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Jennie struggles, trying to get free, but there’s no space, she’s up against the door. Using all her strength, she puts her hands on his chest and shoves him away hard. ‘What the hell, Wright?’
Martin looks put out, confused. ‘What’s the matter? You’ve been giving me the come-on for weeks.’
‘No, I …’
‘Come on, you want it really,’ says Martin, reaching for her waist, his fingers digging into her flesh. ‘Don’t be a bloody tease.’
Jennie slaps his hands away, but he grabs for her, pinching her right breast and snatching at her belt, trying to yank her to him.
‘Get off.’ She shoves him again. Her voice is firmer, louder, this time. ‘Leave. Now.’
Martin scowls. His face is red. The muscles in his neck are bulging. He shakes his head, furious, and moves towards her. Jennie pulls her phone from her pocket, holding it up as if she’s going to film him. Martin stops when he sees it, seemingly thinking better of whatever he was about to do. He turns and hurries down the steps, back towards his car.
With shaking hands, Jennie unlocks her front door and pushes it open. She looks over her shoulder before she goes inside, double-checking that Martin really is leaving.
He sneers at her from the front gate, his expression full of hate. ‘Fucking frigid bitch.’
Chapter 33
Lottie
With Queen and Adam Lambert’s live album playing over the kitchen sound system, Lottie leans on the marble countertop and scrolls through the news on her phone, reading article after article about the murder of Hannah Jennings and the suicide of Rob Marwood. There are so many of them. Some are straight facts, some go for the more human-interest story, talking about Hannah’s modelling dreams and showing pictures of her distraught father. Others, particularly the online news outlets, have gone for more investigative pieces, posing questions about whether Rob murdered Hannah and why. Some show graphical timelines of the night Hannah went missing. Others speculate over the guilt or otherwise of her teacher, Duncan Edwards.
Lottie can hardly bear it. It was awful back in 1994 when Hannah disappeared, and now to have it all dragged up again … it’s too much. And Jennie still hasn’t answered her texts. Lottie’s messaged her every day asking if they’ve made any progress on the case, but she hasn’t heard back. It’s not right. Friends help friends, right? Surely they must be getting closer to the truth by now?
A burning smell pulls her from her thoughts.
Dammit.
Hurrying to the grill, she pulls out the slightly smoking flatbreads and switches the extractor fan onto maximum speed. Tipping the least charred flatbreads onto a plate, she carries them and a bowl of chopped salad over to the long oak dining table.
‘Dinner’s ready,’ she calls as she passes the doorway.
Back in the kitchen, Lottie opens the oven and removes the pasta bake. The Le Creuset baking tray is so hot that she can feel it through her White Company oven gloves. Biting her lip, she speeds across to the table and sets the pasta down on the central mat before the heat becomes unbearable.
She hears the thunder of feet on the stairs. Her two blonde-haired, ruddy-cheeked girls appear at speed. Katelyn is already in her favourite Barbie pyjamas. Octavia’s still wearing her dirt-stained jodhpurs and polo shirt from her after-school riding lesson. The pair rush to the table like locusts and immediately grab for the flatbread, jostling over which piece is bigger.
‘Octavia, darling, at least wash your hands first,’ says Lottie as she heads to the doorway again. She raises her voice. ‘Anthony, dinner’s ready.’
Lottie waits by the door, listening for any sign of movement upstairs. Hears nothing.
Oh for God’s sake. It’s like this every day.
Hurrying to the stairs she climbs them to the twist and calls again. ‘It’s dinner, Anthony. Come on, it’s getting cold.’
Moments later she hears the click of her son’s bedroom door opening, and so heads back down to the kitchen. The girls have helped themselves to pasta and are eating as they gabble away to each other. Lottie tries to listen in to the conversation but she’s not exactly sure what they’re talking about; something about a demi-pirouette – so dressage or ballet perhaps?
The sound of the back door opening makes Lottie jump.
‘Hey, kiddos,’ says her husband, Nathan, as he comes in from the integrated garage. He drops his car keys in the walnut bowl on the end of the island and his briefcase on the floor.
Lottie smiles. ‘You’re just in time for dinner.’
‘Great,’ says Nathan, although his tone doesn’t imply he’s pleased about it.
As he walks towards her, Lottie thinks he’s going to give her a hug, or maybe a kiss. Her stomach clenches. It’s been such a long time since he touched her. But instead, he leans across the counter and presses mute on the iPad music app, cutting off the music in the middle of ‘Who Wants To Live Forever’. Nathan sighs. ‘You know I can’t think with that awful row going on.’
‘Dad,’ says Anthony joyfully as he comes into the kitchen.
