Chapter 10

I don't want just words. If that's all you have for me you'd better go.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

My house was like a fridge when I got home from the Caribbean, but now it's warm and toasty and I can walk naked from the bathroom to my bedroom without feeling at all chilly. I put on my MS Autograph bra and pants, then plug in the hairdryer. While we were away, I allowed my hair to dry naturally, and put gel in it for a carelessly spiky look, but today it's minus five outside and I don't fancy icicles on my head.

I'm excited to be going out. Ever since returning home, it's been nothing but work, except for the occasional text from Charles Miller. Because my walking out of his room at the White Sands wasn't the end of whatever there was – or is – between us. I was pissed off with him at that moment, for sure. After all, there was a definite spark and there was no reason we couldn't have lit it, even for one night. We were on holiday, after all. It's practically mandatory to have a no-strings relationship on holiday, isn't it? I couldn't believe he had rejected me for a plot twist.

He didn't appear at breakfast the following morning. His table was free at lunch too.

‘Avoiding you, maybe?' suggested Celeste.

‘If so, he's an idiot,' I said.

It wasn't until after dinner that he showed up at the cocktail bar. He was talking to one of the golfers. I made it my business to ignore him. But after a while he came over and asked if he could join us.

Celeste gave me an enquiring look. I shrugged, so she nodded and he pulled one of the wicker chairs up to the table.

‘How was your day?' he asked.

‘I finished the Janice Jermyn,' I told him.

‘But I have the Janice Jermyn,' he said. ‘And I finished it too.'

‘I got it from the library.'

The White Sands had a library of books left behind by guests. The Mystery of the Missing Mallet and The Mystery of the Drowning Fish (Janice's previous book) were among them.

‘Oh,' he said. ‘Well . . . we had a bet about the murderer. I wrote down my guess. Did you?'

‘Actually, yes.' I opened my glittery evening bag, took out a piece of paper and handed it to him.

‘Of course you could have written this after you'd finished the book,' he pointed out as he unfolded the paper. ‘I won't pretend I got it right myself. I thought it was Becca. He looked at the name I'd written. ‘Dammit. Maura. How did you know?'

‘I told you. I read a lot of murder mysteries. I'd guessed before I even gave you the book. Chapter Twenty-Five confirmed it for me.'

‘But there's no mention of Maura in Chapter Twenty-Five,' he said.

‘Exactly.' I winked at him.

‘I underestimated you.' He raised his glass to me.

‘Never underestimate Izzy,' said Celeste. ‘She always comes out on top.'

I spluttered into my margarita as she nudged me in the ribs. Fortunately the reggae band struck up and the music saved us from talking. Celeste was the first to make a move. She said she was going to refresh her lipstick. Charles and I were left alone.

‘I really am sorry about last night,' he said as soon as she was out of earshot. ‘I messed up.'

‘You didn't mess up,' I retorted. ‘You led me on.'

‘Seriously?' He raised an eyebrow. ‘You think?'

‘Charles, we were naked in your bedroom,' I reminded him. ‘I had reasonable expectations of what would happen next.'

‘I suppose you did.'

‘But I also think it's sweet that you were thinking of our sexual health,' I told him. ‘And possibly even my reputation.'

‘I don't know what I was thinking.'

‘Actually, it was your book,' I reminded him. ‘A plot twist. I do hope it was worth it.'

‘I wrote two chapters after you left. Good chapters.'

‘Never in my wildest dreams did I think that I'd inspire a great romantic novelist to write crime by not sleeping with him,' I said.

‘Are you being sarky with me?'

‘A bit.'

‘You're very confident.' Charles frowned. ‘Why do I always go for confident women?'

‘Your agent-slash-ex was confident too? Well, she must have been if she had her own business.'

‘I used to call her Annie-Get-Your-Gun,' he said. ‘She'd shoot anyone down if they deserved it.'

‘And me? What would you call me?'

‘My muse,' he said, very seriously, as he folded my hand in his.

By the time Celeste returned, we were gazing into each other's eyes.

‘I'm in the way,' she said. ‘I'm going back to the room.'

‘Don't,' I said. ‘It's fine.'

‘I came on this holiday to be emotional support, not a gooseberry,' she told me.

‘I'm so sorry.'

‘Don't worry,' she said. ‘Get whatever emotional support you need from Charles. I'm off to read a book. Not one of yours,' she added, looking at Charles as she picked up her drink. ‘I'm going to bed with John le Carré.'

Charles and I remained at the table.

‘I should go up too,' I said.

‘Probably,' he agreed. ‘But I'd much rather you came to my room first.'

So I did.

This time he had protection. I wonder if he'd visited the resort pharmacy or made a trip into town. Either way, I was happy. He was so much better in bed than Steve. He asked me exactly what I most enjoyed and wanted, and his touch was gentle but confident.

I had a great time.

It was a pity Celeste and I were going home the next day.

