The next hour is a whirlwind of speeches, industry talk, and catching up with some author friends. She can’t see Kristin anywhere and wonders if she’s gone home. She hopes Ottilie hasn’t said anything controversial to either of them.
She’s just about to go and speak to Marcie when her eye catches something at the window. A face is pressed to the glass, features distorted by the lights and condensation. Her heart is in her throat. It’s her stalker, she knows it is. She pushes her way desperately through the throng, but it takes her a good five minutes to get to the door as she tries to extract herself from first Marcie and then Hannah.
When she finally reaches the entrance it’s with a sinking feeling, knowing that whoever was there has probably gone. Or, even worse, slipped inside and is somewhere in the crowd. She wrenches the door open, letting in a blast of cold night air. The light from the shop casts a rectangular amber shimmer onto the wet pavement, illuminating two people having what sounds like a heated discussion. They fall silent when they notice Emilia, and the taller of the two, a woman in a skimpy dress, tilts the umbrella away from her face, and Emilia is surprised to see that it’s Kristin. She has a cigarette in her hand. She thought she’d given up a long time ago. The other figure turns to face her. It’s Louise.
‘Lou. You came. Is …’ she glances from her to Kristin ‘… is everything okay?’ She steps onto the pavement.
Kristin blows out a puff of smoke. ‘Sorry, it was hot in there so I came out for a ciggie and bumped into your friend.’
Louise looks uneasy and shifts from foot to foot. She has her mobile in her hand and is wearing a long raincoat with the hood up. Was it her face she’d noticed in the window?
‘I’m so glad you could make it. Come in,’ she says to Louise.
‘I’m so sorry, I was just about to but I’ve noticed a text.’ She holds up her phone. ‘I’ve been called in to work.’
‘Oh, no, that’s such a shame. Elliot would love to meet you.’
‘So sorry. I’ve got to dash. But …’ She pushes her hood back, not caring that her hair is getting wet. She looks concerned.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s just … when I arrived, before Kristin came out –’
‘She apparently saw someone,’ Kristin butts in, dropping her cigarette and grinding it into the pavement with her heel. ‘A lurker.’ She shrugs, unconcerned. ‘Anyway, he’s gone now. I’m going back in – it’s freezing. Nice to meet you, Louise.’
Louise doesn’t say anything, and they watch as Kristin folds down her umbrella and pulls open the door, releasing a waft of laughter and the smell of salted peanuts. It closes softly behind her, leaving the street silent.
Emilia wraps her arms around herself. Her hair is turning to frizz out here. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘I didn’t want to say much about it in front of Kristin. I wasn’t quite sure what she knew. She’s a weird one … She seems to have a thing about you.’
Emilia steps closer. ‘What do you mean?’
‘As soon as she realized I was a friend of yours she started questioning me – honestly, she’d make a great cop.’
‘About what?’
‘About you and Elliot. How happy you are and if you ever talk to me about Jonas. It was weird. She was a bit pissed, I think, but anyway, that’s not what I wanted to say …’ She hesitates, her face serious. ‘I saw someone, Em. A man. Standing here at the glass, looking in. I called out and he ran off when I approached.’
Emilia feels sick. It was him. She knows it. She glances down the street, as though she’s expecting to see him in the distance, but it’s empty.
20
Emilia hands in her edits a week later, and then, as promised, emails the manuscript to Elliot, Trevor, Ottilie, Louise and Jonas, knowing he will let Kristin read it too, although she doesn’t know how she feels about this. She can’t forget what Louise told her about Kristin’s inappropriate questions. She sends it to her father too, after her mum’s jibe at the launch. Even Jasmine wants a copy. ‘I need to know how you kill off Miranda,’ she says defensively, before Emilia can even ask why she wants to read it.
‘My books might be a bit dark for you.’
Jasmine had rolled her eyes. ‘I’m sixteen in October. You’ve even let me see an eighteen film,’ she said, referring to American Beauty, which they’d allowed her to watch one night when Wilfie was in bed, and only because it wasn’t overly violent. Jasmine hadn’t let her forget it since.
‘We’ll see.’
‘Which means no,’ Jasmine had huffed.
Since her launch things have thankfully been quiet. Changing the Alexa passwords has put a stop to further incidents of the skylights opening and the music playing at random, but Emilia has been constantly on edge, expecting the worst every time she goes home. She finds she’s hardly left the house all week, except to pick up Wilfie from school.
‘I think we need to get away,’ Elliot says one evening. ‘I know all this is bothering you. You need a change of scene. A break.’
She agrees, so they drive to Cornwall for a week during the school Easter holidays, and as the days progress, with long walks on the beach and mooching around the winding streets, browsing the little boutiques and coffee shops, she finds herself relaxing. By the time they return to London, to find no sinister packages or flowers have been sent in their absence, she’s almost managed to convince herself that whoever was behind it has now grown bored.
On Friday, as Emilia is locking up the house to go into town to pick up some dry-cleaning, she hears footsteps behind her on the driveway.
She turns quickly, keys still in hand, her heart thumping. A young woman is standing a few feet away from her, at the bottom of the steps.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. You’re Emilia Ward?’
‘Who wants to know?’ Fear makes Emilia unusually snappy. She descends the steps and appraises the woman: late twenties, with curly red hair, smartly dressed in black trousers and a checked blazer. The sun has come out, reflecting in the puddles on the ground, and the cherry tree has blossomed, its frothy petals already coating the grass surrounding it.
The woman thrusts out a hand. ‘I’m Gina Osbourne. I write for the Mirror and wondered if you’re interested in an interview.’
Emilia stares at her in surprise and doesn’t shake her hand. ‘Interview me. Why?’
‘Because of what’s been happening to you. With the strange incidents that are mirroring plots from your books. Love your books by the way – I’ve read them all.’
‘I … oh, well, thanks … but I’m not sure.’ Emilia feels cornered. Sweat pools in her armpits and the wool coat she’s wearing suddenly feels suffocating. ‘How did you hear about that?’
‘Oh, a journalist can never reveal her sources.’ She gives a little bark of laughter. She sounds like a Jack Russell. ‘It will be great publicity for your new book. I’ve heard you’re going to kill off your main character.’
Her unease intensifies, wondering how she knows this. She’s told hardly anyone. She thinks of Ava, her publicist, knowing she’d be encouraging her to do this interview. No publicity is bad publicity and all that. ‘I think it’s all stopped now anyway.’ If she says it out loud it might actually be true.