The Visitor

by Zoe Miller

Genres: Thrillers

Synopsis

Is he who he says he is?
Izzie Mallon will be shutting herself away from the festive season, and the snowstorm that has brought the city to a standstill, in her apartment on Henrietta Square — the beautiful home she shared with her beloved husband Sam until his tragic death a few months ago. Then, there's a knock at the door — a stranger, stranded by the bad weather. He tells Izzie that he's Eli Sanders, her husband's long-time friend. Izzie has never met him in person, but feels she owes it to Sam to welcome Eli into her home. Even though her instincts say otherwise…As Izzie tries to reminisce with Eli about her husband, cracks in his story begin to show. But will she be able to see clearly through her grief before it's too late?
“A must-read book that deserves more than 5 stars.” GOODREADS REVIEW

Release date: October 4, 2018

Publisher: Hachette Ireland

Print pages: 384

Sample

The airport tannoy grated on his nerves. He told himself to stay chilled. The next few hours were critical in his plan to recover what Sam Mallon had robbed from him and he needed a clear head.

The weather had played right into his hands. Severe polar conditions had brought snow and ice blanketing down across Western Europe, disrupting travel severely at one of the busiest times of the year.

He stood at the edge of the food hall, sipping watery coffee, checking the electronic display board, carefully noting the various flights that had been diverted from other airports into Dublin. The passengers flooding in through the festively decorated arrival gates fell into two categories: ecstatic that they’d made it home despite the worsening weather conditions or shell-shocked that their flights had been redirected to Dublin, throwing their Christmas travel plans into disarray. Now the snow was sweeping into Ireland and presently an announcement came across the tannoy. The runways were being shut to allow for snow-clearing and de-icing. A collective gasp of desperation rippled around the packed crowd at this fresh outrage.

Perfect. For him, the snow was a beautiful bonus. To all appearances, he was nothing more than one of the stranded thousands, stuck in the wrong airport, where a seat on a flight out between now and Christmas Day was the equivalent of gold dust.

He’d had a couple of scenarios ready. Losing his passport had been one; being turned back at immigration had been another plausible excuse; and with overbooked flights at Christmas and a delay in his paperwork, either of those pretexts would have given him four or five days. He didn’t need them now. Stranded at Christmas was the perfect cover. Still, he wasn’t taking any chances. He didn’t have to be there, but he’d checked out of his city-centre hotel and come out to the chaotic airport because he knew that experiencing the bedlam at first hand would lend him credibility. He checked his phone. Thanks to the software he’d installed on hers, he knew her every move and communication. Izzie Mallon was still in the office, so he had to hang loose for a while. As soon as she left for home, it would be his cue to get out of this wretched place and make his way to her place on Henrietta Square, arriving suitably travel-worn and dishevelled. Thanks to the information coming through to his phone, he knew she’d be there from this afternoon, burrowed away for Christmas. She sure as hell wasn’t going to family, never mind anywhere else.

He focused his mind by staring at his luggage label, imprinting the name on his brain: Eli Sanders. He daren’t forget, not for a moment.

‘What part of the country are you off to, Izzie?’ Gemma asked.

Izzie took a slow breath and nailed a neutral expression on her face before she looked up at Gemma. The younger woman stood beside her desk, her halo of blonde curls framed by the forest of Christmas tinsel, glittering baubles and cheap and cheerful festive bling that festooned the office.

Sensitive to her situation, they’d asked Izzie if it was okay to put up decorations. She’d told them to feel free. After all, it was just a meaningless heap of gaudy glitter, tawdry and tasteless. Although she never used to have that cynical view of Christmas. She used to love this time of year, even the bling, for its essential message of joy, love and peace. This year was different. This year she was blanking it all out. Like everything else.

‘I’m off to the Blackwater Valley,’ she told Gemma.

‘Sounds like a lovely part of the country,’ Gemma said, turning to look out the window. ‘Although I think you’ll be lucky to get going anywhere in this weather, never mind the depths of Munster.’

Izzie followed her gaze. Outside on Baggot Street, beyond the first-floor window of O’Sullivan Pearse Auctioneers, the sky resembled a dense, murky cloak pressing down on Dublin city centre. Underneath that, a cloud of spinning snowflakes eddied and bumped against each other in a thick cascade. The snow had started falling earlier that morning – she’d awoken to a world dusted in white, but now it was getting heavier. A dense layer of snow covered the paths and the road outside, gouged sporadically with footprints and tyre tracks from slow-moving traffic. Small hillocks of slush were piling against the kerb.

Sam would have loved the snow. He’d missed it by almost twelve weeks. Eleven weeks and five days to be exact.

