A woman a little younger than me, with a pointed face and hair in a swishy blonde ponytail, steps forward. I recognize her from the Bristol Daily News. Harriet Hill. She folds her arms across her bust. She looks smart in a long camel coat and black trousers. She assesses me through narrowed eyes, a hint of disgust on her face, no doubt taking in my retro patterned tights and shaggy coat. ‘She’s signed an exclusive?’ she asks, in a haughty voice. ‘With which paper?’ She gives a fake laugh. ‘Don’t tell me – the Herald.’ She spits out the name of our paper as though it tastes horrible. She swivels on her heels to one of the journalists standing beside her – a man I recognize from the Daily Mail – shaking her ponytail in disbelief. ‘The Herald is a bi-weekly.’ She smirks and he looks at the ground.

I ignore her, and push past them. ‘She won’t answer,’ calls Harriet, but I continue striding down the long driveway with a confidence I don’t feel. I can see a Range Rover parked in front of the barn as I walk around the side to the front door. I know Margot won’t answer so I call through the letterbox, hoping I’m too far away for the other journalists to hear me. ‘Margot, it’s me, Jess. If you open the door I guarantee the rest of them will go away.’

I stand back and wait, my heart thudding. I count. One, two, three. Come on. Come on.

Then, eventually, I hear movement behind the door. I call again through the letterbox just to be sure. ‘Please, Margot. If you let me in the others will go. I promise.’

I stand tall, waiting with bated breath as the front door slowly swings open.

Chapter 7

7

Margot

It’s been relentless. For days on end Margot’s had to put up with the swarm of insects – because that’s what they are, pests, feeding off her misery – outside her house. She’s had to drive past them every time she visited Heather. She rang Adam and told him to stay at his mother’s with Ethan for a few days. She can’t let them be subjected to this.

And now here’s another. Knocking on her door. She’d thrown a glass of water into the face of the last; a cocky young man who tried to charm her with his fake compliments. Oh, no. She’s no fool. She won’t be hoodwinked into talking to anyone.

It’s beginning to wear thin. There’s only so much front she can put up. They’re getting in the way of her business, spooking the horses when she takes them for a ride or preventing would-be campers from enquiring about a caravan or a pitch. She knows it’s a quiet time of year but they still get business some weekends leading up to the Easter holidays.