At Georgio’s, Pippa and I are kneeling on the floor, a small electric fan angled towards us, redistributing hot, stale air as we unpack box after box of designer handbags. Her eyes are wide as I tell her about my strange and unsettling morning discovering the letter.

‘Ooh, darling,’ Pippa says in her plummy drawl. ‘Sounds like some freak’s got a giant-sized crush on you.’

Pippa Hargreaves is the poshest person I know. She lives locally in a crumbling stately home with her brother and parents who are an actual lord and lady – but extremely broke. I suspect her connection with all the royals in the area is why our boss, George, hired her to work at Georgio’s because Pippa pulls in the wealthy customers – the hunting, shooting and fishing crowd, most of whom she went to school with. Her parents were only able to afford the exorbitant education fees by selling off land from their estate.

‘Maybe it’s a love letter from a customer,’ she continues.

‘Do you think so?’ It’s all I’ve been thinking about this morning – who could possibly have left me that letter?

‘Could be,’ Pippa says, pulling out a navy Radley handbag, sliding the strap over her shoulder and walking over to the mirror. ‘What do you think?’ she calls over, pouting at her reflection. She’s attractive in a horsey way, with slightly protruding front teeth. But her skin is clear and her hair is shiny and blonde.

‘Looks good,’ I reply, thinking that for someone who claims to be broke, she has an awful lot of handbags.

‘Hmm, it does, doesn’t it,’ Pippa muses, gazing at her reflection, turning this way and that. ‘I might put it out the back and have a think about buying it.’

Pippa and I met at a local modern dance class when we were about ten years old. We always got on well, but never really socialised outside of dance events due to our vastly different backgrounds. Then, after leaving school, we were always bumping into one another at local parties, pubs and bars, and we became sort of friends – the overlapping part of a social Venn diagram.

‘What about George?’ Pippa calls from the stockroom.

‘What about him?’

‘You know,’ she says, returning and kneeling down next to me. ‘Our dear, darling boss, George. He’s your landlord, too, isn’t he? So he’s got a key. Could have been him who left the letter.’

‘George?’ I straighten up, thinking about it. ‘No. No way. And anyway, he’s old enough to be my dad. He’s married with kids.’

‘Since when has that stopped anyone?’ she drawls.

‘Stopped anyone what?’

‘Being a stalker?’ She laughs.

‘It’s not funny, Pip. It’s creepy.’

‘What about Leon? We already know he definitely fancies you.’

She’s talking about Leon Whittaker, who owns the wine bar up the road. ‘Well, I hope it’s not Leon,’ I reply, ‘because if it is, then that means he’s asking for trouble.’

‘True. Forget that. On second thoughts, there’s no way it’s Leon.’

I’m transported to last Christmas Eve when Leon Whittaker started chatting me up. Joe got angry with him for paying me so much attention when it was clear I was there with him, but Leon was cocky and refused to apologise. Punches were thrown, and Joe ended up knocking Leon unconscious. Joe was arrested. He pleaded guilty in court and received a fine and a twenty-six-week prison sentence, suspended for eighteen months. But we went through a few really stressful months, not knowing if he would end up behind bars. I wish I could forget the whole terrible episode.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memories. ‘Seriously though, Pippa, it’s weird, right? The letter sticking out of the floorboards.’ I hand her the pricing gun but instead of actually using it, she lays it down on her lap.

‘It is a bit spooky, darling,’ she agrees. ‘But maybe it really is just an innocent love letter and someone went a bit over the top on the delivery method.’

‘I’m going to check my phone’ – I get to my feet – ‘see if Joe’s got my message yet. Can you finish pricing the purses?’

‘I would, but it looks like Fenella and Co. are coming in.’

I glance over to the entrance, where I see a gaggle of Pippa’s old school friends on the pavement pointing at the window display. ‘Okay, Pip. Put the pricing on hold. You’re up. Make sure you bankrupt the lot of them.’

Pippa smirks and stands up, passing the price gun back to me and taking a deep breath. ‘Consider it done.’

