I got up to stretch my legs and circled the room, opening and closing drawers and cupboards as I went. I really did wonder at my former obsession with this woman. All the mysterious allure had vanished.

‘Go on. Deeper. Or I’ll be forced to do it for you. You have five minutes or I’m coming over.’ I lifted the mantle clock and set it in front of her. It was three thirty. ‘Start counting.’

At first I couldn’t work out where the knocking was coming from. It seemed a long way off. I was browsing through a woman’s magazine, waiting for the deed to be done, when the banging got louder. A woman’s voice, from the other side of the door, broke the silence. It was a voice I knew so well.

Without hesitation, I went and unlocked the door and threw it wide open.‘Come in.’ I smiled. ‘Come in. I assume you’ve come to help,’ I said and proceeded to lock us all inside.

91

Rebecca

Although I had all the evidence I needed to put Arthur away for life and clear my name, as well as Oliver’s, there were a few loose ends to tie up. Ten years of heartache had left scars, and although Mitch and I had intended to move forward, together, in a joint endeavour to heal the wounds, there were a lot of questions which still hadn’t been answered.

Amber would help me join up the dots. Any previous trepidation I felt in facing her in person had been driven out by the turn of events and I didn’t have much time to lay old ghosts to rest. Also, I had something I wanted to share with my former love rival.

A long soak in the bath revitalised me. Fear that Arthur might come knocking urged me not to linger. As the minutes ticked by, I knew it was time to get away from the flat.

The drive to Finchley from Muswell Hill normally took me ten or fifteen minutes at the most but today the incessant rain had left its mark on the journey. Cyclists weaved in and out of the puddles, slowing traffic down and roadworks, halfway up Friern Barnet Lane, added an extra ten minutes to the journey. Temporary traffic lights had sprung up and drivers were forced to a crawl.

As I sat in the queue, I kept checking round for signs of Arthur’s beat-up black Fiesta and, as horns honked and tempers frayed, a sense of foreboding took hold. A man drew up beside me in a darkened saloon and rolled down the passenger window.

‘Hey beautiful,’ he smirked. ‘Bloody traffic is taking forever. You going far?’