As he stands waiting for the train, he swears he can feel the prickle of eyes on the back of his neck. A bead of sweat inches its way down under his collar and he rubs his hand over the back of his neck. Paranoid, he thinks, with a little internal laugh. Emily’s jumpiness is rubbing off on him. Or maybe it’s the Facebook message. Rupert fumbles in his coat pocket, squeezing the phone out in the tiny space between him and the commuter next to him, but the screen is blank and shows no signal. Of course, there’s no signal, not this far underground.

He feels the prickle of eyes on him again, and he turns slightly, craning his neck to see over the swarm of people that crowd the platform. No one is looking at him, all eyes are on phones, or peering down the tunnel to see the tell-tale light of the approaching train. He shakes himself, tutting under his breath at his idiocy, as the rumble of the tracks and the rush of warm air tells him that a train is approaching. He steps neatly one step to the left and front, to squeeze into a tiny gap between a tall man who is sweating profusely under a bowler hat, and an overweight woman with a large bag slung over one arm, in the perfect position to rush the open doors as soon as possible.

Definitely a mistake. And Rupert shrugs the message from his mind, instead thinking only of Emily.

Chapter Twenty-One

As Rupert goes back to work and we settle into our normal everyday routine, I try to push away the thought of Caro, and the image of Rupert sitting upstairs scrolling through her pictures. Lola has also settled well into the house, and Rupert was right, having a tiny little furry body following me around all day has definitely made me feel less lonely.

Today, I’m following through on my promise to myself and starting on the garden. I’ve spent hours sketching up plans of how I want it to look, and it’s been good to exercise my brain. Maybe, I think, I could go back into IT. Now everything has died down between me and Harry, maybe I could do something from home. I’d be working under a different name, so there’s a chance people wouldn’t even realize I’m back.

Humming to myself, I change into old clothes and head downstairs to make a start outside with the plants I picked up from the garden centre yesterday, all stacked neatly to one side on the drive. Yanking the front door open, I step out and shriek, as my foot almost lands in a sticky, congealed mess.