Page 43 of The Lucky Winners

Saturday

Merri

On the day of the drinks party, my skin seems to have shrunk during the night.

When I wake, my body feels tight and sore, as if I might be coming down with something.

I want to pull the covers over my head and go to sleep.

But every time I close my eyes, the photographs flash behind the lids and I want to throw up.

I’m halfway through pulling out the wine glasses when I realize I’ve forgotten to buy some fancy olives and a few other nibbles.

Dev had offered to organize tonight but, without being cruel, his idea of a drinks party would probably extend to a few bottles of beer and slices of pizza.

Job done. I wanted something more refined than that, so I said I’d sort it out, that I’d welcome the distraction.

But little things keep slipping through my fingers, details I’d usually obsess over.

Instead, my head is full of how we’re going to catch our traitor.

I blow out a shaky breath and grab my keys. I’ll pop to the deli in Bowness: a breath of fresh air will do me good. Keep me grounded.

The village is only a ten-minute drive from Lakeview House, winding through a backdrop of scenic hills and past the glittering lake.

Today, every turn feels too sharp, every shadow stretching a little too long.

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel, my palms damp as I force myself to focus on the road.

I pull into the small car park. It’s almost empty, just a dusty old Land Rover parked to one side.

The bell above the deli door rings shrilly as I step inside. It’s small and inviting in here, with wooden shelves behind the counter lined with artisan breads, jars of locally made chutneys, and exclusive cheeses wrapped in waxed paper.

In one of the glass displays, more temptation waits. Assorted marinated olives and slices of cured meats arranged like a work of art. Another showcases delicate pastries that wouldn’t look out of place in a French patisserie.

It’s the kind of place where even the simplest items feel like utter luxury – and the prices remind you of it.

The shopkeeper glances up with a smile. Something registers in her eyes – recognition, maybe. I’ve been in here once before with Tilda. Or perhaps it’s something colder I can sense. Accusing.

I approach the counter and make a start.

I select a couple of sourdough loaves, some packets of Italian meats, a punnet of whipped salted butter and, while she’s wrapping the goods, I cast my eyes over the olives.

‘It’s handy having such a well-stocked shop like this nearby,’ I say, my tone bright. ‘We’ve just moved to the area.’

‘Yes,’ she says, her voice flat. ‘You’re the people who won the house, right?’

‘That’s right!’ I’m encouraged until I realize she isn’t smiling. ‘We’re just settling in and getting to know the area.’

‘Yes,’ she says, her tone cool and a bit off. ‘So I heard.’

The words land between us like a stone. I point to a couple of types of olives and a wedge of cheese to add to the other items in my basket. I can’t wait to get out of here.

That’s when I feel it – a prickling at the back of my neck. I glance to the side. Two women are standing by the packets of dried pasta, heads together and talking in low voices. One catches my eye and turns away too fast. But not before I catch the cold, cutting stare she sends my way.

Do they know who vandalized our windows? Would they even tell me if I asked? These places become closed shops when outsiders look for help. Have any of the people in here seen the photographs online? Maybe one of them has even made a nasty comment.

The packed shelves and display cabinets crowd in. This place feels less quaint and more claustrophobic with each second that passes. I hear the shopkeeper say a figure and I swipe my credit card over the payment terminal, bundling my purchases into my canvas shopping bag before I head for the door.

Somewhere behind me someone laughs – sharp, loud, deliberate. I don’t look back. The tinny bell rings again as I leave, louder this time, the sound clawing at my nerves.

When I reach the car, I see the damage immediately. A long, jagged scratch carved into the paintwork, running the length of the driver’s side.

My breath catches in my throat. For a second, I just stand there, staring, my brain scrambling to make sense of it.

There are other cars here, but none parked on either side. There’s no mistaking what this is. Someone keyed it.

I clutch the deli bag tighter, the coarse paper handles digging into my fingers as I glance around. I can see a few people, all busying themselves, but I’m sure someone’s still watching.

I slide into the driver’s seat and grip the steering wheel hard, my hands shaking. The leather is hot against my back, but I barely notice. Whoever did this must have known I was in that shop. They watched me. Maybe they even followed me here from home.

The drive back to Lakeview House is a blur. When I step into the kitchen, Dev is back and leaning against the counter, stirring a drink. ‘Fancy a coffee?’ he asks, but when I don’t answer, he turns. His smile drops the second he sees my face. ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’

I tell him about the shop, the scratch on the car, the feeling that someone’s been watching me, marking me. His expression shifts, but his voice stays calm.

‘That must have been a shock, especially with everything else that’s been happening. But I suppose it could’ve been a pushchair or a bike. Maybe someone just squeezed past.’

I shake my head. I can still see the gouge in my mind’s eye, deep enough to strip the paint down to the metal. ‘No. It was deliberate. It was too clean, Dev, and too long. Go and have a look for yourself.’

Dev raises a hand, his tone soft but firm. ‘I will. But let’s just take a few minutes. Let me make you a coffee.’

I sit down but can’t stop thinking about the underlying hostility in that shop, the malice that must have been behind the scratch. My gut twists with the certainty that this wasn’t some random accident.

And the last thing I want to do is throw a bloody drinks party later.

I almost don’t care which of our so-called new friends took those photos and posted them online.

At this precise moment, the only thing I’m interested in is getting out of the Lake District and going back to where we came from.

Back to a life where I felt reassuringly anonymous.