She waited a few moments, her back straight against the cold wall of the castle as she slowly breathed. It was okay. He’d leave the parcel by the back door and then he would go. She’d seen the pattern time and time again. It would be no different now.
Sure enough, a moment later, she dared to look out of the window. The van had gone. She was safe once again.
She walked through the living room and down the stone spiral staircase to the back door. It was a large, ancient wooden one with both a modern lock and iron bolts. The estate agent had seemed embarrassed by it when he’d shown her around, but it was exactly the kind of door Orla needed in her life these days.
Opening it now, she picked up the little box and took it inside, shutting and bolting herself in once again. She then took the box upstairs and placed it on a table in a special place she called the china room where she opened all her new packages. Orla took her time to remove the tape and the layers of tissue paper to reveal the delicate cup and bowl. They were a classic blue and white willow pattern that she adored and she examined them now, her gaze taking in the chips and cracks, a little smile tickling the corners of her mouth.
They were beautiful. Beautifully broken.
Chapter 3
Luke opened his eyes, blinking in the brightness of the May morning and cursing the fact that he hadn’t drawn the curtains the night before. He couldn’t really remember how he’d found his way to bed, but the empty glass on his bedside table and the throbbing behind his temples as soon as he tried to move quickly jogged his memory. Another evening lost in a wine-induced haze, he thought, pushing himself out of bed and going into the bathroom. He’d lost count of how many of those he’d had since the accident, but it was costing him a small fortune, he knew that much.
What on earth would Helen say, he wondered as he stared at the strange, bearded reflection in the mirror? She’d be appalled at the state he’d let himself get into.
He took a quick shower and then returned to stand in front of the mirror. He really should shave. Dishevelled wasn’t a look he carried well. But the truth was, he really didn’t have the energy. Or the inclination. What was the point? What was the point of anything any more? He just couldn’t see it. Why bother shaving in a world without Helen? Why bother doing anything? Why bother even being? These questions rattled around his brain in an endlessly painful cycle as he did his best to get through the days, counting down the hours until he could find some comfort, some release, in a few glasses of wine in the evening.
It had been during one appalling evening just a month ago when his life had come crashing down around him. The signs had been there, of course, but he hadn’t put them together. First, when he’d got home, he’d been surprised not to see Helen’s car in the driveway. He’d been running later than usual at work, but she was normally home by the time he returned. Maybe she’d stopped off at the shops, he thought. He just remembered his haste to get out of his work clothes and into the shower. He’d been working on a fifteenth-century cottage in a picturesque Kent village, knocking the walls back to their original lath and plaster, and it had been a very dusty job. But, by the time he’d come back downstairs, she still wasn’t home and, when he’d rung her phone, it had gone to voicemail. He hadn’t left a message, sure that she’d be home soon. Only she never did come home that night.
He’d been cooking pasta when the doorbell had rung. Pasta! How on earth could he have been doing something as mundane when his wife . . .
He closed his eyes as he thought of the dreadful sight of the two police officers standing in his doorway. A man and a woman with pale, serious faces.
At first, Luke thought they must be lost, because why else would they be knocking at his door? He didn’t imagine for a moment that their arrival and Helen’s lateness were connected.
He remembered the strange expression on the woman’s face, one that he hadn’t been able to read. She’d been talking about the trains from London – the train that his wife was on. It never made it to its destination. Some kind of signal failure, they thought. Not confirmed. Nothing had been confirmed at that stage except that there were two trains involved. And Helen. Helen was dead. That, at least, had been confirmed.
Helen. Was. Dead.
Luke couldn’t remember what had happened after that. Phone calls. Paperwork. Death made a lot of admin. That was a lesson Luke had quickly learned. Luckily, his business partner, Chippy, had been a stalwart, stepping in and stepping up at work, allowing Luke the time and space he needed.
In fact, he was due round any minute now, Luke remembered, glancing out of the living-room window just as Chippy’s van pulled up.
Luke smiled. He liked Chippy. They’d been working together now for four years and Luke believed he couldn’t find a better colleague.
‘Hey,’ Luke said as he greeted him at the door.
‘All right?’ Chippy asked, removing his steel-capped work boots before coming in.
Luke nodded. That was about as deep as it got between them and Luke was glad of it. He instinctively knew that Chippy was there for him, but he felt relieved that his friend and work colleague didn’t expect anything of him.
‘Cup of tea?’
‘Great.’
Luke did the honours in the kitchen.
‘You cut your hair?’ he asked.
‘Girlfriend told me it was time,’ Chippy said, self-consciously running a hand through the short fair hair that, up until recently, had hit his shoulders.
‘It suits you,’ Luke told him.
Chippy grinned as he took his mug of tea from Luke and they both sat down together in the dining room.
‘I’ve taken some photos,’ Chippy said, reaching for his phone from his pocket and finding them before handing the phone to Luke.
‘You working okay with Mark?’ Luke asked him.
‘Marcus.’
‘Right.’
‘He’s doing okay, but he’s not up to your standard.’
Luke looked through the photos of the sixteenth-century house. ‘Ah, you found that fireplace!’
‘Yes, and it was just as big as you said it would be. We’ve opened it right up.’
‘Looks great.’
‘The owner’s delighted.’
‘Well, it looks like you’re making good progress,’ Luke said, handing the phone back.
Chippy popped it in his pocket and finished his tea before heading towards the door, where he stopped and turned around.
‘You coming back soon?’
Luke was about to reply when Chippy glanced at the mantelpiece and his expression changed. Luke knew what he’d seen: the wedding photo of him and Helen. It was his favourite one, where they were both laughing as confetti floated down around them.
Chippy quickly averted his gaze, his face flushing red, and Luke instantly felt bad that his friend might be feeling uncomfortable. Death had a way of doing that, he’d learned.
‘Yeah,’ Luke said. ‘I’ll be back soon.’
Chippy nodded and gave an awkward smile and Luke watched as he got into his van and left for a day’s work.
Luke sighed as he closed the door. He missed his work, but he couldn’t face it yet. He couldn’t face normality just yet. He walked towards the mantelpiece, picking up the photo and looking into Helen’s laughing face.