by Jill Mansell
“If you’re going to call it driving, the authorities might have an inkling you’re not a qualified pilot,” said Dan.
“Honestly, you people are so persnickety. Go on, then,” said Lily, “tell me what you’ve done.”
“OK, I bought Patsy tickets to see Beyoncé in concert for her birthday and they arrived yesterday. I checked that everything was in order and thought I’d keep the envelope in my suitcase so Patsy wouldn’t find them. But I searched the case this morning, and the envelope isn’t in there. So it has to be somewhere in my room. I must have thrown it and missed, and it’s on the floor under the bed.”
“Ah,” said Lily. Patsy was a fiend with a vacuum cleaner; she even cleaned parts of the house that didn’t show.
“And if I tell her there’s something under the bed but she can’t look at it, she’ll just—”
“Look at it.” Lily nodded. The ability to resist temptation had never been one of Patsy’s strong points.
“Exactly. And there are photos of Beyoncé all over the folder holding the tickets. So look, can you get in and hide them? Or better still, take them out of the house?”
“No problem. I’ll sort it this afternoon.”
“You’re a star.” Dan paused. “How was the letter from your mum?”
Touched that he’d asked, Lily said, “It was so lovely.”
“Good. Well, I’d better get a move on. Sounds like the passengers are getting restless because we haven’t taken off yet.”
“Yeah, right. Bye.” She smiled, because he wouldn’t really be calling her from the plane as it waited on the runway.
Except a minute after hanging up, she received a message with a photo attached of Dan wearing his pilot’s uniform and headset, grinning at her from his seat in the cockpit as he held up a piece of paper, across which was scrawled in red marker: Happy Birthday, Dear Ticket Collector. Happy Birthday to Youuu! xx
Chapter 5
Patsy was finding it hard to concentrate, what with the gigantic secret that was currently occupying her mind. Her heart did a double skip when Erica Braithwaite suddenly said, “So who was that fellow then, yesterday?”
OK, relax. She said “yesterday.” The secret hadn’t been blown; Erica was talking about Derek. Exhaling with relief, Patsy saw that she was being beadily observed via the mirror in front of them. She could feel the antennae of the other clients begin to twitch around the salon. That was the thing about having mirrors everywhere; there was no place to hide.
“Which fellow?” It was pointless to prevaricate, but she did it anyway. Hopefully, she just looked embarrassed rather than as if she was harboring a secret about someone else entirely.
God, though, it was stressful. How on earth did undercover police officers do it?
“Come on, love, you know who I mean,” said Erica. “On the bicycle made for two.”
Oh well, maybe a bit of distraction was what she needed.
Across the salon, Will was pretending not to listen as he kept combing Jess Carrington’s freshly dyed hair.
“It was a first date,” said Patsy. “I think it’s safe to say there won’t be a second.”
“Ah, bless your heart. Dumped you already, has he?”
“No!” Honestly, sometimes the urge to let the scissors slip and just give the tip of an ear a tiny nick was almost irresistible. “I was the one who didn’t want to see him again. He wasn’t my type.”
“Well, by all accounts, he did look like an idiot,” Erica retorted. “Then again, beggars can’t be choosers, can they?”
Were all old people the same, or were the elderly inhabitants of Stanton Langley truly in a league of their own? “Thanks, Erica,” Patsy said, “but I’m not a beggar, and I’m always going to be a chooser.”
“Sure about that, love?” Over by the row of sinks, Mary Southam spluttered with chesty laughter. “Only when it comes to men, you haven’t exactly made the best choices so far.”
That set them all off, naturally. Some jokes never grew old. Patsy was only too aware that she was a source of entertainment to many of her regular clientele. And they didn’t mean it maliciously either; they just found her situation hilarious.
Which was fair enough, really. To any outsider, hers would be a comical predicament to be in.
Will wasn’t getting involved, but when she glanced over at him again, she could see he was trying hard not to smile.
“Will?” Patsy called across the salon. “When you start cutting Mary’s hair, make sure you do her bangs lopsided.”
More laughter, then general conversation resumed, leaving Patsy to wonder if anyone’s life ever really went according to plan. When she was in her early twenties, she’d been so confident that her own life would. Some people enjoyed being single, gadding about, and playing the field, the more partners the better. But she’d never yearned for those kinds of adventures. She had known from very early on that all she really wanted was to meet the right man and settle down, get married and have babies, just be normal and happy and average, like a family in a children’s storybook.
Oh, yes, the single life had definitely never been for her. Relationship-wise, her late teens and early twenties had been messy and unfulfilling, until at twenty-three she’d met Sean and the longed-for storybook romance had miraculously begun to come true. She’d gone along with friends to a rugby club dance, and Sean had approached her with a typical male pickup line, confiding that he knew she wouldn’t want anything to do with him, but please could she save him from the ridicule of his teammates and allow him to buy her just one drink?