She was still counting in days and weeks. Soon it would be months. ‘My mum says it reminds her of the Christmas freeze of 2010,’ Gemma continued, her overly chatty tone telling Izzie that her young mentee had sensed her pang of sadness and was doing her best to keep things light for Izzie’s sake. ‘I didn’t take too much notice at the time – I was fifteen and indulging in a major wallow of self-pity over my first painful breakup.’ Gemma rolled her eyes. ‘He went off with one of my so-called friends. You should have seen me, Izzie, talk about tragedy queen. I spent most of that Christmas holed up in my bedroom, writing crap poetry and planning horrible revenge.’

Izzie felt a small smile curving her mouth at the image Gemma conjured up. ‘Poetry is never crap,’ she said.

Seven years since the last big Christmas freeze. Izzie had been twenty-five and had enjoyed the novelty of it all. She lifted her chin. ‘I’m not going to let a bit of snow stop me,’ she said. At least things were still moving in the city centre – albeit at a snail’s pace – but if the snow continued like this into the afternoon or evening, everything could grind to a halt.

‘A bit! Yeah, right. You’re so funny, Izzie.’ Gemma’s brow wrinkled. ‘So long as you don’t get stranded somewhere. Could easily happen, you know, according to the forecast. Please stay safe.’

‘I’ll be fine. I’m out of here by lunchtime, and I’ll be halfway there before it gets any worse.’ She didn’t bother crossing her fingers at the lie.

Gemma’s eyes glinted merrily. ‘I’ll think of you forcing down cabbage soup when I’m tucking into my yummy turkey and ham.’

‘Less of the cabbage soup,’ Izzie said. ‘It’s a holistic retreat and we’ll get fed, healthily and nutritiously. I’m not that much of a martyr.’

‘Anybody who turns down Christmas and all the trimmings in favour of a country yoga retreat has to be a saint of some description. I’d sooner die than pass up a Christmas dinner. Ohhh—’

Izzie watched the dawning realisation ripple across Gemma’s face as her hand went up to her mouth and knew exactly what was coming next. She could manage this. She could.

‘Jeez, Izzie, I’m awful sorry. I forgot for a moment …’ Gemma said, speaking through her fingers as though the flimsy barrier might prevent a further faux pas from breaking free, the effect lessened by the flashing knuckleduster Rudolf ring she was wearing.

Izzie twirled a pencil between her slim fingers. ‘It’s okay. I’m glad you forgot – I’d far prefer that. Life goes on, as they say.’

She was glad Gemma hadn’t been around when the bottom had dropped out of her world. Gemma had only begun her internship shortly before Izzie had returned to her job in the head office of O’Sullivan Pearse in mid-November, after six weeks’ leave of absence, and Izzie knew full well that she’d been quietly advised as to her mentor’s delicate circumstances, lest she put her foot in it. She was glad that Gemma occasionally forgot to walk on eggshells around her. It meant she saw Izzie as a normal person and not a dysfunctional wreck.

Gemma slapped her own forehead. ‘Shut me up, please. I’m not usually this stupid. I was out with my mates last night – too late.’

‘You’re forgiven,’ Izzie said. ‘And you’re doing exactly what you should be doing – having plenty of late nights and fun.’

‘Is there anything I can do to help you finish up?’ Gemma asked. ‘The sooner you get going the better.’

Izzie stared unseeingly at the icons on her desktop and shook her head. ‘There’ll be nothing much happening the rest of today,’ she said. ‘Anything that could be signed and sealed is wrapped up.’

‘Even the Conways?’ Gemma asked, her face brightening.

‘Nah, unfortunately they won’t be getting sorted until after Christmas.’

Gemma’s face dropped. ‘I don’t believe you. That’s so disappointing. They were really keen to be in their new home for the big day, with the baby and all …’

‘They won’t be now.’ Izzie had a mental image of the young couple and their month-old baby, bubbling with enthusiasm over the house of their dreams. What had seemed like a straightforward purchase had been beset by unexpected red tape, right up to the end.

‘What went wrong?’ Gemma asked.

‘Their solicitor caused hold-ups because the right boxes weren’t ticked on time, and at the last minute it was discovered that he’d forgotten to get the vendor’s signature on one vital document. The vendor who left for the Canaries three days ago and won’t return until mid-January. Then the solicitor made the biggest mistake of his career by deciding he’d do everyone a favour and fake the vendor’s signature on the document. He was desperate to meet his targets before the end of this financial year.’

‘Wow – what’ll happen now?’

‘There’s a good chance the solicitor will be struck off. The case has been passed to one of his colleagues and the Conways will have their keys in the new year.’

It wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. At least they had each other. And their baby. Something twisted in Izzie’s gut and she took a deep breath. ‘I’m just as annoyed as you are,’ she said, ‘but at least they’ll have something to look forward to – and it’s not exactly moving house weather, is it?’

‘It certainly isn’t,’ Gemma said.

‘Right, I’m officially out of here,’ Izzie said, clicking on a tab and typing in her ‘out-of-office’ message. ‘You can head off as soon as you like – get home before the weather is too bad in case the buses stop running.’

‘I can walk home from here, it’s no problem, and I’m staying on for the cheese and wine,’ Gemma said. ‘It’s my first time at an office Christmas party.’

‘The first of many Christmas office parties. Enjoy,’ Izzie said, feeling a moment of fondness for the young woman. Oh, to be starting out in life again, a glittering ball of enthusiasm and innocent of the rotten tricks life could play. ‘You don’t need to come in tomorrow,’ she went on. ‘There won’t be much happening.’ It was only going to be minimal staff and the office was closing at lunch hour. Izzie was bowing out a day early to avoid the worst of the last-minute Christmas extravaganza of hugging, kissing and well-wishing.

‘I’ll see how my head is in the morning,’ Gemma said. ‘At least let me look after that,’ she said, indicating the last of the paperwork on Izzie’s desk.

‘No bother, it’ll only take me a minute. But while you’re here …’ Izzie took a small gift-wrapped package out of her top drawer and handed it to Gemma.

‘What’s this?’ Gemma asked, her eyes widening in surprise.

‘It’s to say thank you,’ Izzie said. ‘I appreciate all the help you’ve given me since … in the last few weeks.’ She swallowed hard, feeling a crack in her voice but determined to finish what she wanted to say. ‘You’ve been a great support.’

Gemma shook her head. ‘Not at all, it’s been a pleasure. You didn’t have to do this, Izzie, but thank you so much.’ She leaned over and gave her a hug that was unexpectedly tender.

*

Izzie went through the half-dozen documents on her desk and filed them away in the cabinet. She shoved pens, notebooks and Post-its into a pile before closing down her computer. She eased off her stilettos and put them in a bag in the bottom drawer of her desk. Then she pulled on a pair of woollen socks and thick-soled walking boots.

‘You’re all set,’ Gemma said, smiling across at her from the next workstation. ‘I hope you have a peaceful break and a good chill out.’

‘Oh, I will, that’s for sure.’ Izzie checked her bag for her house keys, emptying half the contents out across her desk. She finally located them. Over by the coat stand, she pulled on her scarf and coat, tucking her keys into the zipped pocket to keep them safe. One of the things she hadn’t expected in the aftermath of loss was her silly carelessness. She’d mislaid her phone when she was out to lunch once – luckily it had been found the next day. She’d also left her handbag behind in a supermarket – thankfully it had turned up later, minus the cash in her purse.

She threaded her way through desks decorated with tinsel and streamers, relieved that, apart from Gemma, the office was deserted. Most of her colleagues were either taking an extended morning break or had gone on an early lunch.

When she stepped out of the building onto Baggot Street, the icy cold took her breath away. Thick snowflakes whirling down from a smudged-grey sky stung her face. People scurried by on the slushy pavement, heads bent, clutching shopping bags. She saw her reflection in a shop window. With her coat already covered in a layer of snow, she looked exactly like how she’d felt inside for the last eleven weeks and five days – frozen.

Thanks to her carefully laid plans, the Christmas break would give her some precious down time to mope in perfect privacy and wallow all she wanted in a grief-laden binge. Surely by the new year the worst would be over and she’d find a reason for living again.

Gemma looked down onto the street and watched Izzie’s hooded figure make its way up towards the canal, the shoulders of her padded coat gradually dusting over with a thin film of snow. When she disappeared from sight, swallowed up by the whirling flakes, Gemma took a carrier bag from under her workstation and went out to the ladies’. In one of the cubicles, she took off the black jumper and trousers she’d worn to the office that morning, changing into sequinned jeans and a cherry-red Santa Claus sweater. Outside, in front of the mirror, she redid her make-up so that her blue eyes appeared larger and smokier. There was little she could do with her mop of curly blonde hair, save for scrunching it up here and there with some gel, giving it more of an edge. She put on flashing holly-shaped earrings and wrapped strands of tinsel around her neck. Lastly, she put on her reindeer-antler hairband.

She’d planned to arrive in that morning dressed in her Christmas bling, but just before she’d left home she’d realised that it wouldn’t feel right in front of Izzie, so she’d changed back into normal work clothes – forgetting about her sparkly ring: duh – and now she was party ready.

