Saturdays at work usually feel different to the rest of the week. The atmosphere is buzzier, the customers happier. And it’s always nice to know that I have the next two days off. Only today, the shop feels different. Yesterday’s letter has shifted everything, so that instead of feeling fired up and ready to smash sales targets, I feel vulnerable and suspicious. It feels as though every customer who comes in could be the person responsible for leaving me the letters.

‘Are you okay?’ Pippa asks. ‘You’ve been staring at that man by the perfumes for ages. Do you think he might be a shoplifter?’

‘What?’ I turn to my friend. ‘Sorry. No, no, just a bit spaced out this morning.’

‘Heavy night?’

‘Something like that.’ I’ve already told Pippa about the second letter, and she was sympathetic. But since their second date, she’s so wrapped up in her new boyfriend Toby that she can’t focus on anything else for more than a minute.

‘Toby’s taking me to Castle Combe tomorrow. For lunch. Did I tell you his parents own an estate there – several hundred acres?’

‘Wow. So he’s loaded, then?’ I reply.

‘You could say that. But you know that’s not why I’m going out with him. He’s funny and sweet, and very attentive. I’ve only known him a few days, but I really think he could be the one.’

‘I’m happy for you, Pip. But…’

‘What?’

‘Just be careful, okay? Don’t fall too hard, too quickly. Not until you know a bit more about him.’

‘You sound like Sebbie, now. He’s gone all “protective big brother” on me.’

‘Of course. That’s because he cares about you. We all do.’

‘What do you think of the new dress?’ She gives a twirl.

I’ve been so preoccupied that I hadn’t noticed Pippa is wearing one of the new floral cotton dresses that came in earlier this week. ‘Looks gorgeous, Pip.’

‘Thanks. Toby’s picking me up after work tonight, so I want to look good.’

I don’t remember Pippa buying it. George has a rule that if staff want to buy something, they have to get another member of staff to ring it through the till. As she and I are the only ones who work here, I wonder how she managed to buy it. Maybe she hasn’t paid for it yet.

‘Do you need me to ring it through the till for you?’ I ask.

‘Oh.’ Pippa flushes. ‘Sorry, Lizzy. Hope you don’t mind, but I rang it through myself earlier in the week.’

‘George won’t like that,’ I say, trying to keep my voice light. ‘He’s a stickler.’

‘Thing is, Liz, I used your admin code to ring it through. You were busy. I just did it to save time.’

‘Pippa! You can’t do that, George will go mad.’

‘I know. Sorry.’ She gives an awkward laugh.

I’m not at all comfortable with Pippa using my code to ring goods through the till. I didn’t even realise she knew the code. I’ll have to change it now. And I also have the niggling suspicion that she might not have paid for the dress at all. I don’t remember seeing the sale when I was cashing up this week. But I can’t accuse her without proof. I wish I could check back through the till receipts, but George will have them filed away by now, and I can’t ask him without bringing up my suspicions about Pippa. Although on second thoughts, I can’t imagine she would have brought the dress to my attention if she’d taken it without paying. I think I’m just feeling paranoid about everything at the moment. Quite honestly, my mind is all over the place.

Pippa nudges me as Leon Whittaker saunters into the shop. My first thought is: what the hell is he doing here? Followed by: what if he’s the stalker? My heart pounds with a strange anxiety as he catches my eye and smiles. I give an automatic little wave that feels robotic and awkward. Thankfully, a woman comes over to ask the price of something and I’m prevented from making a further fool of myself.

Several minutes later, Leon comes up to the counter with a basket brimming with cards and gifts, his broad shoulders blotting out most of the view behind him. Pippa is at the other end of the shop assisting another customer, so I have no choice but to serve him myself. I decide to be polite but cool. ‘Hi. Would you like any of these gift-wrapped?’

‘Yes, please.’ Leon tries to catch my eye, but I’m staring resolutely into the basket. ‘Can you wrap everything apart from the chocolate heart?’ he asks.

‘Sure. ‘Do you want to choose some paper?’ I gesture to the wall where all the sheets are displayed on a wooden rack.

‘You choose,’ he says. ‘I trust your judgement.’

‘Okay. Are the gifts for special occasions? Or do you just want a generic design?’

‘Generic will be fine.’ His voice is filled with humour, like he’s enjoying my obvious discomfort. I think he’s got a bit of a nerve coming in here, after what happened between him and Joe. I know Joe punched him first, but Leon was winding him up on purpose.

I slide several sheets of gold paper out from the rack and begin wrapping the various gifts. ‘Would you like one of our carrier bags? They’re ten pence.’

‘It’s okay, I have one here.’ He pulls a folded cotton bag out of his chinos pocket and passes it across the counter to me. I can’t help raising an eyebrow. ‘What?’ he says with mock indignation. ‘Didn’t think I was the type to be environmentally friendly?’

