After a relatively quiet afternoon at work, I begin cashing up. Pippa’s friends’ spending spree this morning means we’ve already reached our monthly target, and there’s still almost a week to go until the end of the month. Normally I’d call George with the good news, but I’m reluctant to speak to him today. The more I think about it, the more I see that, logically, he’s the only other person with access to our cottage. But it doesn’t fit. Yes, he can be a bit touchy-feely, but not in a creepy way. He’s never made a pass at me and he’s always talking about how wonderful his wife Sophia is. I’m sure the letter has nothing to do with George, so why am I scared to call him?

‘Hello, Lizzy.’

I look up from the till receipts to see Pippa’s brother Seb hovering over me like a stooped giant, his checked shirt tucked half-in, half-out of his shorts.

‘Hi, Seb. Pippa’s just getting her coat. She’ll be out in a mo.’

‘Uh, okay. I’m, uh—’

‘Coming, Sebbie!’ Pippa calls from the stockroom.

He shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. ‘Hope she’s quick. Had to leave the Land Rover parked on double yellows out there.’

‘Have you had a good day?’ I ask.

‘Yes, yes, thanks. You?’

For a moment I think about mentioning the letter, but I hardly know Seb. I only ever see him when he comes to pick Pippa up, and he’s always quiet around me. The polar opposite of his sister. ‘It’s been busy,’ I reply.

‘That’s good, right?’

‘It is.’ I smile.

Pippa finally emerges from the stockroom in a cloud of perfume.

‘Is that the new jasmine tester?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ Pippa admits. ‘I had a quick spray. Hope you don’t mind. Divine, isn’t it?’ She takes her brother’s arm. ‘Sebbie, can you drop me at Whittaker’s? I’m meeting Fenella for drinks.’

‘Pip, Mum’s expecting you. We’ve got the—’

‘Pleeease?’

‘Fine.’ Seb stuffs his hands in his pockets and gazes down at his shoes before letting his sister lead him out of the shop.

‘See you tomorrow, Pippa,’ I call after her, sliding today’s receipts and cash into an envelope for George. He’ll stop by the shop to pick it up later.

‘Bye, sweetie!’ Pippa calls back.

The door closes with a rattle and I walk across the shop floor to lock it behind them. It’s a beautiful evening and there are still quite a few people out and about. If Georgio’s were my shop, I’d stay open to make the most of the foot traffic, but it’s not mine and my wages aren’t enough to warrant the free overtime. Still, the thought of going home is making me uneasy. I switch off the shop lights one by one and retrieve my bag from the stockroom. As I slide the strap over my shoulder, I think of the offending letter in the side pocket. Is it something I should be seriously worried about? Hopefully it’s simply an odd, one-off incident that I’ll have forgotten about in a few weeks’ time.

I set the alarm and leave work via the side door, the smell of car engines and hot tarmac hitting my nostrils in a not altogether unpleasant way. Turning right out of the shop, I head up the High Street, my mind straying towards thoughts of what to have for dinner tonight. I should probably turn back towards the supermarket, but I’m suddenly tired and just want to get home. I’m sure I can cobble something together from whatever’s in the fridge, and if I can’t, I’ll ask Joe to pick something up later.

I cross over the road and pass by the familiar grey limestone of the Market Cross, its elaborate arches and pillars casting complicated shadows across the paving slabs. Seated inside, on its circular bench, a man is on his mobile phone, swearing at someone about something they did last night. I hurry on by, up the curvy lane with its too-narrow pavement, past the rows of pretty stone houses towards the Abbey. Even on the shaded side of the street, it’s warm. The air thick with a sticky heat that clings to my skin and pulses at my temples.

Leaving the busy High Street behind, the sound of my clicking heels grows louder, echoing in the newly minted stillness. I’ve walked this route hundreds of times, but this evening the silence is suddenly oppressive and a little threatening. Rounding the bend, I turn into the Abbey grounds, giving a little start as something brushes my bare arm. But it’s just a stray leaf from a horse chestnut tree, its branches dipping low over the gate.

The Abbey graveyard is empty and quiet, too early for a service, too early even for birdsong. Just the steady click of my heels and the sound of my own breathing. This is silly. I’ve nothing to worry about. A scuff of gravel behind me makes me whip my head round, but there’s no one there. No one that I can see, anyway. I pick up my pace and wonder about doubling back, going home the long way round rather than cutting through the Abbey gardens. But this way only takes five minutes; the road way takes twenty-five. I’ll be fine.

