‘I suppose if we’re going to be housemates, I’ll need to get used to your rather blunt way of speaking.’ Blunt, aka bloody ignorant and rude. Allison could have replied that she’d look better after a good night’s sleep, whereas Jo was always going to look as she did… scary. One day, she’d tell the woman exactly what she thought of her. For now, she’d play the game her way.

51

Hog-tied. Wasn’t that the expression that suited? It was several minutes after the door shut behind Jo before Allison felt able to return to the living room and collapse onto the sofa.

She needed a break; she deserved one. Not one catastrophe after the other. She was still trying to take in Peter’s colossal deception. Had he thought she’d never find out? There had been no indication he wasn’t what he’d purported to be. How could she have guessed he was as devious as she?

She remembered all those phone calls from important clients… how considerate she’d thought him switching his phone to vibrate rather than ring… how easy it was for him to fool her. And all those late-night meetings. Once or twice, she’d caught the whiff of alcohol on his breath, accepting without any hesitation his explanation he’d gone for a drink with a client to clinch a deal.

How gullible he must have thought her. She had no suspicions of him; he had none of her. What a pair they were. It would have been nice to think that, as the survivor, she was the winner, but it looked like Peter would get that honour posthumously.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, trying not to think, to give her head a rest from the painfully bouncing ideas. Too long. The doorbell chimed noisily, jerking her head around to stare at the open doorway, expecting Jo to be framed in it any moment. Surprisingly polite but unnecessary of her to ring the doorbell. Or was it done with the intention of waking a sleeping housemate up?

Allison sneered. Looked like it was going to be fun and games.

When the doorbell sounded again, she jumped to her feet, irritation driving her in jerky movements to the door. Wrenching it open, angry words balancing on her tongue ready to jump and slice, she had to swallow quickly when she saw not Jo, but her friend Portia. ‘Hi.’ It was all she could manage.

‘Darling, you look wretched.’ Portia stepped inside. She was wearing an oversized fine jersey jacket over a dress of the same fabric. Both black, the overall effect was bat-like. She draped an arm around Allison’s shoulder. Smaller than Allison by a few inches, Portia had to stretch upward on her narrow, pointed-toed stiletto shoes. ‘Poor, poor dear. I’m here now.’