Kitabı oku: «11 Missed Calls: A gripping psychological thriller that will have you on the edge of your seat»
ELISABETH CARPENTER
11 MISSED CALLS
Copyright
Published by Avon an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street,
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Elisabeth Carpenter 2018
Cover photographs © Arcangel
Cover photographs © Alamy
Cover design © www.blacksheep-uk.com 2018
Elisabeth Carpenter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008223540
Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008223557
Version: 2018-04-18
Dedication
In memory of:
Daniel and Dorothy Sweeney
Patricia and Stanley Carpenter
Michael Carpenter
Julia Thorn
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
Prologue
Monday, 28 July 1986
Tenerife, Canary Islands
Debbie
The rock I’m standing on is only twelve inches long – just a foot stopping me falling into the water nearly five hundred feet below. The stone is cool under my bare feet.
It’s quiet; there aren’t many cars going past behind me. It must be late, or early. There’s a lovely warm breeze, one you don’t get in England when it’s dark. If it gets stronger, it might push me over the edge. Hitting water from this height is meant to be like landing on tarmac.
I’ve always been afraid of heights. What a strange time to conquer my fear. Nathan said this part of the cliffs is called La Gran Caída. Perhaps the name will be imprinted on my soul, alongside Bobby’s and Annie’s. I thought that when I had children, I’d become a better person. I think I’ve always had a badness, a sadness, inside me.
Why are my thoughts everywhere? They need to be here. I’m ridiculous, silly; my mother’s right. She’s always right. I’m useless to everyone. Everyone will be happier without me. Especially the children.
Oh God, no.
I can’t think about the children.
They have Peter. I’d only let them down again. What if I were left on my own with Annie again? I might kill her.
They’ll forget me soon enough. They’re young enough to erase me from their memory.
Breathe, breathe.
I’m surprised by how calm I am.
It’s like my mind was coated in tar, but now it’s been wiped clean.
I close my eyes.
So, this is how it ends.
I thought I’d be scared if ever I fell from such a height, but if I jump there’ll be nothing I can do about it.
The warm breeze skims my face again. I should be with my children right now, lying next to them, watching them sleep.
But I can’t. I’m not good enough for them. They’ll end up hating me.
Bobby, Annie, you were the loves of my life.
‘Debbie! For God’s sake, what are you doing?’
Is that the voice inside my head again?
I close my eyes. I don’t want anyone to stop me. I just want darkness.
Don’t look back. I can’t look back.
‘Debbie, come away from there!’
Before I have time to think, I’m turning around.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘It’s you.’
Chapter One
Present Day
Anna
My mother, Debbie, has been missing for thirty years, ten months and twenty-seven days. It’s her birthday the day after tomorrow – two days after mine. I’m three years older than she was when she was last seen. She disappeared so long ago, that my father doesn’t talk about her any more. I have always taken scraps of information from my stepmother, Monica, and my grandfather, who will never give up hope.
But they have run out of new things to say about her. I was just over one month old when she left. I have no memories of my own, but I have a box. Inside it are random objects, music records, and photographs that belonged to her. There’s also a scrapbook with pages and pages of facts I wrote about her: She had dark hair, like mine. She was five foot five (two inches taller than me).She had her ears pierced twice in each ear. (Gran didn’t like it and had no idea where she got the money, at fifteen, to do that.) She liked The Beatles and Blondie. She wasn’t very happy at the end.
I started the list when I was eleven, so my first entries are naive and in the past tense. What I would like to know now is: What made you leave? and Do you ever think of us? But of course, no one can answer those questions but her.
The letterbox rattles, shaking me out of my thoughts. Sophie runs to the front door. The envelopes look huge in her little hands.
‘There are loads more cards for you, Mummy,’ she says.
She hands me the three pastel-coloured envelopes. I examine the handwriting on each one to see if I recognise it. I don’t know why I do it to myself every year. If the writing is unfamiliar, I get butterflies and a feeling of anticipation. What if this is the day she contacts me? What if it is today that I find out that she’s not dead – that she did something so terrible she had to protect us from the truth?
It is wishful thinking. I have made up so many stories in my head over the years. They get more absurd every time: she died the night she disappeared; she’s in prison for drug smuggling; she’s living in a South American village after suffering from amnesia.
I place the birthday cards on the table.
