24

~ To remove labels from jars, soak first in warm water to peel off the label, then use nail varnish remover to rub off any stubborn glue.

I thought that would be it for drama for a while, but over the course of the next couple of days I made two distressing discoveries.

Neither of them was in the same league as other recent distressing discoveries, but in any normal week I'd have classed them as catastrophic.

First, having consulted with Cleo's solicitor, a helpful woman, I sent an email to Mitch's company, outlining my request to withdraw my reservation on the first phase apartments. Within an hour, I got a brutally formal reply informing me that this would be impossible. Cleo's solicitor, Wanda, warned me that there were some ‘irregularities' in my contract, but advised that I find out exactly how far the work had progressed on the project so she could prepare a response. I launched into research mode and managed to track down Lark Manor through one of Anna's property scouts, who put me in touch with Simon, the same agent who'd shown me and Mitch around. And he told me it was very much still on the market.

‘There's been a lot of interest,' he lied down the phone. ‘We're currently in an auction situation with several significant offers on the table.'

‘But nothing finalised?

‘Not as yet.'

Then I turned my increasingly jangling attention to the council planning portal.

I located Mitch's various applications; there were several in progress, which was good. But I didn't recognise the name of the company making the applications, nor the names of the agents, architects or builders attached to the projects. Everything slithered backwards into a labyrinth of parent companies. Worst of all, I discovered that this wasn't the first time Lark Manor had been purchased for redevelopment, and then mothballed.

I sat in horror, reading through the many objections raised by the parish council, local residents, the Highways Agency, the ecology officer, the bat people, the badger people, and the conservation officer, aka, Listed Buildings. No decision had been made, but the redevelopment of Lark Manor clearly wasn't going to go ahead any time soon.

If ever, whispered a voice in my head. I'd worked in property long enough to know that once the Listed Building people started objecting, you were stuffed. Mitch had to know that too. Or was that the plan? Gather up the cash, ‘fail' to get the necessary permissions, move on with the money safely salted away?

I stared at the screen, struggling to process what I'd learned. I was such a gullible idiot. Why hadn't I investigated this sooner? But I'd had no reason to think Mitch would lie to me. Part of me still wanted to believe I was missing something obvious, that I just didn't know enough to understand the machinations of property development.

I couldn't concentrate on anything else, so I left early and drove home via Lark Manor. I had a masochistic urge to see it again, in the hope that I'd find builders there, starting work. I'd even have taken a conversation with someone from English Heritage, if it meant my suspicions were wrong.

The elm-lined carriage drive up to the house was as romantic as I remembered, sweeping around to give that breath-taking view of the facade as I approached. Early summer had brought out some tangled pink roses in the unkempt beds, and my hopes lifted when I saw there were two cars parked outside by the fountain. The architect, maybe, or someone from the council? It wasn't a builder's van, but then the builders I knew all drove brand new top-of-the-range BMWs.

I checked my reflection in the rear view mirror. Presentable enough. I decided I'd go in and have a chat with whoever was there, see what I could learn from an innocent chat. I wouldn't necessarily tell them I was an investor, I thought. I'd say I was someone from Mitch's office. A marketeer. Vague enough.

Pleased with my cunning plan, I was getting out of the car when I saw Simon the agent emerging from the front door, and quickly slid back in, ducking down so he couldn't see me.

Was he showing someone else round? Was he doing viewings?

Before I could think what to do next, two more people followed him out, standing a few paces back from the door so they could admire the stonework above the entrance arch. A tall blonde woman in tight jeans and a gilet, and with her, his hand resting on the small of her narrow back, was Mitch.

I stared, confused.

The three of them said their goodbyes, then Mitch escorted the woman back to a Range Rover with blacked-out windows, and when they were discreetly hidden from Simon's view – but not mine – he leaned in and kissed her goodbye on both cheeks. After a moment's hesitation, she grabbed him by the waistband and pulled him in for a very passionate kiss which he happily returned.

I wanted to tear my eyes away but I couldn't. I watched as Mitch proceeded to slip his hand into her hair, the exact spontaneous way he slipped his hand into my hair, and then, after a while, when her hands started roaming, he pulled himself away, as if struggling gallantly with a desire he had to keep in check. As he had with me.

She said something, Mitch smiled and cupped her cheek with his hand, and that was enough for me.

I slammed the car into reverse, my feet jerking on the pedals, and drove home, where I threw myself on the sofa and sobbed, first with humiliation and then, when the full financial ramifications of what I'd seen sank in, fury laced with the acid taste of fear. Every useful new technique I'd learned to control my emotions went out of the window as I spiralled into total panic.

