The Warning Read online

  Then why do I feel as if that’s exactly what he is?

  “A hundred and twenty-­three children auditioned for the chorus,” I tell Lorna. “Only twenty got in. Freya was one of them. I’m not saying it was down to Tom Rigby alone, but . . . there was something magical-­feeling about the whole experience.”

  “Magical? You mean you fancied him?”

  “No, I didn’t,” I say indignantly. “I didn’t think about him in that way at all.”

  “Hmm.” Lorna narrows her eyes. “All right, then. So we’re going to stop talking about him, are we, and talk about your talented daughter instead?”

  I bite my lip. Sometimes I wish Lorna weren’t as clever as she is. It would make my life a lot easier.

  The truth is, I am not quite ready to forget all about Tom Rigby.

  “I need to thank him,” I say quietly—­so quietly that I can hardly hear my own words over the louder voices of the students at the table next to ours. I don’t like this part of the Eagle. I would prefer to sit in the room to the right of the front door, which is never as noisy as this, but Lorna always insists on sitting in what she calls “the historical part.”

  “You did thank him,” she points out, like a police detective trying to pick holes in a suspect’s story. “Profusely, several times, from what you’ve told me.”

  “I said thank you, yes, but I’d like to thank him properly. He did us such a huge favor.”

  “Right. By ‘thank him properly,’ you of course mean hunt him down and force him to marry you?”

  “No, I mean I’d like to get him a card, or . . .” I daren’t finish my sentence. I stare awkwardly down at the table, too embarrassed to say any more.

  “A card or?” Lorna laughs. “You’re so transparent! A card or,” she repeats. “You’ve already got him a present, haven’t you? What? Tell me! What did you buy him? Ugh, Chloe, I despair of you. Have you bought anything for your star of a daughter, by the way? The one who actually, y’know, got the part in Joseph?”

  “Yes. I made her something.” I don’t feel like telling Lorna that the “something” was a necklace: a tiny opaque glass box on a chain, with a miniature technicolor dreamcoat inside it. It took me four whole days to get it right. It’s beautiful, and Freya loves it. If Lorna wants to think I’m neglecting my daughter in favor of a handsome stranger, let her. It will serve her right to be wrong.

  “And what did you make for Tom Rigby?” she asks, eyeing me warily.

  I feel my face overheat. My present for Tom took me only half a day to make. It was much less intricate: a tiepin. A sequence of musical notes inside a rectangular metal frame. Notes from “The Ash Grove,” Freya’s audition song.

  Down yonder green valley where streamlets meander. . .

  “You’re too embarrassed to tell me what you’ve made for him,” says Lorna, watching me closely. “This does not bode well. Is it a dildo covered in love hearts?”

  I can’t be bothered to respond to this insulting suggestion.

  “How can you give it to him, anyway? You don’t know where to find him.”

  “I can try. I heard him say the name of a company, when he was talking on his phone. Camigo, or Camiga. Maybe that’s where he works. It should be easy enough to find.”

  Lorna groans into her pint of ginger beer shandy. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you? You’re planning to track him down. Don’t. Listen to me, Chloe.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Tom Rigby came to your and Freya’s rescue when you needed it. He was the savior of the moment, for twenty minutes one Saturday morning, but the moment passed, as all moments do. You thanked him, and now it’s over. You’re back to being strangers. All this making him presents and trying to find him, it’s not about thanking him properly. Can’t you see that? You’re craving a repeat performance—­more of his magic. You want him to save you again. Maybe for longer this time, right? Maybe forever.”

  “Lorna, I don’t want to marry Tom Rigby. I don’t know him.”

  “You want to get to know him,” she says accusingly.

  “No! Look, I just don’t want to let him disappear with no more than a ‘Thank you so much’ from me. I want to put myself out for him, like he put himself out for me and Freya. So, yes, I’ve made him a present,” I say defiantly. “Not because I want him to scoop me up and ride off into the sunset with me, but purely for the sake of doing a nice, generous thing. What’s so wrong with that?”

