To give myself a few minutes to think, I put the parcel back in the drawer and slammed it shut – only just in time, as Holly suddenly appeared in my doorway, frowning at the suitcase and general mess in my room.
‘What are you doing?’ she said. ‘Are you going on holiday?’
‘Um … possibly,’ I said, with a sigh.
‘Where to?’
‘I haven’t quite decided yet.’
She put her head on one side, considering this.
‘But you can’t go until after my birthday. You said you were going to come to my party.’
I managed a smile. ‘Of course I’m going to come,’ I said, and held out my arms to her for a hug. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’
Holly trotted off happily to her bedroom to play with her toys, and I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Her birthday was this Monday, and the party was going to be in the afternoon, straight after preschool: her little friends were coming for lunch. Three more days. I’d finished looking after Pongo, and I had no more definite bookings yet – just a list of people who were going to give me their holiday dates. If I stayed at home as much as possible, perhaps the fuss would start to die down. I could use the time to make my excuses to Lauren and Jon, and cancel all my other pet-sitting bookings. Matt Sorrentino wouldn’t give up easily – journalists never did, I knew that from past experience – so I’d still have to move away if I didn’t want to be found out. But at least I wouldn’t be leaving in such a hurry.
Decision made, I unpacked my bags again and went down for dinner. Afterwards, I tried to catch Lauren on her own in the kitchen so I could tell her I was going to have to leave after Holly’s birthday, but every time I started trying to bring up the subject, I got cold feet and couldn’t go through with it. I told myself it could wait until the morning, but when the morning came, I felt even more reluctant to start the conversation.
‘No pets to look after today, Emma?’ she asked me cheerfully as I helped her clear away the breakfast things. It was Saturday, and Jon had already gone out somewhere with Holly.
‘No, nothing booked for this week.’
I felt a twinge of guilt for not going to Pat’s house for the last time. Poor Pongo had been on his own all night – was he missing me? Was he barking his head off again? Pat had told me she’d be getting home early this morning, and I’d been too nervous to go back there, in case Matt came hanging around outside again. How long before he found out where I was living? It would be awful if he turned up here.
‘Are you all right?’ Lauren asked me a little later, giving me a concerned look. ‘You’re very quiet.’
‘Sorry, I’m fine, thanks.’ I forced a smile. Now was my opportunity: I should tell her now about leaving. I cleared my throat, took a breath – but the words stuck in my throat. ‘Perhaps I could give you a hand with some housework or something?’ I said, instead. Anything to keep my mind off my worries.
‘There’s no need for you to do that,’ she laughed.
‘I’d like to, honestly. You’re always so busy, and I’m free today, so give me a job I can take over from you.’
‘Well …’ She hesitated. ‘OK, I’ll tell you what would be very helpful. Could you possibly pop into town for me, post a letter and pick up some icing sugar and a pack of butter? Are you sure you don’t mind?’
‘Oh.’ I felt the smile freeze on my face. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer me to do the Hoovering? Or clean the bathroom, or something like that?’
‘I did all that yesterday, thanks, Emma. I want to make Holly’s birthday cake, while I’ve got the opportunity – Jon’s taken her to the park this morning and promised to keep her out of the way for a few hours. That’s why I need the icing sugar,’ she added with a smile. ‘If I get the cake baked this morning, I can ice it while she’s in bed tonight.’
Well, I obviously wouldn’t be able to do that for her. I had about as much idea of how to bake or ice anything, as I knew how to fly. And I sensed Lauren was looking forward to having the house to herself while she concentrated on the birthday cake.
‘OK,’ I said, trying not to sound reluctant. ‘I’ll go.’
In fact it was good to be outside in the weak March sunshine, despite the fact that I was looking around me and behind me with almost every step along the road. The little town was busy with Saturday shoppers, and although I tried to keep my eyes down as I hurried along, every now and then someone recognised me and gave me a wave or a nod. I rushed on, anxious not to give anyone a chance to come and talk to me. I realised now that I’d made a big mistake by letting so many people here get to know me. Wherever I chose to go to next, I’d hide myself away in a cave if necessary, and avoid all human contact.