‘Are you not going to open them?’ asks Sophie.
‘We’ll wait till Grandad arrives. He’ll be here in a minute.’
Birthdays make me think of her even more. I often wonder what my mother would look like now if she were alive. I try not to look out for her any more. Not after it got me into so much trouble last time.
A few months ago, I told Sophie she was dead. It was the worst thing I could have said, but I didn’t want her thinking she had a grandmother out there in the world that wasn’t interested in her. I hadn’t meant to say it.
‘When are you going to leave me, Mummy?’ Sophie had said.
‘Never,’ I said.
‘But Granny Debbie left you and Uncle Robert.’
‘Not on purpose.’
‘Did you lose her?’
‘I suppose we did,’ I said, stroking her hair to take the sting out of it.
‘Is she in heaven, then? That’s what my friend Lila said about her nana. She had to go to church and then after the singing and the crying, they went outside and the wooden box she was in went into the ground. At least three metres under the grass, she said. But she wasn’t allowed to watch that bit – it was what her cousin told her. He’s twelve so he saw everything. Is that what happened to Granny?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about your friend Lila.’
Sophie shrugged. ‘She’s okay. She’s on the gold step now. But we all don’t mind. It was her first time. She might be naughty again next week.’
‘Everyone’s naughty sometimes, Sophie. But be kind to her, will you?’
‘Yeah.’
She’s sitting at the kitchen table now, making her own birthday card for me.
Sometimes I worry I might have the same thoughts as Debbie – that I will abandon everyone, leave in the middle of the night without being able to stop myself.
I hear Dad’s car pull up outside.
‘Grandad!’ shouts Sophie, as the car door slams shut.
Just the one door: Monica’s not with him.
They usually do everything together now they’re both retired.
I open the front door, and Sophie squeezes between me and the door frame as we watch Dad walk down the front path. He’s tall, but he always keeps his head down, like he wants to blend in with the background.
He looks up before the step.
‘I didn’t realise there’d be a welcoming committee!’ he says, bowing slightly.
He’s trying to look happy for Sophie and me, but the smile is only present on his lips. It’s a manner so familiar to me that it’s almost normal.
‘Happy Birthday, love,’ he says, before kissing my cheek, and stepping inside.
He ties a silver balloon to the end of the bannister and places a gift bag on the floor.
‘Am I allowed to play with it?’ Sophie says, standing on the bottom stair, and blowing the balloon sideways.
‘Maybe later,’ I say. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
Dad and Sophie follow me into the kitchen.
‘But it’s your birthday,’ says Dad, ‘and it’s a Saturday. Let’s have a drop of fizz.’
Sophie sits back at the table.
‘Why’s Grandad talking posh?’
‘I don’t know.’
Dad pulls out a bottle of champagne from my gift bag and hands it to me. It’s already chilled. He nudges me aside and reaches into the cupboard for three wine glasses. It’s like he can’t stop moving.
‘You know how I feel about birthdays, Dad. I don’t want a fuss.’
‘Course you do – it’s your thirtieth! We had champagne on your twenty-first, remember? I take it Jack’s at work … on a Saturday? I’ve never known a conveyancing solicitor work a weekend in my entire life.’ Dad glances at me and raises his eyebrows. ‘Anyway, your brother should be here any minute.’
I don’t say that Robert probably won’t drink either. Robert would think that ordering a taxi so he can enjoy a few glasses of champagne during the day is one step towards anarchy, lack of self-control, and being on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
He has always been the same. Robert was six when Debbie disappeared. Everyone says it’s harder for him, because he remembers. When I was little, Robert told me that Dad was arrested after we came back to England – that, for a few days, it was like he had lost two parents. He probably doesn’t remember telling me; he’s barely mentioned it since. He hates talking about her now. He couldn’t understand why, until only a few years ago, I had pictures of her everywhere. Most of those photographs are in the loft now.
‘Where’s Monica?’ I say. ‘Is she ill again?’
He fills the glasses halfway, waiting for the bubbles to melt before he tops them up. We’re not usually the champagne kind of family.
‘No – well, not physically – it’s just … we’ve had an email. I can’t tell you what was in it until Robert gets here. He won’t be long.’
‘An email? Why didn’t you just forward it to me, or tell me over the phone? Does Leo know?’
Leo is our stepbrother – Monica’s son – but he lives in America with his father.