Everything pointed to a scam. I'd fallen for a scam that had wiped out my life savings, and my self-respect. I had nothing left financially, and once word got out that I'd been so easily taken in, Anna would understandably question whether she'd want someone so stupid working for her.

I went through to the kitchen to make myself a coffee, in the hope it would kick-start my brain. How had I ended up here? What had Cleo said about the younger you walking past the current you, and neither recognising the other? What would the ten-year-old me think if she could see herself at thirty-six, a gullible estate agent, not the star everyone said she'd be, living in the same town she'd grown up in, mocked on the Internet …

I closed my eyes, letting despair drown out any vestiges of logic, and begged the universe for help.

Nothing came. Just the sound of Tomasz upstairs doing sit-ups.

Despondent, I scraped a black flake of baked-on onion off the hob while the kettle boiled. It left a smear, so I got a cloth and wiped the smear away. Something about the clean space on the hob created a clean space in my brain, enough for a tiny voice to break through.

What would have happened if I had got into drama school? Would I have enjoyed it? Learning lines wouldn't have got any easier. Auditions wouldn't have got any easier.

I might have turned to drugs to cope, or ended up in terrible films. I might have realised I was okay but nothing more.

There was more onion on the other side of the hob that I hadn't noticed. Might as well do the other side too. I got the spray out from under the sink and spritzed the whole thing, running hot water for my cleaning cloth. I began to clean.

I still had those same creative abilities, I reminded myself as the crumbs lifted. I could empathise with people. I improvised every single day. I was great on camera. Those were positive skills I'd taken with me.

The hob was grubbier than I'd first thought. I lifted the metal frame off so I could really get at the gas burners. Might as well soak them too. No point putting greasy frames back on, was there?

It struck me that I'd spent longer as an estate agent than I had as an actor. Why was I letting one failure define my adult life? That wasn't just crazy, it was self-destructive. But also crazy.

The hob was clean now, if smeary. What had Jim used to get it streak-free? Window cleaner?

Maybe I should do one more acting project, I thought, watching the smears disappear under my cloth. I could audition for a local play. Or create something online; some reels would be a great way of reclaiming my Instagram account after the Emma Rossiter shaming.

But I needed to get my money back from Mitch first. I couldn't do anything without that money, and he wasn't going to give it back without a struggle.

And then it occurred to me. The perfect solution to everything.

I would get my money back. I would say a final farewell to my acting dreams.

I stared at the hob, which was now so clean I could see my face in it.

And I smiled at my reflection.

Anne-Marie Musgrave still couldn't believe her luck in winning so much money on the National Lottery but her dad had always told her that you couldn't go wrong with bricks and mortar, and that was why she was thinking about putting some of her ￡8.2 million in a restaurant. Something local, like the one she was sitting in now, with her partner Jim and the developer she'd arranged to meet to discuss a joint venture investment project.

‘I like the idea of supporting local businesses,' she said, earnestly. ‘My family back home are farmers, so I thought maybe … a steak restaurant?'

Mitch opened his eyes wide as if she'd said something both miraculous and hilarious. ‘You're joking, right? Did someone tip you off about Feather and Blade? Come on, I don't mind.'

I shook my head, a picture of small town innocence. ‘No? Feather and Blade? What's that?'

‘It's a project I'm working on right now. My partners have acquired a stunning bank conversion in Cheltenham and we've got Adam Doherty on board to curate the meat offer.'

‘The meat. Offer,' repeated Jim, as if they were words he didn't understand in that combination.

Mitch turned to him as if he'd only just remembered he was there. He hadn't been giving Jim much attention throughout our meeting thus far but that might have been because, in order to distract Mitch from the fact that Anne-Marie was his own girlfriend dressed up as someone else, I was wearing a leather miniskirt and my new boots. The frequent approving glances Mitch kept directing at my legs was proof that my eyes hadn't been deceiving me when I saw him kissing that woman outside Lark Manor; he wasn't behaving like someone who had a girlfriend.

Was I even his girlfriend? I'd thought I was, by any of the usual criteria. But Mitch obviously didn't see us that way.

I let the shame fuel my anger.

When I'd told Cleo how I planned to get my money back, she laughed and insisted that Mitch would recognise me immediately. I hadn't been so sure. For one thing, I was a professional actress, who had been convincing in at least one role. But for another, I'd begun to suspect Mitch, like Adam, only registered people when they were in front of him, being useful. Particularly if they were female.

‘If I wear a wig and coloured contacts, and have a different accent, and talk about money,' I'd told her, ‘I think it'll work.'

