by JS Taylor
“Oh.” I let out a breath, trying not to laugh in relief. Migrating birds. I guess that’s the kind of issues which arise on a country estate. “Um. Well, he’ll be in his temporary studio,” I say. “In the west wing of the house.”
There’s a pause.
“No, I checked there already,” says Lady Berkley, sounding confused. “James is not in his studio.”
“He is,” I insist. “He told me he’d be working late in the studio.”
If he’s not there, why is he not answering my texts?
Lady Berkeley hesitates again, and I can tell she’s trying to be tactful. “I checked every room,” she says. “Perhaps he’s working in some other part of the house.”
But we both know that’s impossible. On Berkeley Estate, James’s facilities are limited. If he was working on the movie, like he said, he could only be there.
“Oh, ok,” I say, and now we’re both playing along, pretending that James hasn’t lied to me about where he was. “Well, I hope you find him.”
“Thank you, dear,” says Lady Berkeley. “It’s not urgent. I’ll try and send him a text message. I never was very good at those things,” she adds.
This reminds me of my Mami. And I smile, resolving to help Lady Berkeley master text messages, if I get the chance.
“I guess I’ll see you soon,” I say.
“Oh yes, I hope so dear. It’s a shame you all go so early tomorrow. We’ll have to have another meet up soon.”
I hang up, feeling a wave of anger boil up. I knew James wasn’t telling me the truth earlier. I knew it. He didn’t want to come hang out with the cast with me there.
I am gripped with unreasonable paranoia. We got close, before, to talking about his past. Did we get too close? Does he want some distance?
The thought is inexplicably painful.
Steady Isabella. All men need time alone. Don’t take it personally.
He shouldn’t lie to me about where he is though. I need to talk to him about that.
If he needs alone time, that’s fine with me. But I don’t like being lied to.
Another ugly thought arises. What if he’s seeing another woman? Some ex-flame who lives nearby? We are in his old childhood home, after all. He must have socialised near here. Just like Ben did.
Stop it, Issy. You’re being ridiculous.
I know I am being completely unreasonable. But a sudden sickening image of James with another woman rises up. The pain is so bad, I shut my eyes. How would I cope if anything like that happened? I just couldn’t bear it.
I breathe out, forcing rational Issy to take the driver’s seat again. I love James. He loves me. And he’s entitled to some time by himself.
I do have a nagging fear though. What if something has happened? What if he was… injured somehow, or there’s been an accident? I know it’s unlikely. But it’s so out of character for James not to reply to my texts. And I would never forgive myself if he needed help and I ignored his silence.
It was only a few weeks ago that James was tackling a dangerous stalker. Not only that, but I found a police file about the Lipstick Stalker in James’s Barcelona hotel room. From what I saw, the stalker had deliberately targeted, not just me, but Berkeley Studios.
OK. How am I going to deal with this?
I punch in James’s contact and call him.
No answer.
Even that small occurrence deals me a pelt of frustrated rage and anxiety.
Answer your phone!
I call again. No answer.
Where would he be, where he couldn’t hear his phone?
I key in a text, just in case his text message alert sounds louder than his ringer, and he’s someplace loud.
Call me. Your step-mum says you’re not in the studio?
I put my phone back in my bag whilst deciding what to do next.
The idea of hanging out in the pub has instantly gone sour. I would be the absolute worst company. The mystery of James’s whereabouts would play on my mind, and I’d be checking my phone every second. Part of me is genuinely worried, although I know it’s unlikely anything has happened.
I mull over how impolite it would be to leave early. I turn back to look through the pub window. Everyone seems to be having fun.
My eyes rest on Camilla, and sensing me watching, she turns and sees my face through the window.
She raises her eyebrows at me, questioning. Are you ok?
I nod and beckon her outside. In a moment, there’s a creak, and the pub door opens to reveal Camilla.
“What’s up, Issy?”
“Oh nothing.” I smile. “I have a bit of a headache though. I thought the ride here might shake it off, but the pub’s making it worse. I might slip away. Do you think you could explain to the others?”
“Sure.” Camilla’s lovely face twists in concern. “Are you sure you’re ok? I mean. You just took a phone call, right?”
“Yeah, it was just Lady Berkeley asking after James,” I say. “Apparently, they have some migrating birds or something tomorrow.”
Camilla laughs. “I’d forgotten that happens this time of year,” she says.
“Hey Camilla,” I touch her arm. “Are you alright? You know, about the Ben thing?”
She lets out a long sigh. “Yeah. More or less. Most off, I’m just embarrassed, you know? He made such a fool of me.”
“He didn’t make a fool of you,” I say, putting my arm around her shoulder. “He made a fool of himself. Ben proved that you’re better, braver and more loving than he could ever understand.”
I mean it too. Ben is a prize jerk for the way he treated Camilla.
She gives me a little smile. “Yeah. He’s such a loser. You’re lucky, Issy.” She fixes me with a meaningful look. “You got one of the good ones.”
Yeah. I guess I did. I feel a burst of gratitude for James.
