38. Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Eight

I spend the next fifteen minutes sitting at the dining table, glancing through my work emails and trying to catch up on what I've missed.

I close my emails, Google honeymoon destinations , and press Enter. Glorious images of sandy beaches in the Bahamas and Maldives pop up on the screen. I rest my chin on my hands and type in wedding venues . Although I've spent the last three years helping to organise other people's happily ever after, I've never really given much thought to mine. I chew the end of my Biro as I scan the images of grand castles and sublime manor houses, and a stab of guilt hits me. I really should tell Mum and Martin the news first before I go booking any wedding venues.

And it would be nice for Art and me to choose the venue together. I close the laptop.

I look across at the door of the apartment. He didn't seem in the kind of mood to discuss wedding venues or honeymoons when he left. The cynical, nagging voice that's never too far away has been replaced by a gnawing feeling that won't go away, and my mind wanders back to the phone call he ended as soon as I walked into the kitchen. In fact, now that I come to think of it, he's had lots of phone calls this past week, which he hasn't answered when I've been around.

A knock at the door interrupts the doubts looming over my head like a big black cloud.

Derek, the concierge, is standing on the landing, waiting for me with his ever-ready smile.

"Good afternoon, Miss Ward. My apologies. I wasn't aware that you and Mr Black had returned from your holiday last night; otherwise, I would have delivered this sooner."

I smile politely. "Delivered what sooner?"

Derek produces a small white envelope from the front top pocket of his smart blue blazer and presents it to me with a flourish. "Your letter."

I take the envelope from him and turn it over, noting it's totally blank on both sides. Other than Mum, Martin, and Lucy, no one knows I live here.

"This is for me?" I check.

"Yes." Derek gives a decisive nod. "Normally, I would have left it in the pigeonhole with the rest of your mail, but the sender was quite clear that he wanted me to hand it to you in person."

This is growing weirder by the second. "The sender?"

"Yes. He dropped it off a few days ago and was quite specific with his instruction for me to deliver it in person."

Now, I'm totally confused. Who would want a letter to be hand-delivered to me?

"But … why?"

Derek shakes his head. "He didn't say. I presume it's because he wants to ensure you receive it." He gives a smile. "Maybe it's important. That's all, Miss Ward." He bids me goodbye with a bob of his head and then disappears off down the landing.

I retreat into the apartment, turning the envelope over and over in my fingers, trying to work out what the hell it could be as I sit on one of the kitchen stools. I slide my finger beneath the white paper flap, tug the letter out, and open it up.

My heart plummets as my eyes scan the scrawly male handwriting covering half the page, and questions rapid-fire around my brain. An unnerving feeling of panic consumes me as I try to focus on the words I don't want to read.

Dear Sophie,

Sorry for contacting you out of the blue after all this time. I hope you're well and you have moved on with your life. I'm sure you have. I hope you're doing great things. I'm sure you are.

Since we split, I've undergone a huge period of reflection and transformation, and it's all thanks to you. I've sought help, stopped drinking, grown up, become accountable … all those things I should have done while we were together, so I wouldn't have lost you.

I don't blame you for running. You should have done it sooner because I deserved it. You leaving was the wake-up call I needed. Some of the things I said to you … and did to you … are unforgivable, and every day, I wish I could turn back the clock and erase what I did.

I've been dry for two years and six months. I've talked to professionals who have helped me with my issues. I know I scared you and hurt you, emotionally and physically, and there's not a day that goes by that I don't regret how I treated you.

I met someone else, a good woman, and tried to move on, but it didn't work out because you're still stuck in my head. You're the only woman I've ever truly loved, and I have to live with the memories of what I did to you every day. My biggest regret is that I didn't realise how special you were to me when we were together.

I'd like to see you. To apologise properly for everything I put you through. I know I don't deserve it, but after you went, I feel as though everything was left up in the air. We didn't have that one final argument that ended everything, did we? We didn't air our views and get everything off our chests. We just faded into grey and fizzled out.

I don't ask for much of your time. Half an hour is all. I've things I'd like to say to you, and I'm very sure you have things you'd like to say to me. My numbers on the back of the letter. Please call me.

Theo x

The letter slips from my grasp and floats down onto the marble countertop. I lift my eyes to the Turner print that hangs on the hall wall, and my mind drifts to Dad. My happy childhood memories. The places I always travelled in my mind during the darkest times with Theo. The letter is a perfect example of my memory of him. Outwardly honourable and decent and full of good intentions but dangerously persuasive and manipulative once you read between the lines.

I glare at the letter as though it were a ticking time bomb, angry with the unfairness of it all. I'm finally happy, and my past has come back to bite me. A past which Art doesn't know everything about.

We split up three years ago. Why has he sent me this now?

I briefly close my eyes as another startling thought hits me, making my stomach turn with nausea. Theo has been in the building. How does he know where I live?

The knock on the door to the apartment makes me jump, and I'm immediately on edge. I'm thrown back to the days after we first split up – when I would live in fear of him turning up and every knock on the door and car engine outside turned me into a nervous wreck.

You're not the same person anymore.

You're not that Sophie.

I take a deep, steadying breath in and ball my hands into fists to stop them from trembling as I slowly walk towards the door.

It's not him , I chant repeatedly to myself as I peer through the peephole.

Big Steve fills the landing, and I let out a long sigh of relief at the sight of him.

He flashes me a bright white smile as I open the door. "Hi, Sophie. Is he in?"

I frown and shake my head to clear my anxious thoughts. "Erm … no. He went to the club about an hour ago.

His auburn eyebrows, bleached blond by the sun, meet in the middle. "No, he can't have. I've only just come from there. It's the club I need to speak to him about."

Art definitely said he was going to the club. Didn't he?

Doubt burrows a hole in my head, and my anxiety from moments earlier has been replaced with uneasiness at how the situation is unfolding. Something doesn't feel right.

"Have you tried calling him?"

"Yeah, his phone just keeps ringing out." Big Steve rubs a hand over the top of his bald head and looks perplexed. "Which I thought was a bit odd."

Art definitely took it with him, and it's permanently glued to his hand.

Now, I'm officially suspicious. The tension, the furrowed brow, and distracted looks, I've seen it all before.

Big Steve's hefty shoulders heave into a shrug beneath his black T-shirt, oblivious to the feeling of impending doom that's gripped me. "Not to worry. If you see him, tell him to call me. See ya, Soph." He turns and disappears down the landing.

I spin on my heel, stalking back into the apartment, and snatch my car keys from the hall table.

See him? I'll do more than that.

I'm going to find him.