‘Buenos dias,’ she says. ‘Or should I say good morning?’
The man beams at her, white teeth gleaming.
‘You’ve guessed that I’m English,’ he says. ‘And I’m guessing that you are too despite the perfect Spanish accent.’
‘I am indeed,’ she tells him and places the menu on the table. ‘Are you here for breakfast or just a drink?’
‘I’d like a bacon sandwich and a large Americano coffee with milk and sugar,’ he says.
She gestures towards the child. ‘And what about that sweet little lady? Would she like something?’
He laughs. ‘That sweet little lady is really the devil in disguise. She kept me up most of the night, which is why she’s out to the world now.’
For some reason she feels emboldened to ask him if the child’s mother is with them.
‘Her mother died a while ago,’ he tells her, the smile vanishing. ‘She contracted a rare form of blood cancer. That’s why we’ve moved to Spain. I want us to start a new life here.’
‘I did that four years ago,’ she says. ‘I got fed up with the crowds and depressing weather in London.’
‘We’re from London too,’ he says. ‘We’ve been here just over three weeks. I’m renting an apartment close to the marina while I look around for a business to invest in.’
‘What kind of business?’
‘Not sure yet, but I’ve always wanted to run a bar ever since I spent some time here in Spain as a teenager. Of course, it needs to be something that will allow me to be a proper father at the same time.’
‘That sounds exciting.’ She holds out her hand. ‘By the way, my name is Sophie and I’m the head waitress here at The Clover.’
He takes her hand and the smile is back.
‘And I’m James. James Miller. This is my daughter. Her name’s Alice. She’s two and she means the world to me.’
Sophie opened her eyes and wondered briefly what would have happened if they hadn’t lied to each other that morning. Would they have hit it off like they did and stayed together for the next seven years? Or would James have eaten his bacon sandwich and walked out of her life?
He’d almost certainly be alive now if he had done so. And she would probably still be in Spain, having never experienced true love or the sheer joy of motherhood.
Sophie sat on the kitchen floor for almost five minutes as dark thoughts trampled through her mind.
At the same time the pain in her head was getting worse, insistent, and it seemed like the silent walls of the flat were closing in on her.
She had to force herself to resist the weakness that was taking her over. But it required an enormous effort.
As she clambered to her feet her head spun and the floor seemed to shift beneath her. She had to hold onto the worktop until she regained her equilibrium.
Then, squeezing the memory of ten years ago to one side, she staggered across the kitchen, grabbed a glass and filled it with water from the tap. She downed it in one go, filled the glass again, and carried it unsteadily towards the bedroom.
On the way she paused to look at her reflection in the hall mirror and it made her cringe. Her eyes were glassy, her face sweaty, her shoulder-length black hair a total mess.
She wanted desperately to talk to someone, to unburden herself. But who could she trust? Her parents were dead and she hadn’t spoken to her sister for well over a year. She had also lost touch with her uncles and aunts.
There was Lisa, of course. But Sophie wasn’t sure she wanted her to know what she’d found out. Since her friend lived and worked outside London it was likely she hadn’t read the Anna Tate story in the Standard. If she had then surely she would have called by now.
She couldn’t resist looking in on Alice on the way to her own room. Thankfully she was still asleep, one arm dangling over the edge of the bed. Sophie leaned over and gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead.
It was Alice who gave meaning to Sophie’s life. Alice who had helped her to bury the past and embrace the future.
She loved that wonderful, beautiful girl as if she were her own. And she knew that Alice loved her back. As far as Alice was concerned Sophie was her mother now. Her biological mum wasn’t even a distant memory. She existed only in a couple of photographs that James had kept.
It was Sophie who had helped to potty-train her. Sophie who had taken care of her while James worked in the bar he opened. Sophie who had looked after her since they’d been forced to flee from Spain to Southampton three years ago. And Sophie who had had to break the news to her that her father had died.
And that was why it was such a shock to discover now that all along Alice’s real name was Chloe. That her mother was still alive. And that James had lied to her about being a widower.
It felt to Sophie as though her heart had been ripped out of her chest. The urge to drink herself into oblivion was strong. But the urge to hold onto the life she had was much stronger.
And for that she needed to stay sober, focused and determined.
There were various ways to describe the second bedroom in Holly Blake’s flat. But Anna felt that Walker put his finger right on it when he said, ‘It’s like a poor relation of The Red Room in Fifty Shades of Grey.’
He was referring to the movie about a billionaire who’s into S and M and has an elaborate pleasure dungeon he calls The Red Room of Pain in his luxury apartment. Holly Blake’s DIY version was on a much smaller scale, but it clearly served the same purpose.
The room, which was only slightly smaller than the one Holly had slept in, was equipped with all kinds of kinky sex paraphernalia. Some of the items were hanging from hooks on the walls and others were neatly laid out on shelving units.
There were ankle and wrist restraints, canes, rolls of bondage tape, chains, handcuffs, lengths of rope and a variety of sex toys.
A single bed had pride of place in the centre of the room and there was a flat-screen TV fixed to the wall above it. Leather straps were attached to the bed frame at both ends, and on a small table next to it was a DVD player. Anna’s eyes were drawn to a contraption that she had never seen before. It stood about three feet off the floor and had four steel legs and padded rests to support a person’s body and limbs.
‘What the hell is that thing?’ she asked.
Walker shook his head. ‘It looks like some weird piece of exercise equipment.’
‘It’s known as a fuck bench,’ Niven said. ‘It allows those who like to play rough to position each other so that they can gain full access for penetration and stimulation.’
Anna and Walker stared at him and saw the blood rush to his face.
‘Well, it’s a new one on me,’ Anna said.
‘Don’t jump to the wrong conclusion,’ Niven responded quickly, holding up his hands, palms out. ‘I’m not a fetish freak and I’m not into BDSM. I just happen to have heard about it, that’s all.’
Walker raised his brow and tutted. ‘You shouldn’t