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But as she tied it, a thought rose from inside her, a stubborn, unexpected thought: I’ll show him. She reknotted the scarf tightly and began to get used to a brand new feeling of rebellion that was unfurling inside her.
Now, she inhales deeply, steeling herself to reread that passage and to look at whatever Olly might have added to thebook since last week. She scrolls through and reads with gritted teeth. The character based on her hasn’t improved at all; in fact, he’s portrayed her as an increasingly pathetic presence in the book and it hurts even more than it did the first time she read it.
Hold your nerve, she tells herself. She’s been planning this. It will be her first act of revenge.
She scrolls back through Olly’s document to an early chapter, a beautiful piece of writing that, when she read it at the time, moved her immensely.
She selects a paragraph which she cuts, then she scrolls randomly through the book and pastes the cut section somewhere that it doesn’t belong. She repeats the action again and again, moving more paragraphs and sentences in the same way, jumbling everything up until almost no page is untouched.
Then she returns to the page that was on the screen when she accessed the document. She leaves that and the few before it untouched. Olly’s word count hasn’t altered so he shouldn’t notice what she’s done until he reads the book in its entirety again. Which he’s often said he won’t do until he’s finished it. He’ll never be able to unpick the damage.
She sits back, satisfied.
What’s the expression? ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ She thinks it might be true. If Olly and Sasha are going to get what’s coming to them, then this is a start, but there’s more to do. Now that the police are here, she feels bolder. She won’t do anything rash, though. Her situation, and what she knows, is complicated. The best revenge is planned slowly and lands all at once.
If she gets it right, they won’t see her coming.
15
TUESDAY
Nicole
Nicole hears the buzzer and this time she remembers to look at the video entry system before answering, but the screen is blank. She taps it, even though she knows that won’t help, and nothing changes. She needs to call the company to come out here and fix it. She feels angry with Tom for not getting on top of this. The Barn worked beautifully for the first few months, but these problems have been occurring more often lately. If he had sorted it out, the police might have had some taped evidence of what happened to him, this nightmare might be over, and she would be able to mourn him in private.
Immediately, she feels bad about feeling cross. It’s so hard, this fresh grief. She knows Tom’s gone, but part of her brain still hasn’t accepted it and wants to feel all the normal emotions towards him, the day-to-day petty irritations, the urge to tell him about silly things that have happened. She wishes she couldask him about the card in his pocket. Doubtless he’d have an innocent explanation. He didn’t have a bad bone in his body. It’s what she’s pinned her love on for all these years. Maybe I’ll talk to Patrick about the systems, she thinks, ask him to sort it all out for me.
Patrick has been here for about forty-eight hours. Yesterday was strange. It should have been an ordinary, humdrum Monday but instead it felt like the longest, loneliest day of her life, just the two of them in the Barn, trying to be kind to one another, and supportive, but not quite connecting.
The female police officer called to check in but didn’t have any developments to report. She asked how Nicole was doing and told her that they were pursuing enquiries. When she hung up, Nicole felt as if all of this should be happening to someone else.
She thought a lot about Tom’s funeral, and it gave her some comfort. They can’t hold one until the coroner releases his body, of course, but she wants to make sure he has the best of everything, a grand goodbye. She mentioned it to Patrick and that was the easiest part of their day, when they talked about Tom’s favourite things, and how to incorporate some of them into the service and the wake. When she’s up to it, she’ll make lists and some calls. She wants it to be perfect.
She appreciates the effort Patrick’s making, even if things have been awkward. He’s very much the best version of himself. She’s loved hearing about how he’s found his feet working in recruitment. ‘I’ve got a talent for it,’ he said, and she heard pride in his voice. ‘I’m actually making something of myself.’
‘Can you spare time from work to be here?’ she asked.
‘Absolutely. They know the situation. I can do a bit of work from here if necessary.’
‘How did you get the job?’ she wanted to know.
‘A friend of a friend offered to give me a shot. I was so lucky. And I’m a natural at it. I’ve never had a talent for anything in my life before.’
She knows that’s true. Patrick survived rather than thrived academically at school. It was the same in sport and other extra-curricular activities. If he had a talent then, it was for getting Tom into trouble.
‘I’m so pleased for you,’ she told him, and meant it.
They’ve been reminiscing a lot. He’s reminded her of stuff she’s forgotten, told her things she didn’t even know. It’s been better than she could have expected.
The buzzer goes again. Oh yes, she thinks. There’s someone here. She’d got quite lost in her thoughts. It’s unlike her. She gives up on the video entry system and hurries to the atrium. Through the spy hole she sees Sasha and Olly. Her heart sinks a little, but she feels she owes them, so she puts a smile on and opens the door.
They’re wreathed in sympathy-drenched smiles and hand her a cake. ‘Come in and have a slice?’ she asks. She doesn’t want them to – it’s been a relief to be out of their orbit and beyond their judgement – but politeness kicks in because they’re her neighbours, they helped her, they brought cake and that’s how she was raised.
Sasha looks as if she wouldn’t dream of it. ‘Oh, goodness, no, we don’t want to intrude, and I hope we’re not interrupting. We just wanted to give you the cake and check that you’re managingokay. And to see if there’s anything we can do?’ Olly stands a pace or two behind her, hands behind his back, his head slightly inclined in a way that reminds Nicole, disconcertingly, of her sanctimonious childhood priest.
‘Thank you.’ She opens the tin and peeks in. The smell is instantly comforting. ‘Coffee cake?’
‘Kitty made it. We know it’s your favourite.’