I know it’s hard for Pippa. Her family used to be one of the wealthiest around, and now she can no longer afford to socialise with all her old friends. But she never complains about it. Just shrugs her shoulders and says that’s life. Stiff upper lip and all that. It’s not an uncommon situation for the British nobility to find themselves in. I should imagine the cost of running such enormous estates runs into thousands of pounds per month these days. The Manor House has been in Pippa’s family for centuries and so it’s hard for them to even consider selling.

By contrast, I was brought up locally by middle-class parents who had a mortgage on a perfectly respectable three-bedroom semi-detached house. I went to the local comprehensive school and would no more expect to be invited to Prince Charles and Camilla’s for tea than I would expect to fly to the moon. So, Pippa and I live on different social planets, but we’ve always got on well. And, considering she’s part of the nobility, she doesn’t seem to have a problem taking orders from me, her manager. I guess she’s… grounded.

‘Pippa, sweetie!’ Fenella Sherston-Moore sweeps into Georgio’s followed by three of her equally privileged friends. They greet one another in a shower of exclamations and air kisses.

I retreat into the back room to check my phone. There’s a text from Joe:

My heart rate quickens. So, the note wasn’t from Joe, then. I already guessed it wasn’t, but now that I know for sure, it’s made me doubly anxious. I tap out a quick reply:

I walk back out onto the shop floor feeling strange, like everything has shifted a little to the left. Someone – not Joe – left me an unsettling letter in my home. My mind is all over the place. Should I be worried?

Pippa walks past me with armfuls of clothes. Fenella and her friends haven’t bothered to draw the fitting-room curtains; instead, they’re stripping off in full view of the other customers with an enviable lack of self-consciousness. They stand in their Agent Provocateur underwear, tossing their hair and talking about Saturday’s polo match while Pippa hands them item after item, suggesting matching jewellery, belts and bags. George is going to be over the moon with today’s sales figures. I give Pippa an encouraging smile.

Somehow, for the rest of the morning, I manage to pull myself together enough to deal with the invoices that have become due. But my mind isn’t on my work. It’s on the letter and who could be behind it.

---

After a busy morning, I manage to slip away to meet Joe for lunch, leaving Pippa in charge of the shop. I walk quickly down the High Street, weaving between clusters of tourists who are blocking the narrow pavement, hovering outside restaurants and bars, checking out the menus on the wall. Or who, like me, are simply nipping out for a lunch break. The sun lasers down on my head and I’m looking forward to sitting down with a nice cold drink.

Malmesbury, our pretty market town, is situated in Wiltshire on the edge of the Cotswolds – the largest Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty in England, with its sweeping meadows, rolling hills, quaint cottages and stately homes. The Prince of Wales’ Highgrove Estate is just up the road in Tetbury, and there are more than a few movie stars, models and musicians living in the area. We also get a lot of customers who live most of the year in London but have their second homes here. They love bringing their friends down for the weekend, spending their money in the local delis, boutiques and clothes and gift shops like Georgio’s.

Finally, halfway down the street, I arrive at The Crown, a Cotswold-stone-fronted seventeenth-century pub where Joe and I sometimes meet for lunch. I push open the wooden door to the lounge bar. Thankfully, it’s cooler in here. Joe is already sitting in our favourite spot by the window, his blond waves catching the light, making him look like a saint from a religious painting. He waves me over and I’m happy to see that my lunch has already arrived. He stands and we kiss.

‘Got you a sandwich and a Sprite,’ he says gruffly.

‘Thanks.’ I sit opposite him and stretch out my legs under the table.

‘What was that message you left about a letter?’ he asks through a mouthful of steak and ale pie.

I start filling him in on the details, telling him about the letter addressed to me with today’s date on it.

Joe shakes his head slowly and lays his knife and fork down. ‘Wow, Lizzy. That’s weird. Are you okay?’

I nod, but his concern makes me wobbly. ‘Someone must have been inside our house last night,’ I say.

‘I don’t know about that. How would they have got in without us hearing something? Did you check for signs of a break-in?’

‘I didn’t notice any broken windows. And both doors were locked.’ I take a sip of my drink. ‘Did you notice anything weird in the kitchen this morning, before you left? Was Frank in there scratching at the floor?’

