the effect of melting away her stress and making her smile. Even today in December, people were enjoying the winter sunshine, sipping lattes under the outdoor heaters at Mattinoâs, Coraâs favourite little café.
She turned into her driveway and manoeuvred round the side of the building to her parking space, the wheels of the BMW crunching on the white gravel. She and Justin had moved into the five-storey building in the smartest part of Cheltenham last February. They had decided it was too soon to buy a place together so had rented their two-bedroomed flat, and as Cora hauled her suitcase out of the boot and locked the car, it suddenly struck her that from now on, sheâd be paying the rent alone. She could afford it â her salary was reasonable, although telly certainly didnât pay as much as some people thought â but sheâd have to economise a bit. Sheâd been a little too numb last weekend, the weekend of the big break-up, to think of practicalities like that. She grimaced as she struggled up the steps to the handsome red front door with its neat row of doorbells. Baxter/Dendy , the top one said. She paused and ran her finger sadly over the letters. Another practicality. Sheâd have to change that later.
Stopping only briefly to stroke the silky head of Oliver, her neighboursâ sleek black cat who was sitting regally on the doorstep, she took the lift to the fifth floor, a hard little knot forming in her stomach. Was there a chance â a tiny chance â that he might have changed his mind, be waiting for her inside? Taking a deep breath, she turned her key in the lock and pushed the door open. Silence. She shut the door and, dumping her suitcase in the hallway, headed for the living room. Idiot. Of course he was gone. Really gone.
The room seemed bleached of colour, faded somehow. The plump sofas, bright modern artworks, gleaming dining table were all still in place, but to Coraâs dejected eyes they had lost their lustre, as though someone had come in while she had been away and sucked out all the soul. The DVD rack in the corner was half empty, as was the white Ikea bookshelf, which ran the entire length of the back wall. She cast her eyes around the spacious room, looking again at the gaps. Gone were his iPad and iPod, which normally sat on the big cherrywood table. And the wall clock, the funky Alessi one his brother had sent him for his birthday. Cora glanced out through the patio doors that opened out on to the roof terrace. The aluminium table and chairs were still there, but there was something missing â why hadnât she noticed that last weekend? The barbecue, heâd taken the barbecue. Fine. Cora didnât really do cooking anyway.
Her head pounding and legs feeling decidedly wobbly, she made her way unsteadily across the room and sank down onto one of the vast brown suede sofas with their hot pink cushions. She picked one up and hugged it to her tightly. Justin had hated having pink cushions â there was no danger heâd take these with him!
Cora sat back and stared at the mantelpiece opposite, where her favourite photo still sat. Somebody had taken it at that wedding in Oxford the day they first met. Cora, cheeks flushed with excitement and wine, in a red and white silk dress, smiling at the camera. And Justin, in a sexy dark suit and bright tie, arm loosely wrapped around her waist, grinning too, gazing at Cora. And now, he was gone. And, even worse, he was a potential suspect in a murder case. Cora shook her head, still staring at the picture. It was all just bizarre. If only she could talk to him, ask him what was going on. But how? Emails were bouncing back, and texts and phone calls didnât seem to be getting through. Had he changed his phone number?
She turned to look at the Christmas tree by the window, lavishly decorated with pink and silver baubles to match the room, and suddenly felt desperately in need of a drink. She
She turned into her driveway and manoeuvred round the side of the building to her parking space, the wheels of the BMW crunching on the white gravel. She and Justin had moved into the five-storey building in the smartest part of Cheltenham last February. They had decided it was too soon to buy a place together so had rented their two-bedroomed flat, and as Cora hauled her suitcase out of the boot and locked the car, it suddenly struck her that from now on, sheâd be paying the rent alone. She could afford it â her salary was reasonable, although telly certainly didnât pay as much as some people thought â but sheâd have to economise a bit. Sheâd been a little too numb last weekend, the weekend of the big break-up, to think of practicalities like that. She grimaced as she struggled up the steps to the handsome red front door with its neat row of doorbells. Baxter/Dendy , the top one said. She paused and ran her finger sadly over the letters. Another practicality. Sheâd have to change that later.
Stopping only briefly to stroke the silky head of Oliver, her neighboursâ sleek black cat who was sitting regally on the doorstep, she took the lift to the fifth floor, a hard little knot forming in her stomach. Was there a chance â a tiny chance â that he might have changed his mind, be waiting for her inside? Taking a deep breath, she turned her key in the lock and pushed the door open. Silence. She shut the door and, dumping her suitcase in the hallway, headed for the living room. Idiot. Of course he was gone. Really gone.
The room seemed bleached of colour, faded somehow. The plump sofas, bright modern artworks, gleaming dining table were all still in place, but to Coraâs dejected eyes they had lost their lustre, as though someone had come in while she had been away and sucked out all the soul. The DVD rack in the corner was half empty, as was the white Ikea bookshelf, which ran the entire length of the back wall. She cast her eyes around the spacious room, looking again at the gaps. Gone were his iPad and iPod, which normally sat on the big cherrywood table. And the wall clock, the funky Alessi one his brother had sent him for his birthday. Cora glanced out through the patio doors that opened out on to the roof terrace. The aluminium table and chairs were still there, but there was something missing â why hadnât she noticed that last weekend? The barbecue, heâd taken the barbecue. Fine. Cora didnât really do cooking anyway.
Her head pounding and legs feeling decidedly wobbly, she made her way unsteadily across the room and sank down onto one of the vast brown suede sofas with their hot pink cushions. She picked one up and hugged it to her tightly. Justin had hated having pink cushions â there was no danger heâd take these with him!
Cora sat back and stared at the mantelpiece opposite, where her favourite photo still sat. Somebody had taken it at that wedding in Oxford the day they first met. Cora, cheeks flushed with excitement and wine, in a red and white silk dress, smiling at the camera. And Justin, in a sexy dark suit and bright tie, arm loosely wrapped around her waist, grinning too, gazing at Cora. And now, he was gone. And, even worse, he was a potential suspect in a murder case. Cora shook her head, still staring at the picture. It was all just bizarre. If only she could talk to him, ask him what was going on. But how? Emails were bouncing back, and texts and phone calls didnât seem to be getting through. Had he changed his phone number?
She turned to look at the Christmas tree by the window, lavishly decorated with pink and silver baubles to match the room, and suddenly felt desperately in need of a drink. She
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