Page 75 of Slow Burn Summer

42

Kate headed downstairs to openup, filled with newfound purpose. She’d run the shop for the last two days without incident, glad of the distraction to keep herself from constantly checking her phone.

TheSunday Timesdelisting notice had had the predicted effect—reignition of the speculation over who the real author was and a deepening of the scandal and disparagement toward Kate. Liv’s trifle-throwing incident had taken on a viral meme life of its own, and the fact that Kate had made no attempt to defend either herself or her sister was seen as admission of both her guilt and her shallowness.

Her fingers itched to reply, and her heart burned with shame at the suggestion that she couldn’t be bothered to defend her sister.

Prue had been in touch most days to reassure her that no reply was the best reply, that you don’t stick your finger in a piranha tank and expect it not to get bitten. It was starting to feel like losing a finger might actually be worth it. Her wedding finger, maybe. She didn’t need it anymore.

She sent Liv a quick “good morning” text to check all was well in Portugal as she put the kettle on in the tiny kitchen behind the shop, then headed across to unlock the door. It took her acouple of confused seconds to register that something wasn’t quite right, her hand resting on the door to flip theClosedsign over toOpen. She couldn’t see clearly through the glass. Frowning, she peered closer, then opened the door carefully to find something smeared all over it and pooling in a congealing heap on the step. The plastic bowl was the give-away clue: trifle.

She looked left and right along the street, but all was quiet.

“Bloody hell.” She twisted her bangle, pressing the solid silver between her fingers for comfort, relieved Liv wasn’t here to see this because her blood pressure would have shot through the roof. It was only trifle, but the subtext of the attack saidI know where you live, where you work, what you did.She went back inside and slammed the door behind her, heart thumping, trying to decide what she should do. Clean it up, obviously, but should she tell the police? What would she say, someone’s thrown a trifle at my window? Surely they had more important things to worry about, she’d feel ridiculous. Filling a bowl with soapy water, she headed back outside and washed the door down, watching the pink-and-yellow mess slime away toward the drain on the road.

It’s only trifle,she kept telling herself.Probably just kids.

She could rationalize it, but nonetheless it had struck a vulnerable note within her. When she was much younger, her first car had been stolen. She’d got it back, luckily, but her first few times behind the wheel afterward had left her unsettled by feelings of invasion. Those same emotions ran through her now. Anger, because how bloody dare they come for Liv? Fear, because what if they did it again, or worse? And on top of that, a creeping sense of shame, as if she somehow deserved to be punished.

Her phone bipped as she went back inside. A message from Liv, a photo of the kids jumping into the pool with their clothes on the moment they arrived at the villa.

She sent back smiley faces and thumbs-up emojis, then satdown on the stool in the quiet of the morning and stared at the closed door, unnerved.

—

It happened again the followingmorning. Kate had slept badly, her senses on high alert, and she saw it as soon as she came down to the shop floor. She hadn’t heard a thing—the obscured bathroom window in her flat upstairs overlooked the street, a setup which was better in every way apart from not being able to watch out for trouble. She took photographs of the mess, and then, just like the morning before, used several bowls of hot soapy water to wash away the evidence. And just like the day before, she didn’t tell a soul.

43

She wasn’t prepared to letthe same thing happen on Friday morning. Unlocking the shop at half past five, she stepped into the deserted street and stood sentry outside her door. The occasional car idled past, a woman jogging with her dog in the pale early-morning sun on the opposite side of the road. Maybe they wouldn’t come today, she thought, crossing her fingers, jiggling her foot against the wooden frame of the door. Turning her options over in bed last night, she’d concluded that she needed to be more Liv in this situation. Her sister wouldn’t passively wait for it to happen again. God, what she wouldn’t give to have Liv standing beside her now, although in reality she was grateful, of course, that she’d be snoozing in bed in Portugal, oblivious.

In the distance she could see a pushbike approaching, someone dressed in dark clothing, and as they came nearer, her stomach clenched with fear when she saw the balaclava too. Was this it? The bike slowed and, sure enough, the rider paused a few feet away and reached down inside their jacket, too preoccupied to notice her standing in the shadows to the side of the door. He—definitely a he, by the build of him—ripped the lid from the large trifle and raised his arm, and in that same moment Kate stepped forward to challenge him. He wavered, already committed to theact, and she raised her phone to record him, hoping her unexpected presence would be enough to throw him off guard. Adrenaline surged through Kate’s body as she moved toward him, but then the trifle smacked her full in the face, making her splutter and gasp as it went inside her mouth and her eyes, splattering the window behind her with the force he’d thrown it. She heard rather than saw the click of photos being taken, wiping cream from her eyes just in time to see the rider give her the middle finger before disappearing down the street.