  Lorna shakes her head. “You know what? Part of my issue is that this guy sounds too nice. ‘Ma’am’? ‘Your Highness’? I mean, yuck! Okay, so he didn’t steal your wheels—­and who can blame him? That Volvo’s a rusty old heap of junk—­but what if the whole ‘Look, I’m giving you back your car keys’ thing was a ploy to reel you in?”

  This idea is so absurd, it makes me laugh. “Well, then he failed, didn’t he? Like you said: as far as he’s concerned, he’s never going to see me again. And why on earth would he want to ‘reel me’ anywhere? You think he took one look at me screaming at Freya on Bridge Street and thought, ‘That woman looks well-­heeled. I’m going to come to her rescue, charm her into marrying me, then murder her and inherit her cash ISA that’s worth all of fifteen hundred pounds’?”

  “That’s true.” Lorna casts her disapproving eyes over me. “You don’t look as if you’ve got anything worth inheriting. All right, I’ll be blunt. Blunter, I should say. I’m suspicious of Tom Rigby for one reason only: because you’re not. Don’t be offended, Chloe, but you’re a terrible judge of character.”

  “And you’re my best friend. So if you’re right, what does that say about you?” I sigh. “Is it really so terrible that he called me ‘Ma’am’ and Freya ‘Your Highness’?”

  “No,” Lorna concedes. “You’re right. We have no reason to think Tom Rigby is anything but lovely.” She leans both her elbows on the table and glares at me. “That’s why he doesn’t deserve to be psycho-­stalked by you. He did you a favor—­great!—­and then he said good-­bye and walked away. Did he ask for your number? No. Did he suggest meeting again? No. So give the poor man a break and leave him alone, Chloe.”

  Chapter 3

  “USELESS GOOGLE!” I mutter at my computer screen later that same night. It’s nearly 1 A.M. I really ought to get some sleep, but I’m too stubborn. I refuse to go to bed disappointed. And since Freya is at my mum and dad’s until lunchtime tomorrow, it’s the perfect chance for me to do some research.

  I can’t find any company called Camigo or Camiga that looks as if Tom Rigby might work for it. There’s Camigo Media, but they make games apps for mobile phones. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what Tom’s business call was about. He was discussing a bank, I think. He didn’t say the word bank, but I had the impression that he worked with money.

  The only Tom Rigbys and Thomas Rigbys in Cambridge that I’ve managed to find online are definitely not him. One is too old. Another has the wrong face in his LinkedIn photo.

  Where do I go from here? What else can I search for? “Tom Rigby red bicycle clips”? “Tom Rigby sings ‘The Ash Grove’ ”?

  Absurd.

  I type “Dr. T Rigby” into the search box and find a Dr. Thomas Rigby in North Carolina, an expert in crop science. He’s not the man I’m looking for, and therefore, momentarily, I hate him.

  I’m never going to find my Tom Rigby. Why is that such an unbearable prospect? There must be something wrong with me. Lorna was right. I must be crazier than even she suspects, to allow a complete and utter stranger to become so important to me.

  A horrible thought occurs to me: what if that’s not his name? What if he was talking about somebody else called Tom Rigby, and I misunderstood?

  No, that’s impossible. He said it in a “My name is . . .” kind of way. Introducing himself. I was in no doubt at the time.

  My phone buzzes on the table next
to me, making me jump. It’s Lorna. She has texted, “Don’t Google him!”

  I text back, “I can’t find him anyway.”

  “Seriously?” she replies. “I found him in 30 secs. Which I KNOW I SHOULD NOT TELL YOU!”

  I grab my phone and ring her, my hands shaking. This had better not be a joke.

  I wait and wait. Come on, Lorna. I know your phone’s in your hand.

  When she finally picks up, she says drily, “My desire to show off was stronger than my wish to protect you from making a tit of yourself. What can I say? I’m a flawed human being.”

  “Tell me,” I say.

  She sighs. “Draw breath first, and let’s go over the pros and cons. Chloe, I really think—­”

  “Tell me!”

  “Will you listen to the desperation in your voice?”

  “Yeah—­desperation not to be toyed with by my sadistic so-­called friend. You have the information I want, and you’re dangling it in front of me like bait. Stop dicking around and tell me, so that I can go to bed.”