Back in the office, she went across to the cabinet and, having taken note of the cases Izzie had been working on that morning, plucked out the files. As she’d guessed, Izzie had incorrectly filed some of the documents, so she fixed that, assigning the paperwork to the right files before putting them away again. Izzie’s computer was showing the restart option, so she clicked on shut-down, powering it off completely, as they’d been instructed to do for the holiday period. She opened the bottom drawer in Izzie’s desk and took out the cotton bags containing her shoes, pulling them out and matching up the pairs correctly. Izzie kept three different pairs of stilettos in the office, and if anyone had noticed that she’d been going around that morning wearing one plain black and one patent leather shoe, they had wisely stayed silent.

Gemma shook her head at the sight of Izzie’s bulging yoga bag, tucked into the far corner underneath her workstation, a rolled-up mat poking out of it. In all the time Gemma had worked here, it hadn’t been disturbed. So much for Izzie’s yoga retreat. She’d been quite vague about it, so this was confirmation to Gemma that she had other plans.

She picked up Izzie’s favourite fountain pen, the one she used for all her significant signatures. It had been abandoned on the desk, and she replaced the cap, tucking it away safely in the top drawer. She made a neat pile of Izzie’s assortment notebooks and yellow Post-its, tucking them beside the monitor. Izzie’s desk calendar was still turned to the month of September, an image of Glencar Lake in County Sligo above the rows of dates. After late September, right through to December, all the dates were blank. Just, Gemma guessed, like Izzie’s life right now.

Looking after Izzie in this way hadn’t been something she’d expected when she’d been lucky enough to be offered a six-month paid internship in the O’Sullivan Pearse group, one of Ireland’s largest property firms – not forgetting auctioneers, estate agents, lettings and financial advisors, as her mum loved to point out when she was boasting to the neighbours about Gemma’s brilliant job. It had been a mega opportunity, coming just as she’d graduated from college. Not bad for someone from St Finnian’s Gardens. Nearly like winning the Lotto.

‘You’ll be on Izzie Mallon’s team,’ Rachel, one of the senior managers, had told a breathless Gemma in a follow-up chat after she’d been offered the job.

‘Izzie … sounds good,’ she’d said, embarrassed that she couldn’t think of a more intelligent remark. A real job, being part of a team, and Izzie – with a name like that she already sounded nice and approachable, certainly not domineering or bossy, or someone who might look down her nose at Gemma.

For her, even getting to college had been an achievement in itself. Less than a third of her school contemporaries had managed that leap, and fewer again of the young residents of the north-inner-city-council apartment complex where she lived. Still, Gemma had had her older sister, Janet, encouraging her all the way, blazing a trail for her to follow, and now her younger sister, Amy, was coming up behind her. Janet was carving out a great career in the Dublin hub of an American multinational. As far as Gemma was concerned, O’Sullivan Pearse was just her first rung on the ladder. Her mother was bursting with pride. Anne Nugent had raised her three daughters single-handedly as well as holding down two part-time jobs when their uncaring father had absconded to England with a young one half his age. She’d sacrificed a lot to help get Janet and Gemma where they were.

‘Izzie’s actually out at the moment,’ Rachel had said, a little delicately.

‘Oh.’

‘She’s on special leave. Due to family circumstances. We’re not sure when she’ll be back. We need someone in there to answer the phone, check general business emails, know when and how to refer the queries and escalate any issues. Katy will take you through the ropes for the first few days and be your go-to person, and then when Izzie comes back, you’ll be a support to her.’

Then three days into the job, she’d been finding her feet in this busy, fast-moving office when she discovered during coffee break with Katy exactly what Izzie’s family circumstances entailed and why she’d been on special leave.

Izzie’s husband, Sam, had died unexpectedly.

‘Hold on, did you say her husband died?’

‘Yes, it was a terrible tragedy. We were shocked.’

‘How long were they married?’

‘About six months,’ Katy had said.

Gemma had been afraid to ask what kind of tragedy.

Izzie had a big corner workstation by the window, as befitted her senior mortgage advisor status, and there was a photograph on the desk that Gemma had secretly admired. It had been taken on Izzie’s wedding day, in a garden somewhere: a happy, joyous photograph of her in a fitted, Grecian-style, cream lace wedding dress that skimmed her ankles. She had a wreath of flowers in her dark hair and her face was alight with love, her body angled as she smiled up at a guy in his mid-thirties whose hand was holding hers aloft, their fingers interlinked. The photograph spilled over with love and happiness and oodles of promise for a wonderful life ahead. Looking at the image, Gemma had known that in the fullness of time – after she’d spread her wings and done a whole lot of partying and fun living and travel, of course – she wanted a guy to look at her like that. As though he adored her. Now her stomach clenched, horrified that this lovely guy wasn’t around anymore to look at Izzie like that. Jesus – how could he be gone? What kind of a shit thing to happen was that? Of all the crap that life could bring, this was off the scale.

