Page 38 of The Honeymoon Affair

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.