  “Ha! Like you’re going to put your pajamas on and drift off to the Land of Nod as soon as you know. Bollocks! You’ll be up all night Googling this guy, soon as I’ve told you who he is.”

  “Lorna—­”

  “All right, give me a chance! His name isn’t Tom Rigby, R-­I-­G-­B-­Y. It’s Tom Rigbey with an ‘e’. R-­I-­G-­B-­E-­Y. He’s the CSO of a company called CamEgo—­one word, capital C, capital E, ego as in egotist. Now let me try to describe what they do, without falling asleep, it sounds so dull. They design personal identification software that facilitates payment compliance in the financial sector, globally. Before you ask, I haven’t a clue what that means.”

  “But CSO, that’s—­”

  “Car keys and songs officer,” Lorna fires back.

  “Chief something, isn’t it?’

  “Chief scientific officer. He’s a smart cookie, is Tom Rigbey.”

  I frown. That’s strange. He didn’t look like a boss or manager of anything. He looked too young, for a start—­about my age. And . . . wouldn’t a chief scientific officer need to behave less frivolously in public places?

  “Chloe? Do not go to CamEgo’s offices and ambush him. And—­since you’ll ignore that—­ring me as soon as you have. I want all the gossip.”

  Chapter 4

  I ARRIVE AT CamEgo’s offices at nine o’clock sharp on Monday morning—­more punctual, probably, than most of the firm’s employees. The office building that houses Tom Rigbey’s company is as glossy and shiny as I imagined it would be. It’s one of the newly built ones on Brooklands Avenue, close to the Botanic Gardens. CamEgo occupies the top three floors, and I’m waiting on the lowest of these, in reception.

  There are two women behind the desk, one in her late fifties and the other in her early twenties. Both are wearing white blouses, black skirts, and CamEgo badges with their names on. Should I approach Nadine Caspian or Rukia Yunis, if I have a choice? Both are currently dealing with other ­people. I hope one conversation finishes before the other, so that I don’t have to choose.

  I’ve worked out what I’ll say. I don’t want or need to see Tom Rigbey—­that would be too awkward and embarrassing—­so I’ll simply ask if I can leave the gift bag I’ve brought, and will they make sure to deliver it safely to him?

  As well as the “Ash Grove” tiepin, I’ve written a note and put it in the bag. It’s short and to the point: “Thank you for the music (as ABBA might say!) Lots of love, Chloe (and Freya, who got into Joseph thanks to you!).” No kisses. Though I couldn’t resist writing my email address in the top right-­hand corner.

  The ABBA joke is not something I’d have put in a note to anyone else, and I’m not sure if it’s witty or just annoying. I included it because it popped into my head, and struck me as the kind of silly joke Tom Rigbey might appreciate.

  In the first draft of the note, I drew his attention to the musical content of the tiepin, and told him the notes belonged to “The Ash Grove.” I wanted to make sure he’d notice. Then, later, I decided it was crass to point it out, so I tore up what I’d written and started from scratch.

  Tom will work it out. Chief scientific officers are clever.

  Nadine Caspian is free, having sent the man she was dealing with to wait on a red sofa to her left. “Can I help you?” She smiles at me. “Ooh—­have you brought me a prezzie? And it isn’t even my birthday!”

  I make a noise that sounds like laughing, and hope my ABBA joke is less pathetic than that. ­People who aren’t funny shouldn’t try to be. Is that what Tom Rigbey will think when he reads my note?

  “It’s a present, but I’m afraid it’s not for you,” I say.

  “Ah, well—­never mind!” She chuckles. “At least you’ve left the bag open, so I can have a nosey at it.” She peers in. “Hm, a jewelry box. Let me guess: cuff links for the man in your life?”

  That’s strange. It was going to be cuff links—­that was my first idea, before I decided a tiepin would be better. Cuff links seemed too obvious.

  Lorna, at this point, would tell Nadine Caspian that the contents of the box in the bag were none of her business. One of her favorite regular rants is a diatribe against ­people who, under cover of friendliness, poke their noses into your affairs in an unacceptable way: hotel receptionists who say while checking you in, “So, any special plans for this evening, then?” (To which Lorna once replied with a straight face, “Yes, as a matter of fact: I’m meeting my lover and we’re going to try anal sex for the first time. Is that the kind of special plan you mean?”)

