Читать книгу Her Perfect Life: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist - Sam Hepburn, Sam Hepburn - Страница 11

Gracie steps out of the shower and emerges from the bathroom to find Tom in their bedroom rooting through his sock drawer.

‘Tea,’ he says, pointing to the tray beside the bed.

‘Thanks.’

He watches as she lifts first one foot then the other onto the bed to smooth cream onto her legs. ‘Here.’ He tosses a brochure across the duvet.

She glances down at the photo of a slate-roofed chapel, its scarred walls defaced with graffiti and peeling posters.

‘What’s this?’

‘The place I was telling you about. That French guy, Mersaud, he’s pulled out. It could be ours, Gracie.’ His eyes come back to hers, narrowed and hopeful. ‘It’s ideal for the new café and there’s masses of space for a cook shop and your cookery school.’

She tightens her towel across her chest. ‘It’s a ruin.’

‘Which is why the agent thinks we could get the price right down. I could do something really interesting with it – look at those fantastic windows. It’s exactly the kind of place you should go for.’

‘You mean it’s exactly the kind of conversion you like working on.’

‘That’s not fair.’ His voice is scratchy with hurt.

She wipes her fingers on the towel and turns the page. ‘E5? That’s—’

‘Clapton.’

‘Clapton? That’s miles from anywhere.’

‘Twenty minutes from our old flat. In five years’ time it will be on a par with Hoxton.’

‘I’m tired of schlepping across London every day, wasting time I could be spending with Elsie.’

‘This has got to be a business decision. I’ve sent you the stats Mersaud had done. That whole area is perfect territory for an upmarket food retailer.’

‘So why did he pull out?’

‘I don’t know. And now he’s stopped returning my emails. God knows what he’s playing at.’

‘That’s odd.’

‘Yep. He hadn’t actually signed anything, but he was messaging me all last week telling me how excited he was about meeting me and how my vision was exactly what he was looking for.’

‘Maybe he realised how much it was going to cost.’

‘It’s an investment, Gracie. I’ve sent you a couple of the preliminary sketches I did for him.’

She sighs. ‘I’ll look at them later.’

He pulls open the wardrobe and fingers a row of ties. ‘Blue or pink with this shirt?’

She can’t bring herself to answer. Aware of his eyes on her, she sifts through the letters he’s brought up on the tray and rips open a plain white envelope. She tips the contents into her hand. ‘Oh, no … please God, no.’

A coral earring lies in her palm. A single teardrop of polished rust-coloured stone. Beside it a slip of paper printed with two words:

She recoils as if she’s been burned and hurls the earring, the note and the envelope onto the floor. ‘The bastard,’ she sobs. ‘The bastard!’