It had ended up being such a great evening. Sean was lovely, with wavy fair hair and a gorgeous smile. He had a broken nose—which only added character to his broad, chiseled face—and wide shoulders, as befitted any self-respecting rugby player. They’d hit it off at once. She’d laughed at his terrible jokes, and in turn, he’d paid her compliments and sounded as if he meant them. They had danced together, not awfully well but with plenty of enthusiasm. And at the end of the evening, he’d kissed her, then said, “God, you’re amazing. I can’t believe this is happening… I had no idea this was going to turn out to be the best night of my life.”
Patsy bit her lip at the memory. Even now, all these years later, she could still recall his comments almost word for word. At the time, she’d memorized them, sensing that her life was about to change in a major way. She’d even fantasized that one day she would be able to tell her teenage daughters all about the magical night when their parents had first met. And the girls might laugh and squeal, pretending to be grossed out by the idea that their mother and father had ever been young, but secretly they’d love hearing the story of how their happy family unit had come about.
Except the happy family unit had never transpired. For the first few years together she’d thought everything was fine, but it turned out that in order for a marriage to really work, both partners had to be happy with it.
That had been the stumbling block. And it had come as something of a shock to discover that her big, noisy, cheerful rugby-playing husband had fallen in love with someone else.
“The birthday girl’s on her way over.” From his position by the window, Will raised his voice to be heard above the blast of the hair dryer he was now wielding. “Not booked for anything, is she?”
“No.” Grateful for the distraction, Patsy craned her neck to see Lily making her way across the street. Her heart lifted at the sight of her, that extravagant mane of blond curls bouncing around her shoulders, her brown eyes bright. She was wearing a dark-blue Goldstone T-shirt with the Salvage & Treasure logo on the front, a pair of white shorts, and light-blue flip-flops. Her legs were slim and tanned from spending so much time outside. She was already waving at Will through the full-length window as she approached the salon. And everyone inside was turning to smile and greet her when she pushed open the door.
Lily was the darling of Stanton Langley; everyone loved and was protective of her following the tragic early loss of her mum. The saying “It takes a village to raise a child” had turned out to contain more than a kernel of truth in Lily’s case. Over the years they had all played their part, sharing their various fields of expertise. Kath from Derring’s Farm had taught her how to feed lambs and ride horses; Will had helped her come to grips with geometry; Mary from the cake shop had taught her how to bake. Patsy smiled to herself, recalling the time she’d tried to instruct Lily in the art of applying false eyelashes. Afterward, they’d gone over to the pub, where one of the strips of lashes had ended up floating in someone’s pint of cider, and that had been that. Lily hadn’t attempted to wear them since.
Having greeted Will and the customers, she came over to where Patsy was working.
“Hey, you. Happy birthday.” Patsy gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “All OK?” Everyone knew about the last letter from Jo.
“All OK.” Lily showed her the bangle on her wrist. “Look, Mum gave me a present.” She nodded, met Patsy’s eye, and mouthed, I’m fine.
“Good.” Patsy duly admired the bangle. “And to what do we owe this pleasure?”
“The thing is, I really wanted to wear my navy shoes tonight, but one of the heels is falling off. So I wondered if I could borrow yours?”
“’Course you can.” They were meeting later at the Star before going out to dinner in Cheltenham. “I’ll bring them with me, shall I?”
Lily shrugged. “Actually, it’d be easier if you could give me your key, and I could go pick them up now.”
Ha, like that was going to happen.
“It’s honestly not a problem,” said Patsy. “I’ll bring them over this evening.” Now she really felt like an undercover agent; no way was she giving Lily her key.
Lily said, “Oh, but I could save you the trouble. And, you know, try them on and make sure they fit me.”
OK, time to put a stop to this. “You tried them on the other week. You already know they fit you.” With an air of great firmness, Patsy said, “Don’t worry. I’ll bring them tonight. Now.” She turned back to Erica and ran a comb through her hair. “How much did you say you wanted off?”
Chapter 6
That had gone well, then. Patsy’s stubbornness had been mildly puzzling, but by the time Lily had made her way back down the main street, she was pretty certain she’d worked out the likely reason. Patsy was house proud and tidy; chances were that she’d left the kitchen a mess for once and was embarrassed at not having cleaned up.
Lily was amused by the idea—as if something like that would matter to her. But when people had OCD tendencies, you couldn’t sway them. Patsy liked everything in her house to be pristine and perfect, and it would bother her to feel as if she’d been seen to let her high standards slip.
It was yet another reason why she was so likely to vacuum under Dan’s bed and find the envelope he really didn’t want her to find.
That was the thing about Dan: he could be so thoughtful sometimes. Arranging a surprise like that for Patsy was the kind of gesture so many men wouldn’t bother to think of. Realizing that she couldn’t give up, Lily took the keys out of her shorts pocket and unlocked the passenger door of the van. She removed a small leather pouch from the glove compartment, jumped back down, and hurried across the street. The sooner the envelope had been retrieved, the sooner she could relax and forget about it.
Leading off the main street, Banner Lane was narrow and curved around to the left. Each of the cottages was set back, with long paths separating them from their front gates, and the trees and shrubs in the yards afforded the properties complete privacy.
Not that the neighbors were likely to call the police if any of them happened to see her breaking into Patsy’s home, but it was still easier without an audience.
