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Adele was fine one minute, or as fine as she could be, but the next she was curled up on the bathroom floor. She planned to run a bath, but something spooked her. A sound? A smell? She wasn’t sure. Now she fought for breath through lungs that seemed to have forgotten their purpose.
It wasn’t the first panic attack she’d had, but knowing what it was didn’t help. Angry tears trickled down her cheeks. Damn Jason, for doing this to her. She hated feeling weak. Being scared of her own shadow. Being helpless.
She needed a paper bag—something to breathe into. There was one in her laptop bag, but that meant going back into the bedroom, and she wasn’t ready for that.
Her phone chirruped with a text, and she grabbed it. Any distraction would do.
It was from Nick.
Hey. It’s mild outside, if you feel like a walk?
Adele clutched the phone to her chest. Nick was so lovely. She couldn’t have managed the last couple of days without his support. She couldn’t go out, though. Not in this state.
When she didn’t reply, he sent another message.
Have you ever seen the Louvre at night? Stunning. Come be a tourist with me. Two hours, that’s all.
She smiled despite her tears. She’d love to, but that meant leaving the bathroom. Putting on clothes. Fixing her make-up. Tidying her hair. Too much to think about.
She wavered over how to reply, and while she procrastinated, he phoned.
“Hey,” he said, his voice friendly. “If you’d rather stay in and watch cable TV, that’s cool, but I fancy some company. If you tell me to fuck off, I won’t mind.”
Adele tried to laugh, but it came out as a sob. “No. I’m sorry.”
“Melda? You in your room?”
She sniffed. “Yes.”
“I’m coming to your door. Please let me in.” Seconds later, four rapid knocks sounded on the door, and Nick spoke in her ear. “That’s me. Come on, Melda.”
If it was anyone else, she’d ignore them, but this was Nick. He’d seen her in a mess before. She trusted him, and trust was a rare commodity at the moment.
She tugged the bathrobe tight and hurried to open the door.
Worry filled Nick’s eyes, along with more sympathy than she could ever want. He opened his arms, and she snuggled into them.
“Melda.”
The stupid nickname caused more tears to cascade. How she wished she could turn back the clocks. Go back to their days at Uni, to the night she slept with Nick. That was right after she split up with Chris—she’d gotten drunker than she ever thought possible and ended up in Nick’s bed.
The sex had been off the scale, but the morning after, Chris had sought her out and apologised profusely. And like a fool, she’d gone back to him.
She always wondered how different her life might have been if she’d told Chris no. If she’d stayed with Nick. It was academic now, but she could still daydream.
“Sweetie,” he crooned, one hand stroking her tangled hair. “This is no good. You need to get out of here. Go put on some clothes. I’ll wait.”
Sometime later, she had to admit Nick was right. The Louvre was amazing, the glass pyramid lit up against the dark sky. She pushed the bad thoughts aside, and for the next couple of hours they wandered around like tourists. They stopped in a backstreet bar, where they drank a rough cognac, and then when they left, Nick persuaded her to try a Gauloises cigarette. Boy, did that make her cough. But she laughed as she stamped it beneath her shoe.
“It tastes like sweaty socks. With mud on. Don’t you value your lungs at all?”
“It’s not that bad.” He huffed a laugh. “I’ve had worse. Those roll-ups your friend used to make.”
“She wasn’t my friend; she was yours. Clarissa.”
“Oh, yeah.” Nick gave up on his too. “She was a bit weird. I heard she joined a nudist retreat on a Scottish island.”
“Really?”
“God’s truth.”
“I can think of better places for a nudist colony,” said Adele, realising belatedly that they’d arrived back at the hotel. Her heart sped up. She spent all of last night wide awake, and she couldn’t bear to do that again.
“Nick,” she said, before she could talk herself out of it, “I’m scared. Please stay with me tonight.”
****
By the yawns around the breakfast table, Lara figured nobody had slept well. Jordan tapped at his laptop keyboard at the counter, while Sylvie picked at a slice of toast. Even Poppy was subdued, while Kate coaxed her to eat cereal. Alex was the only one still asleep.
There was no word yet from Nick. She’d sent him a text after Jordan’s shocking news, and it was odd he hadn’t replied yet. There was only an hour’s difference between London and Paris, so by now he should be on his way to the conference. He must be busy.
