Page 5 of What Would Dolly Do?

M y heart was in my mouth as I carefully stepped on each stair up to my third-floor flat.

Having lived there for so many years, I thought I knew every creaky spot in this old building, but I managed to find a couple of places that threatened to give away my return home to my neighbour, Mrs Forsyth, who lived on the ground floor.

She’s a kind and usually cheery soul, pushing seventy and resolutely single with a couple of cats and a surprising passion for martial arts.

We’ve always got on well but I couldn’t face the inevitable questions about that morning’s police raid.

Once safely inside I clicked my front door into its jamb and stood with my back pressed against it while I tried to get my breathing to return to normal.

The climb up the forty-eight stairs (yes, I counted them, it was something of a ritual) never worried me usually but anxiety was making me breathless.

Most days I actually relished the opportunity to have a mini workout every time I came home.

I needed to be able to pour myself into Dolly’s clingy satin pantsuits on a regular basis, and scaling three flights was a good counterbalance to my addiction to marshmallows.

I rarely keep them in the house. Seriously.

It’s a problem. Once I open a monster packet of those pink and white pillowy cubes I just can’t stop.

Of course, I always buy a monster packet: what on earth would be the point of buying a small one?

Robbie used to say it looked like I was inhaling a double duvet once I started stuffing them, one after another, into my gob to console myself if I’d had a bad day.

I reckon they are the ultimate comfort food.

There’s something unique about the simple sweetness and the way they turn from fluffy to gooey as you chew. I’m telling you, it’s a problem.

I looked around the hallway for evidence of the police search carried out this morning.

The coats on the hooks might have been in a different order but I couldn’t be sure.

The door straight ahead into the living room was wide open instead of slightly ajar as I had left it.

Or had I? Now I thought about it I really couldn’t be sure of anything.

I eased myself away from the door and made my way very slowly from room to room.

In the living room my eye, as always, was drawn to the huge bay with its floor to ceiling windows framed by white wooden shutters but I dragged myself away from the pretty view over the bowling club’s pristine green laid out in the square below.

Our row of Victorian houses matched the four-storey terraces opposite, each floor sporting a distinctive large bay window.

I have to say, this flat is worth the forty-eight-stair climb.

To be this high up but with a huge picture window totally justifies the very reasonable price my parents paid for the place over a decade ago.

I would never be able to afford to buy or even rent a place like this by myself but Mum and Dad let me pay a rent I’ve been able to afford (so far) as long as they can use the second bedroom whenever they come back over from Spain. It’s an excellent deal in my opinion.

Back in the room everything looked a bit skew-whiff: my red chesterfield sofa too far back from the big old wooden chest I use as a coffee table, the large potted plants by the shutters also looked odd, as though the leaves were now facing the wrong way.

Everything had been moved, adjusted, disturbed.

Turning through the door on my left it was harder to spot any sign of disturbance in the kitchen.

The bright blue painted kitchen cupboards and sunshine yellow walls were as cheery as ever.

I’m ridiculously proud of how my mismatched blue and white crockery, sourced from markets and junk shops, fits in so well displayed on the high shelf above the breakfast bar.

It’s the little things that make a place feel like home, isn’t it?

My attention was suddenly drawn to a drawer left slightly open.

Did the police really think I would hide stolen jewellery in with my cutlery?

Next, I stood at the door of the bathroom with my toes on the black and white tile floor.

I pictured a young police constable being sent to check for loot but finding himself thwarted by the fact the toilet has a high-level cistern with a long chain flush, impossible to reach without a tall step ladder.

It would have been an excellent hiding place for sure, if I had a big enough ladder.

But I don’t. I figured there was nowhere else to look in there so comforted myself with the thought the invaders spent very little time in my bathroom.

The door to my bedroom was closed. I placed my hand on the crystal doorknob and blew out my cheeks to release some tension.

My bedroom has always felt so cosy, a haven to retreat to.

While the rest of the flat is full of light with splashes of bright colour, this room is mainly decorated in dark navy with accents of gold.

