With shaking fingers, I call Joe from the shop phone.

‘I’ve had another letter!’

He pauses for a second. ‘Another one?’

‘Joe, can you come and get me from work? I don’t think I can—’

‘’Course I can. Be there in ten minutes, okay? How are you doing?’

‘Just please come and get me.’

I sit on the stool behind the counter, fairly confident that no one can see me back here. I hope George doesn’t show up before I’ve left. I don’t think I can face talking to anyone right now. And what if Pippa and Joe are right? What if it really is George behind the letters? I can’t see it myself. He’s never made a pass at me before, so why would he start now? We always kiss on the cheek. But it’s nothing you wouldn’t do with a friend. Nothing dodgy.

Finally, Joe pulls up outside in his navy-blue Beemer. I jump to my feet, my heart lifting. I try not to think about the implications of what’s happening. That it may not be safe to go out on my own, at all. I set the alarm and lock up. As I step out onto the pavement, I get that instant feeling of being exposed. I’ve never felt like this in my life. I’ve always been a confident person. I love going out and about. But now…

I open the car door and slide into the passenger seat, feeling smaller somehow. Joe reaches over to give my hand a squeeze. Then leans across to kiss me. The car indicator is on while Joe waits for a gap in the Friday-night rush-hour traffic. It’s not busy by most town’s standards, but it’s busy enough that we have to wait.

‘What happened?’ Joe asks, his face hot and red, the front of his hair streaked with oil. He notices my stare. ‘Sorry, didn’t have time for a shower. I’m all mucky from work.’

‘It’s okay, I don’t care about that.’

‘I know. I’m just saying. So, what about this note, then?’

I explain what happened, how I found the letter.

‘I don’t believe it. Sick bastard, whoever it is.’ His fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

‘And, Joe… I had to call the police.’

‘You called the police?’

‘I’m sorry, I had to. I know you said you’d rather I didn’t, but—’

‘No, of course you had to. Of course. I wasn’t saying you shouldn’t, I was just commenting.’ A white Nissan flashes Joe, and he pulls into the light stream of traffic, waving his hand in thanks. As we leave the shop behind, I wonder if my stalker is watching me now. If they saw me get into Joe’s car. If maybe they’re in one of the cars behind us. Maybe he’s the one who let us out just now. I crane my neck to see. But the people in the car behind are an elderly couple. I doubt either one of them is sending me intimidating letters.

‘So what are the police going to do?’ Joe asks.

‘Not a lot.’

‘What do you mean? Surely they have to do something. Isn’t there a law against stalking? It’s harassment, isn’t it? Can’t they get fingerprints off the letters?’

‘I asked them that, but they just told me to get the locks changed at home. They said whoever it is will probably lose interest.’

‘I doubt whoever did it would be stupid enough to leave their fingerprints all over the evidence anyway. Probably wore gloves,’ Joe adds.

‘So, can you change the locks tonight?’ I ask.

‘’Course I will, Lizzy. I should have done it yesterday, but you wanted me to get the shopping and it was too late after that.’

It annoys me how Joe makes out that I wanted him to get the shopping, like he was doing something special to help me out. We both eat the food, so we should both take responsibility for the shopping. But I don’t have the energy to argue, and, well, I guess he is going to change the locks, so things work out equal-ish in the end.

‘What about Pippa’s brother – what’s-his-face? Sebastian?’

‘Seb?’ I picture Sebastian Hargreaves, tall and bumbling, painfully shy. I guess he is a little odd, but not creepy. Anyway, he’s Pippa’s brother. ‘No. No way.’

‘Think about it, Lizzy.’ Joe’s face becomes animated. ‘And it makes sense, too. He could have swiped your keys from the shop and had a copy made. Then he could have let himself into the house. Much more likely that it’s Seb rather than George.’

I think Joe is jumping to conclusions. He loves his TV police dramas and always thinks he has the bad guys figured out long before the police do. But he invariably gets it wrong, and then he spends ages after the show criticising the scriptwriters for not following his own logic. Which is fine when he’s watching TV, funny even. But this is real life, and Joe playing amateur detective isn’t helping matters.

‘Seb’s harmless. And kind,’ I reply. ‘Always running around for Pippa, looking after their house and his parents.’

‘Has he got a girlfriend?’

‘Don’t think so, no.’

‘There you go!’ Joe cries triumphantly. We’ve left the High Street behind and Joe puts his foot down, taking the bends far too fast.

‘Just because he hasn’t got a girlfriend doesn’t make him a stalker.’

