TOYL

for the door, not even bothering to shut it behind her. As she rushed down the stairs she had to check herself, for fear of falling. The stairs were quite steep and slippery. Thoughts flashed through her mind of who would be waiting for her at the bottom.
    When she got to the entrance hall she slowed to a stop, taking the opportunity to look through the outside door, hoping to make out Dan’s silhouette. But no one was there. Emma stepped towards the door, breathing heavily, and grasped the handle. Not knowing whether she was doing the right thing, she opened the door and stepped outside.
    Flash!
    ‘What?’ Emma exclaimed, shielding her eyes from the bright light.
    Flash! Flash!
    She squinted and saw the hooded figure at the bottom of the steps, pointing the camera at her. The person was wearing a balaclava.
    Flash!
    ‘What the hell…’ Emma said, taking a step towards the figure.
    It turned and ran.
    Instinctively, she gave chase. She pursued them down Marylebone High Street, keeping her target in sight, as he turned first into St. George Street and then onto Baker Street. But he gave her the slip by running straight across a road junction, narrowly avoiding a Double Decker and 4x4.
    Emma watched, breathless with adrenalin as the figure disappeared into the distance. She took a moment, then turned and headed back to the apartment – there was no point in chasing them any further. As she walked back, she tried to take in what had just happened. She was shocked and upset, and couldn’t believe the lengths journalists would go to, just to get a picture.
    By the time she reached the apartment she was thoroughly unnerved. If this sort of unwanted attention was the price of success, then she didn’t want any of it. She locked the door and went into the living room, collapsing onto the sofa, her head spinning. She really needed someone to talk to – Lizzy, or Will.

    ***

    Emma was woken by a knock on the door. At first, dazed by tiredness, she thought it might have just been part of a dream. But as she staggered across the room and moved towards the door there was another knock.
    Was it the photographer, coming back to get a closer shot?
    Or was it something more sinister?
    But how had they got in? Had she not closed the main door properly?
    Instead of asking who it was, giving them time to react, she crept towards the door. With her heart seemingly punching its way out of her chest, she slowly brought an eye up to the spy-hole.

42

    ‘You all right?’ asked Stuart, as Emma entered the kitchen. He examined her eyes, looking for an explanation as to why she had obviously been crying.
    ‘Today was supposed to be my wedding day,’ Emma stated, taking a seat at the breakfast table.
    She’d let Stuart stay the night on the sofa after his late-night visit. Having someone familiar in the flat eased her anxieties, especially now people were calling at her door. She had worried that asking him to stay might give him the wrong impression, and he certainly wouldn’t have been her first choice of overnight guest, but he was there and willing. They’d watched some TV and then, when he’d mentioned calling for a cab, she’d asked him to stay.
    ‘Oh,’ he said, looking towards his feet for inspiration. ‘Look, Emma, I’m really sorry.’
    ‘So am I.’ She looked at the spread Stuart had prepared for breakfast – a pot of tea, toast, selection of croissants, yoghurt and cereals. ‘Where did all this come from?’
    ‘Waitrose,’ he answered, placing a bowl of strawberries on the tabletop and then taking a seat. ‘I tried to make breakfast with what you had in the fridge, but there’s only so much you can do with a half-eaten jar of beetroot.’
    He smiled and Emma smiled back. That was the first flash of his trademark humour that she had once loved so much. And even though it was misplaced at this present time, it was still some comfort.
    ‘Tuck in,’ he said.
    She just looked at the table.
    Stuart grimaced. ‘Please say you’ve got an appetite. Otherwise I’ll have to eat the lot.’
    ‘I’ll try,’ she said, picking up a croissant and placing it on her plate.
    ‘That’s better.’
    ‘Did someone phone this morning?’ asked Emma, buttering the croissant. ‘I thought I heard the phone ring while I was lying in bed.’
    ‘Wrong number,’ Stuart replied, biting into a piece of toast. ‘Some guy wanting to speak with someone called Debbie.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘What are your plans for