I spotted a little black velvet pouch that contained a pair of earrings someone had bought me last Christmas, and I emptied out the flashing snowmen, popped the rings inside, and pulled the little strings tight to close it. I heard a horn beeping outside and didn’t have to deploy my detective skills to work out who it was aimed at. I resisted the urge to make a gesture out of the window that would shock my lovely neighbours. Instead, with the little pouch in my clutches, I ran back downstairs, flipped open the flap on my handbag and tucked the pouch in the back section of the bag, then threw my hairbrush back in on top.

  Another beep of the horn. Bugger. I pulled the strap up on to my shoulder, banged four numbers on the alarm keypad, and was out of the door and down the path before the long beep that told me the alarm was set.

  ‘Good of you to wait so patiently,’ I told the driver, whose face turned an even deeper shade of puce.

  I took back what I said earlier. Now that he was up close, he looked vaguely familiar, but I still couldn’t put a name to the face. After he grudgingly helped me put my two cases in the boot, I climbed into the taxi, and yes, as expected, there was already a six-pound waiting charge on the meter. I’d have happily given him seven if he’d been civil.

  He drove the whole twenty-minute journey from Weirbridge to Glasgow Airport in stony silence, which suited me just fine, because if he’d made small talk, he’d have no doubt stumbled on the reason I was going, and I didn’t trust myself to tell him without bawling. Not today. Not when I was leaving home for the first time since Don…

  I blocked the thought and ran a different internal monologue. Don wouldn’t want me to sit at home alone, especially as so many of my closest people were away right now. My son, Michael, had left last week for a month in Australia, on a trip that had been planned by his gorgeous Aussie wife for almost a year. He’d wanted to cancel it right up until he left and, in the end, he’d only agreed to go because I was going to London to be with Carly.

  It was a similar situation with my pal, Nancy. We spent most days together, but Nancy was away on a holiday with her partner, Johnny, that they’d booked months ago, and I had been adamant that she had to go. Besides, Nancy’s fortnight in the sun had been timed to coincide with a break in our childminding schedule. Nancy and I usually looked after our friend Tress’s two-year-old son, Buddy, a couple of days a week, but he was on a week-long trip with Tress and her partner, Noah, to see the little one’s grandparents in Cyprus. In the end, like Michael, Nancy only went ahead with her holiday because I told her I was taking up Carly’s invitation to spend two weeks in the Costa Del Chiswick. Sure, I could have cancelled after Nancy’s flight to Malaga was in the air, but my niece was no pushover either.

  ‘Either you come down here, or I’m coming up there to stay with you, Aunt Val. And you know I drive you mad when I rearrange your drawers and eat all your biscuits. And I’m not even going to mention the last time, when I accidentally erased a hundred and two episodes of Special Victims Unit from your TV planner.’

  That had made me roll my eyes, but the truth was that maybe there was something to be said for getting out of my house. At home, Don was in every room. In every cushion and corner and cupboard. Even after all these weeks, his mug still sat on the draining board because I couldn’t bear to put it away. When I opened his wardrobe, I could smell the scent of him in the clothes that still hung there. Yet another part of him that I couldn’t let go. Just like his slippers, in their usual place at his side of the bed. I couldn’t imagine a time when I wouldn’t need the comfort of seeing them there.

  And maybe there was something to be said for leaving Weirbridge for a while too. Somehow, my daily walk always ended up at the cemetery, where I’d sit on the bench opposite his grave. He was buried with our Dee, so I’d have a wee chat to them both.

  When Nancy and I were on our childminding days for little Buddy, we’d go to the park, or maybe up to one of the cafés on the High Street for lunch, but everyone in the village knew Don, so there was always a succession of sympathetic faces and well-meant words. It all just made me want to send a message up to Don to call off the condolences because every one of them was just a brutal reminder of the man I’d lost.

  The taxi driver interrupted my thoughts. ‘Bloody ridiculous. Six pounds just to get in here for five minutes. Scandalous. This bloody government…’ he ranted as we drove into the drop-off zone at Glasgow airport.