Camilla stares back through the window of the pub. “I’ll tell everyone about your headache, ok? Don’t worry. No one will mind. You worked really hard today. Probably you need to rest.”
“Yeah.” I smile at her, feeling guilty for lying. Then with a little hug, Camilla disappears back into the pub. And I’m left alone, wondering what on earth is wrong with me.
Nothing else for it. You might as well head back and see if you can find James.
I turn on my heel, heading towards the country lane which leads across the fields back to Berkeley Estate. The towering red-brick house is clear on the horizon. So at least my famous ability to get lost won’t be an issue.
And there’s also a helpful signpost. A traditional English wooden crossroad, which has probably been here since the estate was built.
Marked on the sign, in faded paint, is “Berkeley Hall”. So I set off in that direction.
The countryside settles around me, and darkness closes in. Either side of me are tall grasses and hedgerows. And the narrow dirt track is uneven. The only light is from the moon, and I find myself concentrating heavily to stop from stumbling on the ragged ground.
I hope the others don’t plan on drinking too much. I think. Or we’ll be dealing with sprained ankles tomorrow.
Aside from the chattering of grasshoppers, all is silent. At first, this feels calming. A welcome break from the general city noise I’ve grown used to in London.
But as the isolation of the dark country encloses me utterly, I start to feel a sense of unease. Everything around is shadowy. And it’s all so utterly deserted. If anything happened to me out here, I’d be miles away from anyone.
Maybe James was right to insist I took a car. I shake away the thought. It’s just a country lane. It’s been a while since I was out in nature at night, that’s all.
But I feel myself walking a little faster, even so.
I come out of the grassy lane, and up ahead is an even narrower path which has been cut through a field of high green corn.
Did the others come this way? Somehow I can’t imagine Natalie pushing her little body through the field. But there’s
no other path. This is the only way back to the Berkeley Estate.
Okaaay.
I frown, moving forward into the field. And after a few steps, I’m hemmed in close on either side by towering corn, which comes just over my head.
On the previous path, I had moonlit views out over the rolling fields and could see the dark shape of Berkeley Hall. But now all I can see are long shadowy leaves.
I give a little inadvertent shudder. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come this route after all. But I’m halfway there now. No sense in turning back.
I move my feet steadily forward, taking care over the rutted ground, which is now almost impossible to see.
With my view blocked by corn, I can’t be sure this path won’t take me off somewhere entirely different to Berkeley Hall. But logically, this route must link up. There was no other path to take.
Besides, Camilla talked about the route through the pretty cornfield, didn’t she? I guess it looked a lot prettier in the setting sun.
Darkness descends deeper around me as I move further into the field. And as I step forward, I have the disconcerting sense of being cut off, trapped, in this dark maze of vegetation.
I walk on, trying to remember how wide this field looked from the outside. It’s certainly impossible to see anything now but the next few steps ahead.
This sure is creepy.
I smile to myself, thinking I’ve seen too many horror films. People all around this area must use the cornfield all the time as a cut through. There’s a clear path. Even though the maize is high this time of year.
You’ve become a real city girl, Issy, I scold myself. It’s a cornfield, not a haunted house.
Then there’s a rustling sound close to me in the corn, and I feel my heart start to pound.
What was that?
The noise seemed to come from low down in the corn. Disconcertingly close.
Calm down, Issy. It’s just a rabbit. Or a field mouse.
But it sounded so much larger.
The corn closes on my shoulders on either side, and my movements against it as I walk are loud. Loud enough to scare away any animals which might be hiding in here.
I stop, letting silence descend, and listen carefully. Nothing.
I start walking again, and the sawing sound of the corn against my body seems to mingle with what sounds like scrabbling feet in the distance.
It’s so incredibly dark, and the noises sound loud. Too loud.
I swallow, forcing myself not to panic. But my breathing is tight and high in my chest, and I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears.
The corn path seems to be narrowing, and my foot trips against a hard stalk where the track should be.
Is the trail running out? The idea of retracing my steps is somehow even scarier than moving forward.
I heard a noise back there!
Then a high-pitched sound echoes out around me. I gasp out in terror.
What the hell?
It seems to be coming from right where I’m standing. Suddenly, the corn around me is lit up in an eerie green glow.
It takes me half a second to compute what has just happened.
My phone. It’s just my phone receiving a text message. I let out a juddering sigh of relief.
You idiot, Issy!
I make a slightly hysterical giggle, pulling my phone out.
James. It must be. Finally. He’ll laugh his head off when I tell him I got scared half to death by my own ringer.
I feel my anxiety fade away, and it’s only then I realise just how genuinely concerned I was for him. But a lot has happened these past few weeks. I can forgive myself a little paranoia.
But as I bring the screen up to my face, my heart sinks. It’s not James, but a withheld number.
I sigh, opening up the message. I guess it’s text spam. Why does it always come when you’re waiting for an important message? The corn around me is lit in the glow of my phone, making me feel even more closed in.
I click to display message.
