The Apartment - K. L. Slater Page 0,26

my already traumatised daughter having to witness all Janine’s crap on top of everything else.

In reality, I hadn’t got the funds to start any kind of legal action, but I must’ve given a convincing performance because she appeared to back off a bit after that.

When Lewis died, I was still the legally named beneficiary on the insurance policy. Whatever she said he was in the process of doing, I was still Lewis’s wife in the eyes of the law.

Once, he had loved me with all his heart. I hung on to that fact like a lifeline. But Janine was having none of it.

‘We were planning to get married at the end of the year. He intended telling you any day.’ She’d spat out the words after rushing across the road while I fiddled with the awkward front-door lock. ‘He was with me, he’d already left you. You and your brat have no right to that money.’

At that moment, I truly understood what it must feel like to want to impulsively harm another human being in a moment of madness. I just wanted to silence her.

I met her heated glare full on and spoke calmly. ‘In the eyes of the law, I’m still his wife, Janine. And Skye is his daughter . . . his own flesh and blood. On paper, you’re simply his bit on the side and, as such, are entitled to precisely nothing.’

Thankfully, my front door had sprung open as I finished speaking, and I stepped smartly inside, shutting the door in Janine’s twisted-up face.

Once inside, I had to lean against the wall and take a few deep breaths, to avoid retching in the hallway.

During the weeks that followed, I came home to broken eggs dripping down the front door, deliveries of manure and topsoil with drivers demanding cash on receipt, and numerous communications from companies regarding the setting up of expensive funeral plans featuring biodegradable coffins of all things.

Of course I knew perfectly well who was behind it all. Who else could it be?

None of it was particularly sinister. It would take more than infantile tricks like that to scare me. I’m not easily unnerved after what I’d been through as a fostered kid. The one advantage of being passed like an unwanted package amongst foster families is that it takes a lot to rattle me.

Still, it was annoying and inconvenient when I was trying so hard to keep it together for my daughter’s sake.

One day, I came home to find two full wheelie bins – my own and the couple’s upstairs – upended on the front garden when there was barely any breeze outside at all. Doesn’t sound like much, but when there’s rotten food and soggy teabags and other people’s rubbish to scrape up, it’s unpleasant to say the least.

I’d had enough and got as far as calling the local police station out of pure frustration.

I explained the short history of what I saw as revenge incidents, and I told them who I thought was responsible, but they wouldn’t send an officer out because there had been ‘no wilful damage or threats’, and there was zero proof Janine was involved.

The last few months before leaving the house had been quiet. Uneventful. But I’d never been able to shake the impression that she was always watching. And waiting. For what, I didn’t know. It was just a feeling.

Somehow, during the second bus journey home, I finally manage to get Skye off the subject of attending a new school by talking about taking a tour around Kensington Palace at the weekend.

‘Can we take Petra, too?’ she says, a weak smile finally returning. ‘I’m going to watch really carefully and try and spot Prince George at the window of the palace, Mummy.’

‘I’ll give Petra’s mum a call a little later on.’ I smile. Maybe I can rescue this situation, just be honest with Kat and explain everything to her. I’m sure she’ll understand about the mix-up under the circumstances.

As for Janine Harworth, if she’s responsible for the gift-and-note dirty trick, and she thinks it will somehow scupper our move, then she’s got another think coming.

It’ll take more than her to ruin our happy new beginnings.

15

When we get back home, Skye says from the doorway, ‘Can we call Petra and her mummy, tell them that someone was telling fibs in the note? And can we tell them that I’m not leaving Grove Primary? Then she might still be my friend.’

‘One second, poppet,’ I say to buy time, even though