‘You know what I’m like first thing. I just get up, get dressed and leave the house. Don’t even have a cup of tea till I get to work.’

‘So you definitely didn’t go in the kitchen?’

‘Nope. I was straight down the stairs and out the door, like always.’

I sigh. ‘That’s what I was afraid of. So the letter could just as easily have been put there sometime last night.’

‘You really think someone broke in and put it there?’

‘I don’t know. It’s odd. And the envelope… it looks really old. Here, see for yourself.’ I reach for my handbag, pull out the envelope and pass it across the table.

Joe takes it from me in his oil-stained fingers and frowns at my name written on the thick envelope. He pulls out the sheet of paper, his frown deepening. ‘This is today’s date, right?’

‘Yeah, the twenty-sixth. So what do you think I should do?’

Joe turns the envelope over in his hands once more, staring at it. ‘I’ll change the locks when I get home, okay?’

‘Yeah, I think that would be good.’

With a disconcerting lack of concern, he takes another mouthful of pie.

‘Joe, someone’s broken into our house. I thought you’d be more worried about it.’

‘I am worried, Lizzy. I’m just getting my head round it, that’s all. Don’t stress, it’ll be okay.’ His expression softens. ‘Like I said, I’ll change the locks.’ He hands me back the letter and the envelope.

‘Maybe we should tell the police?’ I suggest.

‘I dunno, Lizzy. It’s just… after all that business last year, I’d rather not get the police involved if we don’t have to.’

With a suspended sentence for the Leon Whittaker debacle, Joe has to be as good as gold for almost a year or he could find himself serving actual prison time. And while this letter thing is obviously nothing to do with Joe, the thought of the police being involved is naturally making him jittery.

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Yeah, of course, we’ll leave the police out of it.’

‘Thanks, Lizzy.’ Joe reaches across and puts his hand over mine.

‘I did have another thought…’

Joe raises his eyebrows questioningly.

‘What about…’ I begin hesitantly. ‘What about Emma?’

Joe scowls and takes a deep breath in through his nose.

I plough on. ‘Think about it. My sister’s the only person I’ve ever truly fallen out with—’

‘You haven’t spoken to her for years.’ Joe takes a swig of his drink. ‘Why would she do something like that now?’

‘Dunno. I’m just throwing out ideas.’

‘It’s more likely to be George,’ Joe says. I can tell he’s changing the subject. I guess I can’t blame him – Emma’s not exactly his favourite topic of conversation.

‘Pippa said the same thing. But come on, you can’t seriously think George would do something like that?’

‘He doesn’t seem the type, but then again he’s the only other person with a key. Maybe I should have a word with him.’ Joe rubs his chin, his eyes narrowing.

‘No. Joe. No. You won’t, will you?’ I’m scared he’ll wade in with his fists again and regret it later. ‘George is my boss. I can’t have you accusing him of all sorts.’

‘Just because he’s your boss doesn’t give him the right to harass you.’

‘He’s not harassing me! We don’t even know if it’s him. It’s not him. Don’t say anything. I don’t want to lose my job. I love my job.’

‘Calm down. I won’t speak to him if you don’t want me to. But once we’ve changed the locks we’re not going to tell him what we’ve done, okay?’

‘It’s George’s house. We’ve got to let him know. I don’t think we’re allowed to just change the locks and…’

‘The whole point is not to tell George. Completely defies the object if we tell him what we’re doing. Anyway, if I catch him or anyone else sneaking into our place, I’ll beat the crap out of them.’

‘No you won’t. You’ll call the police.’

‘I’ll beat the crap out of them, then I’ll call the police.’ He grins to let me know he’s joking. But I know what he can be like. He acts first and pays the consequences later.

‘Well then, it will be you going to jail, not them,’ I say, glaring at him. ‘You don’t really think George wrote that note, do you?’

Joe shakes his head. ‘Dunno, Lizzy. But like you said, it’s weird.’

I nod, realising I haven’t touched my sandwich. But I’m no longer hungry; the strangeness of the morning is finally catching up with me as I wonder what on earth is going on. Has someone actually been in our house? And if so, will they try it again?