flapping from the handlebars like a cheerleader’s ribbons as she rode with her usual languid grace and unflinching aggression, using her voice and not her bell, cheerfully shouting at people to ‘Move!’ as she approached. She would not be made late for her child by ‘influencers’ trying to get a shot.
Twenty minutes later, she and Jasper were home again and she closed the front door behind them with a sigh of relief. Another day was done. Jasper gave a shout of joy to be home – she felt much the same herself – and, throwing his bag down, he pulled off his shoes and tore up the stairs to the open-plan kitchen and living area on the first floor. Lee put on the three bolts and two chains on the door and carefully slid his little trainers to the wall, out of the way, hearing his socked feet pounding on the wooden floors above her and echoing through the three-storey house. Going straight into the utility room at the back of the house, she switched this morning’s laundry load from the washing machine into the tumble dryer and double-checked the back door was locked. The guest bedroom was across the hall from the bottom of the stairs and she stopped in the doorway, as she always did, checking there were no signs of disturbance.
The curtains were drawn, naturally – she would never subscribe to the Dutch preference for unobscured windows; she rated privacy (and security) above light – and she switched on the light, trying to appraise the room with fresh eyes. She rarely actually came in here, but she knew it wasn’t the most successful space – the double bed was fitted without a headboard, the lamp shade was a cheap Ikea rattan number that looked more like a lobster pot and the pillows were different thicknesses so the turquoise kantha quilt lay on a slope. Still, she had painted the walls a rich blackish-green, which felt luxurious, and a thick creamy imitation Moroccan rug felt good underfoot.
She turned out the light again and pulled the bedroom door to, and was about to walk up the stairs when someone rang the bell. She turned and stared at it in shock. It was half past five. She’d said eight. Surely—? She stood there for several moments more – it could just be kids messing about, tourists wanting directions, someone with the wrong address . . . She walked over, but just as she was about to look through the spyhole, she heard a cough.
It stopped her in her tracks, her heart rate accelerating into a gallop. She would have known that sound anywhere. She didn’t need to look through the spyhole to know what she would see: a square-jawed face, possibly getting a little jowly now, salt-and-pepper hair, expansive ever-smiling mouth and dark, soulful eyes pleading for forgiveness.
She froze, not daring to move, willing him to go away.
‘Fitch, I just saw the light go off. I know you’re there!’ he called after another few moments, making her jump again.
Oh God, Jasper. The neighbours. Jasper. She didn’t want him hearing any of this.
She took a step back, onto a cracked floorboard. It creaked. She froze. He couldn’t have heard that.
But an immediate soft sound against the door, a hand perhaps on the wood, told her otherwise. ‘I know you’re there, Fitch.’ His voice was low, quieter, closer. He was talking straight through the door to her. So close. ‘Please. Please just open the door.’
Her heart pounded as she continued staring at the door, feeling rooted to the spot, flooded with panic. With his voice came so many other sounds, so many memories. She put her hands over her ears but it was no good. She couldn’t block them – him – out. They lived inside her head.
‘I just want to talk to you.’
She scrunched her eyes shut, willing him to go away. Just turn around and leave. She had made her feelings perfectly clear. She ignored every letter, every card, every text. He knew she would never open the door, she never did.
‘Please, Fitch. You can’t keep ignoring me for ever.’
But she could. She had done it for six years and she would do it for six more. And then the six after that, and the six after that . . . She waited, forcing herself to breathe deeply and slowly. He would go. Eventually. He’d have to. The freezing temperatures would drive him away, if nothing else.
‘Fine, then. I’ll do