Cleo had considered this. ‘And wear a short skirt. It'll distract him from the hidden camera.'

I'd pointed at her. ‘Good thinking.'

The hidden button camera had been Cleo's idea, along with the second hidden camera currently positioned right in front of Mitch, waiting for him to say something actionable or embarrassing. Not that Cleo had ever used a hidden camera in a fake coffee cup to catch dishonest cleaners in the act. No. Definitely not.

‘The meat offer means the menu,' Mitch told Jim with just a hint of condescension. He turned back to me. ‘We're in the early stages of development, but if you want to come on board for that, then we'd be more than happy to show you around.'

‘Did you say Adam Doherty was involved?' I crossed my legs to stop Jim asking more questions. ‘My mam loves him. Is he as nice as he seems on the Internet or is it a bit of an act?'

I held my breath. This was where I needed Mitch to say something he might later regret.

Predictably, Mitch obliged. He never could resist a name drop. ‘I'm not going to lie,' he said with the confidential air of someone sharing prime gossip, ‘Adam's a lovely bloke and he knows his steaks, but when it comes to anything other than meat he's a bit …' He rapped his knuckles on the table. ‘Don't tell anyone, but he managed to pull his own shower off the wall washing his hair! Or at least that's what my source tells me. He does have quite an active social life, if you know what I mean …'

‘Really?' I giggled, encouragingly. That probably wasn't enough. ‘What else have you heard? Has he got a girlfriend?'

‘He's got a few!' Mitch glanced left and right, to indicate even juicier gossip was incoming. ‘Don't repeat this, but his parties have been known to get a bit wild. I was at the launch for his restaurant and there were some young ladies who should probably have been in bed much earlier, if you know what I mean. On a school night!'

I felt Jim straighten his shoulders next to me, as if he was about to say, ‘Steady on, mate' or something similar. The last thing I needed was for Jim to come over all honourable and stop Mitch being a blabbermouth.

Jim had insisted on coming with me to the fake meeting. He'd been in the office when I'd collected Cleo's never-used-honest-guv surveillance equipment and, naturally, wanted to know what I planned to do with a pretend coffee cup with a camera inside.

So I'd told him, and he'd looked horrified. ‘Can't you just send him a legal letter?'

‘She's done that,' said Cleo, checking the batteries. ‘No joy. This is Plan B.'

‘What about your boyfriend?' Jim went on. ‘Isn't he a property developer? Can't he step in?'

Cleo looked up at Jim with a ‘you weren't meant to repeat that' glare.

‘One, I want to deal with this myself,' I started, primly.

‘And two, this is her boyfriend,' Cleo finished.

‘Ex-boyfriend,' I corrected her. I avoided Jim's eyes as I said that. I didn't want to see his reaction, either way.

‘Then you shouldn't go on your own,' Jim insisted. ‘What if he turns nasty?' (‘He is nasty,' Cleo muttered.) ‘I could be on a table nearby, I won't say anything.'

‘But you're working?'

‘I could ask my boss for the morning off,' he said, with a side look at Cleo. ‘Are you sure you need to be so cloak and dagger about it, though? There's nothing wrong with a solicitor's letter.'

‘It's about settling some ghosts,' I said. ‘I want to do it.'

‘Go with her,' said Cleo. ‘I'll be the getaway driver. I could do with some light relief.'

And so here we were, naive lottery winner Anne-Marie and her boyfriend Jim. We decided not to give Jim an alias. Too much to remember. The trouble was, I sensed Jim had sussed Mitch for a wrong 'un as soon as we'd shaken hands, and it was going to be difficult to keep him as a supporting actor.

‘Are you suggesting that Adam Doherty is a …?' Jim began, and I grabbed his hand to stop him.

The sudden grip distracted Jim, and he turned towards me, to see what I was doing. I squeezed his hand harder, trying to telegraph shut up , but he missed my meaning. Then the penny dropped, he squeezed back and did a flickering half-wink. I nearly blew the whole thing by laughing aloud at Jim's useless undercover skills.

We had to get Mitch to admit, on record, that he was reselling the same deal on a house that wasn't even his, ideally with some gossip that he wouldn't want forwarded to the person in question and then suggest, politely, that this might go away with one swipe of the finger in return for my investment.

‘Ah, those wild party days are behind us, eh, love?' I said with a sweet smile. ‘Still, all publicity's good publicity when it comes to restaurants, right Mitchell?'

‘We love working with Adam because he's a local boy with local connections, and we've got a great relationship with his brand.' Mitch was back on his sales pitch. ‘But obviously, with Adam's lifestyle and everything, we need contingencies. We've approached Luke Holly, another up-and-coming burger chef, or Theo Fano, who's a local rugby player. So whatever happens, we've got a plan.'