Also, did it technically count as breaking in when you weren’t actually breaking anything?
At the front door, Lily unzipped the narrow leather pouch and selected two of the steel picks for the task at hand. Lockpicking was a skill Nick had taught her as a teenager. When you worked in a salvage yard, it was useful. Closed chests, drawers, boxes, and desks regularly turned up minus their keys and needed opening. It was a handy trick, learned from months of practice at the kitchen table with an assortment of old locks. If you didn’t have professional equipment, you could open standard locks with a thin strip of metal cut from a soda can and an unbent paper clip.
Leaning in close, Lily slid the first pick into the lock on the front door. She listened to the tiny clicking noises it made as it scratched at the inner walls.
OK, this wasn’t the most basic lock on the market, but with a bit more work, she’d still be able to release it. She gave the door a push with the flat of her left hand, then gripped the edge of the lock face and pulled it back toward her before choosing another pick and trying again. For a moment she felt the oddest sensation, as if she were being watched, and she had to turn and check that no one was standing on the path behind her.
But it was just her overactive imagination; there wasn’t anyone there.
After another thirty seconds, Lily heard the final click she’d been waiting for. Bingo. The lock retracted, she pushed the door open, and…
It closed in her face.
What?
She stared at the door. It hadn’t swung shut. Someone had pushed it.
From the inside.
She blinked. It definitely wasn’t Patsy. And it couldn’t be Dan. Could it? No, there was no way even Dan would have been able to jump out of his plane and race all the way back here to play a stupid trick on her.
Unnerved, Lily asked, “Who’s in there?”
No reply. She hammered on the door and called out, “What’s going on?”
Nothing.
Just to be on the safe side, in case Dan had only been pretending to be flying today, she raised her voice and said, “Dan, is that you?”
Silence.
OK, this was ridiculous. Was there actually someone inside, or had she just imagined it? Had a window been left open at the back of the house, causing a gust of wind to make the front door feel as if it were being pushed shut by an invisible hand?
Because if she called the police and they came over and the place turned out to be empty, she’d look like a complete fool—not to mention that they might want to know why she’d been picking the lock in the first place.
The more she thought about it, the more she thought the wind was responsible. Still clutching the picks, she fed the second one into the keyhole to begin the process again.
“Get away from the door,” warned a low male voice from inside, “or I’m calling the police.”
What? What? Leaping back as if she’d been electrocuted, Lily stared ahead in disbelief.
“I mean it. I’ll do it if you don’t get away from this house.”
“Hang on a minute,” said Lily, fueled with sudden outrage. “You’re calling the police? What are you even talking about? I’m the one who’s going to call the police!”
“OK, calm down. Don’t call them.” There was a pause, then the voice said, “Who are you?”
God, he had colossal nerve. “Never mind me, who are you?”
“I’m staying here. I’m Patsy’s guest.”
“Well, that’s a complete lie for starters, because I saw her just now and she’d have told me.” Moving farther away from the door—because he didn’t sound dangerous, but you never knew—Lily pulled out her phone. “Right, I’m calling the police.”
“Don’t.”
“Too late. Doing it.” Her hands had suddenly started shaking. She’d never actually dialed 999 before, and now she’d pressed 666 by mistake, which was probably the number you called when you needed an emergency exorcism.
At that moment the front door opened and the vo
ice said, “OK, please don’t. I wasn’t lying before. I’m allowed to be here, I promise.”
A couple of years ago, Lily had been at work shifting a stack of Victorian picture frames when someone behind her had asked how much they cost. Turning to reply, she’d found herself face-to-face with the deputy prime minister. It had been one of those completely surreal moments when you see someone you’ve only seen before on TV, but all of a sudden they’re off the screen, out from behind the glass, and unexpectedly inhabiting the real world.
Another time, she’d been making a delivery in Oxford, sitting in the van waiting for the light to change, and the girl with the eyebrows who did the local weather forecast on TV had crossed the road in front of her. Just like any normal person.
However, neither of those experiences began to compare with this one. A weather girl and a nerdy politician in socks and sandals were no match for what was happening now.
If it was actually happening and she wasn’t having a particularly lifelike dream.
But really, what on earth was Eddie Tessler doing in Patsy’s cottage?
Eyes narrowed, expression distinctly unamused, he checked that there was no one else in sight, then said, “You’d better come inside.” As if there was nothing he’d like less.
He headed back in, turned, and waited for Lily to follow him, then closed the door firmly behind her.
To be honest, it was hardly surprising he didn’t want to be seen. As far as many people were concerned, Eddie Tessler was currently right at the top of the most-wanted list.
He’d sprung to the public’s attention only two or three years ago when he’d written a screenplay, sold it to one of the major studios, and starred in the subsequent smash-hit movie. Prior to that, he’d been an unknown, intermittently employed actor with no money, zero prospects, and a rundown, one-bedroom flat in Camden. Then the movie had been released, and pretty much overnight, Eddie Tessler had found himself catapulted into the shiniest of spotlights. His life changed beyond all recognition. Everyone suddenly wanted to know every last thing about him, and he no longer had a private life.