‘No, no. We wouldn’t tell him without you two knowing first.’ He paces along the small space between the sink and the kitchen table. ‘I did wonder whether it was the right day to do this, but I couldn’t face you today without telling you.’
‘What does it say?’
He narrows his eyes and purses his lips.
‘Is it about Debbie?’ I say.
He nods slowly.
My legs start to shake. It feels like the blood has run cold in my face. I lean against the back of a chair.
What could an email say about her? If her remains had been found, or if she were still alive – it wouldn’t be in a casual email. Maybe this is how it’s done these days – especially if she were found in Tenerife. Has a dog found her while searching for a bone? Or has she been discovered in a hospital somewhere – her memory wiped by an accident?
I must stop thinking.
Dad wouldn’t open champagne if it were bad news, would he?
I open my mouth; I almost don’t want to say it out loud.
‘Is she dead?’ I whisper, so Sophie doesn’t hear.
‘Anna, love, just be patient. Please. He’ll be here soon.’
Why did he not just say no – put me out of my misery?
My stomach is churning. Deep breath. Breathe, breathe.
He looks at his watch and we stand wordlessly, with only the sound of the wine bubbling, losing its fizz. Briefly, the mask slips from his face when he thinks I’m not looking – I have seen it often over the years: the sadness of remembering something lost.
‘Sophie,’ I say. ‘I’ll put a film on for you while we wait for Uncle Robert. Then we can have some cake.’
‘Cake?’
‘Yes, love.’
She takes my hand, and we go into the living room. I flick on the television, but it takes too long to find a film – my hands are shaking.
‘Just put the kids’ channel on,’ she says, her head tilted to the side as she looks at me.
‘Good plan. Thanks, sweetheart.’
She’s only six, but she can be so perceptive at times. I pull the living-room door closed as much as I can without her panicking that I am going to abandon her.
Dad’s looking at the clock when I walk back into the kitchen.
‘It’s not like Robert to be ten minutes late,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you open your present? Monica’s so excited about it.’
‘Why isn’t she here then?’
‘She thought she’d give us some space while I tell you the news.’
‘That’s very understanding of her.’
Dad narrows his eyes for a second. Perhaps I was too sarcastic. Monica has been married to my father since I was eleven, but she has always been in my life. My mother is presumed dead in the eyes of the law.
‘She hasn’t taken it well,’ he says. ‘She didn’t even want me to read it.’
‘What? Wasn’t it addressed to you?’
I follow him as he walks out of the kitchen and into the hall. He peers through the window next to the front door.
‘Dad?’
He is saved by the bell. I open the door to Robert.
‘Happy Birthday, Anna,’ he says, unwrapping his scarf – he’s never without one. ‘Hotter than I thought it’d be today. Should’ve gone with the cotton.’
Robert hands me a birthday card, which will contain fifteen pounds.
‘Come on through to the kitchen, you two,’ says Dad, walking straight there.
‘What’s going on?’ says Robert, draping his jacket along the stairs. He glances at the balloon on the end of the bannister. ‘You really should get a coat stand or something.’
‘He’s got an email,’ I say, ‘about Debbie.’
Robert’s shoulders slump; he lowers his head, his eyes scanning the wooden floor of the hall.
‘Is it good news or bad?’ he says, finally looking up at me.
‘I don’t know. But he opened champagne.’
‘That could mean anything.’
He links his arm through mine and guides me through to the kitchen.
‘What do you mean by that?’ I hiss.
Dad’s leaning against the kitchen cupboards – he’s already pulled out two chairs.
‘Ssh,’ Robert says to me, sitting on the chair nearest Dad.
‘Okay.’ Dad clasps his hands together. ‘Sorry about this, Anna – it being on your birthday and all.’
‘She hates birthdays anyway,’ says Robert.
‘This came through yesterday.’ He picks up a brown envelope from the kitchen counter behind him, and takes out two sheets of A4. ‘Well, Monica received it a few days ago – I only saw it yesterday. I’ve done a copy for both of you.’
‘Why didn’t she show it to you straight away?’ I say to Dad.
He just shrugs.
My brother snatches one of the sheets from Dad’s hand.
‘Robert!’ I say, taking the other.
I glance down quickly. There are only a few lines.
I read it properly.