But he's texted me a few times. At first his messages were quite formal, but now he's getting into emojis and GIFs and is calling it a new way of expressing yourself. I told him it's the way I've always expressed myself, and he sent back a string of emojis, some of which I had to explain to him later. I think it was an eye-opener for him. All the same, I'm not sure what he expects from me, or indeed, what I expect from him. It was great, but it was only a fling. Yet every time a text arrives, I feel a thrill. But will meeting up again in a cold, snowy Dublin put a freeze on the tropical heat that's smouldering below the surface?

I pick up the dryer and switch it on, blasting my hair with hot air. Then I pause. Because I think I've heard a noise downstairs. Which is impossible, especially over the noise of the hairdryer, but you know how it is when you're on your own. You're sensitive to unexpected sounds. It's probably someone outside, but I switch off the hairdryer nonetheless and stand silently in the bedroom. And then I hear it again, the muted thud of a door being being opened and closed.

I'm so still I'm almost a statue – I can't believe someone has broken into my home. I've always felt very safe here, sandwiched between the O'Reillys on one side and the Castles on the other. Mr and Mrs O'Reilly are contemporaries of Mum and Dad; they've been my next-door neighbours all my life. The Castles are blow-ins, as they've only lived here for ten years. They're a young family, mum, dad and two small children. Both couples look out for me, and I look out for them.

I look around me and swear softly as I remember I left my phone in the kitchen so I can't even ring for help. My statue mode of earlier is crumbling. I'm beginning to shake.

And then I hear footsteps on the stairs. The intruder is halfway up. I know, because the sixth stair always creaks and he (I'm assuming it's a he) has stepped on it.

I feel like I'm in the pages of one of Janice Jermyn's cosy crimes. Only it's not so cosy when you think you're about to be a victim. I'm conscious that in my bra and pants I'm the perfect female murder for Chapter One. I imagine my lifeless body stretched across the carpet, the diamanté jewel in my bra twinkling under the lights while Crispin Devereux, Janice's hunky DI, looks at me appraisingly. Despite this mental image, I'm hoping that whoever has broken into my house isn't planning to murder me. I begin to worry about what they might do instead, though, and I look around for something with which to protect myself. There's nothing but the hairdryer. It's a lightweight ceramic Remington and I'm not sure how much good it will be as a weapon. But it's all I've got.

When my bedroom door is pushed open, however, I hear a surprised voice say, ‘Izzy!' and I drop the hairdryer and reach for my dressing gown instead. I don't have the belt tied before he's standing there in front of me, one eyebrow raised in amused appreciation.

‘You're looking well,' he says as he takes his ear buds from his ears and puts them in their case.

‘What the hell are you doing here, Steve?' I demand. ‘How did you even get in?'

‘I have keys,' my ex-fiancé tells me. ‘I was going to leave them behind.'

‘You could've posted them through the letter box.' Relief at not being accosted by a potential murderer has allowed the tension to escape as absolute fury.

‘I had to collect my stuff first,' he says.

‘What stuff? You came back and took all your stuff ages ago.'

‘I left a toolbox behind,' he said. ‘Under the stairs.'

‘No you didn't. I saw you bring it with you.'

‘The main toolbox, yes,' he says. ‘But not my smaller one. I completely forgot about it.'

‘And you only remembered tonight?'

‘Yesterday,' he says. ‘I needed one of the attachments. But I couldn't come yesterday. I let myself in tonight because I thought you were still away.'

‘How could you possibly think that?' I demand. ‘You knew the dates of our honeymoon, for heaven's sake.'

‘Yes, but we talked about spending a few days in London. I assumed that's what you'd do.'

There were no direct flights to the Caribbean island from Dublin and so we'd been routed through London. And yes, we did talk about staying there, but changing the connecting flight to Dublin would have been outrageously expensive, so we decided we'd leave it and go another time. I remind Steve of this.

‘I was driving by,' he says. ‘It seemed as easy to pop in.'

‘And it never occurred to you to knock first?'

‘Only when I'd actually opened the door,' he admits. ‘The house was in darkness, so I assumed you weren't back. Though I was surprised the alarm wasn't set.'

It was in darkness because I'm energy-conscious. The only light on downstairs was a table lamp in the living room. All the same, he should have known I'd never go away without setting the alarm, and he should have copped that it was warm inside the house too. And surely he would have heard the hairdryer – although with his ear buds in and probably playing one of his heavy-metal mixes, maybe not.

‘I decided to make myself a cuppa,' he explains. ‘I came up because the water pressure was low, so I thought I'd check the pump. I was trying to be helpful, Izzy.'

‘For heaven's sake! It was low because I was in the damn shower.'

‘Yes. Sorry. All the same, it's lovely to see you.' He grins. ‘Looking fit and tanned and very sexy.'