She stood alone on the pavement, trifle dripping down her face and T-shirt. It hadn’t hurt her, physically, but the force of it slapping her in the face, the shock of it going into her mouth…she sat down on the shallow windowsill outside the shop and lowered her head between her knees, winded, full of fury and fear. Had she escalated things rather than put a stop to them? She’d expected kids, not a fully grown man in a balaclava. It felt sinister and unsettling. Was it time to call the police now? Even after this, the idea sat badly with her. She should be able to handle this herself. Involving the police would mean involving Liv, and that was the last thing she was going to let happen. Right. Okay. She straightened her shoulders and checked her watch. Not much after sevena.m. She’d wash the window, go upstairs and shower, and be back down in time to open the shop bang on nine o’clock. No way was some pathetic guy with a BMX and a grudge going to get the better of her.

—

It wasn’t easy to stayresolute as she cleaned the scene with trifle crusting on her skin, and she might have cried a little in the shower as she shampooed clumps of cream from her matted hair, but nonetheless, ninea.m. found her flipping theClosedsign toOpenand stepping out onto the street to check the coast was clear. Justthe usual morning hubbub. People headed to work, parents grabbing coffee after dropping their kids at school, a couple of college girls carrying huge cups of Barbie-pink bubble tea from the new place farther down the street. They made her think of Alice, a sharp twist of longing in her gut to hold her daughter close. Everyone she’d normally turn to was somewhere else: Alice, Liv…Charlie. He’d have made that list in the past too. He messaged most days to ask if she needed anything from him. It was difficult to discern if the texts were personal to her or bcc’d to all of his client list. Some days she replied with a polite no, other times she left them unanswered. She hadn’t breathed a word to him or anyone else about what had been happening every morning. Perhaps she’d tell him when he was home again, if she hadn’t miraculously found a way to resolve it before then. Pulling out a notepad, she made coffee and tried to brainstorm solutions.

Report it to the police.She wrote it down then put a line straight through it because she didn’t want to do anything that risked involving Liv.

Talk to Prue and the team.But what could they do, really? She drew a line through that one too, because how could they practically help her at six in the morning?

Talk to Fiona.She didn’t even know why she’d written the option down in truth, because the only thing she’d get was an earful. Kate had concluded that Fiona had no recollection of her from twenty years ago and little respect for the woman she was now. She seemed to expect trouble to follow Kate around, and to take pleasure in her downfalls.

Buy every trifle within a five-mile radius.So that would be time-consuming and costly, and what the hell would she do with them all, and anyway, the shops would just keep restocking. It’d be a never-ending cycle. Line through.

Throw something back at balaclava man.But what? Should shestick to the pudding theme and pelt him with a lemon drizzle cake? Knowing her luck, she’d probably injure him and he’d sue her for every penny she didn’t have. Liv would probably go big on this strategy, Death by Chocolate, but it just wasn’t in Kate’s nature to start hurling things at strangers in the street. Which left her with a cold cup of coffee and a big old list of crossed-out nothings.

44

At six o’clock on Saturdaymorning, Kate sat behind the counter in the shop and stared at the door, utterly miserable. She hadn’t slept, she hadn’t showered, and she wasn’t brave enough to go out there and face balaclava man again. In truth, he had her running scared.

He appeared at half past six, exactly as before. Stopped in the street and surveyed the scene for a minute, scanning to see if she was out there hiding again, most likely. She pressed her back to the wall as she watched him climb off his bike this time, her heart hammering, her hands shaking, her fingers clasped around her bangle. He peered through the glass door and for a horrible moment she feared he was going to open it, even though she’d triple-checked it was locked. He didn’t. He ripped the lid from the trifle and scooped it out with his fingers, smearing it down the door again and again until he’d made as much mess as possible, then chucked the bowl on the ground and stamped on it before getting back on his bike, taking photos of his handiwork and disappearing.

Kate slid down the wall behind the counter and sat on the floor, her arms wrapped tight around her knees. How the hell had sending that speculative letter to Jojo come to this? How had agreeing to represent H’s beautiful book led to her sitting alone onthe cold shop floor, scared of her own shadow? She’d spent the last year and a bit scraping herself up after the divorce, and just when she’d thought she was finally getting somewhere, life had gone completely off the rails again.

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