  I zoned him out, too busy trying to force my anxiety back down from my chest to the pit of my stomach, where it had been in residence for months. As soon as the car pulled to a stop, I grabbed the strap of my handbag and climbed out, pulling it behind me.

  After my foul-tempered knight in Skoda armour grudgingly retrieved my trolley cases out of the boot, I put my handbag on top of the smaller one and wrapped the strap around the pull-up handle. I handed him cash for the fare, including a lower tip than he would have been given if he’d had a pleasant bone in his body, then I steered my cases on either side of me across the road to the terminal building.

  At the check-in desk, I dug into the front pouch of my bag for my ID and phone, checked in my larger case and then headed to security. This was it – my last chance to change my mind. I could turn around. I could go home. I could hide. But I knew it would just bring a whole lot of worry to the people who loved me, so I kept on going. Through the barrier. Along the security queue. Kindle out. Toiletries too. Handbag and cabin case on tray.

  Thankfully, the security scanner approved because I didn’t have it in me to hold it together if I had to have a chat with a kindly security guard. I could just picture it. He’d tell me my genuine plastic handbag was being subjected to a random drug test and I’d end up wailing in his arms, disclosing every sadness I’d experienced since the seventies. It was all just sitting in my throat, ready to spill out to the first unsuspecting friendly face. Probably just as well I didn’t have time for a coffee.

  As soon as my bag and case were out of the tray, it was an Olympic speed walk through duty-free and down what felt like a mile-long corridor to the British Airways hub for the flight to Heathrow. As I turned the corner to gate 19, harassed and panting, I noticed my handbag had tipped forward on top of the case, so I righted it, then joined the end of the queue of passengers that had already been called to board.

  A few frantic moments later, I was on the plane and in my seat, next to a very serious businessman whose avoidance of eye contact made it clear that he wasn’t open to chatting to random women on planes. Probably just as well. He’d never know he was just a polite smile away from a torrent of grief. Although, a wee hand putting my case and handbag up into the overhead bin wouldn’t have gone amiss. Not because I’m some defenceless, hapless woman, because I’m very far from that, as the bugger who stole Don’s Flymo will find out if I ever catch him. However, the overhead storage was an issue because I’m five foot two and stretching a heavy weight up that high made my bra strap ping. Chivalry was well and truly dead this morning. My Don would have helped anyone in a heartbeat. Just thinking that brought a wobble to my chin that I tried to hide as I sunk into my seat.

  The flight from Glasgow to London was barely an hour, and I passed the whole time with my eyes closed, psyching myself up for what was to come. The very act of being around someone else, of being seen, even by someone I adored, was making my chin wobble even more.

  When Dee passed away over a decade ago, I felt the same. Worse maybe. That had been such a violent act that I didn’t sleep for months, yet I couldn’t face the concerned faces of the people I loved either, so every night I’d sneak out and spend hours walking up and down the faceless, deserted aisles of our local supermarket, carrying a basket that I barely filled, grateful that no one even cared to glance in my direction. Not even the security guards, who got so used to seeing me that I became invisible to them. Back then, I’d wished I could be that way to the whole world. It had been tough, and it had taken a long time, but eventually I’d found a way through that restored my strength and rebuilt my love of life. Not a new life. Just a different one. But the difference was, throughout every single day of that grief, and of the last forty-odd years, Don had been with me. And now he wasn’t.

  A gentle thud told me we’d landed. I somehow managed to pull my case down by myself and wasn’t too gutted when it swung like a pendulum and skelped the unhelpful suited chap next to me on the arse. I pretended not to notice, too busy holding my ground in the usual ‘elbows out’ shuffle to the door.

  I’d come to visit Carly, her brother, Callum, and his wife, Carol (yep, their names were way too similar), many times before, so I made my way to the baggage reclaim on autopilot, pulling my cabin case, with my handbag reattached to the top of it, alongside me.

  For once, my big suitcase was one of the first off, and I gave an admittedly smug glance to the gent who’d been sitting next to me, and who was now eying the conveyor belt impatiently. Sometimes karma was real, I decided, as I went through the doors to the arrivals hall in record speed, thinking perhaps I’d have to wait for Carly. But no, she was there, arms wide open, a Starbucks drink in each hand.