Dear Monica,
It’s time to tell the truth.
Debbie x
The memories of shells and sweet things are sometimes all we have left.
‘Is this it?’ says Robert, standing up. ‘It’s a crank letter. You’ve had them before, haven’t you, Dad?’
‘What?’ I say. ‘No one said anything to me.’
‘I suppose they didn’t want to upset you,’ Robert says.
I frown at him, making a note in my mind to ask Monica about it next time I see her.
‘But what if it’s not?’ I say quietly. ‘My memory box is covered in shells.’
Robert tuts. ‘That could mean anything. You’re just making it significant because it means something to you. It’s like these charlatan psychics. If Debbie were alive, why would she make contact now after so long?’
‘Something might’ve happened,’ I say to Dad. ‘It says it’s time. Why did she address it to Monica and not you?’
Dad shakes his head.
‘I’ve no idea what it means,’ he says. ‘Neither does Monica. We’ll just have to wait and see if she sends something else.’
‘If it’s even a she who wrote it,’ says Robert. ‘It could be anyone.’
‘Did you reply?’ I say.
We both look up at Dad.
‘I … I think Monica might have. I’ve been a bit shaken by it all, to be honest.’
‘It sounds a bit sinister,’ I say. ‘What does Monica think it means?’
Dad takes one of the glasses of champagne and takes a large sip.
‘Like I said, she doesn’t know.’
Robert looks at me and shrugs.
‘That’s because it’s a load of crap.’
‘Uncle Robert!’ Sophie runs into the kitchen and jumps onto Robert’s lap. ‘Did you just say crap?’
‘Of course not!’ says Robert. ‘I said slap.’
‘Which isn’t much better,’ says Dad, rubbing the top of Sophie’s head.
I walk into the living room and switch off the television. I look down at the email again. Monica received it days ago, yet didn’t show Dad. I look out of the window, leaning against the glass. I don’t know what I expect to see outside. But a thought strikes me.
Monica knows more than she is letting on.
Chapter Two
3 a.m. Thursday, 26 June 1986
Debbie
I’ve been looking at the same page of this stupid magazine for over an hour, trying to read the words under the crappy night-light above my head, but I keep daydreaming. The article’s about making the perfect chocolate roulade, and getting the timings right for all the ‘trimmings’ on Christmas day. It’s from one of the women’s magazines Mum has been saving for months – or maybe years, judging by the state of them. She’s still trying to convince me that Good Housekeeping will make me a more fulfilled person and a better mum. But there’s nothing more depressing than reading about Christmas in June. I don’t know why she thinks I’d be interested in things like this – she’s not the best cook herself. I’m nearly twenty-seven, not forty-seven. I should be reading about George Michael or the G spot.
I throw it onto the bed tray, but it slips off. The sound is amplified by a rare moment of silence on the maternity ward. I hold my breath in the hope that it cancels out the splat of the magazine onto the floor. Please, no one wake up. This peace is mine right now, and I don’t want anyone else to ruin it. My normal life is far from peaceful.
Annie looks like a little doll; she’s been so quiet. It must be the pethidine. She’s got the same podgy fingers that Bobby had – they’re like tiny tree trunks. I didn’t think she’d suit the name. I’d suggested Gemma or Rebecca, but Peter wanted to call her Anna after his late mother. It’s just right for her.
I’ve lost track of time and I’ve only been here for one night. The sky is purple; is it nearly morning or is it still dusk?
It’s hardly ever quiet in here, but they’re all asleep now. The new mothers try to feed as quietly as possible, but they’re amateurs, all three of them. And it’s never completely dark. They like to keep the light on above their heads. Perhaps they’re afraid that if it goes out, their babies will disappear.
I pick up the magazine, as quickly as I can with damn painful stitches, and place it on my cabinet. There are seven birthday cards, still in their envelopes, ready for me to open tomorrow, or is it today? Is it terrible that I’m glad I’m not sharing my birthday – to be relieved that Annie arrived two days earlier than her due date? It probably is, but I’ll keep that selfish thought in my head. It’s one of many, anyway.
‘Debbie.’
My mind wakes up, but I leave my eyes closed. It’s so hot. I’m on a beach, lying on sand in a cove that only I know about.
‘Debbie.’
Was that a voice in my head? I open one eye to find a nurse bending over me.
