Then the waitress brings over our order and breaks the mood with some idle speculation about the weather, which seems to get wetter and wetter with every day that passes.
While Deacon ploughs through his bacon and eggs, I drink my coffee and nibble half-heartedly on my muffin. The waitress comes over and refills my coffee and I drink a second cup and then a third.
“Should you really be drinking that much caffeine?” Deacon asks, wiping his mouth.
“Probably not.”
But without it, I’m not sure I could function.
I put down a fiver for the bill, and excuse myself to go to the Ladies.
As I walk into the loos, I get a chill, remembering the bag thief. Why do they have to make public toilets so creepy? Although it’s daylight outside, the room is poorly lit and badly ventilated. Plus, there’s a constant drip, drip, drip from a faulty tap.
Clutching my bag tightly, I walk into one of the little cubicles. There’s a slight chemical smell, like someone’s been applying nail polish. I sit down and try to be as quick as I can. Why did I have to drink so much bloody coffee?
Typical – no loo roll.
I look round to see if there’s a spare roll on the tank. And that’s when I see it; written in a shiny blood-red scrawl, the word ‘FRY,’ dripping from the wall.
What the…?
I practically jump out of my skin. And yet I can’t quite tear my eyes away from it. How did she know I would be here, at this time, in this very cubicle? My first instinct is to flee, but instead I push open the door to the next cubicle and peer inside. There it is again – FRY. The glistening letters shimmer on the wall. I reach up and touch it. The varnish is still wet.
Why is she doing this to me?
It’s just too much. My legs give way and I sink, quivering, to the floor.
Time probably passes. I don’t know how little or how much. But I’m aware of someone banging on the door.
“Are you OK in there?”
The waitress walks in. Her jaw drops when she sees me.
“What’s wrong with you?” She sounds more annoyed than concerned.
Then she looks up, her eyes drawn to the blood-red graffiti. Her hand flies to her mouth.
“What have you done to the walls? Do you know how hard this is to clean?”
“It… it wasn’t me.”
“Then why have you got wet paint on your hands?”
I jerk my head up to look at her and the world seems to spin a bit faster.
“It wasn’t me!”
“Leave this to me OK?”
Deacon swims into view. He takes my hand in his.
“Come on, Isabel. Let’s get you home.”
Neither of us says anything as he leads me back to my place. Once there, he sits me down at the kitchen table.
“I know how strong and independent you are, Isabel, and I know you don’t like to ask for help. But it’s obvious something’s not right and I want to help. If you’ll just let me.”
“Yes,” I agree, wearily. “That would be nice.”
He takes a deep breath, as though he hadn’t thought it would be this simple.
“Good,” he says. “So why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
Once I start, the words just come tumbling out. Not just about what happened at the cafe. All of it, from the moment I first met Alicia. It’s just such a relief to get it all out. I haven’t even told Holly in this much detail. I was afraid she might think I was bonkers.
Deacon sits in perfect silence, no interruptions, no questions, just listens.
“So can you help?” I ask, when I’ve finally finished.
He looks at me gravely. “Yes, Isabel. I think I can.”
“Thank god!” I fling my arms around him.
“Look, I’ve really got to get to work now, but can you meet me after?”
“Of course. Where?”
“Why don’t you come to my office?”
“Good idea.”
Not much chance of running into Alicia there.
I feel as if some of the weight I’ve been carrying these past few weeks has been lifted off my shoulders.
“Well, I’d better go and put up some more posters,” I say, but as I get up from the table, I find that I’m still a little wobbly.
“Why don’t you do it later?” he says. “You should go and lie down for a bit. You’re deathly pale.”
“Well, maybe just a short nap.”
I snuggle up on the sofa and to my surprise, I sleep for most of the afternoon.
“You’re going to have to get some better reading material for the waiting room,” I tell Deacon, when he comes out of his office. “I just found a copy of Vogue that was two years out of date. Oh, sorry….”
I hadn’t realised there was somebody with him.
Deacon smiles. “Isabel, this is my colleague, Jim.”
I smile politely. Jim is tall and skinny with limp hair that sticks to the sides of his head. He looks at me expectantly. I glance back at Deacon.
“What’s going on?”
“Deacon was saying you’ve been having some problems lately?” Jim says, softly. “He thought perhaps I could help?”
“What?”
I stare at Deacon.
“Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? Alicia’s the crazy one, not me!”
“Calm down! I just thought it might be helpful for you to speak to a therapist.”
“I am calm!” I bellow. I know this isn’t the best time to display my anger, but this is really all too much. “I thought you wanted to help me!”
“I do!”
“Not by setting me up with a therapist,” I explode, eyeing Jim in dismay.
“I just needed you to believe me.”
Chapter Fifteen
I storm out of the office and back to my car. I drive aimlessly for a while, too het up to think about where I’m going. A flock of seagulls circles overhead as I turn south and take the coast road. Almost without realising it, I find myself nearing the familiar turn-off for the Beach House.
What am I doing here?
I don’t park directly in front of the house, but close enough that I still have quite a good view. The light is on in the kitchen – probably Rhett, cooking dinner. My phone rings. It’s Deacon. My heart aches, but I can’t speak to him. Not yet. I’m still too angry.
It’s not long before he rolls up outside the house. I note the hassled expression on his face as he shuffles up the steps. But he doesn’t go inside. Instead, he glances back at the road. As if he’s waiting for something. Or someone. A few minutes later, a second car pulls up.
Kate! Kate’s here.
Deacon goes to greet her and they disappear into the house.
Oh, this is stupid!
I get out of the car and walk up to the house. I stand at the door, my hand poised to knock, when their voices float out to me through the open kitchen window.
Oh god, they’re talking about me, aren’t they?
I can hear their conversation quite clearly,
“What if,” Kate murmurs. “What if there is something in what Isabel says? What if Alicia really is trying to set her up? She seems so convinced.”
Yes! Yes!
I silently punch the air. Kate is on my side. Maybe she can talk some sense into him.
“It isn’t Alicia who’s acting strangely though, is it?” Deacon reasons. “I’ve heard of cases like this before, where the patient grows gradually more deluded, creating increasingly elaborate stories.”
“But what about her cat going missing?” Kate persists. “Seems a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
Deacon sighs. “The sad thing is, Fluffy’s disappearance is probably her own doing.”
What?
His words hit me with a force.
How could he even suggest I would hurt Fluffy?