About that promise I made to Tony not to do any more early stints at the shop on my own until the new alarms are installed . . . Well. You try getting a depressed teenage boy out of bed at the crack of dawn.

It’s hard to be too cross. Luke promised he’d keep up the job until we find a replacement, but he wanders round like a zombie now. Always looks so tired. We’re letting him stay off school for a few more days while everyone adjusts to what’s going on with Emily. But it’s hard to know how to play it.

This morning I banged on his door early, but no answer. I checked later and he just looked terrible. Bad headache, too – so I gave him some tablets and asked him to join me when he can. Tony is in Bristol so I have a dilemma. Duty to my customers versus safety and my promise to Tony. The only upside is the police have been pretty good. It’s probably guilt for letting my name get out. They’ve been sending a patrol car past the house and shop every so often just to bump up ‘presence’. They seem pretty sure it’s just a saddo, but we’re getting new alarms for the shop anyway, and I’m trying to tell myself it is all covered now.

The bottom line is that I decide to pop in early on my own – just this once – and will keep pestering Luke. He passed his test recently and Tony got him a Mini, so he can zip down in that once he’s up to it.

By the time I arrive at the shop, I’ve messaged Luke twice more but had no reply yet. To be honest, I’m sad he wants to give up the job. Luke has been helping out at weekends since he was about fourteen; he used to be so keen and he’s good with the customers. It made sense all round – it’s extra money for him and I feel it instils a bit of discipline. Plus understanding what it actually feels like to be paid by the hour – both the slog of it and also the satisfaction when the day is done.

Tony’s trip to Bristol is important vis-à-vis this promotion – they’re deciding if they should rebrand their cereals – and I’ve decided I won’t let him know about this. He’ll get upset and worry about me being on my tod here in the dark.

So. Concentrate, Ella. I’m up against it. Six table decorations for a lunch at the town hall. It’s a good gig and quite a regular booking through a

catering contact, so I don’t like to let them down. That’s the problem with repeat business: on the one hand, you’re grateful for it and flattered, but on the other, you’re always dreading that you might become dependent on it. Terrified to put a foot wrong in case the client goes somewhere else.

I normally draw up sketches and a mood board and agree those via email with the catering manager Kate. She’s got a good eye herself and often posts pictures of my stuff on social media, which all helps these days. I’ve earned quite a reasonable reputation with her for doing something a bit different. So I don’t like to slip up or get complacent.

Part of the whole drive to keep what I do looking fresh has been building up a good range of vases and props, so that I can really ring the changes. I just wish I had more storage space, though if I’m brutally honest, I probably spend too much on presentation. It’s a fine line with a business as small as mine, but I think investing in kit helps win repeat business, and it’s important to constantly surprise clients. It certainly leads to more photo shares on social media.

For this job, I’m using small galvanised-steel buckets; we’ve agreed an ultra-modern but vibrant look. I’m going with red anthuriums, white roses and Eustoma, against really glossy green foliage. It will look very striking with the white tablecloths and neutral room.

I’m always telling Tony that what you hope for with every order is that guests will ask, Who did the flowers? Kate is very loyal and always keeps my cards available. The only frustration for me is when conference delegates get in touch from far afield offering new work, as I can only cater within a certain radius.

Goodness. Time’s going on and no word from Luke.

It’s still quite dark and I’m thinking about another cup of coffee when I hear a car engine. I wonder if it’s Luke, but I’m not sure it sounds like his Mini. The car pulls up outside. It stops. I stop.

Ridiculous. It’s just a car, Ella. Calm yourself.

I stand very still, waiting for the car to move off, but it doesn’t. The headlights go out. I tell myself it is probably someone for one of the flats.

I wait a minute or two and text Luke again. No answer. All is quiet now and so I turn back to the anthuriums. I tell myself to concentrate on the flowers. And then . . . Oh my goodness.

Someone is trying the door handle of the shop. It’s locked, of course.

Christ.

Luke has a key. It can’t be Luke.

I pick up my mobile, ready to dial for help. I am thinking that if whoever’s there forces their way in, I will run through the back and dial the police as I do so. Even as this plan takes shape in my head, I feel both ridiculous and simultaneously afraid.

There is more rattling of the door handle. I can’t see who’s there because of the blind drawn down over the glass section.

I keep very still. The only lights on in the shop are in the rear workbench area. I’m not going to the door. No way. There is a part of me that wants to believe it is Luke – that he has forgotten his key. But he would call out to me, surely?

Footsteps. Yes. Finally, I can hear someone walking away outside.

Good. Good. Thank God. The car lights back on now. Driving off.

I wonder if I should phone Tony but then remember I’m not meant to be here on my own.

It is so odd that you can stand in a space – a place in which you normally feel so happy and safe – and then suddenly you can stand in precisely the same spot and feel like this completely different person.

I don’t want to be this person. I hate this new person.

I can actually feel tears coming now. And what I am thinking is, You stupid, stupid woman. Why didn’t you just do the right thing a year back? Give the parents a call when you were on that train and make this all their responsibility – their call – and not yours?

Why, why, why? Why didn’t you do that one, simple thing, Ella?

I don’t know how long I have been standing here, but a glance at the big clock on the wall tells me it’s too long. I am seriously up against it now.

Then my mobile rings and I jump right out of my skin. Luke’s name. ‘Were you just at the door?’

‘No. What do you mean? I’m ringing to say I’m just setting off. But why so spooked, Mum?’

‘Nothing. Nothing. Look, will you just get down here as soon as you can. You promised your dad . . .’

I hang up. And instantly regret my tone. Damn. I send a text to apologise.

Sorry. Just tired. Coffee machine is on.

And then I finally get back to the flowers and try to let myself soak up the brilliant colours and the scent. Concentrate on the work.

For a moment, I wonder if I have made the wrong choice with the buckets. Should I have gone for the mirrored square containers instead? No – it’s too late anyway. I don’t have time to start again. This will be fine.

It is light outside now, which is a huge relief as I can see the cars passing and parking more clearly without the blinding headlights. I no longer feel that ridiculous sense of being watched, as though I’m in a goldfish bowl.

Nearly 7 a.m. and the door rattles again. This time a text from Luke to confirm it’s him. He really has forgotten his keys.

‘Why do you lock the door, Mum? I thought you liked it when you got some impromptu trade.’

‘Dad said it was a good idea. With these stupid postcards someone’s sending.’

‘I thought the police said it was probably some random saddo.’

‘They did. And it probably is. But we just want to be a bit careful. You know, just to be on the safe side. How’s your headache?’

‘Gone. So – will you have to see them again? The police?’ He looks worried, and I wish I had not said so much.

‘Don’t know. Probably not. It will all settle down again, I’m sure.’ ‘Well, if I find out who sent those postcards, I’ll sort them out.’

‘Don’t say that, Luke. That’s no help – to say things like that. We need to let the police handle it now. Not us.’

‘That’s not what Dad said.’ ‘Pardon?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ He looks sheepish. ‘So you want another coffee, Mum?

I’m starving, by the way. Got any food?’