‘I don’t have an opinion either way,’ I reply curtly.

Now it’s his turn to raise an eyebrow. But I won’t be drawn into this conversation. Joe’s words are still ringing in my ears about me being too flirty with the customers. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’ve been giving people the wrong idea. Maybe they’re assuming there’s more to my friendly banter than meets the eye. But I can’t simply treat each customer with dispassion and detachment. Most of my job satisfaction comes from connecting with people. From having a bit of fun. And if that involves a little mild flirting, is that so bad? Before this week, I didn’t think so. Now I’m aiming for polite professionalism, and failing miserably.

I finish wrapping the gifts, totting them up on the cash register before placing each item in his bag. Lastly, I add up the cards and then the chocolate foil-covered heart that he wanted left unwrapped. He puts the latter in his pocket and passes me his credit card.

‘That’s ninety-three pounds, fifty-seven pence,’ I say.

Leon doesn’t flinch at the cost, just nods, his blue eyes downcast, suddenly not looking quite as confident. I resist the urge to ask him if everything is okay, and then immediately relent. ‘Everything okay?’

To my surprise, his cheeks turn pink. ‘Uh, yeah. Thanks.’

I feed Leon’s credit card into the machine and turn it towards him so he can enter his pin number.

‘The reason I didn’t want you to wrap the heart, well, it’s because I bought it for you.’ He draws the chocolate back out of his pocket and places it on the counter. ‘You’ve stolen my heart, Lizzy. I can’t stop thinking about you. Will you please come for a drink with me?’

I freeze at his words, unable to believe he has the cheek to actually ask me out. I don’t even know how to reply. And saying I’ve stolen his heart? Sounds like something my stalker would have written in one of his letters. Time seems to slow down until all I can see is the shiny red heart-shaped chocolate before me. It looks as though it’s pulsing; oozing blood onto the counter. But of course that’s nonsense, it’s just a piece of foil-wrapped chocolate.

‘What’s going on, Leon?’ I hiss. ‘Is it you?’

Leon’s screws up his face. ‘Is what me?’

‘Did you leave me those letters?’

‘Letters? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lizzy.’

‘Don’t say my name. You don’t know me. You know nothing about me!’

He raises his hands in surrender. ‘Calm down. All I did was buy you a gift and ask you out. I thought it would be cute. I thought you’d like it. Jeez, forget it, okay?’

‘Why would I like it?’ I cry. ‘You know I’m with Joe. We live together. And he knows about the letters, so if you’re thinking of sending any more of them… don’t.’

‘Christ, calm down,’ he mutters, his face contorting into a sneer. ‘I don’t know anything about any letters. I was just doing something nice. Thought you might feel like a change from your Neanderthal boyfriend. Wish I hadn’t bothered now.’ He shakes his head and turns to leave.

‘What about your presents?’ I snap, holding out his cotton bag, my hand shaking along with my voice. I don’t know why I’m worried about his purchases; maybe some subconscious part of me still wants to remain professional, even while my composure is crumbling.

He snatches the bag from me and walks away.

I watch him leave, the anger radiating off him. Did I overreact? I don’t think so. But I can’t think straight. And I can’t stand here any longer. I need to sit down. There’s a queue forming, and by the hushed whispers I can tell most of them witnessed the scene. I avoid eye contact, and instead I stagger into the stockroom, pulling the door closed behind me, the strip light buzzing over my head like an angry wasp. Pippa will have to deal with that lot out there while I pull myself together, try to figure out what just happened.

Sitting on the black leather swivel chair by the stockroom desk, I lean back and take a few deep breaths to slow my pulse. I pick up a sheaf of invoices and use them to fan my burning face. I’m trying desperately not to cry. I don’t know which is worse – for Leon Whittaker to be my stalker, or for him not to be the stalker and I’ve just behaved like a lunatic towards him. But either way, he should never have asked me out. Not after what happened at Christmas. He knows what Joe’s like. And he knows that if Joe steps out of line he’ll end up in prison. Maybe that’s it! Maybe Leon asked me out simply to goad Joe; to get him to lash out so he’ll be arrested again. I’m going to have to keep all this from my volatile boyfriend.

Before I can change my mind, I pull my mobile out of my bag and dial the local police station, quoting the incident number they gave me yesterday. I have to wait while they find the right person for me to speak to. The silence on the other end of the line is interminable, painful. I go over the different ways I can explain what just happened. But my brain is becoming muddled, I don’t know what I’m doing, what I’m thinking. So instead of holding, I end the call before they can find someone to talk to me. I press the cool metal phone to my forehead and close my eyes, Leon Whittaker’s arrogant expression imprinted on my retinas, the blank tone of the cut call ringing in my ears.