I try to laugh, but it comes out as a breathy huff. ‘Drove out and stopped for a walk. Thought it might clear up.’
‘Good job we’re not made of sugar, eh?’
I look blankly at her.
She shakes her head at my stupidity. So much for not drawing attention to myself. ‘If we were we’d dissolve, love.’
‘Oh, yes. Right.’
‘You have a nice day, love.’
I gather everything up into my rucksack and, as I do, she turns the next person away to the other till. ‘Time for my break.’
Is she going to make a phone call? I watch as she disappears through a door marked ‘staff only’ and I leave as quickly as I can, telling myself that I’m being totally paranoid and that not everyone can be a spy for the Fleeing for Your Life production.
Back in the rain I put my head down and survey the car park. There’s not an orange Land Rover in sight. I take a breath and walk quickly down the road, switching on the GoPro and talking into it before putting it on my head and heading back the way I’ve just come. I’m facing the traffic but every time I hear a car coming in the opposite direction, I flinch before I look round. This will probably capture some of my jumpiness. The last thing I want is the production company reneging on payment because we haven’t kept our side of the bargain.
When I finally see the house at the top of the track, I allow myself a small sigh of relief. Home and almost dry. I smile to myself, already looking forward to seeing Lydia. Then, as if I’ve conjured her up, I look up to the bedroom window and she’s standing there, waving frantically at me.
Chapter Twenty-One LYDIA
I stand at the big triangular window in the bedroom as Tom walks down the drive, both of our twenty pound notes in his pockets
I wince slightly at the twinge in my leg, which is looking puffy and swollen today. Not that it held me back. We slept together twice last night and then again this morning, but despite intense orgasms every time, I’m still revved up, my nerve endings over-sensitive and antsy. I watch him until he disappears, a bit like a sailor’s wife watching the fleet sailing out to sea. Even when I can’t see him anymore, I remain by the window, not sure what to do with myself.
Then, irritated by my uncharacteristically unsettled feelings, I force myself into action, even though today I’m feeling a lot stiffer. More of my bruises have appeared and although Tom spent considerable time this morning kissing each and every one of them, I do feel as if I’ve been through a long spin cycle and spat out at the end. But feeling sorry for myself isn’t going to get me anywhere and I decide to tidy up, because we’ve made ourselves so at home and suddenly it doesn’t feel right.
I make the bed first and then I clean the bathroom, shooting the big walk-in shower a fond glance. Downstairs I clean up the kitchen, returning everything to its place so that no one would know we’d been here. I even hoover the lounge but that’s more for something to do. Pleased that I’ve done everything I can to return the house to its original state, I help myself to one of the books in the bookshelf in the lounge. There’s quite a selection and I pick up another Jeffrey Archer book. I’ve not read any of his books before and I’m quickly absorbed in a battered copy of Not a Penny More. The lack of sleep catches up with me and my head starts to droop. For some reason the thought that someone could look through a window while I’m sleeping makes me go upstairs. All that big open space spooks me and before I lie down on the bed, I pick up the binoculars and scan the landscape. There’s a hawk circling above the hill opposite and then it drops with sudden speed to capture its prey. A second later the hawk streaks back into the air, disturbed by the heavy rumble of not one but two lorries that pass the end of the drive. The blue livery looks familiar for some reason, but I can’t think why.
I lie down on the bed for a quick doze, confident that if anyone should pass and look in the windows they won’t see anything amiss. The back door is locked as Tom found a spare key and left via the front door. I don’t know why I’m suddenly so fearful of being caught, maybe it’s because I’m on my own.
Despite knowing everything is locked up tight, my jitters have taken charge and even though I’m on the bed cushioned by the soft duvet, every time I close my eyes I think I might have heard a noise. The bedside clock ticks away with nerve-racking slowness. After an hour and a half, I give up and go to the window to see if there’s any sign of Tom and I’m relieved to see him walking up the drive. I watch his long-legged, purposeful stride with his arms swinging carelessly in a carefree manner that suggests he’s had a successful mission. My blood heats a little at the thought of him coming back. We’ve moved into this place, made ourselves completely at home and it seems totally natural. I sigh, happy, and ignore the little voice that says this is only temporary. I know that but it doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it. Live in the present. Be present.
