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“I haven’t been up there for years, either. I’ve always stayed in The Rose when I’ve come to visit. You want to come up with me and take a look around?”

Rudolph’s eyes meet mine. My heart jolts as I’m transported back almost six years to the day of Vix and Jayden’s wedding. The look in his eyes tells me he’s also remembering our quiet conversation outside the church just before Vix walked down the aisle. The words I’ve never been able to forget.

I’m just about to say it doesn’t matter, and I can go on my own, when Rudolph says, “Go on, I’ll watch the till.”

Hiding my surprise, I ask her, “Have you got the keys?”

“Mm.” She goes over to the till and retrieves the big bunch of keys from the drawer.

I leave my backpack behind the desk, and the two of us walk across the shop to the door at the back.

On the way, I glance over my shoulder at Rudolph. He was watching us, although he turns as he sees me looking, and goes over to talk to Millie.

Thoughtfully, I slide the key into the lock and turn it, and Vix and I go through and head up the stairs.

Chapter Three

Vix

I climb the narrow stairs, conscious of Mitch behind me. My heart is still racing from the pleasure of seeing him again, and the fact that The Look was still there.

It doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself firmly. He has a girlfriend. I have to remember that.

I reach the little hallway at the top of the stairs, and Mitch passes me the key to open the door. After unlocking it, I push it open and go inside, and Mitch joins me. It’s dark, and he flicks on the light switch.

We walk forward a few paces and then stop and look around. Our jaws slowly drop.

“Holy shit,” Mitch says.

The place is an absolute mess. We’re standing in the living room, and practically every single centimetre of the carpet and the coffee table are covered with books, magazines, files, and sheets of paper. It looks as if there’s been an explosion. Boxes are also piled high everywhere, with more books spilling out of them.

The few visible patches of the carpet are faded and threadbare. An old sofa sits in the middle of the room, facing a TV that could well be black-and-white, judging by how small and ancient it is. The cushions of the sofa sag, and on one corner the cover has torn to reveal yellowed foam. The fireplace is full of ash, and it catches in my throat, along with the smell of dust and mould.

Mitch opens the flaps of one box, then another, and I peer over his shoulder at the books inside. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to them—they’re all mixed up, mainly second-hand, all genres, many of them without dust covers, the cloth binding faded with age.

I walk over to the boxes in the corner of the room and look up at the ceiling. There’s been some kind of water leak, and the walls are wet and stained. All the boxes stacked there are sodden, and the books inside are limp with moisture.

Speechless, Mitch walks through a doorway. “Jesus,” he says.

I follow him. It’s the kitchen. At least, I presume that’s what it is. It has an oven and a hob. But every spare space is covered with boxes and books. There’s barely a path to the sink.

His eyes meet mine for a moment, then he turns and walks out and along a corridor. He pauses at a closed door on the left as if gathering his courage, then opens it and goes in. I follow him, and the two of us stand on the edge, staring at the bedroom.

The bed is a four-poster. Wow, it must be about a hundred years old. It’s impressive, but its brass frame is severely tarnished. The duvet atop it is rumpled and contains a few mysterious stains that make my brows draw together. Mitch goes over and presses a hand on the mattress, and it gives a horrific squeak and then a ping as a spring dislodges.

Once again, the carpet is threadbare and faded in the small gaps between the numerous boxes. I open one of them. “These books are all so old.”

“They must have been here since he bought the place.” Mitch picks up a 1977 road atlas. He flicks through it. “I’m sure half of these roads don’t exist anymore.”

“Useful,” I say, pointing to Teach Yourself Esperanto.

“Here’s one for you,” he teases, gesturing at The Complete Housewife’s Companion. I push him, and he laughs. “I bet it teaches you how to greet your husband wearing nothing but plastic wrap.”

“Yes, I… wait, what?”

But he’s moved away, heading for the old wardrobe by the window. He opens the door, and it immediately sags on one hinge. “For fuck’s sake,” he says. Inside, the few clothes are crumpled and musty. Odd shoes and single socks wrestle for shelf space with faded ties and cufflinks I doubt John ever wore. A single suit hangs on the rack, the width of the lapels and the trousers and the fact that it’s brown suggesting it’s straight out of the 1970s.

Mitch stares at it for a moment, then turns and looks at me. He runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t realise…” He swallows hard. “I haven’t been here since I was a kid.”