It was tough enough getting to grips with a new job and all its serious responsibilities – now she’d be terrified of saying the wrong thing.

Then less than two weeks after she’d started, Rachel had called her into her office. Izzie was coming back to work. Next week.

‘I don’t think I’m up to supporting her,’ she’d had to admit to Rachel, even though it embarrassed her.

‘Yes, you are,’ Rachel had said. ‘We have every confidence in you. You’re bright and bubbly, and having you shadowing her will keep Izzie occupied. She said she wants to be kept as busy as possible.’

The Friday before Izzie returned, Katy had put the photograph away.

‘Izzie messaged me and asked me to take it down,’ Katy had explained. ‘I expect she wants no reminders staring her in the face.’

Gemma had looked at the gap on Izzie’s desk, trying not to visualise the horrible gap in her life. How on earth would she be able to support her? Her first work placement was going to go down the tubes. So much for all the grand plans. Then she’d remembered the time, five years ago, when her mother had fought and won a cancer battle. Gemma and her sisters had rallied around. Her mother hadn’t wanted any fuss or to be treated as a victim, but they had made life easier for her by looking after the practical realities of everything and by making sure little treats were a regular part of her everyday life. So first up, Gemma had filled the space on Izzie’s desk where the photograph had been by nipping out to Marks and Spencer’s early on the Monday morning and buying her a small vase and some fresh flowers. She’d bought small chocolates for coffee break and a beautiful china mug for Izzie’s coffee.

The slim woman with the thin, drawn face who had arrived into the office soon after ten o’clock on that Monday morning bore little resemblance to the joyful bride in the photograph. She had huge, haunting dark eyes, an aura of vulnerability and a delicate, ethereal presence. She made Gemma think of a finely spun, diamond-cut crystal glass, intrinsically strong, yet liable to shatter at any moment. Izzie had already sent word that she didn’t want to talk about what had happened and she hoped her colleagues would respect her privacy. Neither did she want anyone’s sympathy. She just wanted to get on with the job in hand. Gemma found herself supporting her in ways she hadn’t expected, picking up on her small mistakes, generally easing her day-to-day tasks, fixing daily incidentals with as much discretion as possible. And every Monday morning, she put fresh flowers in the vase so that Izzie’s desk was brightened with colour and the air around her infused with scent.

She finished tidying Izzie’s desk, and that’s when she saw it tucked underneath the keyboard: a small purse with a glittery butterfly motif, like something a child might own. She guessed the purse had slid under the keyboard when Izzie had emptied the contents of her bag across the desk in her rummage for her house keys. She recalled Izzie’s frantic face the previous week when she’d thought she’d mislaid the small purse during her lunch hour, and her relief when she’d found it in a side pocket of her bag.

Whatever it was, it was important to Izzie.

Gemma opened the zip and peeked inside. Stuck between a seashell and a small beach pebble was a USB memory stick. It could be Izzie’s back-up for all her work files, but more likely it was for personal stuff if she kept it in her bag, and Gemma wondered if she’d need it during the Christmas break. Probably not if she was ‘off to a yoga retreat’, which is where Gemma and everyone else was supposed to think she was going. Best thing to do, Gemma decided, was to text her to say she’d come across it on her desk and would lock it away in the cabinet until Izzie’s return in the new year. She went over to her desk and picked up her phone.

‘Hey,’ she heard a voice calling. ‘What’s keeping you? We’re almost ready to start the party, but we need your sparkling fun.’

Kian Casey, one of the letting agents, strode across the floor holding two glasses and a bottle of Prosecco in his hands. She turned around to see who he was talking to, the person he declared to be such sparkling fun, but the desks behind her were empty. He scarcely meant her, did he?

Sparkling fun. She’d never been called that before.

‘Is it starting now?’ she asked. ‘I thought it was this afternoon.’ She knew her voice sounded tinny and her face was reddening to match her jumper. Kian was gorgeous – not only gorgeous, but seriously hot – and someone she’d fancied since her first day, when she’d spotted him in the canteen. He looked different with his tie off and his white shirt open at the neck – more relaxed and casual. She was used to seeing him perfectly groomed, buzzing around the reception area with clients, a phone in one hand and a briefcase in the other. She didn’t think he’d taken any notice of her. Not with the likes of the other female staff who worked. . .