Tom is closer now and I wonder if he can see me smiling at the very sight of him and what he’d think of the thought that darts through my head, like how quickly can I get his clothes off of him? Laughing to myself, I’m about to turn away and go downstairs to meet him, when something catches my eye. I lift the binoculars.
Shit!
There’s an orange Land Rover barrelling along the road below the drive. It shoots past the drive and then stops and begins to reverse. My heartrate goes into overdrive and I bang on the window to Tom, signalling frantically before racing down the stairs as quickly as my sore leg will allow to grab Tom just as he’s coming through the door.
‘They’re coming,’ I say. ‘Quick. Lock the door and come upstairs.’ Thank fuck, I tidied up this morning. Downstairs there is absolutely no sign that we’d been there.
Thankfully Tom grasps the enormity of the situation, locks the door, then, I’m impressed to see, slips off his muddy boots to avoid tell-tale footprints on the beige floor tiles and without question picks them up and pads up the stairs behind me to the bedroom. He eases his rucksack to the floor and stows it in behind the door and then perches on the bed next to me as we listen hard. My heart is pounding so hard, I think Tom must be able to hear it as well as our visitors on the drive.
The rumble of the Land Rover engine gets closer and closer and my chest gets tighter and tighter. I’m holding my breath so hard, my ribs ache. A car door slams, then a second.
Tom and I look at each other, our eyes wide with adrenaline-fuelled panic. The front door knocker is given an authoritative rap. I hardly dare breathe. He reaches forward and takes my hand, giving it a squeeze. I’m not sure whether it’s him or me shaking, I think it might be both of us.
Then a man’s voice shouts through the letterbox. ‘Hello. Anyone home?’
I exchange a stricken look with Tom and he shakes his head softly and leans close to me to whisper. ‘I don’t think they know we’re here.’
‘I hope not but I’m worried the woman at the farm shop might have called it in.’
‘But you didn’t tell her where you were staying, did you?’ I ask in a fierce whisper.
‘Course not.’
‘So she wouldn’t know we were here. Even if she did say she’d seen you, there must be loads of holiday cottages in the area.’ I reply.
Tom holds up crossed fingers.
Two men are talking and we strain to hear them but we can’t make out the words.
There’s a rattle of the handle of the front door, which sends a pulse of fear through me even though I watched Tom lock the damn thing. More talking and then feet crunching on gravel.
Then it goes very quiet and we can’t hear a thing. I’m not sure if that’s worse. We sit in silence, tense and fearful. There’s a loud, raucous shriek of grinding metal. I’ve no idea what it is. Tom frowns, concentrating and then shrugs. More silence. Tension pinches at my shoulders as my stomach turns somersaults.
We both jump when we hear them try the back door. They’re circling the house again, obviously peering in windows. Shit! Did I pick up Tom’s T-shirt from the lounge floor? My brain is suddenly incommunicado. I remember going into the living room to fold the throw and return it to the back of the sofa and finding the T-shirt I’d been wearing. I picked it up but then I put it down again and I can’t for the life of me remember where. I close my eyes tight, retracing my steps and trying to picture what can be seen through the window. Fuck, I left it on the beige armchair. A bright blue T-shirt. My stomach twists in ever tighter knots.
Outside they continue to circle the house.
‘Hi, Mark, it’s Jordan.’ The man is bellowing, obviously not a good phone connection, which is handy for us. ‘Yeah … we got a tip-off. Possible sighting near Sadgill, couple walking west. Not sure who. Of course in this weather, could have been any old hikers.’
Tom grabs my hand and squeezes. It would appear the farm shop woman hadn’t tipped them off. ‘We’re just doing a trawl of the surrounding areas, checking any isolated places. You’re kidding?’ His voice changes slightly, clearly talking to his companion. ‘One of our lookouts had a sighting of Tansy and Rory. Heading towards the M6 slip road. They’ve been picked up. That’s a tenner you owe me.’
There’s a pause before he starts shouting again. ‘Yeah, Jordan. There’s no sign of anyone. Place is all locked up. We’ve checked the sheds and garages but it doesn’t look as if anyone has been here. We’ll check the rest of the places in the area. They’ll have not got far. Last ones standing, so we can get all eyes on them. I’m sending the drone up to check the area and then we’ll focus on the A roads and the motorway slip roads.’
We both glance towards the huge window.
