‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Just put down the knife and I’ll go. I promise. Please?’
‘OK.’
She moved it an inch from his neck.
He hurried out of the room and she followed him to the front door.
He turned back before leaving.
‘You will sell this place to me,’ he said. ‘And if you don’t, I’ll buy it at auction after the repossession. Because you’re finished, Jenna. So sleep on it. I’ll still be around in the morning.’
It was a relief to see him go, but his words haunted her as she went to the kitchen to pour herself a stiff drink.
She was finished.
Coming back from a scandal like this would be incredibly difficult, both personally and professionally, but perhaps not impossible. Her mind ran over the situations of various celebrities who had ended up in hot water – you still didn’t see them panhandling on street corners. Well, not many of them. Oh, God.
She drained the tot of brandy and went to lie on her bed, the trials of the day taking their toll, at last, on her reserves of energy. She felt sapped and wrecked, a shell of herself. But at least she lay on her own bed in her own house, whereas Jason …
The thought of him, standing on that parapet, terrified and desperate, brought tears to her eyes and she wept until she was spent, then went to the kitchen for more brandy.
There was no evidence against Lawrence, nothing she could do about anything. It was hopeless, and all was lost. She made sure her phone was switched off and drank brandy until she passed out.
Chapter Nine
She woke up with a fearful headache and Bowyer curled up on her chest. The weight of him had led to nightmares in which she was being pressed to death as torture to try and extract information about Jason’s crimes. Waking up was both a relief and a torment.
She needed water, but the idea of lifting her head from the pillow didn’t appeal. The idea of doing anything didn’t appeal, come to that.
She could hear distant voices, unusually, because this place was so quiet and protected from the outside world. Of course it would be the press, manning their barricades, in case she came out to give a statement. Not bloody likely.
She shut her eyes again, thinking of Jason. For some reason, she pictured him in a suit with arrows on, eating thin gruel in a darkened dungeon. Obviously this wouldn’t be the case, but the vision pierced her heart all the same.
Bowyer’s hungry mews eventually forced her from her bed to feed him.
She drained a litre of water and took some painkillers. No food – she couldn’t even face a sliver of dry toast. A sense of dread at what might happen when she switched on her phone hung over her. She postponed the evil hour by taking a long bath, but it couldn’t be avoided forever.
Dressed in capris and a vest top, for another glaringly hot day, she pressed the on button and awaited the onslaught of text tones and missed call alerts.
There were many. She left the phone bleeping away to itself while she tidied the room and straightened the bed, then came back to it.
She had to return the calls from her people at work, her PR and her lawyer. The rest were personal or speculative contacts from various arms of the media.
The calls were long and heated and, by the time she had dealt with them all, her throat was dry and she felt hot all over, and wrung out.
In the meantime, the morning papers had been delivered. She turned them face down on the kitchen table so the England cricket team’s latest woes were all she had to worry about.
‘I don’t want to know,’ she muttered to herself.
She lay on the bed again, staring at the ceiling, screening phone calls, until finally there was one she thought she should take. It was from the police station.
‘Ms Myatt? Sergeant Black from Bledburn Central Police Station. I’ve got a young lady here who wants to make a statement. She’s asking if she can speak to you first.’
Mia?
An arrow of hope shot into Jenna’s heart. Was it possible?