I square my shoulders and take a deep breath. This is the route I always take and I’m not going to let that stupid letter put the fear of God into me. Nevertheless, as I walk, I reach into my handbag and take out the big bunch of shop keys, holding them so that they spill through the gaps in my fist like a weapon. If anyone is following me and tries anything on, I’ll ram the keys into their face and make a run for it.

And now I hear them – definite footsteps behind me. But this is a public footpath, people walk this way all the time. Footsteps don’t necessarily mean anything sinister. So why are my heartbeats reverberating through my body? Why has sweat begun to prickle at my pores? I lengthen my strides, too scared to turn around and look. Instead, I just keep walking, the thrum of blood in my ears drowning out the sound of footsteps – theirs and mine. Here, the path veers away from the graveyard and narrows with high hedgerows on either side, a couple of Abbey buildings looming ahead. Is someone coming up behind me? I break into a hobbling run, almost sobbing now.

Laughter. I hear laughter up ahead. Wiping away a frightened tear, I see a group of teenagers heading my way. Young lads, laughing, shouting, clutching four-packs of cheap beer. I exhale, thankful for their appearance. They pay me no attention as I walk by, and I risk a fleeting look over my shoulder, but apart from the teens, there is no one else there. The pathway behind me is empty. It must have been my imagination. This letter business must have unsettled me more than I thought.

As I speed-walk down the rest of the lane, my breathing is still shallow, my pulse is still racing. I cross the small stone bridge, which spans a narrow section of the River Avon, until I finally emerge out onto the public highway once more, the distant sound of sparse early-evening traffic filling me with relief. I’m such an idiot, letting myself get spooked like that. I walk through the out-of-town public car park and then, two minutes later, I finally turn into Richmond Gardens. It’s a grander sounding road than it really is. In reality, it’s a dead-end lane, home to a pretty row of Cotswold stone cottages. Ours sits in the middle of a terrace of three. And I’ve never been so relieved to reach home.

Joe’s nine-year-old BMW is parked out front next to my Polo. The shop keys in my fist have dug into my palm leaving painful red marks. I drop them back into my handbag and take out my house keys instead, but there’s no need because as I go to put the key in the lock, Joe opens the front door, a scowl on his face. He’s already changed out of his work clothes and his hair is damp from the shower.

I smile, but his scowl remains and I’m confused by his hostile expression. ‘Hi,’ I say tentatively.

Instead of replying and leaning in for a kiss, he steps back to let me into the cramped hallway, a waft of shower gel and deodorant following me through to the kitchen, where Frank miaows and winds himself around my legs. I reach down to scratch behind his ears, trying to work out what’s got Joe so moody.

‘How was your afternoon?’ I ask.

‘Okay,’ he grunts, coming into the kitchen and standing there like a spare part.

‘Something the matter?’ I set my bag and keys on the counter before picking Frank up and burying my nose in his fur, taking comfort in his purring warmth.

Joe doesn’t reply.

‘It’s hot in here.’ I walk over to the sink and turn on the tap and let it run. After a brief moment, I wash my hands and splash my face, the cool liquid a balm on my hot skin. I pour myself a glass of water and turn around.

‘I’ve been thinking about that letter,’ Joe says, leaning against the counter top.

‘What about it?’ I drain half the glass and start to feel more normal, cooler and less panicky.

‘It’s obviously like… a love letter or something.’

I stare at Joe, trying to work out just what it is he’s getting at. ‘A love letter? I wouldn’t have said that. For starters, it’s creepier than a love letter.’ I set my glass on the draining board and unlock the back door, opening it wide in the hope of letting a breeze into the house. But the air is still. Warm as ever.

‘It’s just…’

‘What?’

‘It’s just, if you weren’t so flirty with everyone, this type of thing, well… it probably wouldn’t happen.’

I set Frank down on the floor and turn back to my boyfriend, whose face is now flaming red in what I’d like to hope is shame for insinuating what I think he’s insinuating.

‘This type of thing?’ I repeat. ‘What type of thing is that, Joe?’ Joe has always been quite an insecure and jealous boyfriend, and I often find myself having to reassure him that he has nothing to worry about in terms of my fidelity. His last girlfriend cheated on him and I still think he can’t quite bring himself to trust me completely. But we’ve been together for years, and I’ve never once given him cause to doubt me. So this accusation is a low blow and is completely unfounded.

