“Hey, check this out,” She turned her phone toward me. “You really do look like Kerrigan Belmond. If you put on some make-up, you could be her twin.”
I took the mobile and scrolled through the socialite’s account photos. She’d documented her life and posted it on the internet for all to see. I could see what the men and Eliza were talking about. We did look a little alike, but it was more than just the make-up that set us apart. Every picture was oozing the elite life she enjoyed. In one, she was sipping champagne stretched across a chaise lounge, the Mediterranean providing a stunning backdrop. In another, she was blowing a kiss behind the wheel of a Roadster. Picture after picture showcased her in designer clothes living a life I could only dream of. I scrolled to the top and read her bio. There wasn’t much, just a passing mention of recently graduating from Oxford and the link to some philanthropy. As far as I could tell, her whole life was spent taking things off silver platters and lowering herself for the occasional charity work. It was as far from my life as I could imagine. I wasn’t even sure I could imagine something that wild. I bet Kerrigan had never worried about an electricity bill in her life.
“I guess I should be flattered,” I said for Eliza’s benefit as I passed back her phone.
“She’s probably a bitch,” Eliza said. “What do you want to bet?”
I waved the cash I was still holding. “How about fifty pounds?”
“Nice try, Kate,” she said with a laugh. “Tell you what? Let’s stop at Tesco and buy ourselves the cheapest champagne we can find. We can drown our lowly sorrows and take selfies drinking out of plastic cups.”
I couldn’t help smiling at that. Tomorrow was Sunday, and the pub would be closed. We might as well have a little fun. I suspected Kerrigan Belmond would agree.
Fifty pounds bought us three bottles of cheap wine and a week’s worth of cheap groceries. The groceries lasted until the following morning; the wine did not. I woke the next morning to a pounding headache and sun streaking through the blackout curtains I’d failed to close in my drunken haze. It took a minute for me to process that the pounding wasn’t just in my head. I heard Eliza yell something, her voice muffled by the walls between us. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and checked the time, groaning when I saw it was only a quarter to nine. Meanwhile, the pounding continued. I had no idea what wanker showed up to beat down a door on a Sunday morning, but I knew they either had a poor sense of timing or a keen sense of torture. Untangling my legs from the sheets, I pushed myself up a bit too fast, which earned me a brain-splitting slice of pain behind my eyes.
“I’m coming,” I yelled to the unwanted guest at the door.
This had better be good.
Chapter Three
As soon as my fingers closed over the lock, I hesitated. Whoever was pounding this loudly was both pissed and strong. After a moment, I turned the lock but not the chain. I opened the door as far as the chain would allow and peeked outside. Two dark eyes stared back at me, glaring through the crack.
“Can I help you?” I asked, coating the words with as much rudeness as possible.
He cleared his throat with obvious annoyance. “Do you work at the Hare & Hound?”
“I’m sorry. What is this about?” I asked. If he was going to answer my question with a question, I would do the same. I had no idea what had brought him to my door, but he was in no posi
tion to act like he was the frustrated one. The stranger stepped back, allowing me to get a better look at him. He was dressed in an expensive suit, the kind men bought on the High Street in one of London’s ritzier neighborhoods. The kind that was far too expensive for him to be a police officer coming round to ask questions. His salt and pepper hair, coupled with the lines creasing his forehead and eyes, only made him look more distinguished. He didn’t belong in Bexby. He didn’t even belong in this postcode. So, why was he here nearly breaking down the door to my flat?
“I’m looking for a woman who works at that pub,” he said flatly, craning his head to get a better look at me through the chained door. He slid his hand into his breast pocket, and I fought the urge to slam the door in his face. Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps he was a police officer with good taste, and he was simply reaching for his badge. He drew out a phone, and I relaxed. “This woman.”
He held the phone screen out so I could see it. It was a picture of me from the pub. I looked flustered, and the angle was terrible. It was the photo the jerks had snapped of me yesterday without asking permission.
“Why do you want to talk to her?” I asked, hoping he couldn’t see much of me through the opening. My heart began to race, and I wished Eliza had answered the door. She would have known how to handle a strange man showing up on our doorstep.
“I need her help,” he said curtly.
A brilliant idea occurred to me. Something told me I needed to get him out of here and fast. I needed to distract him long enough to figure out what to do. Eliza had an ex-boyfriend who might provide some backup muscle. I just needed to get rid of the stranger long enough to call him. “Maybe you should try the pub.”
“The pub is closed today, and I need to return to London as soon as possible. If you know this woman, I would be very grateful for any information. In fact, allow me to show you how much.” His hand reached into his pocket again and drew out a billfold. A moment later, three crisp 100-pound notes were in his hand. “Do you know her?”
“Just a moment,” I stammered. Closing the door, I leaned against it and tried to breathe. It was a remarkably stupid idea to open the door to a man, no matter what he was offering. He was probably a murderer who sought out women who lived in shabby flats, knowing they’d open the door for the right price. The smart thing would be to lock the door, call the police, and hope he went away.
I didn’t move from the spot.
But three hundred pounds meant I wouldn’t have to take Eliza’s handout again this month. I could do my part. I could even buy some groceries or set some aside in case my shitty waitressing skills kept me from earning enough for next month’s bills. If he left, I’d regret it. Good fortune didn’t usually find itself on my doorstep, and it might not bother calling again if I slammed the door on it now.
I straightened and drew my robe more tightly around my waist. There was no time to check the mirror, and after a night of drinking, I couldn’t imagine the state I would be in. I slid the chain free with my index finger and opened the door.
The man had turned away as though he was about to leave, but he spun toward me now. His mouth was opened but whatever he was going to say died on his lips.
“How?” he breathed before shaking his head. “I’m sorry. You look like…”
“I’m Kate,” I interrupted him. “That picture is of me.”
I didn’t know what else to say or what to expect. A few moments passed in stony silence as he stared at me as though trying to process these two facts. Finally, he held out the money. “I’d like to talk to you, Kate. May I come in?”
I stepped back, prayed he wasn’t concealing an ax in his tailored suit jacket, and waved him inside. He stepped through the door, his eyes searching the flat as though he was looking for something. They stopped on the small table in the front room cluttered with empty wine bottles. Then landed on the ashtray full of Eliza’s cigarette stubs. Other than that the place was very tidy, owing in no small part to our lack of worldly goods. The flat had been spartan when I moved in, and I hadn’t brought more than a bag of clothes with me. Since then, we’d picked up a few cast-off pieces of furniture, accumulated a stack of newspapers, and not much else.