Nicci French - Secret Smile

'Why have I never been in this place before?' he called out to me, gesturing around him at the stone slabs, the vast wooden cabinets, the porcelain sinks leaning against the walls, the boxes full of brass handles and brass padlocks.

'Because you're not a builder.'

'I want everything here. Look at these garden benches. Or this bird bath.'

I grinned across at him, feeling suddenly dizzy with unfamiliar happiness; tremulous with relief.

'You don't have a garden,' I said.

'True. Do you have a garden?'

'No.'

'Oh well. Tell me what I should get, then.'

'What about a pew.'

'A pew?'

'It would go perfectly in your room. Look here.' He walked down the aisle and stood beside me. But he didn't look at the old wooden pew with carved arms. He looked at me. I felt myself blushing. He put his hands on my shoulders. 'Has anyone ever told you you're gorgeous?'

'Never in a church,' I said. My voice caught in my throat.

And then he kissed me. We leaned against a wood-burning stove that cost £690 and I put my hands under his jacket and his shirt and felt his warm skin beneath my palms, the curve of his ribs. Then we sat down on the pew, and when I looked at him he was smiling at me.

We had our drink after that, sitting in a pub garden in the warm evening, holding hands under the table, and then we went and had an Indian meal together. I didn't speak about Brendan all evening, not once. I was sick and weary of him worming his way into every thought, present even when he was far away, whispering softly and obscenely in my skull. So I pushed him away. I pushed Troy and Laura away too. I only let them back in my head after I dropped Don off at his flat and drove home. Though it wasn't really home any more – it was the place I lived, with the 'Sold' board outside and an air of neglect settling over its rooms.

The ghosts came back, but that night I didn't feel quite so wretched because I was doing something, at last. I had a task, a purpose, a goal. I had a man who thought I was gorgeous: that always helps to blunt the edge of loneliness.

I was at Crabtrees at eight the next morning, but she wasn't there. Instead, one of the men I'd seen two days previously was behind the counter, serving up double espressos, hot chocolates, camomile teas. I perched on a tall stool, ordered a coffee and a cinnamon bun, and then asked if the young woman who'd served me before was coming in soon because I might have left a scarf behind, and maybe she'd picked it up.

'Naomi? No.'

'When will she be in next?'

'I dunno. She only comes in a couple of days a week as a general rule. She's a medical student in real life. She didn't say anything about a scarf, though. Do you want me to have a look out back?'

'Don't worry. I'll come back later,' I said.

I joined the rush-hour queue at the bus stop a few yards down the road from the door I'd seen Naomi and Brendan enter. The curtains in the upstairs room were still drawn. I stood there for fifteen minutes, shifting from foot to foot and watching the buses arrive and go. Eventually the curtains in the flat were opened, though I didn't see by whom. If I waited long enough, one of them had to come out. If it was Brendan, I'd knock at the door and hope she was there. If it was Naomi, I'd catch up with her and talk. If it was both of them together – well, I'd think about that when it happened.

In the event, it was Brendan who emerged. He was wearing baggy black trousers and a grey woollen jacket and carried a silver rucksack over one shoulder. I pressed myself against the bus stop, among the crowd, worried that he might be coming my way. He passed by on the other side of the road, walking with a jaunty step and whistling to himself.

I waited until he was out of sight and then crossed the road and went up to the door. I ran an anxious hand through my hair, took a deep breath, and rang the bell. She took a bit of time answering and I was beginning to think that she had left earlier than Brendan, but then I heard feet coming down the stairs. When she opened the door, she was wearing a white towelling robe and her hair was bundled up in a towel. She looked even younger than before.

'Hello?' she said, peering through the gap. 'Can I…?' Then recognition and puzzlement came into her face. 'But aren't you the woman in Crabtrees?' she asked.

'Yes. Sorry to intrude like this. I'd really like to have a word with you.'

'I don't understand. What are you doing here? How did you know where I lived, anyway?'

'Can I come in? Then I could explain. Just a few minutes.'

'Who are you?'

'If I could just…'

'Tell me your name.'

'Miranda,' I said. I saw her eyes widen and inwardly cursed. 'You may have heard of me.'

'Oh yes, I've heard of you all right,' she said in a hostile tone. 'Now I think you'd better go.'

She started to push the door shut, but I put my hand against it.

'Please. Just a few words,' I said. 'It's important. I wouldn't be here if it weren't important.'

She hesitated, biting her top lip as she stared at me.

'I won't be long,' I said. 'But there's something I have to tell you. Please.'

At last she shrugged and stood back to let me pass.

'Though I can't for the life of me think of anything you could tell me that I'd want to know.'

I followed her up the stairs and into the tiny living room. There was a splaying bunch of bluebells in a jam jar on the table, and medical textbooks. A man's leather jacket was slung over the chair. She turned to face me, hands on her hips, and didn't ask me to sit down.

'I don't know what you've heard about me,' I began.

'I know that you used to go out with Ben,' she said, and I blinked at her. He was 'Ben' now, was he? 'And I know you couldn't let go when he ended it; that you made his life a misery for a while.'

'What about Laura?' I demanded. 'Did he tell you about her?'

'Of course. Laura was his wife and she died and his heart was broken.' I saw tears start up in her candid grey eyes. 'He's told me everything. Poor Ben.'

'And Troy? He's told you about Troy, has he?' I asked harshly.

'He still has nightmares about it.'

'Naomi, listen. You don't know what you're getting into here. Brendan – Ben – he's – there's something wrong with him. Really wrong, I mean.'

'How dare you say that. You, of all people. He's suffered more in his life than anyone has a right to suffer, but it hasn't made him bitter or closed-off. He's even nice about you; he understands why you've behaved like you do.'

'He makes things up,' I said.

'No.'

'He lies, Naomi. But there's more to it than that.' I felt quite sick with frustration and wretchedness.

'I don't want to hear any more.'

She actually put her hands to her ears as she said this. I raised my voice.

'I think you're in danger.'

'You're talking about the man I love.'

'Listen. Just hear me out. Please. Then I'll go. But please listen, Naomi. Please.'

I put my hand on her arm and when she tried to pull away, gripped her harder.

'I don't think she wants to listen. No one wants to listen to you any more, do they? Mmm? Now take your hands off her.'

I turned.

'Brendan,' I said.

'Ben,' said Naomi. 'Oh, Ben!'

She crossed the room and put her arms round him.

'I wonder how you found me? You must have gone to a lot of effort.'

I glanced quickly at Naomi. All I could think of was that, trying to save her, I might have put her in greater danger.

'I'm very sorry that you've been dragged into this,' Brendan said to Naomi. 'I wanted to protect you. I blame myself. Are you all right?'

'Oh, you don't need to protect me!' she said. She gazed at him tenderly and put a hand up to touch his cheek. 'Anyway, it was my fault. I let her in.'