‘Sorry.’ He rubs the back of his head.

‘No, what type of thing, Joe?’ I can feel my blood pressure rising. I can’t quite believe that my boyfriend is trying to blame some creepy stalker’s note on my own innocent behaviour.

‘I didn’t want to bring it up,’ he says. ‘It’s just, well, I was telling the lads at work about the letter, and Brycie mentioned that you’re always really friendly with everyone. And the thing is, Lizzy, if you’re too friendly with your customers, well, it might have given some lad with a crush the wrong idea.’

I realise my mouth is wide open so I snap it shut. My heart is beating out of my chest, not from fear any more, but from anger that is gradually morphing into a white-hot rage. ‘Oh, well, if Brycie and the lads at the garage said that, then it must be true. I mean, how dare I actually be friendly towards people. Maybe I should walk around glaring at everyone. Would that be better?’

Joe’s shoulders drop. ‘You know what I mean, Lizzy.’

‘Do I? Do I, though? Maybe you should show me the exact expression I need to wear on my face to ensure that I don’t attract a stalker. Can you do that for me? Can you show me now?’ I shake my head and resist the urge to lob my glass at his head.

‘All right, Lizzy, I’m only trying to help!’

‘Ah, but you see, you’re not trying to help. You’re picking a fight. You’ve been gossiping with the lads at work about me and they’ve decided that it’s all my fault. That I’m too smiley or some such shite. Honestly, Joe, I can’t believe you’re taking advice from Terry knobhead Bryce. He’s an idiot. And so are you for listening to him.’ I barge past Joe, out into the hall and up the stairs, tears of anger pricking behind my eyes.

‘Lizzy!’ he calls after me. ‘Lizzy, I’m sorry!’

I march into the bedroom and try to slam the door, but my dressing gown – hanging from a hook on the back of the door – swings into the gap and prevents the door from closing properly, so I’m denied even that small satisfaction.

How dare Joe accuse me of bringing this on myself? I thought I’d be able to come home to a bit of support, and instead I’m faced with ridiculous sexist paranoid accusations.

Seconds later the door flies open. ‘I’m an idiot, Lizzy. I’m sorry.’ Joe hangs his head and comes and sits by me on the bed.

‘Yes, you are,’ I say through tight lips.

‘I shouldn’t have listened to the lads. They don’t know what they’re talking about. I’m just worried about you, that’s all.’

‘Funny way of showing it.’ I cross my arms over my chest.

‘I couldn’t get the words of that letter out of my head,’ he says. ‘The fact that someone else is obsessed with you, it’s made me crazy.’

‘And how do you think it makes me feel!’ I cry. ‘When I was walking home, I was convinced someone was following me. It was terrifying. And then I come home to some Godzilla macho boyfriend trying to blame me for someone else’s weirdness.’

‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s because I’m worried about you.’ He sits up straighter and his eyes narrow. ‘Wait, was there actually someone following you?’

I shake my head. ‘Probably not. Just me being paranoid. Thought I heard footsteps behind me, but when I turned round there was no one there.’

‘You didn’t walk through the Abbey gardens, did you?’

‘It’s fine. I always—’

‘It’s not fine. Don’t walk through there again. It’s too dangerous. Too deserted.’

‘Fine.’

‘And I really am sorry…’ He hangs his head. ‘About before.’

‘Okay,’ I say, without really meaning it. I’m still mad at him.

‘Let me make it up to you.’ Joe leans in to kiss me. But I don’t return the kiss with any enthusiasm, so he tries harder, letting his hand ride up under my dress. ‘What can I do?’ he murmurs. ‘To make it up to you?’ He thinks he can win me round with sex, but he’s wrong.

I get to my feet and face him. ‘If you want to make it up to me, you can go and get some shopping. We’ve got absolutely no food in the house.’

His face falls. ‘I’ve just got in from work.’

‘And where have I been all day? At the spa?’

‘Fine.’ His shoulders sag. ‘Can you do me a list of stuff, then?’

I sigh. ‘Sure.’

Ten minutes later, Joe huffs out of the house with a shopping list and I collapse onto the sofa with a glass of wine, wishing I could erase today. Wishing my boyfriend was a little more sensitive. Wishing that whoever wrote that note, hadn’t.