Free The Sleeper by Emily Barr Page B

foreground, the masts and the buildings that cluster round the harbour are lit by bright sunlight. The lighting makes it look like a dazzling Renaissance artwork. For a second I am in an Old Master painting, in the National Gallery, a figure in the foreground to make the background look more focused.
    ‘Let’s stay in and be dry,’ I say, knowing that this is what he wants to hear.
    He grins at that. ‘Good call. I’ll throw some food together. You can chat to me while I do it. Then we could have a game of Scrabble.’
    I want to laugh at that. It sounds the epitome of dull, but I love Scrabble and always have.
    ‘That sounds like a perfect evening,’ I tell him, and now, at last, I mean it.

chapter seven
    ‘Lara! Apparently you were phenomenally impressive.’ Jeremy smiles at me. ‘Thank you. You see? This is why we had to poach you back from deepest darkest Devon.’
    ‘Cornwall,’ I say quietly. He ignores me, shaking his head and smiling to himself.
    ‘You know, Lara. There’s no way we’re going to let you go after six months.’
    I leave work feeling happy. This, I think, is where I belong. This is what I’m good at. I love doing a job that stretches me. I stayed up for most of the night preparing for that, and it is appreciated. Jeremy is the one who agreed to have me back for this project, and the fact that he is so pleased with what I am doing makes me glow. The best thing is that I know he is right to be pleased. I went to a meeting to talk about our development and stood up in a room full of people who despise the concept of ‘luxury flats’ and talked them all around. We have now lost a significant degree of local opposition.
    I even feel good about Olivia. I am going to tell her, I vow. Tonight we are going to be busy. Tomorrow I will tell her that I’m going to leave and find my own place to live.
    I am heading straight to the restaurant. There is no need to change, but I nip into the work loos before I go, pull the hairpins out of my hair and shake it loose. It is shorter like this than people think it is, reaching only just below my shoulders. For a second, I try out a fringe, like a child experimenting. I pull a strand of hair above my forehead, and let its ends hang down. It looks horrible.
    When my hair is brushed and shiny, I pin it back up. This chignon thing has become my default style. Anything else looks odd now. I started doing it when I started work, in my twenties, because it made me feel like a grown-up, and I never really stopped. Twisting my hair into place and sticking six pins in it is second nature. It got a lot more casual when I wasn’t working; but now it is back in its full professional glory. It is crucial for me to look impeccable at work; and I enjoy that more than I could ever admit to anyone.
    My work shoes are my best ones, red and high, and I am excellent at walking in them. The rest of my outfit is as boring as it usually is, but my shoes are always special. I have two red pairs now, plus a black pair and some yellow ones. People look twice at my feet, and I like that. I worked hard to learn how to walk on tiptoes, and it is a skill I treasure. Sam thinks it is ridiculous, and he is, doubtless, right. All the same, it pleases me.
    I redo my eye make-up and put on lipstick, throwing the piece of tissue paper with smudged dark red kisses on it into the bin. As I’m on my own, I do a quick check of my purse: I always have cash, just in case, and my stash of it is safe and growing. I tell myself I will never need an emergency fund; but all the same, it makes me feel secure. I never tell anyone about it, because I know it would sound crazy.
    I have known for years that I am in danger. You don’t get to do what I did and walk away unscathed. He is out of prison, and one day he will come to track me down; because I was the only one who got away.
    I wish I could tell Sam, or Guy, or someone. It’s too late to mention my past to Sam, and he would never believe it if I