This Could Change Everything(18)

‘No, it’s my fault. I ran out of battery at lunchtime. Someone just lent me their charger. I’m only up to three per cent, though, so it won’t last long. How are you doing, anyway? Everything OK?’

‘You mean apart from losing my boyfriend and my home and my job? Couldn’t be better.’

‘Oh yes, sorry. But you’ve found somewhere else to live, haven’t you? When you messaged me yesterday, you said you had.’

‘I have,’ Essie agreed. ‘And tonight I was offered a job in a brilliant bar . . .’

‘Well, that’s great news!’

‘It was great until the guy who owns the place turned up, and guess who it was?’

‘Donald Trump,’ Jay said promptly. ‘Nigel Farage. Or, hang on, that comedian you can’t stand, the one with the tattoo of a—’

‘No.’ Essie marvelled at the way his brain worked. ‘It was Lucas.’

‘Who?’ He sounded genuinely baffled.

‘The guy you brought home from the party, the one who’d lost his keys. The drunk one who thought it was funny to send my letter to everyone in my address book. That guy,’ said Essie.

‘Oh, right.’ Jay’s tone grew sombre. ‘Him.’

‘I know. What are the odds?’

‘And what did he have to say?’

‘Sorry, mainly. He’s still apologising. But I told him there was no way I could work for him.’

‘No? Well, it’s probably for the best. And you’ll find another job,’ said Jay. ‘Who wouldn’t want to employ you?’

Essie said wryly, ‘Well, there’s Paul’s mother . . .’

‘Apart from her. Anyway, don’t worry about this Lucas guy. You don’t want to be working for an idiot like that.’

‘I know. It’s such a shame, though – if it wasn’t for him, I’d have been really happy there. Anyway.’ Essie changed the subject. ‘How’s your holiday?’

‘The best. You should see the snow. Skiing conditions are perfect.’

‘The après-ski doesn’t sound bad either.’ She could still hear the sound of clinking glasses, music and riotous laughter in the background.

‘It’s bearable, I suppose.’ From the amusement in his voice she guessed he’d already chosen the girl he’d be spending the next few nights with.

‘Have fun,’ she said.

‘Don’t worry, I will. Down to one per cent battery now, going to have to go. Good luck with the job hunt, Ess. Keep me up to date, OK? Right, I’m—’

The phone cut out. He’d gone. Essie smiled to herself. Jay was incorrigible and he drove her nuts sometimes.

But he was her brother and she loved him to bits.

It was now just gone two in the morning and the square was silent, apart from the sound of a car being parked nearby. Hearing the murmur of voices, followed by the closing of car doors, Essie hopped out of bed and drew back the curtain in order to peer nosily down at what must be, at a guess, her new neighbours.

But they weren’t neighbours; they were moving away from a gleaming dark Mercedes and making their way towards her house. Moreover, one of the people was Zillah. The other, younger and taller, with broad shoulders and tousled fair hair, held out a supporting arm to help her up the steps. As the front door opened, Essie wondered if this was Conor McCauley, who lived in the flat below hers.

And where had they been, to be coming home at this hour? Zillah had definitely said that she was looking forward to an early night.

Oh well, she’d probably find out soon enough.

Time for bed.





Chapter 9


Conor McCauley was able to point to the exact minute his life had changed so dramatically, four years ago.

Up until then, he’d always done what had been expected of him. As a teenager he’d worked hard at school, gaining good grades in his exams because his father was a solicitor who wanted his son to follow in his footsteps.

Then there’d been university, the inevitable law degree this time, and another excellent result. His father, attending his graduation, had been visibly proud of him and Conor had in turn been proud of himself. A position as a solicitor was a fine thing, everybody said so. How fantastic to have a career so well paid, so varied, so interesting.

Fast-forward five years. On the day in question, Conor’s third client of the morning was a wealthy man who had married at twenty-five and was now in his fifties. He had left his wife six months ago for a very much younger model, who was currently sitting in the waiting room wearing a Barbie-sized Lycra dress, chewing gum and chatting on her mobile to her friends.

Her new fiancé fixed his gaze on Conor and said, ‘Look, I know I can’t get away with giving my ex-wife nothing, but you have to make sure she only gets the bare minimum. It’s not my fault that I lost interest in her. She let herself go, big-time. I mean, seriously, what a state.’ He leaned across the desk, scrolling through the photos on his iPhone until he found what he was looking for. ‘See? There she is! Who’d want to stay married to something like that?’

Conor had glanced at the photo on the screen, of a plump, anxious-looking woman with short hair and a shy smile. She was standing in a garden wearing a blue shift dress and gardening gloves, and clutching a spade.