I’d posted Lauren’s letter, bought the icing sugar and the butter, and I was just starting to head back home when, just my luck, I saw him. Matt Sorrentino, the one person I’d wanted to avoid above all others. He was walking towards me with the jaunty stride that had caught my eye the first time I saw him, up on Castle Hill, his dark, floppy hair falling forward over his forehead, his hands in his pockets, his eyes bright with the confidence of someone who knows what they want and how to get it. I immediately tried to turn around, to cross the road, to break into a run – but it was too late. He’d already seen me.
‘Emma!’ he shouted.
I kept going, away from him, but within seconds he’d caught me up.
‘Please leave me alone,’ I muttered, trying to shake off the hand he’d put on my arm to stop me.
‘But I wanted to apologise,’ he said, keeping pace with me as I kept on walking, fast, in the wrong direction, wanting only to get rid of him. ‘I obviously said something to upset you the other day. I don’t know what, but whatever it was, I’m sorry!’
I stopped abruptly, turning to face him.
‘You’re a journalist. I don’t want to talk to you, OK? Now, please, leave me alone.’
I strode off again, faster still, but again he walked with me, silently at first, and then, just as I thought I’d actually have to give him a shove to make him clear off, he said, panting slightly:
‘All right, you’ve made your point.’
‘About what?’ I retorted, swinging round to face him before I could stop myself.
‘The fitness regime. I give in. You’re much fitter than me.’ And he pretended to bend double, wheezing and coughing, and despite everything I struggled to keep a straight face.
‘Like I said, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Emma,’ he went on now. ‘I know I’m a journalist, but I’m not a complete pig.’ And he finished with loud piggy snort, making other people in the street turn and smile at us. To my annoyance, when he made the snorting noise again, I actually burst out laughing.
‘OK, so you’re not a pig, even if you snort like one,’ I said. ‘Now we’ve got that clear, will you go away?’
‘Only after you’ve let me buy you a coffee. To prove it.’
‘Prove what?’ Why was I even talking to him? I should be running away, as fast as I could. Did he think I was stupid enough to let the offer of a cup of coffee loosen my tongue?
‘That I’m not a pig, of course. Come on.’ He nodded at The Star pub over the road. ‘It’s eleven o’clock, they’ve just opened, and honestly, their coffee’s better than their décor – or their beer, come to that. It’s either that or Annie’s Olde Gossipe Shoppe,’ he added with a grin.
I smiled, despite myself. It had to be said, I did fancy the idea of stopping for a coffee. And I might have been a lot shallower than I wanted to admit, but I fancied the idea even more of stopping for a coffee in the company of a very charming and good-looking man. After all, it would definitely be the last time I would see him; I’d made it very clear I wasn’t talking to him and he surely wasn’t going to find out who I was in the ten minutes it would take me to drink my coffee.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Thank you. But I can’t be more than ten minutes. My landlady’s waiting for her icing sugar.’
‘Never let
it be said that I kept a lady waiting for her icing sugar,’ he said seriously, taking my elbow to steer me across the road and into the pub.
It was dark inside, and to my relief, almost completely empty. He was right about the décor – it was grubby and dated, the carpet looked as though it had the beer of centuries soaked into it, and even the wooden tables were slightly sticky. I sat in an alcove at the back, away from the door, and waited while Matt brought me a cappuccino.
‘How can this dump possibly compete with The Riverboat Inn?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘The locals prefer it. It’s authentic.’
‘That’s one word for it,’ I said, taking a sip of my coffee. He was right about that too, though – it was delicious.
‘The Riverboat’s a grockles’ pub.’
‘A what?’
‘Grockles: tourists, holidaymakers.’ He grinned. ‘That’s you, I suppose?’
I put down my cup and shook my head. I wasn’t getting caught out that easily.
‘I wasn’t probing, Emma,’ he said, surprisingly gently. ‘Look: no notebook today. No voice recorder.’
‘No questions, then,’ I said.
‘OK, fair enough.’ We sat in silence for a moment, and then he added: ‘I didn’t intend to intimidate you, you know. I only wanted a couple of quotes from you about the break-in.’
I stared down at the table.
‘There wasn’t a question in that sentence, by the way,’ he said, making me laugh again, against my will. ‘Look, whatever it is you don’t want to talk about,’ he continued, more seriously, ‘it’s fine by me. I’m not interested in you, OK? Well, not from a professional point of view, anyway,’ he added with a little grin that – again, against my will – made my insides go slightly weak.