‘Sounds sensible,' I said. Which it did. But it seemed very unfair on poor Adam who definitely wasn't the brightest but, as far as I knew, had a girlfriend called Eva, an influencer.

Mitch tipped his head and regarded me curiously, and for a wobbly moment I thought he'd recognised me under Cleo's auburn wig.

‘If you don't mind me asking, whereabouts is that accent from?' he asked. ‘Don't tell me, I've got a good ear. Is it …' He put a finger on each temple, like a stage hypnotist. How had I ever thought he was sexy, I wondered. The man was an idiot. ‘I'm going to say, Yorkshire?'

‘Very close,' I said. ‘Cumbria!'

‘Ah! Scotland.'

Jim tutted.

It was a shame so few people could recognise a Cumbrian accent because I could do a good one. Izzy, the junior Miss Marple I'd played on the kids' detective show, had been from Whitehaven, so I'd spent weeks listening to tapes to get her accent spot on. It seemed appropriate to wheel her out now, for a farewell performance.

I squeezed Jim's hand again. He hadn't let go. I supposed it added to the authenticity.

‘Are you only interested in restaurant investment?' Mitch asked. ‘Because if you're looking to build a property portfolio, we're in the first stages of a significant project just outside Longhampton, luxury two-bed apartments in a historic country house.'

Was he about to pitch Lark Manor to me?

He was. I stared in disbelief as Mitch started to pitch my own pitch to me.

‘… so atmospheric, you can really feel the history as you walk through it. It has the sort of magnificent staircase you want to sweep down like Lady Downton, and as for the lawns …'

Fury began to flicker in my chest. Mitch was using my vision, my creativity, as bait to reel in another mug, so he could take their money for a project he knew would never get off the ground.

‘First stages means what?' said Jim, sensing I was unable to speak. ‘How advanced are you?'

‘We've secured the property, we've got permissions, contractors are ready to go, but it's not too late to get on board if you can make a decision quickly. And I would recommend you do, between you and me. This will be a fantastic return on your investment.'

‘You've already bought the property?' I repeated, for the tape. ‘And you've got the permissions?'

I turned to look at Jim, pretending to be interested in his response. I was glad Jim was there as backup, but I hadn't expected to find myself feeling more and more contemptuous of Mitch, purely by seeing him in close proximity to Jim. Mitch's charm felt synthetic, especially seeing the way he was deploying it now on two strangers. The chat that had made me feel like the only person in the room now seemed glib, the compliments too quick to be real.

‘All sorted,' said Mitch, confidently.

‘What sort of investment would you be looking for?' I needed to hear him say this. ‘Ballpark?'

‘However much you want.' Mitch didn't blink. ‘If you wanted to reserve one of the units for yourself, either as a rental opportunity or to live in, we could arrange that. There would be some fitting-out on top of that but we'd give you first choice. The garden flat's going to be the one to go for – I can secure that for you.'

I nodded, encouraging him to tell us more, but inside I was howling with rage. I let Jim talk about heat source pumps and solar panels while I forced my brain to stick to the plan.

I wanted it all back now. No discussion. I wanted to run far, far away from this man and his entire business.

Jim was asking questions to keep Mitch talking, but his increasingly frequent glances at me suggested he knew something was up. I was supposed to be leading this conversation, steering it towards the evidence I needed to leverage what I wanted, but the longer we sat at the table with Mitch, the grubbier it felt. The grubbier I felt.

When the plan had originally unfolded into my head it seemed flawless. Flexing my acting skills would prove to myself that my short career hadn't been a fluke. Using Mitch's own scam against him, his own inability to resist flirting with an attractive woman, would remove the splinter lodged in my pride.

But sitting here now, next to Jim, it felt stupid. Yes, it seeme to be working, but I was better than this. If there was one thing I'd learned recently, it was that it was better to be honest sooner rather than later. Easier, too.

‘… up to fifteen electric cars on the same …'

‘Stop,' I said, in my own accent. ‘Shut up, Mitch.'

Mitch stopped, mid-sentence, his mouth open.

I thought about ripping off my wig but that was a bit melodramatic. Besides, I knew what my hair looked like underneath, flattened in a flesh-toned wig cap, and it wasn't pretty.

‘Mitch, it's me.' It came out as a sigh, not a roar. ‘Robyn.'

‘Robyn?' He squinted. ‘ Robyn ?'

I ignored the shame of having slept with a man so easily baffled.