  ‘Are you happier to see this cup of tea or me?’ Carly asked, grinning. It was the family default position. Use humour to get through every emotion. Fake it until you make it.

  My grin was automatic. The lass had gone to such an effort for me, persuaded me to come, booked the flight ticket and now showed up and was opening her home to me, so there was no way I was going to allow myself to pitch up here and fall apart.

  ‘Definitely you, ma love,’ I answered, hugging her, but being careful not to bump the drinks.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Aunt Val,’ Carly whispered into my hair, and I gulped.

  Do not crumble. DO NOT CRUMBLE.

  I cleared my throat. ‘I am too, sweetheart.’ There was a part of me that meant it. Carly was one of those life forces that was good for the soul and at any other time I’d feel thrilled to be with her, and excited for the days ahead. Right now, under my fake smile and fake chirpiness, all I felt was broken. And, God love her, even though I could see her concern in her tight smile, she cared enough to go along with the pretence.

  ‘Right, give me that big case and follow me. The car park was really busy, and I’m pretty sure the space I eventually got is nearer to Cornwall than London, so we have a bit of a hike.’

  She wasn’t kidding. Almost twenty minutes later, my bunions were screaming in my furry mules when we finally manhandled my luggage and ourselves into Carly’s car, some big fancy vehicle that said Evoque on the back.

  ‘I know, don’t judge me,’ Carly pleaded. ‘I held on to my ancient old Mini until bits started falling off it and I know I’ve gone to the other end of the flash scale with this, but… Okay, I’m just going to be honest. I fricking love it. It has seats that heat my arse.’

  ‘In that case you’re forgiven for being flash,’ I quipped. ‘Because warm buttocks are important.’

  Carly chuckled, leaned over, hugged me again. ‘We’re going to be okay, Aunt Val.’

  ‘I know, pet. I know.’ I felt my throat tighten. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. You’ve got this.

  Yet again, I cleared my throat, pulled my shoulders back and, more as a distraction than anything else, pulled down the passenger mirror and checked my reflection. It looked exactly the same as it had when I left home. My platinum blonde bob, cut just below my chin, was sprayed to the consistency of brick, so it never moved. My fringe was still sitting perfectly, just above eyebrows that were pencilled because I’d over-plucked them in the seventies. Who knew that bushy brows would make a comeback? My blue mascara and eyeliner were un-smudged, and my lips were still Avon Twinkle Pink. Nonetheless, I needed a distraction to avoid the emotional moment, so I pulled my handbag up onto my knee, flicked open the magnetic catch and released the flap, tossing it over the back of the bag. I stared at the two separate sections, my mind telling me something was wrong, but unable to pinpoint what it was. Finally, it came to me.

  ‘Och bugger, I’ve lost my hairbrush.’

  ‘I’ve got one in my bag, if you want to risk potential botulism by diving in there. I’m sure there’s a Coronation chicken sandwich from last week lurking in the bottom.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances.’ I laughed and was about to close my bag when a wrecking ball of realisation slammed into the picture and hit me right in the stomach. Oh dear God, no.

  My eyes searched as my hands frantically began to pull out every single thing from the bag. Phone. Purse. Perfume. Lipstick. Electricity bill. I had no idea why that was there, because I was sure I’d paid it. Make-up compact. Boarding pass. Hair bobbles. Don’s comb. A plastic spoon I always carried in case little Buddy needed an emergency yoghurt. Assorted tissues. A packet of mints. Some loose change.

  No brush.

  The wound in my chest burst wide open yet again.

  And no little pouch.

  My precious rings were gone.

  2

  SOPHIE SMITH

  Sophie saw the taxi at Glasgow Airport’s drop-off/pick-up zone and made a beeline for it. The queue outside the terminal for the official airport taxis had been huge, and she remembered that it had been just as long the last time she’d arrived here, two years and one month ago. That day, her ex-boyfriend, Ash, had crossed from the terminal building to the ground floor of the car park and summoned an Uber from there. Today, she’d decided to do the same.

