The Fantastic Book of Everybody's Secrets Read Free Page A

assumed – were going on holiday to Sicily early next year.
    For a second, I felt as if my blood had stopped moving around my body. We were going to Sicily too. In February. Kathryn Hammond and her sister were staying at the Hotel Bernabei. I had a horrible suspicion we were too. My terror returned, twice as strong as before. This was as real, as inexplicable, as ever.
    I rummaged through the drawers of the desk, thinking I might find a letter from Timothy’s travel agent or a booking confirmation. There was nothing. I flew round the house like a trapped fly, opening drawers and pulling books off shelves. I couldn’t understand it; there had to be some paperwork somewhere relating to our holiday.
    I was crying, about to give up, when it occurred to me that Timothy kept a filing cabinet in the garage. ‘Why not?’ he’d said. ‘The thing’s hideous and the house is too cluttered.’ I rarely went into the garage. It was dusty and messy, and smelled of damp, turpentine and cigarettes; since Alex was born, Timothy hadn’t smoked in the house.
    I had no choice but to go in there now. If the police arrived before Timothy got back, I wanted to be able to show them our holiday details and Kathryn Hammond’s website. What more proof could they ask for? Even as I thought this, I was aware that it was not illegal for a novelist to go on holiday to Sicily. Terror gripped me as it occurred to me for the first time that perhaps we would never be able to stop her followingus, never force her to admit to her behaviour or explain it. I didn’t think I’d be able to stand that.
    The cabinet wasn’t locked. I pulled open the first drawer. A strangled moan escaped from my mouth as I stared, stunned, at what was inside. Books. Dozens of them. I saw the title The Octopus Nest . Then, underneath it, Le Nid du poulpe . The same title, but in French. Numb with dread, I pulled the books out one by one, dropping them on the floor. I saw Hebrew letters, Japanese characters, a picture of a purple octopus, a green one, a raised black one that looked as if it might spin off the cover and hit me in the chest.
    Kathryn Hammond’s novel had been translated into many languages. I pulled open the next drawer down. More copies of The Octopus Nest – hardbacks, paperbacks, hardback-sized paperbacks, book club editions.
    â€˜Fifty-two in total.’
    I screamed, nearly lost my balance. Timothy stood in the doorway of the garage. ‘Timothy, what…?’
    He stared blankly at me for several seconds, saying nothing. I backed away from him until I was against the wall. I felt its rough texture through my blouse, scratching my skin.
    â€˜I was telling the truth,’ he said. ‘I’ve never spoken to her. I don’t know her at all. She doesn’t even know I exist.’
    The doorbell rang. The police. I’d said only that I wanted to report a stalker, that I knew who it was, that I had evidence.

Friendly Amid the Haters
    â€˜I KNOW IT’S A MISTAKE. I TOLD YOU IT WAS A MISTAKE .’
    She is entitled to be angry. All morning she has been considering other people’s feelings, looking at things from points of view that oppose her own, breathing deeply, counting to ten, counting her blessings, thinking about the grand scheme of things rather than the tiny speck of time dust that is insignificant today. She has guarded her irritation to make sure no part of it escapes, like a parent minding a defiant, grounded teenager.
    She said nothing when the men from Bonners brought the wrong colour carpet. She agreed that marble was ‘as near as dammit’ to shell. She nodded when the fitter, Keith Halliday, told her that the bottoms of her doors were too low for the thick new carpet, that it was not his job to take off the doors, plane them down and reattach them. She smoked a cigarette to calm herself, then phoned Sol Barber, a joiner she had used before, who agreed to