When I moved in I immediately painted the wooden panelling on the bottom half of all four walls a rich deep blue and carried on to paint the window shutters to match.

I’ve never regretted it; the dark blue colour framed my vantage-point view perfectly.

I needed help to wallpaper the top half with end of line rolls of paper I’d found on Ebay, an absolute bargain with a beautiful blue and gold Art Deco fan motif.

Dad was a dab hand at all that. With my mismatched vintage furniture, a shabby chic armoire, tartan upholstered armchair and fluffy faux fur rugs, throws and golden cushions, the whole effect is opulent and adorable.

Well, that’s what I think of it. Robbie did once remark it looked like Norma Desmond’s boudoir.

I took the reference to the ageing, slightly unhinged star of the Hollywood movie Sunset Boulevard as a huge compliment even though it probably wasn’t meant to be.

Now it looked like Norma had thrown an almighty diva strop and her tantrum had left everything thrown around and upside down. The room was a chaotic mess. Once my haul of stolen goods was discovered the search team were obviously too jubilant to spend any time tidying up after themselves in here.

I’m appalled but I can’t just collapse into tears.

I can’t. I channel my upset into energy and storm around the room, pulling the mattress back into place, putting clothes back onto hangers, straightening and tidying and restoring order to my inner sanctum.

By the time things are back to something resembling normal I’m breathless, damp with sweat and desperate to eat my bodyweight in marshmallows.

I’m half a bag down accompanied by several swigs of scotch and starting to feel slightly mellowed by the mallow when I’m made to jump out of my skin by a loud banging on the front door.

Not of the house. Not someone safely three floors down well away from me and possible to ignore.

No, my own front door of the flat, just a few feet away from where I’m sitting.

Are the police back? Who has got into the building without being buzzed in via the intercom?

I want to ignore it or just tell them to go away.

My shattered nerves are jangling so loud I think they might be able to hear them, and then the banging starts again.

Perhaps Mrs Forsyth has come up to check on me.

A voice starts calling my name … ‘BECKY! Bex … let me in … I know you’re in there … Becky … come on, it’s me, Robbie.’

Robbie? It beats me why he thinks that will convince me to open the door. How does he even know I’m here? It’s the middle of the afternoon, actually it might even be later than that, I’ve lost track of the exact time, but I should still be at work as far as he is concerned. Why is he here?

I’ve forgotten Robbie has a key. Damn it. I’m cross-legged on the sofa surrounded by messy evidence of a marshmallow and whisky binge when he storms into the room and stands over me with a look on his face that looks like a mixture of anger and relief.

‘Oh shit!’ he says, taking in the scene. ‘Monster marshmallows and whisky? The situation is more serious than I thought.’

His attempt at a joke breaks me. I burst into tears.

While I sniff and hiccup, he tells me Mrs Forsyth called him as soon as the police left this morning and he’s been to three police stations trying to find me since then.

I scrabble on my phone as he claims he’s been ringing my mobile non-stop.

It’s dead, I’m always forgetting to charge it.

Robbie shakes his head in exasperation as I try to tell him today has been an absolute nightmare and the police have got it all wrong but he waves away my explanation.

‘Of course you’re not a thief. You don’t need to tell me that.’

He’s on my side. The relief is enormous and emotion makes my throat constrict.

It means everything that he believes me instinctively but I need to tell him what I think has happened.

I’m hoping having someone to listen to me will help me get my scrambled brain in order.

While we drink fresh cups of coffee I try to explain, bit by bit, how I’ve been accused of something I know I didn’t do.

Yes, the police found expensive items of jewellery stashed under my mattress.

Yes, the CCTV from the back room of Grayson’s shop caught me red-handed stuffing it all into a backpack and leaving the premises.

Yes, Guy Grayson has reported me to the police and had me arrested for theft. All of that is true … and yet …

‘Guy told you to take those items and hide them somewhere safe? He actually TOLD you to do it?’ Robbie’s eyes bulge as he repeats what I’ve just said.