‘That’s good,’ I said firmly, trying to get a grip on myself, ‘because I won’t be here much longer anyway. I’m moving away in a few days’ time.’
‘Sorry to hear that. Holiday over?’
‘It wasn’t a—’ I stopped, annoyed with myself. Despite everything I’d said, here I was, starting to answer his bloody questions! ‘This is precisely why I’m not staying here!’ I snapped. ‘People are so nosy. I came here for peace and quiet, but nobody will leave me alone.’
‘Nosy? Or just friendly?’ He put his head on one side and looked at me sadly. ‘I really hope you’re not going because I tried to talk to you for the newspaper. I’d never forgive myself if I thought I’d driven you away.’
‘Don’t kid yourself,’ I said, no less snappily. And then, to spoil it, I went on, in the exact same tone I used to adopt back in New York when the paparazzi were bothering me too much: ‘I simply don’t want to speak to the press.’
He looked away, a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth.
‘I understand,’ he said, and gave a little shrug. ‘OK, looks like I’ll just have to wait a bit longer for my big break.’
‘What big break?’ I said, frowning.
‘Ah, who’s being nosy now?’ He laughed. ‘Well, it’s no secret – I’ve been trying for years to get a big enough story to impress my boss at the paper, and persuade him to give me a promotion. The trouble with little towns like this is that nothing much happens. If a tree blows down in a gale it makes the front page. No, I’m not kidding!’ he said when I started to laugh. ‘So when I heard a girl and a dog had foiled the guys behind this spate of break-ins, you can’t blame me for thinking I’d finally got something worth writing about. Never mind.’ He shrugged again and nodded at my empty coffee cup. ‘Nice talking to you, Emma. You’d better get back to your landlady with the sugar.’
Ridiculously, I now felt sorry for him. And even more ridiculously, I didn’t want to leave it like that.
‘Look, I wish I could help you, with your story,’ I said. ‘But I can’t. I don’t want people talking about me.’ I hesitated. ‘Not that there’s anything to talk about. I just came here to get away from an ex-boyfriend who was harassing me, all right?’
Well, it was only a little white lie. Shane had never, in fact, done anything to harass me. Towards the end he hardly even seemed to notice me. But perhaps that would stop Matt probing.
‘And now you’re moving away again?’ He frowned. ‘Look, I’m not going to harass you, I promise. How about I write up the story without mentioning your name? Although, to be honest, I think most people in the town already know it was you.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But, Emma, it’s the detail of the story they’d be interested in: did the dog hear the intruder first, or did you? Were you scared? Did the dog bite him? Did he cause any damage? How did you stop him from escaping? That kind of thing.’ He paused. ‘What if I promised not to reveal anything whatsoever about you, apart from your name?’
‘Just my first name, then,’ I insisted. I shook my head. I couldn’t believe I was agreeing to this. ‘No photos,’ I said, sternly. ‘And no questions about my background – where I’m from, why I’m here – nothing. Or I walk away.’
‘I promise,’ he said, his soft brown eyes gazing into mine. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’
Afterwards, I wondered what the hell had come over me. Even before I’d had to run away from America, I’d never speak to journalists if I could help it. They always used to make me nervous, and I’d end up saying something stupid, something that they could twist and turn and make into an embarrassing headline in the following day’s papers. At first, in the early days in California, when Shane was just a rising star and I was still his soulmate, he’d laugh off my silly faux-pas with the press.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he’d say, kissing me on the nose as if I were a sweet, helpless little kitten. ‘Any publicity is good publicity.’
I didn’t see how it could be good publicity that, in my agitation at being cornered by journalists as I came back from the beach, I’d forgotten the name of Shane’s new record, but I loved the fact that he was so patient with my mistakes. But it all changed when he became really famous. Then I had to learn to keep my mouth shut. And yet, here I was with a hack from a little local paper – with more to keep quiet about than ever – and after ten minutes and a cappuccino, I was eating out of his hand. Unbelievable.
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Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing,
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Ebury Press is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © Sheila Norton, 2018
Extract from The Pets at Primrose Cottage: Part Two © Sheila Norton, 2018
Cover design and illustration: Head Design
Sheila Norton has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
First published in the UK in 2018 by Ebury Press
www.eburypublishing.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781785034213
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