Page 23 of Not Part of the Plan

I was going to have to give her something.

“She told me about Gran’s scone recipe which I’d been searching for the week before. Gran told me where to find it.” A shiver ran through me again. “She also told me about a time Mum missed a show I was in.” I stroked my face. “It was… a lot. But also, kind of comforting?”

Katy sucked in a breath. “You’ve been in your own world over the past few years, pulling your life back together. I’m proud ofyou for that. But I miss Mum and Gran. Sage was an opportunity to get back in touch with them. I wasn’t going to pass that up.”

And now I saw that Sage might be the key to knowing what to do.

“Do you have her number?”

“It won’t work if you’re a sceptic.”

“I promise, I’ll go with an open mind.”

“That goes for everything in your life, by the way. Including Eliza.” She paused. “And don’t forget the presents.”

CHAPTER 11

The executive car’s punnet of penny sweets lasted exactly five minutes before I caved. Despite leaving with plenty of time, I was still wolfing down Flying Saucers and Fruit Salads in lieu of actual breakfast, determined to beat Eliza to the airport and avoid that look. The one that made me feel I was already failing before I’d even started.

My phone chimed as I extracted half a Fruit Salad from my molars.

En route, hope you are too and not still sleeping.

The assumption stung.

Race you there. Loser buys coffee.

I was trying to sound breezy.

She replied with a runner emoji.

Typical Eliza: economical even with her emojis.

I grinned at the empty motorway flying past, feeling genuinely competitive for the first time in months. Maybe it waspathetic, but I wanted to prove something to her. That I wasn't the chaotic mess she still partly thought I was.

Five miles to the airport, confidence coursing through me, I made the mistake of scrolling through Eliza’s Instagram. It was a sterile wasteland of professional shots that revealed absolutely nothing personal. There was private, then there was this. Like she’d surgically removed any trace of humanity from her online presence.

I found a three-year-old post of her and Michelle at some Highgate gallery opening, both polished and radiating the kind of effortless sophistication I’d never master. They looked perfect together. Michelle’s arm draped casually around Eliza’s waist, both of them smiling with practiced ease. Eighteen months later they were divorced, so clearly that perfection was an illusion. Had Eliza been performing even then?

I zoomed in on their faces, searching for hairline cracks in their facade, when the car lurched with a violent bang.

“What was that?” Panic shot through me immediately.

“Not sure,” the driver replied, his tone tense. “But something is dragging.”

Not now.

I bet Michelle was always on time.

We limped onto the hard shoulder beside an SOS phone. Cars thundered past, making our Peugeot rock in their wake. If Eliza wanted evidence I was unreliable, here it was.

Half an hour later, still stranded, my competitive spirit had curdled into a custard of dread. I could already hear Eliza’s internal monologue:She says she’s serious, but is she really?

I texted my sister first.

Find my body in New York if Eliza kills me.

Then, swallowing what remained of my pride, I messaged her.