‘Shut up!' I tighten the belt of my dressing gown. ‘How I look is none of your business any more. Now get your stuff and go.'

‘Ah, don't be like that.' His voice softens. ‘I didn't mean to give you a fright. I'm really sorry. And I'm glad to see you looking well. Did you have a good holiday?'

All memories of the Caribbean had been pushed from my mind by Steve's appearance, but now I think again of the beautiful island, of the White Sands, and of Charles Miller. Who certainly wouldn't ever be standing in front of me in a pair of Snickers work trousers with holster pockets and a quilted fleece over a black T-shirt. In fairness, Steve looks great in his work gear. I'd almost forgotten how very fit he is.

‘It was a lovely holiday.' I keep my own voice steady. ‘Lots of fun things to do.'

‘Did you meet anyone?' His joking laugh shows that he thinks that's a highly unlikely scenario, and I really want to tell him that yes, I did, and that I had amazing sex with a man who was far more mature and handsome than him, but it's not a discussion I want to get into. So instead I give him a dismissive look and tell him again to get his toolbox and go.

‘I really am sorry, you know,' he says as I follow him downstairs. ‘Both for . . . well, maybe I didn't go about breaking up the best way, and I regret that. But also for turning up without checking. It was stupid.'

It wasn't stupid. It was entitled. But then he always acted entitled when he was with me. It's another thing I decide not to say.

‘Would you mind if I had that cuppa?' he asks now. ‘I've been out all day and I'm gasping for a brew.'

I glance at the clock on the wall.

‘While I dry my hair,' I say. ‘I'm going out.'

‘Out?' He switches on the kettle. ‘Where to?'

‘Town.'

‘With Celeste?'

‘What on earth business is it of yours?' I demand. ‘I'm going out, that's it. And I have to finish drying my hair or I'll be late.'

‘Don't let me stop you.' He takes a mug out of the cupboard, drops a tea bag into it, then removes his phone from his pocket. ‘I have a few messages to deal with. I'll be done in a couple of minutes, knock back the tea and go.'

‘Steve . . .' I look at him, but he's already engrossed in his phone. So I go upstairs and continue drying my hair.

My hair is done and I'm wriggling into my dress when he walks into the bedroom again.

‘Don't you ever knock?' I demand as I tug it around my waist.

‘I know you well enough not to knock,' he says. ‘You must be going somewhere nice. That's your posh dress.'

It's one of my only dresses, and if not posh, it's the prettiest one I possess. It's a cerise Ted Baker with a sheer neckline and a full skirt with prints of multicoloured butterflies, and I always feel cheerful when I put it on. I wear it either with my solitary pair of stilettos (when I'm going full dress-up mode) or with a pair of mid-heeled black ankle boots, which is a bit more my style. As I don't want to go full dress-up, but mainly because it's still snowy outside, I pull on the boots while Steve stands there watching me.

‘It isn't a date, is it?' he asks.

‘It's none of your business.'

‘Well, if it is, I'm glad you're moving on.'

‘Steve, get out of my bedroom. Get out of my house.'

‘I want to be friends, Izzy. Why don't you?'

‘Because you broke my heart!' I whirl around from the mirror, which I've been using to check how I look. ‘You broke my heart, you broke off our engagement – what am I saying, you cancelled our wedding! You don't love me, but I love you . . .' I stop as I see the expression on his face. ‘Loved you,' I amend. ‘I loved you and you let me down.'

‘Oh, sweetheart, no.' In two steps he's beside me and his hands are on my shoulders. I can smell his aftershave, a subtle woody scent that will always make me think of him. ‘I know I was a prat and I wish I'd behaved better.'

‘Forget it.' I try for dismissive but only succeed in sounding mulish. ‘It's fine.'

‘It's not.' He leans towards me and brushes my lips with his. ‘It's not, and I'll always regret that I hurt you.' And then he kisses me again, and I don't know why I kiss him back, but I do, and before I realise what's happening, his hand is on my leg and pushing up my dress.

‘For God's sake!' I can't believe it took me all of five seconds to come to my senses. ‘What the hell d'you think you're doing?'

‘OK, OK.' He removes his hand and shrugs. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean to . . . I'm out of here.'

He turns away and clatters down the stairs. A moment later, I hear the front door slam. I peep out of the window to make sure he's gone before I sit on the edge of the bed and rest my head in my hands.

What on earth just happened? Did I encourage my ex-fiancé to kiss me and touch me and make me feel . . . well, I don't know how I feel, to be honest. I'm actually shaking, but I'm not sure what emotion is causing my hand to tremble and my eyes to fill with tears. I don't want my eyes to fill with tears, because I don't have time to redo my make-up, so I sniff a couple of times, then blow my nose and finish getting ready.

I pause before I go downstairs again, checking myself in the mirror and thinking that I look good in my cerise dress, black jacket and black boots. I look strong and capable.

It would be nice if I felt that way too.