‘Everything okay here?’ Ben strides through the shop towards me. I’m so pleased to see him. ‘Tessa? You all right?’

‘Tessa Markham, that’s her name,’ the woman cries. She holds out her phone and takes my picture.

I gasp at her cheek.

‘Excuse me, I’d like you to leave,’ Ben says to her.

‘What!’ The woman’s face turns scarlet with outrage.

‘Right now, please,’ he adds firmly, pointing to the exit.

‘Suppose you’re in on it too,’ she snarls at him. ‘I was about to buy two fig trees,’ she adds, pointing to her trolley. ‘But you can effin’ well forget it now.’

‘With you looking after them, Madam, they’d probably wither and die.’

‘I… What did you just say?’

‘Actually,’ Ben continues, ‘before you go…’ He takes the phone off her and presses a couple of buttons. ‘There, I’ve deleted the photo of my colleague. I’m sure we can all do without another social-media vulture sharing someone else’s misery.’

To my surprise, a few customers in the queue clap and nod. I want to applaud him too.

‘Goodbye,’ he says calmly, handing the woman’s phone back. ‘Don’t let the door hit your arse on the way out.’

Her mouth drops open and she turns to leave. ‘I can tell you now,’ she says, ‘I won’t be coming back here again.’

‘Pleased to hear it,’ Ben replies.

I’m rooted to the spot, trembling. Everyone is staring at me like I’m some kind of rare zoo exhibit. A few stares soften into genuine smiles as I catch their eyes.

‘Tess,’ Ben takes my hand, ‘come with me.’

‘What about your customers?’

‘They can wait,’ he says gently. ‘I’m going to get Carolyn to come back and man the shop, but first…’ He leads me past the gawping customers, out of the shop and round the back of the building, through a gate and into a private walled garden.

My mind is racing with everything that’s just happened, but I can’t help staring around at these fragrant surroundings. I’ve never been in here before. Even in winter, with everything dormant, it’s perfect. An arched stone pergola sits in front of the house with a weathered wooden table and chairs beneath it. Ornate terracotta pots gush with evergreens and winter berries. Low walls and hedges border gravel and stone pathways that take the eye away into the hidden distance.

‘Is this your garden?’ I ask, everything else forgotten for a brief moment.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s still a work in progress. I’m doing it gradually.’

‘It looks pretty finished to me.’ An image flashes into my mind of my own neglected front garden. I make a mental note never to invite Ben over. Well, at least not until I’ve attempted to get it back into some kind of order.

I realise he’s still holding my hand, his fingers cool against my skin. As he leads me towards the house, we pass a plucky robin perched on a stone bird table, pecking at some scattered seed. Ben opens a glazed arched door and we enter a warm, rustic, farmhouse-style kitchen, messy in a homely way. He directs me to a knotty oak table, where I sit, dazed, on a long, low bench.

‘Stay there,’ he says, opening an old-fashioned cream refrigerator, pulling out a pan and setting it on a dark-green range cooker. Then he takes a ciabatta loaf from a bread bin, slicing off two chunks. ‘The soup will take about five minutes to heat,’ he continues. ‘Finish it all off. There’s butter in the fridge if you want some with your bread. I’ll go back to the shop for a while.’

‘But I can’t let you—’

‘It’s one thirty now,’ he interrupts. ‘I don’t want you coming back to work until at least half two.’ And with that, he leaves.

I glance around the inviting space, my heart still racing from the encounter with that acidic woman. I would love to have a nose around Ben’s house – it looks like an incredibly calm and inviting place to live – but I respect his privacy and remain in the kitchen. After eating a steaming bowl of home-made minestrone soup, I feel a little more refreshed, much less shaky, and ready to return to work.

---

That afternoon, the garden centre is quieter and I’m able to go back to my seeds and the blissful silence of the greenhouse. When Jez comes in to see how I’m getting on, he confirms that there are still a few journalists hanging around outside the gates. I wish I could stay in this peaceful place forever. At 4 p.m., dusk sweeps across the gardens and I have to switch on the halogen lamp to see what I’m doing. All too soon, it’s time for Moretti’s to close and for me to go home.

My pulse begins to race in anticipation of the walk home. Maybe I should call a cab, but I can’t afford to shell out for any more taxis – it defeats the object of going to work in the first place. I can’t ask Ben for a lift; he’s already done so much for me that I feel I’m becoming a burden. But I needn’t have worried. He’s leaning against his truck, and when he sees me, he waves me over.

‘Hop in, I’m taking you home.’

The polite part of me wants to decline, but the terrified part heaves a sigh of relief and gets in.

‘Thank you, Ben.’ I pull down my seat belt and clip it in place.

‘As if I’d let you walk out on your own and face that lot.’

‘They’re all still there, then? I haven’t dared look.’

‘I’m afraid so.’ He starts up the engine, turns on the headlamps and cruises towards the gates.

‘Which means they’ll probably be outside my house, too.’

‘I can come in with you,’ he offers.