She longed to talk to him, but what could she say?
She was glad Jason was dead, but at the same time angry that he’d escaped justice. And the poor train driver must be traumatised.
Sylvie sighed and pushed her plate away, her food barely touched. “I’m not sleeping well,” she said to nobody in particular. The shadows under her eyes were immense.
Kate glanced up from feeding Poppy. “Have you tried the usual things? Hot milk at bedtime? No caffeine after lunch? Chamomile tea is good too.”
“Yeah.” Sylvie hid a yawn behind her hand. “I’ve tried all those and a few others besides. Nothing’s working.” She looked around, and then leaned forwards, closer to Lara and Kate. “I’m struggling with bad dreams. Well... that’s not exactly true. They’re not bad dreams, but anxious ones. I keep hearing Rico calling me or talking to me. It’s like he’s in the room.” She paused and rubbed her eyes. “I’m not scared; it’s nothing like that. More as though he’s trying to tell me something, but I can’t quite hear him. It frustrates the hell out of me.” She gazed at Lara, her eyes red rimmed in her pale face. “Please don’t tell Alex. He’ll be worried.”
“Maybe you should.”
Lara was in no place to preach to Sylvie about honesty. There was a time when Lara didn’t keep any secrets from Nick, but now she had a freaking huge one, about what he might have done at work. Anxiety soured in her gut, and she abandoned her toast.
Kate placed a hand over Sylvie’s. “I know someone you can talk to.”
“A shrink? Thanks.”
“No. Not that.” Kate looked bashful. “There’s a woman I know in Beaumaris—a psychic. I don’t know if you believe in that sort of thing, but she’s supposed to be very good.”
“A psychic?” Sylvie sounded weary. “What have I got to lose, apart from my sanity?”
“I’ll give you her number,” said Kate. “Beaumaris isn’t that far from Rhosneigr, and we can go together. She does group sessions in a local pub as well, if you’re a bit unsure about the one-to-one thing.”
“Right now, I’ll consider anything.”
“There’s more news.” Jordan handed his iPad to Lara. “I’ll be leaving in fifteen minutes, if you want to share a cab with me?”
“Thank you. I’d like that.” She angled the tablet, so Sylvie could read the story as well.
A young man died after apparently jumping in front of a Tube at Leicester Square station yesterday evening. The man has been identified as Jason Farnley, age 32, Chief Financial Officer at the U.S. company TM-Tech, based on Canary Wharf.
It is believed he took his own life, by throwing himself into the path of the train at around 19:45. However, British Transport Police have not ruled out foul play and are currently reviewing CCTV footage and interviewing witnesses.
Police, as well as the Fire Brigade and paramedics, raced to the scene, but Farnley is believed to have died instantly.
The Piccadilly and Northern lines were suspended for several hours, but are now running on schedule again.
Foul play? Sylvie and Lara stared at each other. Was he pushed?
Sylvie spoke first. “Leicester Square? That guy, Karl—he was going to Leicester Square. He said it was only ten minutes away.”
Karl could have been at Leicester Square when Jason jumped, and then walked down to Holborn where he saw her and Sylvie. No. She’d watched too many thrillers.
Sylvie stared at her. “What is it?”
“If you were with us when Jason came sneering at Adele, you’d have seen how Karl behaved. He looked as though he wanted to kill Jason for what he did.” Lara shuddered. “It would be the perfect murder. A quick push in front of the train, then sprint down to Holborn, where we act as his alibi.”
Sylvie’s eyes opened wide. “Do you think he might have?”
It was too ridiculous to contemplate. “No. He’s way too nice.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.” Sylvie’s voice was fierce.
“At least I can go back to my house tonight. There’s no chance of Jason following me home.” Lara tried to laugh, but the idea of Karl being a killer wouldn’t go away.
****
Alex should be relieved the guy from last night was out of the picture, but Sylvie was still fretting about it. Was there more to this story than he first assumed?
Either way, they had a big day today. Alex wanted to make a good impression on the Social Services people, and he smiled at Sylvie as he sat opposite her at Kate’s kitchen table. “You okay this morning, babe?”
“Yeah.” She smiled back, looking anything but okay. Her face was grey with exhaustion, her eyes were dull and red, and even her hair seemed limp.