‘No,’ Joe agrees, ‘but it makes it more likely.’

‘Well, I think you’re wrong. Seb wouldn’t do anything like that.’

‘Lizzy, you don’t realise what effect you have on men.’

I splutter out an incredulous laugh. ‘Now you’re talking crazy.’

‘It’s not crazy. You’re gorgeous. You have this kind of Jessica Rabbit vibe going on. And don’t get mad at me again, but you do flirt a lot – whether you mean to or not.’

‘I do not!’

‘It’s not necessarily a bad thing, it’s just who you are.’

‘Well, if being friendly is now called flirting, then I guess I’m guilty.’

‘Well, doesn’t matter how friendly you are, still doesn’t give scumbags like Seb the right to send creepy letters.’ Joe flicks on the indicator to turn into our road.

‘I really don’t think it was Seb. He knows I’ve got a boyfriend. He’s met you before.’

‘It doesn’t stop some blokes. They think of it as a challenge.’

‘Well, in a way, I hope it is him,’ I say.

‘What!’ Joe slams on the brakes, coming to a halt in the middle of the road in a screech of white noise. Luckily there’s no one behind us. Up ahead, our neighbour Ruby, who’s letting herself into her house, glances up to see what’s going on. She raises a hand in a tentative wave, which I return.

‘Not like that!’ I clarify. ‘I just mean that if it’s only Seb, then it’s not so scary as if it’s a total stranger. He’s obviously doing it to try and be romantic, and doesn’t realise it’s coming off as creepy.’

Joe restarts the engine and pulls into a space outside our house. ‘You go in,’ he says with a scowl. ‘I’m going round to their manor house, or whatever it is, to have a word.’

‘Uh, no you’re not.’

‘Lizzy, I’m your boyfriend. I’m supposed to look after you and stick up for you.’

‘Thanks, Joe, but I’m quite capable of sticking up for myself.’

‘You just called me to come and pick you up from work because you were too scared to walk home on your own!’

He’s got a point. I sigh and feel my shoulders sag. ‘Sorry, you’re right. I’m just a bit tense, on edge. Look, can’t we just have a nice relaxing evening? Some good food? An early night?’

Joe’s expression mellows. ‘Sounds good. But we still need to do something about Seb.’ Joe has never been keen on Pippa or Seb. I think it’s a bit of inverse snobbery. Because they’re from a privileged background, Joe thinks they look down their nose at him. But Pippa isn’t like that at all. She takes people as she finds them, and I’m sure Seb is the same.

‘I’m not convinced it’s him,’ I say, ‘but if it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll bring it up with Pippa tomorrow at work, okay?’

Joe nods. ‘Fine. Make sure you do. I know you, you’re too nice sometimes.’

As we get out of the car exhaustion hits me like air going out of a balloon. I feel like I’ve run a marathon or fought in a war. But I don’t want Joe to see how weak this situation is making me. He’ll only worry even more. Instead, I plaster on a bright smile and follow him into the house.

After a quick cup of tea in the kitchen, Joe says he’s off to B&Q to buy some new locks.

‘Want me to come with you?’ I ask.

‘No, that’s okay. You relax. You’ve had a stressful time.’ He sticks his empty mug in the sink, runs a hand through his hair and gives me a cheeky smile.

I smile back, feeling incredibly lucky to have such a caring boyfriend. I’m sure I would be ten times more terrified without Joe’s support.

After he’s gone, our little cottage feels still and claustrophobic. I wonder where Frank has got to. He’s usually here to welcome me home from work. A quick sweep of the house confirms he’s not home, so I open up the back door and give him a shout. After two or three calls he usually comes running, eager for a treat or some affection. But the garden is still. No sign of him. I go into the kitchen and pick up his ceramic food bowl from the mat on the floor. Banging a fork against its side usually does the trick. I stand at the door, clang the bowl a few times and wait, my eyes scanning the fences and bushes, squinting in the lemon-bright sunlight. Still no sign. I hope Frank is okay. I’m sure he’ll come back when he’s ready.

Without Joe or Frank to keep me company, my mind starts veering down dark corridors. The air is too close, too hot. The cottage no longer feels like a homely refuge. Instead, I imagine that someone is out there watching me, which is crazy because unless they’re lurking in the bushes at the back of the garden, there’s nowhere for them to hide. But I suddenly feel exposed and vulnerable again. I pull the door closed with a scrape and a thud. I don’t like this feeling. I don’t like it at all.