‘No, no, I’ll be fine. If you could just drop me outside, that would be amazing.’

‘Let’s see when we get there. Just a thought, but you might want to undo your belt and scooch down again.’

‘Good point.’ I do as he suggests and brace myself for rapping on the window and shouted questions.

‘Get ready,’ Ben says.

The engine growls as he accelerates hard through the gates and out onto the road. I hear the screech of tyres and use the heels of my hands to steady myself against the front of the footwell. I hear shouts from outside, and bright camera flashes briefly illuminate the truck’s interior.

‘Well, that was fun,’ Ben says. ‘Haven’t driven like that since I was seventeen and trying to impress Marie Philips. You can come out now.’

I straighten up and sit back in the passenger seat. ‘Marie Philips?’

‘A girl from school.’

‘Did it work? Was she impressed?’

‘No. She fell for a twenty-two-year-old car mechanic from Finchley. I didn’t stand a chance.’

We drive the rest of the way in companionable silence. I peer in the wing mirror every so often to check if anyone is following us. The traffic is quite heavy now, so maybe we are being followed, maybe we aren’t. I can’t tell.

As we turn into my road, my body tenses. No surprises: the cluster of journalists is still there, gathered by my front gate. I don’t know what they’re expecting. I’m not going to talk to them, so they should just bugger off home.

Ben slows the truck. ‘You can kip at my place if you want. The spare bed is really comfy.’

‘I’ll be okay,’ I say. ‘Thanks, though.’

‘Thing is, I won’t be able to pick you up tomorrow. I’ve got a meeting with the bank first thing.’

‘It’s okay, Ben. I don’t expect lifts from you. You’ve been an absolute godsend today, but I’ve put up with them once, so I’m sure I’ll be able to handle them okay tomorrow.’ This is a blatant lie. The thought of walking to work with them following me scares me senseless.

‘Stay home if you can’t deal with them, we can cope.’ He catches my eye, letting me know he means what he says.

‘Thanks, but I want to work.’ We’re right outside my house now and the press are gathering around Ben’s truck like zombies hungry for flesh. ‘Here goes,’ I say, sounding braver than I feel. I take a breath to steel myself.

‘Good luck, Tess.’

‘Thanks, Ben. I mean it, you’ve been so kind. And good luck with your meeting tomorrow.’ I open the car door and barge my way through the throng.

‘Who was that in the car, Tessa? Was that your boss?’

‘Are you two together, Tessa?’

‘Is he your boyfriend?’

‘Did he help you abduct that boy?’

Finally, I’m through my front door. Home. I should probably eat something, but I still haven’t managed to do any food shopping. I climb the stairs, pull on my pyjamas and fall into bed, too tired to deal with any more crap. Too tired to think. My eyes close.

---

I must have fallen asleep immediately. But now I’m awake, staring wide-eyed at the curtains, an almighty smash of breaking glass ringing in my ears, a dull pain in my leg. What the hell? Loud footsteps running away. I turn on my bedside light without thinking about who might be able to see in.

There’s something red on the covers next to my leg. A brick. A brick! I swing my legs out of bed and stand up, crying out as a sharp pain shoots through my foot. I glance down. Glass – glass everywhere. As I gradually recover my senses, I realise that someone has chucked a brick through my bedroom window.

A glance at my alarm clock shows it’s almost 4 a.m. Heedless of the glass strewn across the carpet, I peer out through the jagged hole in the window, the icy air making me catch my breath and shiver. The journalists are still out there, staring up at me. Some are pointing down the road. Did they see who did it? They must have. But I don’t dare go out to ask them.

House lights start coming on across the street. Bleary faces appear at bedroom windows. They must have heard the crash of glass. I wonder if any of the neighbours will come to see if I’m okay. Somehow I doubt it.

I stare down at my left foot. There’s blood on the carpet. My whole body shakes; my teeth begin to chatter. It’s just the cold, I tell myself, from the night air streaming in. And then I do something I know I shouldn’t: I blame it on the shock, on the fact that I’m still half-asleep. I grab my mobile from the nightstand and call Scott.

His voice is thick with sleep. ‘Tessa?’

‘They threw a brick through my window,’ I say. ‘Please, can you come over?’

‘Who did? A brick? It’s probably just some idiot who’s seen the news,’ he says sleepily. ‘They’ll have run away by now. You need to call the police.’

‘Can’t you come over, Scott? Please,’ I beg. ‘Our bedroom window’s smashed. There’s glass everywhere. It’s freezing.’ I can’t control the tremor in my voice. ‘I… I don’t know what to do.’

‘Just call the police, Tessa. They’ll sort you out. I’m sorry, but Ellie needs me here. We’ve had the press outside our house all day too. The stress isn’t good for her and the baby. Actually, it’s been bloody awful. I couldn’t even go in to work today.’

I shake my head and end the call without saying another word. Suddenly wide awake, I realise Scott will no longer be there for me. Not any more. I should never have called him.

My initial fear and confusion morph into something harder as I dial 999.