Alex placed a hand on her forehead. “You look like you’ve got the flu. Maybe you’d better stay here this morning.”
“Don’t be silly. They want to see both of us. I’ll feel better after I’ve had a shower.”
Kate released Poppy from the confines of her chair straps, and then picked her up. “I’m taking missy here to the local toddlers’ group in half an hour. What time is your appointment?”
“Ten-thirty,” replied Alex. And then they had to be back for the nanny interviews in the afternoon.
Kate flashed them a wicked grin. “You’ll have the apartment to yourselves once we’ve gone out, and I won’t be back until lunchtime. Sylvie, come with me. There’s something I want to show you.”
Syl looked curious, but followed. She and Kate returned a few minutes later, giggling.
“What is it?” Alex was amused by the teasing smile on her face.
“You’ll see.” Once Kate and Poppy had left, Sylvie took his hand and led him into Jordan and Kate’s en-suite bathroom. “This is ours for the next hour.”
She meant the giant corner spa bath, and Alex grinned. “What are we waiting for?”
An hour later, after a lazy bath together, they prepared to go out.
Alex debated long and hard whether or not he should wear a suit, but decided against it. His normal style was to wear plain black shirts, T-shirts, jeans, and leather jackets. It was all he wore, and all he felt comfortable in.
After some thought, Sylvie wore a similar outfit. There was no point in pretending they were something they weren’t.
They held hands in the cab, and arrived at an ordinary looking street somewhere in North London. The social worker, Catherine, had arranged to meet them outside.
As Alex paid the driver, a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman walked up to greet them. “Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton?” She had a faint Scottish accent. She looked like he’d imagined she would—plump and plain, with her largely grey hair pulled back from her face. She had a generous smile, though, and shook their hands confidently. “Come and meet Callum, and his foster mother, Margie.”
The house was a 1930’s semi-detached with a grassed front garden littered with toys and bikes. The street was clean and tidy, well cared for, with graceful trees along one side. Alex had imagined a squalid slum in the middle of a rundown council estate, but this seemed nice.
Margie Dean also smashed his expectations of a foster mother. She was probably in her early thirties, with short blonde hair in a shaggy crop, big blue eyes, and dangling hoop earrings. She spoke with a smooth, clear voice—barely any trace of an accent—and wore expensive clothes.
“Hello. Do come in. I’m very pleased to meet you.” She led them into the lounge, where Alex and Sylvie perched on the sofa, their hands tightly meshed.
Sylvie’s palm was sweating. Or maybe it was his.
High pitched squeals and laughter rang through the open window.
Margie watched him for a moment, and then smiled. “Callum’s playing with my daughter. I’ll fetch him.”
Minutes later, she reappeared with a small boy in her arms. She held him against her hip, as Alex had seen Kate do with Poppy. Callum was smaller than Alex expected, with short-cropped hair and big dark eyes. Alex stared at him, dumbfounded. He’d considered that Sam might not be the kid’s father, but this child was the spitting image of his brother as a small boy.
Alex exhaled slowly, feeling a great sense of relief.
Sylvie’s face was impassive as she watched the kid.
Callum sat on Margie’s lap, as she sank into an armchair, and turned his head into her chest and away from Alex and Sylvie.
Margie settled him and spoke softly. “He’s very quiet, a little withdrawn, and slightly malnourished. I don’t think his mother fed him the most appropriate food. He’s very affectionate, but shy around strangers.” She gently rubbed his back, but he refused to turn around. “He’s particularly nervous around men. It took a week or so before he’d settle down with my husband in the room. He’s come on marvellously, though. I expected him to cry when he saw you.”
Alex and Sylvie talked of their plans to engage a nanny, of their house with its gardens and space, the beach a short walk away, and the local schools Callum could attend. They explained how they planned to take him with them on tour. They tried to show that their unconventional lifestyle could work well with a child—how they would be at home far more than normal working parents. How much they had to offer.
Margie and Catherine nodded and smiled in all the right places, but did it go well? Alex had no clue.
They were silent in the cab back to Jordan’s. Sylvie held his hand and stared out the window.
Alex wouldn’t let himself get excited yet, but the kid’s face was all he could see. This was Sam’s child. If they weren’t given custody, he didn’t know what he’d do.