Page 56

In spite of my non-responsiveness, midway through the make-up session at Ricci Rizzo (a salon brilliantly only a five-minute walk from my house) my phone chimed with a notification that ￡500 had been credited to my bank account. Another message came shortly afterwards.

Look I’ve sent something in case you need it. I know you don’t usually want my money, but it might be useful for the job this week. X

I have to admit that I ruined a perfectly good application of eyeliner by crying it off at that point. I don’t know if it was the relief or the shame of it, or the fact that nobody has ever in living memory sent me that much money without it being my salary.

But at the same time, there was nothing in any of Dad’s messages that said he’d been in the wrong or that I wasn’t a terrible person. I just didn’t feel as if we were on the same team. Not any more.

So I kept quiet and let the wonderful make-up artist redo my eyeliner.

I had my Aria Lauder mask back on a short while later, and it was a good thing I did, because James Sedgewick walked along Hobson Street, right past the window where I was sitting.

I saw him catch my eye, do a double-take and then give me a grin.

He mouthed something and gave a wave to someone behind him, and then opened the door to come inside the salon.

‘Wow, look at you,’ he said, coming to stand behind me. He looked pale, but whole, and if I hadn’t known to look for it, I might have missed the desolate look behind his smile.

My amazing make-up artist Alia (whose name was ALMOST the twin of my fake one. Weird, hey? Or maybe not. Maybe just a meaningless thing.) had gone to make me a cup of coffee so it was just the two of us in front of the mirror.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be resting up?’ I asked.

‘I was in bed twenty-four hours,’ he said. ‘I was going mad, being stuck inside.’ He turned his head as another figure entered the shop. ‘Besides, I had to give Ned something to do.’

‘Oh, the bodyguard? Nice.’ I’d forgotten that James would now be shadowed, though now that I got a look at the aforementioned Ned, it was pretty obvious what he was.

He was probably mid-forties, had sunglasses on under the brim of his cap despite now standing inside, wore a black hoodie with a generic logo and had the kind of stillness I’d come to recognise in the ex-military men I’d met during my career.

I gave him a brilliant smile. ‘Nice to meet you.’

Ned gave me a small nod, and I got the impression that he was trying hard not to smile back.

‘You, too,’ he said, his voice deep and reassuring.

‘This is Aria,’ James said, quickly. ‘She’s a friend of mine.’

Ned nodded, but I could see his attention moving away. He’d clocked that there was another door to the place and a flight of stairs leading downwards, and without another word he paced over to the top of the stairs and peered down with that bent-kneed gait of someone used to holding a gun steady.

‘He takes it seriously,’ James said, quietly, under the cover of a hairdryer going on elsewhere. ‘But he’s all right.’

‘Does he follow you everywhere?’ I asked, just as quietly, as Ned paced over to the other door now, and looked out.

‘Yup. Even stands outside the toilet,’ James said with resignation.

‘Oh my god,’ I said, delighted. ‘Can we mess with him? Like, get him to follow you to some really weird places?’

‘Only if you want me to mess with you back,’ Ned said from across the room.

James laughed, a momentary lightening of his gloomy mood, and it was good to see.

‘Busted,’ I muttered.

‘What can I say?’ James asked. ‘He’s a pro.’

All in all, I feel better about James’s safety now. I trust Ned to stop anyone trying to kill him again. Or at least, to stop them succeeding.

Which brings us up to date. I’m back in my little house, and with two hours until showtime I only have nail polish, my recording device, dress and shoes to put on, and a final last-minute brush of my teeth and spritz of perfume, of course.

Which has left me with a lot of time to write all this down. And overthink, obviously.

Threaded through all my thoughts about tonight is a sense of excitement. Because it feels like everybody’s emotions have worn them thin. Like they could crack open at the smallest breath of wind.

More than that, I feel as though the May Ball, where Holly died, is the right place to see it happen. They’ll be remembering it all, reliving it. They’ll also be drunk and high. It’s a golden opportunity.

But if I’m being really honest with myself, I’m also afraid.

I keep thinking back to that car hitting me, and those photographs stuck to my gate.

To the feeling that I’ve been watched throughout this.

And if everything does erupt while they’re drunk and high and emotional, then there could be repercussions.

It hasn’t escaped my notice, either, that if they could get to Holly at Trinity May Ball, they could so easily get to me.

The other overthinking I’ve been doing is about you, Reid. Because I found myself wishing you could be there tonight, and it felt like a stupid thing to wish after all the times you let me down badly.

But then I found myself reflecting for the first time on the aftermath of that incident with my recording device in the bathroom. The part I’d forgotten.

I remembered that after it happened I stormed out and told you to butt out because I was doing it anyway. I was furious with you for thinking I was immoral.

But at midnight that same night, when I ended up stranded after screwing up an attempt to sweet-talk a banker, you came to help me without question. It didn’t matter that you’d been angry with me, or that you’d already gone to sleep after a long day. You climbed into the car and drove to my rescue.

The weird thing is that you still help the people you think badly of, don’t you? That’s what I realised. You just do it, without question.

Like when Tanya’s awful ex, Matt, called you because he’d been mugged, and you raced to help him. And when that asshole neighbour of your parents’ who’d been making their lives hell sliced his leg open, you ran over there and sacrificed your nicest shirt to make a bandage.

For all my anger over how you treated me, I have never once seen you turn your back on someone who needed you. Not knowingly, anyway.

And that’s why it’s your number I’ve saved into my phone under my coach’s name, in case things go wrong. And why if I have to write this to anyone, it will always be you.

I mean, I won’t be getting drunk, Reid. I’ll be staying largely sober and watching my back. So you really don’t need to worry about me.

Though, actually, I guess you’ll only be reading this if you should be worried. Schrodinger’s worry.

So… if this email finds its way to you, you have to promise to figure this crap out, OK? I think I can ask that much of you, at least.