  After following the same path as before, she’d just been about to open her Uber app, when the red Skoda had pulled up, and a lady with a blonde bob and a weary expression had got out and trundled off in the direction of the main building as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders. Sophie was pretty sure she recognised the sentiment because she was feeling that way too.

  She leaned down so she could speak into the open slot at the top of the passenger window. ‘Hi, can you take me to Glasgow city centre please?’

  ‘I’m a private hire – can only pick up prior bookings here. It’s the law,’ the driver replied sharply, barely even making eye contact.

  Slightly taken aback and irritated in equal measure by his rudeness, Sophie knew she should let him go, but there wasn’t another taxi in sight, and she just wanted to get where she was going. Her irritation took charge of the situation. ‘So if I call your company and book you, then you can pick me up?’

  ‘Listen, I don’t have time for this,’ he grumbled. It was obvious he was edgy, his eyes darting around as if checking to see if anyone was watching him.

  ‘Me either. Forget it. I’ll call for someone else.’

  As she began to stretch up, she heard, ‘Thirty quid. No meter. Take it or leave it.’

  Sophie’s instincts told her it was a bad idea. This bloke was already being an asshole. But thirty quid, and he was right here? The alternative of standing around waiting for who knows how long had no appeal.

  ‘Done,’ she said, jumping into the car.

  She wasn’t entirely reckless, though. The first thing she did was take a sneaky photo of the driver’s badge and send it to her dad.

  In this guy’s car. If he kidnaps me, channel Liam Neeson and come get me. x

  The answer came back almost immediately.

  I will find you. I have skills… But I might need help because I’m not the best at beating up kidnappers. Not since I put my back out on the golf course. Have a great time at the concert. Stay safe. x

  Sophie felt an immediate flush of shame creeping up her neck. A concert. That was the reason she’d given her dad for coming up to Glasgow. If he knew the truth…

  She shook it off. Focus on the important stuff. One step at a time. Step one. Get to the hotel and dump her bag. That was as far as she was going to let herself go right now. Anyway, these feelings of guilt were ridiculous. Her dad was hundreds of miles away, in the bungalow he’d lived in with her mum on the outskirts of their home town of Reading. He couldn’t see her, and he couldn’t know from a simple text message that she was doing anything other than what she said. He hadn’t even asked her what concert she was going to or who she was with. It was fine.

  She texted back.

  Will do, Dad. Call you later. Love you. xx

  Then immediately texted her older sister, Erin.

  Dad is suspicious.

  The reply was instant. Her sister worked in marketing, managing communications and social media for a lingerie brand based in Camden, so her phone was permanently glued to her hand.

  Do you know that for sure or are you being paranoid?

  Definitely paranoid.

  I rest my case. Why don’t you just tell him? You’re twenty-six years old and you’re a strong, independent woman who is in charge of her own choices and destiny.

  Sophie’s thumbs moved like lightning.

  Have you told him you smoke and have a tattoo on your buttock?

  Touché. Need to go. Writing a press release about gussets. Living the dream.

  Smiling, Sophie put her phone on her lap and gazed out of the window for the next few minutes, staring at the sky over a city that she’d adored when she’d come here with Ash.

  Actually, tomorrow it would be exactly twenty-four months since she left. The date was ingrained on her memory, because tomorrow was also the two-year anniversary of the day that Ash Aitken had proposed to her, after knowing her for exactly four months.

  They’d met on a backpacking trip around Asia, and if anyone had told her she’d go all the way to Bali and fall in love at first sight with a guy from Glasgow, she’d have thought they had something dodgy in their hookah, but that’s exactly what had happened. They’d immediately connected, and not just because they’d both recently qualified as teachers and had taken time out from covering temporary posts to travel for a few months. What were the chances of that? It was almost as if it was meant to be. Or, at least, that’s what they’d told themselves. They’d changed their plans so that they could travel together, and been inseparable from that moment on. After three months spent falling madly in love on hot balmy beaches and chaotic, busy cities, she’d come with him to his home city of Glasgow for a blissful, glorious stay that had been cut short after just four weeks. Seemed like a lifetime ago now.