  I’m not as brave or outrageous as Lorna, but I have no intention of answering Nadine Caspian’s question. Instead, I say, “It’s for Tom Rigbey. I believe he works here?”

  Nadine’s face twitches. She swallows hard. “Tom Rigbey?” Her friendly, open demeanor of a second ago is gone. I heard alarm in her voice when she said his name. Now she’s looking at me warily.

  “Yes. Isn’t he CSO here?” I ask.

  Nadine nods. “He’s out all day today. London.” These are the words I hear, but the message, unmistakably, is “Go away. Get lost.” If not something even ruder.

  “That’s fine,” I say. ‘I don’t need to see him. I just wanted to leave this for him.”

  The other receptionist, Rukia Yunis, who is now free and listening to our conversation, leans over and says, “Of course. That’s no problem at all. If you give it to me, I’ll see that Tom gets it.”

  Our eyes meet and I see an apology in hers. Silently, she seems to be trying to say, “I’m sorry my colleague’s acting like an arse.”

  I hand her the gift bag, thank her, and turn to leave, wondering if Nadine Caspian is in love with Tom Rigbey. Probably. That would explain her sudden shift from far-­too-­matey to cold and suspicious. She must think I’m some kind of girlfriend. Maybe she’s his girlfriend, and thinks I’m trying to steal him away.

  I’m halfway down the stairs to the floor below when I hear a voice behind me. “Hey! Wait.”

  I turn. It’s her: Nadine. “Sorry if I was a bit off just then,” she says.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Well, not really. It’s not your fault. I just . . .” She sighs. “There you were with a present, and it turns out to be for Tom Rigbey of all ­people . . .”

  I nearly open my mouth to ask, “What do you mean ‘of all ­people’?” but something stops me. I’m not sure I want to hear the answer she’d give me. I haven’t chosen to have this conversation. Nadine Caspian followed me. Forced it on me.

  She’s standing three steps above me on the staircase. It makes me feel trapped and small. I wish we could talk on the same level, but we can hardly stand side by side on one step—­they’re too narrow.

  I can’t decide if she’s attractive or not. Her hair is nice—­dark blond, thick and subtly highlighted. H
er face is heart shaped and her features big and doll-­like, but with a slightly hardened look to them. She’s around my age: early thirties.

  “Something tells me you haven’t known Tom Rigbey long,” she says. “You don’t know him well—­am I right?”

  I nod.

  “This is none of my business, but I’ll say it anyway. You seem like a lovely person, so go and get your gift bag back off Rukia and give it to someone else, anyone else. Have nothing to do with Tom Rigbey. Give him nothing, tell him nothing, trust him not at all. Avoid him like the plague because that’s what he is—­a plague in human form.”

  I can hardly breathe. Did she really just say that?

  “And no, he hasn’t just dumped me, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s the CSO of the company I work for—­I have no personal connection to him—­but . . . I know how dangerous he is.”

  When I find my voice, I say, “Dangerous how?”

  “Are you going to take my advice?” Nadine responds with a question. “Are you going to get that gift bag back?”

  “I . . . I haven’t decided.”

  “Then I can’t talk to you. If you’re under his spell, you’ll tell him anything I say. Tomorrow morning I’ll find myself out of a job.”

  “No, I . . .” I stop myself because I might. I might tell Tom Rigbey that one of his receptionists is a nosey troublemaker with no respect for other ­people’s boundaries. I liked him, and I don’t like Nadine Caspian. “I can’t promise anything without knowing what you’re talking about,” I say.

  Am I being stupid? If there’s some aspect of Tom Rigbey’s character that I need to be warned about, I should find out what it is. “Can you please tell me what you mean?” I ask Nadine.

  She shakes her head. “Sorry. Look, it’s your life, and none of my business. I should keep my big mouth shut. Please don’t tell him I said anything and . . . please forget I did.” She looks and sounds scared as she pushes past me and hurries down the stairs. I expected her to go back up to CamEgo’s reception, but perhaps she needs to go out and wouldn’t have followed me otherwise.