‘Everything you've just said to us is a lie. You know it is. And what you said about Adam Doherty is slander. He'd be pissed off to hear you spreading rumours about him, by the way.' Mitch tried to interrupt me, but I held up a hand. ‘It's all recorded, before you try to deny it.'

Mitch stared, then swallowed, glancing around him as if trying to spot the hidden camera. He really wasn't that bright. He hadn't even looked at the unbranded coffee cup right in front of me. ‘Isn't that illegal?'

I ignored it. ‘I know you haven't bought the property. I don't think I'm the only person who thinks they've invested either. In fact, my solicitor thinks Action Fraud would be very interested in the contract Allen sent me. But I just want the money back.' My voice was so level, I barely recognised myself. ‘I'll give you until five o'clock to think about how you're going to do that. OK?'

‘Are you serious?' Mitch tried to laugh it off. ‘Come on, Robyn. You've got the wrong end of the stick, you don't understand how the business operates. Your money's safe!'

‘I don't think so.' I'd been back to Cleo's solicitor. Wanda had gone through the contract and concluded it was cleverly written to guarantee almost nothing. She also made some depressing guesses about where my money might be, and it wasn't in a high-interest savings account. If it came to it, Wanda reckoned I could maybe claw back something in court but warned it could take a long time. But then she leaned across the desk with a very non-Law Society glint in her eyes. Maybe I could do a deal directly, she suggested. If I played my cards with a bit of chutzpah…

I could see why Wanda and Cleo got on so well.

‘You're trying to blackmail me?' He squinted, any pretence at charm gone. ‘I wouldn't. That's not going to be good news for you.'

I looked him squarely in the face. ‘Mitch, just do the right thing.' I fought to control the rising tide of panic inside me but kept my face poker still.

‘You wouldn't go to the police, though.' A flicker in his eyelid gave him away. He was rattled.

‘Wait till five and you'll find out.'

I was running out of confidence and adrenalin. One more minute and I'd turn back into a despairing estate agent.

I turned to Jim. ‘I think we're done here.'

Jim squeezed my hand again. ‘Shall we go?' he said, and I nodded.

Mitch had made a move for the coffee cup, but I snatched it away and Jim and I walked out of the restaurant. I didn't look back to see how Mitch was reacting. I couldn't let go of Jim's hand. It was keeping me upright.

My heart hammered but something inside me was soaring, stretching, reaching up into the afternoon sky. I had gone in there scared, and I'd come out scared, but in between I'd felt an excitement I'd forgotten, the same fizzing ‘what happens now?' anticipation I'd had walking on to a set when I was young and pretending to be someone else was just a game. Under the weirdest pressure I'd discovered it again, like a long-lost treasure buried at the back of a drawer.

I didn't want to do that again. But I was glad I still could.

We crossed the road heading for the car and I glanced over at Jim. ‘You're still holding my hand,' I observed.

‘Just staying in character. Do you think he's still watching?'

‘I don't know. I'm not going to look back.'

‘Do you think that went well?'

‘Why don't you ask me again at five o'clock?'

He laughed. ‘Are we playing that questions game again?'

‘Do you want to?'

Jim swung my hand. ‘Why didn't you warn me you were going to do an accent?'

‘Are you glad I didn't ask you to do one?'

‘Do I look like the sort of person who enjoys party games?'

I laughed. ‘Are you good at Twister?'

Jim glanced at me, and before I could think of another question to ask, he said, ‘Why is it sometimes easier to say what you feel in the form of questions, rather than statements?'

‘Might it be because there's a fifty-fifty chance of getting the answer you want?'

‘Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?'

My heartbeat skipped. ‘What day would suit you?'

‘Would it be rude to ask you if you're free tonight?'

‘No,' I said, and stopped. I stopped walking, I stopped asking questions, I stopped fighting the fact that I was falling in love with Jim. ‘It wouldn't be rude at all.'

We'd been walking along the high street, and I stepped back from the pavement into the cobbled space under a tree where horses had once been hitched, according to the town plaque. We stood, our faces shaded from the sun by the soft clouds of pink cherry blossom, and I took Jim's other hand in mine, turning so we were facing one another like two people about to start a country dance.

I looked up at him. His eyes were searching mine, as if he was making sure this was the right thing to do, giving me time to change my mind.

I smiled up into his face. I wasn't going to change my mind.

And then Jim bent his head and very slowly, he kissed me. Outside Lakeland's Spring Cleaning Window Display, where the mops made a lovely line of bridesmaids behind us. And I finally felt like the Robyn I was supposed to be. The extraordinary, unpredictable Robyn that I'd been all along.