia has known since their girls started in Reception. ‘I can’t believe it would be one of them.’
‘Maybe it’s a crazed fan. You’ve read Misery, haven’t you?’
‘Cheers, thanks, Ottilie. You really know how to make me feel better.’ Emilia tries to keep her tone light but something dark has settled over her.
Ottilie pats her hand. ‘I’m sorry. That wasn’t helpful. You’ve reported it now, and you’ve installed cameras and stuff. There’s not much else you can do.’ She sighs again, and Emilia realizes her friend has something on her mind.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
The waitress appears again with their quiche but, unusually, Emilia finds she’s lost her appetite. When she’s gone, Ottilie says, ‘It’s Stefan. It’s not going to work out.’
This doesn’t surprise Emilia. Ottilie’s relationships never last longer than a year. ‘Oh, no. Is it the distance thing?’
‘Partly. He’s just not for me, though. Too immature.’ She digs into her quiche. ‘You’re lucky with Elliot, you know. To find someone you really gel with. I’m nearly forty and I still feel like I haven’t got my shit together.’
‘You’re still three years away from forty. And you’re a successful independent woman. I admire you,’ Emilia replies sincerely, picking up her knife and fork and making an effort to eat.
Ottilie scoffs. ‘Why would you admire me? You’ve got it all. A successful marriage, a brilliant career, two wonderful children, that stunning house …’ She pats her stomach. ‘At this rate I’ll have to use a sperm donor. And I would if I could afford it.’
‘Look at me ten years ago, though. Jonas had walked out – run off with one of my closest friends …’
‘Glad you didn’t say best friend.’ Ottilie winks, spearing a tomato with her fork and causing juice to fly onto the table.
‘You have been and always will be my only best friend,’ Emilia says seriously, dabbing at the tomato juice with a napkin. ‘And, anyway, you don’t need a man to make your life whole.’
‘You know I have trust issues, thanks to my darling daddy.’ She rolls her eyes self-mockingly and grins, waving her fork in the air.
Ottilie’s jokey tone doesn’t fool Emilia. She remembers how devastated Ottilie had been when her parents split up, blaming her father for her mother’s unhappiness.
‘Not all men are the same. If I’d let what Jonas did to me fuck me up, I’d never have met Elliot. Talking of Jonas, I think he might be on the verge of cheating on Kristin.’
Ottilie nearly chokes on her quiche. ‘What? How do you know? Although I don’t see why I’m surprised.’
She tells her about bumping into him with a young woman and their conversation in the café.
‘Do you know I actually heard from Kristin this week?’ says Ottilie, when Emilia has finished. ‘For the first time since she did the dirty on you. Can you believe it?’
‘What? Really?’
‘It was all a bit weird. I wasn’t quite sure whether to tell you.’
The quiche feels heavy in Emilia’s stomach. ‘Of course you should tell me. We don’t keep things from each other. What did she want?’
‘Well,’ Ottilie glances at her, and Emilia knows she’s wondering how honest she can be, ‘she said she was worried about you.’
‘Worried about me? In what way?’
‘She said you’ve been working too hard, arguing with Elliot, and secretly meeting up with Jonas. She implied that there might be something going on between the two of you. Did he tell her you bumped into him and then went for a coffee?’
Emilia’s mind reels. ‘I don’t know, but there’s nothing going on with me and Jonas. She must know that. And Elliot and I aren’t arguing. And if we were – which we’re not – how would she know?’ She shakes her head. ‘I don’t get it. And why would Kristin tell you all this anyway when you haven’t spoken to her in years?’
‘I don’t know. To garner my sympathy, perhaps? You know what Kristin can be like. It was a strange conversation and … well, she started crying on the phone. She said she missed me, missed our friendship, and that she was sorry for everything that had happened.’
‘Unbelievable!’ Emilia spits. ‘She’s not once said sorry to me in all these years.’
Ottilie puts down her knife and fork. ‘She must know there’s another woman on the scene, thinks it’s you, and wants info out of me, not that I’d ever tell her anything. I hope you know that.’
Emilia pats Ottilie’s arm. ‘Of course.’ Ottilie has always been fiercely loyal to her, right back to when they were in their first year at boarding school and Emilia was being picked on by an older girl.
‘She sounded a bit pissed on the phone. She also wanted interior-design tips and asked how I had started my business. I bet she was mortified the next day.’
Emilia pushes her plate away. She doesn’t know how she’d feel if Ottilie decided to be friends with Kristin again. The betrayal still runs too deep. She was the one who had brought them together – these two separate but, at the time, most important people in her life. She and Kristin had been on the same English literature course and had bonded over their love of alternative guitar bands, regularly going to gigs together. Ottilie, finding it hard to settle to anything, as is her way, would come to Brighton whenever she could to hang out with them.
‘I’ll never forgive her, don’t worry, Mils,’ says Ottilie, as though reading her mind. She finishes her coffee. ‘Do you want another?’
Emilia says she does, but she can’t really concentrate after that.
As soon as she steps into her house she feels it. The chill in the air. She walks into the kitchen, and freezes when she sees the Velux windows. They are wide open, like three gaping mouths, mocking her. The praying-mantis killer in her latest Miranda Moody thriller, Her Last Chapter, accesses his victims’ homes by their skylights. Yet nobody, apart from her editor, has read that book yet. So this, she hopes, is at least a coincidence.