Artful Lies (Hunt Legacy Duology 1)

Taking my bag from my shoulder, she starts rummaging through it while I look on. ‘You have an hour,’ she tells me, dragging out my keys and opening the door for me. I accept my bag when she hands it back, then she pushes me through the door. ‘For your reference, I’m going with tits tonight.’

My brow furrows. ‘What?’

‘Tits.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Not legs.’

‘Should this mean something?’

She sags on the spot, shaking her head. ‘Tits or legs, Eleanor. Never both.’ She grabs the handle and pulls the door shut. ‘An hour,’ she repeats before the wood comes between us and I’m alone.

I head for the shower but just before I get there, I hear my phone ping. I pick it up to find a message.

From my ex.

I damn my stomach for churning, and damn myself further for opening it.

Your mum is still refusing to tell me where you are, and you won’t answer my calls or messages. Just talk to me, please.

What part of we’re finished and I never want to see you again doesn’t he understand? I huff my disgust and make a quick call to Mum. Her voice is chirpy when she answers, and it doesn’t falter when I apologise for David’s persistence.

‘Don’t you worry about that,’ she says cheerfully. ‘It’s not hard to say no to him.’

I smile and settle on the couch. Although I was pretty much emotionless when I told Mum about David and Amy, she saw through that but knew I didn’t want sympathy. Anger, possibly. Sympathy, nope. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Never better.’ She wouldn’t say if it wasn’t, yet I know she’s doing well. The attentive close community of our village helps her, whereas it suffocated me. We chat for a while, her telling me about the gossip of home, which isn’t a lot, and me bringing her up to date on my new life in London. Well, most of it.

Apparently, David isn’t the only one who’s been sniffing around. ‘Amy stopped by,’ Mum says tentatively. ‘Asked how you are.’

‘That’s nice,’ I mutter, brushing off my mother’s reference to my ex-best friend. ‘Did you ask her how David is?’

Mum lets out a light laugh. ‘They both insist it was a stupid mistake. David wants you back.’

‘David can go swivel. Tell him that if he comes sniffing around again.’

‘Okay, darling,’ she replies, and I know she will.

‘Anyway, I’m out tonight with Lucy,’ I say, moving things along as I unfold my body from the sofa.

‘You must bring her home to meet me. She sounds like a doll.’

I don’t think Lucy will appreciate a trip to the countryside after she’s only just escaped it. ‘Soon, perhaps. Maybe I’ll bring her when I come home to clear the shop.’ Lord knows I could do with the help.

‘Darling, I’ve told you I can deal with that,’ Mum says, sounding less than enthusiastic. I know she’d rather poke nails in her eyes. I wouldn’t land that burden on her. She’s sounded good these past few months. I’m worried that sending her into Dad’s shop to clear it out would only put her back a few hundred paces. The reminders of him, the stock he loved, even the familiar smell of the old store that was always embedded into his clothes when he got home. Or would she be fine? Is she okay, and it’s simply my guilty conscience dictating my decisions? Because, after all, once that store is sold, everything Dad built up, albeit junk, will be gone. What would he think of that? I swallow and try to push back those thoughts before they take hold and have me nosediving into melancholy.

‘It’s fine, Mum. I have it in hand.’ This is my responsibility. I need to pull my finger out, book my train ticket home, and face what’s waiting for me there. Plus, Mum needs to be relieved of the financial strain that shop has on her while it’s sitting collecting dust. Literally. ‘I’ll call you next week.’

‘Okay, darling. Have fun tonight.’

‘I will.’ I hang up and head for the shower.

‘Oooh, you went for legs.’ Lucy struts over as I lock my front door. She’s in a pair of fitted black trousers and a seriously racy plunge-neck blouse, eyeing up my slinky black off-the-shoulder number. ‘Sexy.’ She halts in front of me, smiling as she reaches up to my hair. ‘I have serious hair envy.’

‘Don’t,’ I say as I pat my mane down.

‘Why?’ she asks. ‘Shiny, vibrant, thick, falls perfectly. I need to freeze mine into place once I’ve burnt it to death with heated rollers.’ We start to head down the stairs together.

‘Yes, but the colour seriously limits my wardrobe.’ My fire-red hair clashes with most pretty colours, leaving me with a wardrobe full of black, navy, and natural tones. On the odd occasion I can get away with pink and pastels, depending on the shade. ‘Well, I have arse envy,’ I tell her.