Bring Me Back: The gripping Sunday Times bestseller now with an explosive new ending!. B Paris A
yes, and I prepared others and I left them at the end of the counter for one of the staff to bring to you. When I saw it was still sitting there, I brought it over, and I brought others over too. I was doing my job, that’s all.’
‘So this plate was lying on the counter?’
‘Yes.’ She looks at me curiously. ‘What’s this about, Finn?’
I run a hand through my hair, wondering if I’ve got it wrong after all. ‘Someone’s playing games with me.’
‘Well, it’s not me.’
I’m not convinced. ‘What was the name of your cousin, the journalist?’
‘Joe, Joe Walsh. Why?’
I thump the bar in frustration.
‘Finn?’ I spin round and see Ellen standing behind me, and I know from the uncertainty on her face that she saw the thump. ‘Is everything alright?’
I quickly relax my features. ‘Yes, everything’s fine, just catching up with Ruby.’
Ellen looks from me to Ruby and Ruby gives her a bright smile. I stuff the doll into my pocket and reach for Ellen’s hand.
‘Come on, let’s go.’ I call Peggy from Buster’s side and turn to Ruby. ‘Bye, Ruby, thanks.’ I don’t even try to smile.
We leave the pub and walk in silence for a while. I know Ellen is waiting for me to say something but my mind is too full of my conversation with Ruby so I wait for her to begin, because maybe she won’t and then I won’t have any explaining to do.
‘So what was all that about?’ she asks.
‘Just Ruby being her usual annoying self,’ I say casually, for Ellen’s benefit.
‘In what way?’
‘A barb about us getting married.’
‘Oh.’ She frowns. ‘I thought she seemed happy for us.’
‘She is. But you know Ruby, she can’t help herself.’
‘You seemed pretty angry with her.’
‘I was. But it’s fine, I’m not any more.’
‘Good. You scared me for a moment back there.’
I stop and pull her into my arms. ‘I don’t ever want you to be scared of me,’ I say.
Not like Layla was that night, I add silently.
Before
Money never interested you, Layla, but even you were surprised when I admitted that in the seven years I’d worked in the city, I’d accumulated enough to last me a lifetime. To be really arrogant, when we left London for Devon, it wouldn’t have mattered if I never worked again – which was just as well because even the thought of it left me exhausted. At not quite thirty years old I was well and truly burnt out.
I knew that mentally I couldn’t not work for the rest of my life. What I wanted was to take a year out, concentrate on you, on us, and worry about the future later. But you’d become restless. I could tell you were beginning to feel caged, like a beautiful, wild animal. Sometimes you’d snap at me for no reason at all, although you were quick to apologise, as volatile in your temper as you were in your anger and frustrations.
A week before we were due to go skiing, you were invited by your ex-work colleagues at the wine bar to a girls’ weekend in London. You were so excited about it; you smiled more that day than you had for a while and it got under my skin. But I was too proud to ask you not to go. Instead, I took you to the station and waved you off on the train.
It was a long two days. I went for walks along the beach and in between, I tried to be the perfect boyfriend and painted the bathroom as a surprise for you. By the time Sunday evening came, I couldn’t wait for you to be back and I planned to take you straight to bed and stay there the whole of the next day. But when I met you at the station, you were so quiet, and my heart almost stopped, because I thought you were going to tell me that you wanted to go back to your old life in London. Instead, you clung to me and told me that you loved me, that you always wanted to be with me, and stay in our cottage forever. And realising how much you’d missed me, my heartbeat smoothed out, and I was glad I’d let you go.
The following week we left for Megève but once there, your mood didn’t improve. You had never skied before so I’d booked lessons for you each morning, convinced that a spirit like yours would love the mountains. But your heart wasn’t in it and I couldn’t hide my disappointment, or my fear, because it seemed that everything I said or did wasn’t right any more. I asked you if you were homesick or if you were missing Ellen and you dissolved into floods of tears and wouldn’t let me comfort you. There was a nervousness about you and I began to worry that I’d got it wrong, that you wanted to go back to London after all, and were psyching yourself up to tell me.
On the way home, we stopped off in Paris for dinner and as we walked along the Seine, back to where I parked the car, I drew you into my arms and told you how much I loved you. A part of me wished I’d brought the ring with me, a ring I’d planned to give you on your birthday because I could have proposed to you there and then instead of waiting. But my love seemed to make you uncomfortable, and my doubt grew.
As soon as we got back in the car, you started crying but when I asked you what the matter was, you wouldn’t tell me. In the end, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I pulled off the motorway into a picnic area and told you that we weren’t leaving until you told me what was wrong, that I couldn’t fix it if you didn’t talk.
Nothing had prepared me for what you said next. You didn’t tell me that you wanted to leave me and go back to London. Instead, you told me that during your weekend in London, you’d slept with somebody else.
Now
When we get back from the pub, we go our separate ways, Ellen to her office, me to mine. I sit down at my desk and take the two Russian dolls – the one I found on the wall and the one from the car – from where I’ve hidden them at the back of my drawer and stand them on the edge of my desk. Then I take the one I found on the plate in The Jackdaw out of my pocket and put it next to them. Triplets. What is your purpose, I ask them silently, why are you here? What the hell is going on?
I’m still not convinced it isn’t Ruby. The email address is pretty incriminating. I should have mentioned it to her, told her I’d worked it out. Because I didn’t mention it, she probably feels safe continuing her charade.
I put the doll I found at The Jackdaw back in my pocket and push the others into the drawer. Then I log on to my emails – and find another one from Rudolph Hill. I look at the time it was sent and see that it was at about the time Ellen and I left for the pub, six minutes after the previous one asking: Who is Ruby?
I open it.
I don’t know who Ruby is
But I am not her
She has to be joking. I reach for the keyboard.
So who are you then?
A reply comes straight back.
What if I were to tell you that Layla is alive?
My heart thumps, then I pull myself together. It has to be some other sick bastard, Ruby could never be this vicious.
Then I’d call you a liar, I type furiously.