‘Oh God,’ I say. ‘The baby.’
I sit up as quickly as I can. How could I be so careless falling asleep so heavily? The nurse rests a cold hand on my wrist.
‘Baby’s fine,’ she says. ‘There’s a phone call for you.’
I swing my legs so they’re dangling over the side of the bed. The nurse pushes the payphone towards me and gives me the handset.
‘Debs, it’s me.’ It’s Peter. ‘How’s Annie? Did she wake much in the night? I wish I could be there. Shall I ask if you can come home early?’
It takes a few moments to digest Peter’s words. He must’ve thought of them during the night, to be saying them all at once. Being with children does that; makes you go over things in your mind, with no adult to talk to. He’s not used to it being just Bobby and him.
‘No, no,’ I say. ‘It’s fine. She’s being as good as gold.’
Good as gold? I sound like my mother.
‘I can’t make the afternoon visiting times today,’ he says, ‘but I’ll be there at seven tonight. I’ll drop Bobby off at school, then I’ll work straight through. Is that all right? I have to make sure I can spend at least a week at home when you both come out.’
‘That’s fine. Monica’s visiting this afternoon.’
‘Good, good.’
‘I have to go now, though. They’re bringing lunch round.’
‘Really?’
‘Bye, Peter.’
I place the handset back into the cradle. I hate making small talk, especially while a whole maternity ward can hear me shouting down the payphone. The nurse doesn’t say anything, even though when I look at the clock on the wall it’s only eight in the morning, and four hours from lunchtime. I suppose she’s seen everything, so I don’t feel as embarrassed as I should. I’ve spent so long lying to Peter – Yes, I’m fine and Yes, I’ve always wanted two children – that it comes naturally to me.
Why is he taking a whole week off? He’s branch manager now at Woolies – surely they can’t be without him for that long. I’m sure he didn’t with Bobby, though that time is a blur. I don’t think I can remember anything – I might’ve forgotten how to look after a tiny baby.
The woman in the bed next to me is snoring so loudly, it’s like being at home. A silver chain her boyfriend bought her is dangling off the hospital bed. ‘I can’t wear necklaces at night,’ she said yesterday, ‘in case they strangle me in my sleep.’ I was about to tell her that I was afraid of spiders to make her feel better, but I remembered Mum saying I shouldn’t make everything about me. ‘It’s called empathy,’ I said. ‘Ego,’ she said. She’s too humble for her own good. I blame Jesus – she loves him more than life itself.
Yesterday, she whispered, ‘Mothers are so much older these days.’ (Some of her opinions aren’t as Christian as they should be.) ‘Women want everything now,’ she said. ‘They all want to be men.’
It was, of course, a stupid thing to say in a maternity ward. And she was an older mother herself.
An assistant is coming round to change the water jugs.
‘It’s good that you’re dressed,’ she says to me. ‘Makes you feel a bit more together, doesn’t it?’
I look down at my Frankie Says Relax T-shirt and red tartan pyjama bottoms. My mouth is already open when I say, ‘Yes.’
She looks at my birthday cards, displayed on the cabinet. I can’t even remember opening them.
‘Happy Birthday, lovey,’ she says.
It’s only then I realise that Peter forgot my birthday.
At last, Annie makes a feeble sound as though she can’t be bothered.
‘I know, little girl,’ I say. ‘Sometimes it’s more effort than it’s worth, waking up.’
I pick her up and out of the plastic fish tank (that’s what Bobby called it when he visited yesterday) and put the ready-prepared bottle to her lips, settling back into the pillows. She suckles on it – probably going too fast, too much air – but I let her. She’s going to be a feisty little thing, I can tell.
Everyone else wanted me to have a girl. No one believed me when I said I didn’t mind, that healthy was all that mattered. But I would’ve been happy with two boys, I’m sure. It seems longer than nearly six years since I had Bobby – I was only twenty-one, but I felt so grown-up. He’s so loving, so sensitive. ‘Perfect little family now,’ said Mum. ‘One of each.’ And I should feel that, shouldn’t I?
But I don’t.