But as the screen opens, I almost drop my phone in horror.
I stare at the text, and my hands begin shaking uncontrollably.
“No,” I whisper. “No.”
Because on the screen is not a message, but a picture.
It’s the signpost at the start of the country path that I’m now on.
Someone has daubed on the sign in lipstick. The raggedy shape of a heart.
The sign of the Lipstick Stalker.
Chapter 5
The Lipstick Stalker!
Without pausing to think, I start to run. My feet strike the uneven ground at crazy, unexpected angles, throwing me from side to side. And the high corn whips my face and body.
But I don’t care. Sheer terror is driving me forward.
The Lipstick Stalker.
Images of the crazed face, thick in stage make-up, are shooting through my brain.
My little dancer. I’ve got you now.
I dig in, forcing myself to move even faster. From what I last knew, the stalker was under arrest. I don’t know how, or what, has allowed him out. And I have no idea how he found me. But I have no intention of letting him catch me in this field.
Arrgh! A leaning corn stalk strikes a heavy blow to the side of my face, and I jolt to the side, reeling.
Keep going, Issy.
My feet and ankles are being ripped to shreds, and I mentally force them forward, one step after the other.
I hear a sound behind me, and my heart is pounding out of my chest. I’m almost sobbing with fear now as I race on.
Why doesn’t the field end? Why doesn’t it?
My movements are heavier now, my bruised feet refusing to keep pace. And then, the corn is suddenly at shoulder height, and a view of the wide field ahead breaks open.
I’ve only a few hundred metres until I’m out of the corn and back on the track, and now I can see the ground better, the path is easier. I sprint out the last few metres, panting, and finally, I’m on the wider dirt road which joins to the Berkeley Estate.
There are lights here, and I never realised how much I could love a street lamp until now. I’m totally freaked. But just being able to see is helping me deal with the panic.
I have a clear view back into the field I came from. And I can see there’s no one coming out of the corn. Yet.
Think Issy. Where could he be?
It suddenly strikes me that the message could have been a trick, to force me to run into the open.
I make a complete turn and realise I can see clear for several miles in most directions. No one is heading towards me. The nearest hidden area is the cornfield. And I’m a good distance out of that now. Far enough to have a good head start on any pursuer. I’m a fast runner.
The sudden change in my circumstances brings a degree of calm, and I quickly assess my options.
Call the police? It would be hard to explain where I am. Call Lady Berkeley? She could call the police and explain my exact location if I described it to her.
But the reassessment has given me chance to reassess and think rationally. Do I really want to worry Lady Berkeley about this? Despite my fears, the well-mannered part of me still baulks at waking up the Lady of the Manor.
It’s the Lipstick Stalker! Part of me screams. Get help, now!
Or is it?
I am hit with a sudden new rationality.
The Lipstick Stalker is under arrest. In prison. There’s no way he would be released until trial.
He couldn’t have sent that message. Unless…
Natalie! It suddenly comes back to me. Her taking my number in the pub. Promising to play pranks.
It makes total sense. She’s pranking me about the Lipstick Stalker.
Huh. Some prank.
But it’s all falling into place now. Of course, it would be easy for her to daub a lipstick heart on the sign outside the pub and text it to me.
I open my phone and stare back at the message. It definitely looks like the shade of lipstick N
atalie would wear.
I am almost giddy with relief, but I’m angry too. I thought the new nice-as-pie Natalie was too good to be true. And in my opinion, that was not a fair stunt to pull. Not at all. My hands are shaking again. But this time in anger. Someone needs to tell Natalie off. And I’m furious enough to be the person.
Just wait until I catch hold of her tomorrow.
I make one, nervous look back at the dark cornfield, still not quite over my earlier shock.
When I see Natalie, I’m going to kill her, I think grimly. But I will my pounding heart back to normal as I make my way across the Berkeley Estate and towards the main house.
I have no clear plan, except to head to the studios. But if I’m honest, I’m still a little jumpy. So I’m instinctively headed for the comforting bulk of the hall.
My phone beeps again, and I take it out, ready for another stupid prank.
My heart leaps. James’s name pops up on the display. It’s a text message.
Go to the main hall.
My first feeling is pure relief. He’s ok. Thank God for that! Then I make another deduction.
Why is he texting me and not calling?
I dial his number, but once again he doesn’t pick up.
Arrgh! The frustrating Mr Berkeley. Is he mad at me about something? I can’t think of what he might be angry about. My solo walk home might make him pissed. But there’s no reason he would know about that.
And if he does know, for some reason, I have the perfect explanation to calm him down. He lied to me about where he was, and I was worried. Not only that, but I got enough freaked out during that moonlit walk to have learned my lesson.
No more deserted country lanes for me.
Frowning, I punch him a message back.
If you don’t speak to me in person, I’m not going to the hall.
There. That told him.
I stand for a moment, and then my phone rings. I take in the display with a big smile of relief. It’s James’s number. I click to answer.
“Hello, Issy.” It’s his voice.
Phew. I’m so jittery, it’s good to hear him.