after she’d discovered that I’d lied. I chewed on my thumbnail, ignoring George’s tuts of disgust. I didn’t care about his approval any more. He was too caught up in his own worries to help me. Sheridan had said she was drunk the night she conceived Leo. Was it a ruse to get me to confess? If so, how had she known I’d been drinking that night? It was not as if she could ask anyone . . . I wracked my brain, ticking off a mental checklist. I had deleted Facebook so I couldn’t be tagged. I wasn’t on Twitter, and Dympna’s settings were set to private because of her dad’s job in the police.
I looked out of the tinted car window, staring but not seeing as I lost myself in thought. It was crazy; she couldn’t have known I was drunk, not unless she’d visited the nightclub in person and talked to the staff. I was paranoid, my imagination galloping away with me. Then it hit me. When I’d first filled in my online bio, it had asked about my social life. Not wanting to appear too much of a nun, I’d listed HEAT nightclub in Dublin as one of my old haunts. HEAT took photos, stamped with a time and date. Their photographer had a soft spot for me, and often snapped pictures for their Facebook page. My stomach lurched as the realisation hit home.
‘Are you all right?’ George said. ‘You’re very pale.’
‘I’m Irish,’ I replied, trying to sound upbeat. ‘It goes with the territory.’
If Sheridan was devious enough to record our conversations, then she was easily capable of looking up HEAT online. How could I have been so stupid? I recalled the cold expression on her face as I’d crumpled in a heap in the lift. I needed to find a way to call Dympna and tell her my exact location. I didn’t feel safe in New York any more.
I forced a smile on to my face as we entered the kitchen, George filling Sheridan in on our trip.
‘I had a great time. We packed loads into one afternoon,’ I added. ‘My calves are killing me from all that walking. I might go for a lie down, if that’s OK.’ It was the first time I had volunteered to go to my basement, but I was desperate to speak to Dympna. I thought about the hotel travel plug I’d used for my hair straighteners. Had George packed it by any chance? Could it be shoved in one of my drawers?
‘Did you have a nice time with your friend?’ I asked, as Sheridan stood before me.
‘It was fine, thank you. I didn’t stay long.’ Sheridan handed me a sheet of paper. ‘Your updated schedule. It covers trimester two.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, despite the fact that I hated Sheridan’s stupid schedules with a passion. Getting out of the apartment for a few hours had reminded me how nice it was not to be committed to a timetable.
I turned to George. ‘Thanks for everything, Mr G.’ I meant it. He had probably imparted far more than he had meant to with me. He could have said nothing, or worse still, told Sheridan that I’d switched off his phone.
‘Ooh, Mr G, I like it,’ George replied, his gaze flicking from me to Sheridan. Despite his smile, he seemed on his guard and did not take his eyes off her for very long.
‘Leo’s due home any second,’ Sheridan said, giving me the hint to go to my room.
Wearily, I made my way to the lift. I knew Anna would activate the pass to allow me down. But as I turned the corner in the hallway, I froze in my tracks. Anna was at the front door, trying to stop a visitor from coming in. I recognised the thick Boston accent from Sheridan’s dinner party. It was Monica, and she barged past Anna as she allowed herself inside.
Swearing under my breath, I jabbed at the lift button, but it wouldn’t work without a pass. Besides, it was too late. She had already seen me.
‘Hello there, who are you?’ she said, giving me the once-over. She was curvy with big hair, and a couple of inches smaller than me. She was also in my face. Instinctively, my hands fell to my bump. ‘I . . . I . . .’ I stuttered, wishing the lift would swallow me up.
The sound of Sheridan’s footsteps made me fold my arms tightly in a knot.