In a Cottage In a Wood: The gripping new psychological thriller from the bestselling author of The Woman Next Door
of the picture editors, a shy young woman called Edie who wears 1940s-style clothes, comes into reception then. She stares at the retreating backs of the men, chewing her red-lipsticked bottom lip; brow creased.
‘Edie,’ hisses Neve. ‘What’s going on?’
Edie comes over in her neat little dress covered in sprigs of cherries, thick tights and 1940s sandals. Her blonde hair is twisted into victory rolls at the side of her head. She fixes large pale eyes on Neve and makes a face of dismay.
‘That’s Holger Meier,’ she says in a low voice. ‘He’s one of the directors from Brahmen Klein.’
‘Shit …’
Brahmen Klein is a huge European media company. She’s been too preoccupied to think much about the rumours in the office. Now all she can do is remember the shocked expression on the face of this man, who has power over her future, as she told Fraser to ‘bugger off’.
‘Oh God,’ she says. Edie sighs.
‘Yeah. I’d better get back to updating my CV,’ she says. ‘I suggest you do the same.’
Neve doesn’t make the coffee.
Instead, she thinks about the moment Isabelle Shawcross whispered hot breath into her ear; breath that was on a countdown to being her last. She thinks about the fact that she is going to lose her job; if not today, then soon.
She thinks about last night, and Christmas, and the reception she is going to get from Lou and Steve when she gets back.
She understands that Daniel is now part of her past and will never be in her future again.
The switchboard begins to light up in front of her and she watches it as though from behind a sheet of glass. Then she picks up her coat and handbag, and leaves the building for ever.
Lou is out with the girls at one of their classes when she gets home. She is struggling under the awkward weight of a bunch of flowers that cost more than £40, bought after transferring the last of her dad’s money into her current account. They’re a mix of gerbera in bright purples and yellows. She knows that Lou loves gerbera.
She carefully arranges them in a vase on the kitchen table, making sure she wipes up the spills of water she leaves in the process, then hunts for paper and a pen. All she can find is a drawing pad of Lottie’s, covered in stick people and attempts at cats in crayon, and a felt tip pen. Finding a sheet that leaks colour through from the drawings on the other side, she rips it out and begins to write a note.
Lou and Steve. I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done for me. I’m really sorry I’ve been such a nightmare. I do love you, whatever you might think. xxN
Then she takes the duvet cover, sheets and pillowcases she’d taken from the sofa bed that morning and tips them into the linen basket. Getting the vacuum cleaner out of the hall cupboard, she gives the room a thorough clean.
She can’t take everything but she’ll think about that later. This is only for a few days, to get her head together. She manages to stuff a surprising amount into a small wheelie case and a rucksack, which she hoists onto her back, wobbling under the awkward weight.
A few minutes later, she leaves the flat, closing the door with a quiet click behind her.
Neve sleeps for most of the nine-hour journey to Penzance from Victoria, head resting on her bunched-up fake fur coat, her hoodie a makeshift blanket. It’s not comfortable, but in her exhausted, hungover state, it’s enough.
She barely notices the movement of the coach or the stops at pick-up points along the way. It is only the insistent wah-wah wail of a baby that finally tugs her back to consciousness and at first she’s convinced it’s Maisie crying. She opens her eyes and is about to call for Lou when she realizes she’s looking at a grubby purple-grey patterned seat back. There is an elderly man next to her, who nods at her with a big smile.
He has cottony white hair over a pink scalp. A pair of bright blue eyes peer merrily out of his craggy face.
‘Gosh, you’ve been out for the count,’ he says and offers her a Polo mint from the packet held in his shaky hand. ‘I half wondered if I should give you a nudge to make sure you were alive.’
Neve hasn’t quite regained the power of speech and simply smiles weakly. Her mouth feels foul and lined with wool, so she takes the Polo with a nod of thanks.
‘Where are we?’ she says, and suddenly remembers her and Lou saying, ‘Are-we-there-yet,’ over and over again to annoy their parents when they were little and going on family holidays. The memory gives her a dull ache under her ribcage when she remembers how she had left her sister this morning.
‘We’re about five miles from Truro, I think,’ says the man. ‘Better give my daughter a call and let her know we’re almost there!’
Neve smiles vaguely and then fumbles in her bag for her phone; it is on five per cent battery. The phone has taken to hiding calls and messages from the home screen and she is grateful for this now. Pushing the uncomfortable thought that Lou and others might be trying to contact her, she looks out of the window.
They’re on a motorway. She has no idea which one. Neve doesn’t drive – something both Daniel and Lou have nagged her about at different times – and she has only the dimmest notion of major roads.
Looking at her watch she sees it is now half past eight, but it feels much later. The darkness outside increases her feeling of being far away from anything.
The old man is still looking at her and she shoots him a nervous glance. He immediately smiles again and Neve hopes she won’t be forced into uncomfortable conversation for the rest of the journey.
Instead she roots inside her handbag for her earbuds. Her phone is almost dead, but he doesn’t know this. Jamming them into her ears she sees the old man is jabbing a large finger at his mobile phone. It is the sort that looks like a toy, with large buttons designed for the elderly.
He begins to speak in a loud voice. Her own dad never seemed to understand that phones had sensitive microphones either.
‘Hello, flower,’ he says. ‘It’s Dad. I’m just calling to let you know that we won’t be all that long into Truro now.’ There’s a pause and he says, ‘Uh-huh, right,’ then abruptly, ‘Well goodbye then. See you soon.’
Neve turns herself around to face the window, jamming her earbuds further into her ears. Her hands tremble. Something is starting to fracture inside.
Dad used to call her Flower. The old man’s conversation has had the effect of an uppercut punch to her diaphragm. She gasps a breath and her eyes prickle.The man makes a gentle ‘tsk’ sound and thrusts a man-sized tissue at her. She takes it gratefully and blows her nose.
‘Are you alright, dear? Is there something I can do?’
‘I’m fine. Thank you.’ Her voice is a tiny, lame thing.
Neve manages a weak, watery smile.
‘I don’t want to be nosy,’ he says. ‘But are you visiting friends or family in Truro?’ He looks genuinely concerned. ‘Is someone going to meet you off the bus?’
Neve wants to tell him the truth. But it’s too bizarre.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I’m all sorted. And really, I’m fine now. Thank you again for being so kind.’
He gives her a small nod.
Turning back to gaze out of the window she sees they have turned onto a dual carriageway. Before long signs are announcing they are in Truro.
These sudden swerves of grief take her by surprise, eighteen months after her dad died.
At