‘Have you heard from Faith?’ he goes on, pulling off his gloves and unwinding his scarf from his neck. ‘Has she arrived at the hotel?’

‘She took off around eight this morning. I’m sure she’ll let me know, when she gets a chance.’

‘We should go there sometime.’ He falters. ‘As friends, if that’s what you want.’

‘Leon, I—’

The door swings open and a woman in a long white satin dress, her face painted to look skeletal, her hair white – a wig probably – enters. ‘Your shop is bloody amazing.’ She has a Scottish accent, smiles – at least Alice thinks it’s a smile.

*

Leon stays all day. It’s been almost impossible, being so close to him as they sat behind the counter, the woody aroma of his familiar aftershave evoking memories of their early relationship – days spent by the sea; whole days in bed; the candlelight supper he made her in the early weeks that burnt, and they ended up ordering a takeaway. Alice doubts herself now, tries to recall the reasons she pushed him away.

It’s been busy though, so they’ve barely talked; a stomach-churning tension in the air between them, not helped by her invasive thoughts of Flynn House.

By 4 p.m., Alice has sold nearly all her artwork. The shelves are empty, and her resolve to open the shop on Saturday and Sunday wavers. There’s little point when she has nothing to sell. Maybe she could work on her latest sculpture over the weekend instead. She hasn’t got very far with it, but the plan is in place, fixed in her mind. It’s going to be three ventriloquist puppets enjoying a macabre tea party.

Leon heads off at five, brushing a kiss across her cheek before he leaves, lingering for just a moment, before grabbing his jacket. Ten minutes later she fastens Henry’s lead. She’s about to lock up when a text appears on her phone from Faith:

Oh my God, Alice. You wouldn’t believe this place. It’s amazing! Scary in a good way. Totally fascinating. You would love it. Please, please come! I love Mitch, but not as much as you. X

Alice laughs and replies:

So glad you love it! I’m not jealous at all! Have you seen my sculpture yet? X

A smiley face pings back, and then another message:

YES! It’s in reception. It looks amazing. And there’s something else – a painting in the restaurant of a young man who looks so like your dad, even has his amazing eyes! X

Another ping follows. An attachment.

Alice gasps, taking in the photograph. The portrait doesn’t only look like her dad, she feels certain it’s him when he was young. Central heterochromia – one blue, one green eye – is so rare, and the resemblance to her father is uncanny.

*