Page 12 of Slow Burn Summer

Sighing, he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. As expected, a flurry of voice messages from Fi, because why would she type when she could just shout into her mobile? An email from the author’s editor, Prue, too, checking he’d tied things up with the actor and outlining a barrage of ideas the PR team were excited to discuss. He placed his phone face down and poured the last of the wine into his glass with a sense of unease. He wished he’d been blessed with his father’s infamous gut instinct; he seemed to spend too much time questioning his own decisions these days.

He wasn’t Jojo Francisco, yet here he was attempting to walk in his daily-polished brown-leather brogues, sitting at his worn-smooth-by-deals desk and living in his outdated house. Every decision he made was governed by the question of what would Jojo do, say, think. This was his father’s furrow, his father’s life. He finished the wine, unable to shake the thought that just as Kate was a ghost author, he was a ghost agent.

7

“You didn’t need to dresslike an actual burglar,” Kate said, eyeing Liv’s head-to-toe black outfit as she parked the car a few doors down from her old house.

“You said inconspicuous,” Liv said.

“I meant more double-glazing salesperson than black widow, but it’s fine.”

Liv shot Kate’s outfit a scathing look. “Well, you nailed the brief. I’ll have two bay windows and a replacement back door, please.”

Kate couldn’t relax enough to laugh; being back in her old neighborhood had her rattled. The cul-de-sac was deserted, as usual. It wasn’t the type of place where kids kicked a ball or rode bikes. Even the cats were indoor pure breeds, gazing at the world from the safety of upstairs bedroom windows.

She was pretty certain the house would be empty. Alice was at university, and unless hell had frozen over, Richard, never one to knowingly miss an opportunity to schmooze and show off, would be at the Geneva trade fair.

“Right, let’s be clinical, in and out as fast as possible,” Kate said, sorting her key ready to insert into the front door. “I’ll ringthe bell to double-check, then once I’ve let myself in you get out and follow straight behind me.”

It worked exactly as she’d said, and she breathed a sigh of relief when the old alarm code beeped its approval.

“Trust him not to change the locks,” Liv said. “Underestimating you as usual.”

“For once, I’m glad,” Kate muttered, pausing in the hallway to recalibrate and notice unfamiliar scents, subtle differences layered across overwhelming sameness. The paint colors she’d picked out, the furniture she’d chosen, a watercolor she’d never seen before. There was a time when she’d loved this house, in the early days when Alice was still a child. Now it felt like someone else’s home. Because that’s what it was.

“Come on, let’s get this over with,” she said, one hand on the balustrade.

“Shall I leave my shoes by the door?” Liv said.

Kate shook her head. Richard was a shoes-off fanatic, and the small act of rebellion felt satisfying. Upstairs, she paused by the closed master bedroom door, then couldn’t resist pushing it open.

“So clinically tidy,” Liv whispered, standing beside her. “Didn’t it drive you nuts?”

Kate shrugged. The twice-weekly cleaners Richard retained had seemed like a help at the time, but with the benefit of hindsight she could see they were paid to ensure he lived a clutter-free existence. He’d always been someone who liked things neat and well organized; his parents were exactly the same. The night she’d walked in on him with his secretary in that exact same room, one of the first things she’d noticed was Belinda’s mismatched underwear. God knows how much it must have played havoc with his mood, he’d have been straight on to John Lewis to order her some expensive new matching sets. She’d no doubt have seen it as a giftof passion, his subtle message delivered in a froth of lace and satin.

Kate clicked the door quietly shut, glad not to be sleeping in there anymore.

“In here,” she said, opening the guest bedroom door. Fitted cupboards lined the walls, and for a second she stood still and just stared at them. “Give me a minute,” she said, scanning the room. “I’m sure they’re in here somewhere.”

She’d been thinking a lot lately about the manuscripts she’d started before Alice was born. Their mother had been creative, an artist and silversmith; the bangles she and Liv wore were her handiwork. Both of her daughters had inherited the creative gene. Liv expressed it through the clothes she designed and made, while Kate had always felt destined for the bright lights of the stage. When she abruptly turned her back on that world to follow Richard to Germany, she’d found herself compelled to write instead, scripts and manuscripts, crafting words for others to perform if she wasn’t going to do it herself anymore. She hadn’t looked at those manuscripts in over fifteen years, but something in her had made her hold on to them. Looking after her future self, maybe. It was a phrase she’d used often when Alice was younger: “Do your homework early rather than leaving it to the last minute, look after your future self”; “Eat some healthy stuff in among the crisps and chocolate, look after your future self.” Maybe by keeping the manuscripts away from Richard’s twice-yearly shred-fests, she’d been subconsciously doing that for herself. If she could lay her hands on them, that is.

“What are we looking for, exactly?” Liv said, ready to get stuck in. “A box covered in hand-drawn love hearts and cherubs?”

“I don’t want to go rooting through everything,” Kate said. “I’d rather no one realize we’ve been here at all.”

“We wouldn’t need to break into your own house if yourex-husband would be more reasonable,” Liv said. Kate had considered just asking for the manuscripts but knew he’d probably have made it as difficult as possible, or even say he’d thrown them out. “How about we go old school, sew prawns into the hem of his curtains, that’s what they always do on TV? You know I never leave the house without a sewing kit.”

“Do you carry shellfish too?” Kate muttered, approaching one of the cupboards. “No sabotage. It’s still Alice’s home, remember?” She didn’t love not having room for her daughter to come and stay with her, but she’d been trying to be the bigger person about things for her daughter’s sake.

She checked several identical tall cupboards before hitting the jackpot. Richard had moved things around to group anything belonging to Kate in one place—that over-organized streak of his actually useful for once. Hats and scarves, old handbags, and bits of jewelry. She looked at them all with a feeling of disconnection, like an exhibition of someone else’s possessions. She hadn’t missed any of them.

“This is it,” she said, hauling a brown box from the back of the bottom shelf. Flipping the lid to check, she saw banded bundles of paper and her old laptop. It didn’t work anymore, but she’d hung on to it in case there was salvageable stuff on the hard drive.

“Can I cut holes in the pockets of all his trousers? Liv said. “Or the ends off his socks?”

Kate laughed, juggling the weight of the box in her arms. “We’re meant to be invisible,” she said.

“Moths can be so destructive.”

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