Chapter Three
Anna
I used to have dreams that Debbie was dead and had come back to life. Sometimes she would be rotting, sometimes she would be an unwelcome guest as the family was sitting around the table for Sunday lunch. I don’t remember seeing her happy in my dreams. When I was eight, I used to have the same nightmare, over and over. I still remember it now. Our house was burning down, and a woman stood at my bedroom doorway screaming. Robert came to my side that night and sang ‘Hush, Little Baby’. I thought it childish the morning after, but at the time it soothed me. He said that Debbie sang it to me in the middle of the night a few times when I wouldn’t sleep.
I can’t sleep now. My mind won’t be still.
If Debbie were alive, then it would mean it was my fault that she left. She was fine until I came into the world. Not that anyone has said as much, but Dad, Robert – they all probably think it is down to me that she isn’t here any more. Perhaps I was a mistake.
I can’t stop thinking about her. I wish I hadn’t put all of Debbie’s photographs in the loft. Jack would call me crazy if I got the ladder down at three o’clock in the morning.
What would she look like now? Would she still hate me?
Random thoughts like these always come into my head when I try not to think of her.
A few years after we married, Jack told me I was obsessed with her.
‘I know,’ I said.
‘It’s not enough that you’re aware of it,’ he said. ‘You have to change it.’
Yesterday, he came home after Dad and Robert had left, and Sophie had gone to bed. Dad asked why a conveyancer would be called out to work on a Saturday, but I’ve stopped probing Jack about it. He must be so busy at work that he forgot my birthday. He knows I hate birthdays, which is his usual excuse. I should tell him that it’s not enough that you’re aware of it.
We met when I was twenty-two and Jack was twenty-four, at a Spanish evening class. I only went on Monica’s suggestion. ‘You’re too young to be stuck in all day on your own, love,’ she said. ‘I don’t like seeing you so lonely.’
I had been desperate to meet someone, perhaps have children – a family of my own. I’m not sure I would be in so much of a rush, had I the chance to start again; I was far too young, but I had no friends and hardly ever went out. I had just finished university and was applying for at least twenty jobs a week.
Before the first class, Monica took me into Boots to have a makeover.
‘Could you do something with her eyebrows?’ she said to the lady dressed in white – plastered in thick foundation and bright-red lipstick. ‘They’ve gone a bit wild.’
‘Monica!’ I said through gritted teeth, as I sat on a pedestal for everyone in the shop to see.
‘We might as well, while we’re here.’
After my face had been transformed, Monica took me to the hairdressers: my first visit for several years.
‘She has beautiful hair,’ Monica said to the stylist, ‘but perhaps we could put some highlights at the front … to frame her lovely face.’
On the way home, I caught sight of myself in her car’s vanity mirror and got a fright. I didn’t look like me any more.
When I walked into the classroom that evening, I thought Jack was the teacher. He was standing at the front, talking to the students with such confidence. But when he opened his mouth, he spoke with a broad Yorkshire accent and was worse at Spanish than I was. I learned that he’d stayed in Lancashire after university, after his parents abandoned him to go and live in Brighton.
Jack said I wasn’t like other women he met. ‘You’re an innocent, Anna. It’s like you’ve been sheltered from the world.’
But that was my act – the character I chose to present to others at that time. Self-preservation. I didn’t even look like the real me. I could act like I had no silly fears − of heights, swimming pools, and other irrational things. But I couldn’t pretend forever. When I confessed my greatest fears three months later, Jack hadn’t laughed at me. ‘They’re perfectly reasonable phobias,’ he’d said. ‘But life’s about risk sometimes.’
Jack’s parents moved away so long ago – Sophie has only met them six times. They think it’s enough to send my daughter ten pounds in a card for her birthday and Christmas.
I think because Jack isn’t close to his parents, there’s no love lost between him and my dad. When he’s drunk, Jack often ponders out loud whether my dad had anything to do with my mother’s disappearance, and rolls off the possible ways in which it could have happened.
‘Why else,’ he said one night, ‘would he end up married to Debbie’s best friend?’
I switch off when he starts talking like that. He has stopped saying sorry about it in the morning – if he remembers saying it at all. I console myself that he’s only so boorish when he’s had a drink.
‘Dad … well, Monica … got an email from someone saying they’re my mother,’ I said to him when he got in last night. I was sitting at the kitchen table – the champagne, which had long gone flat, still in three glasses.
‘Is that why you’ve taken to drink?’ he said, shrugging off his suit jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair.
‘It’s not funny,’ I said.
I thought he would be more surprised. It was like his mind was elsewhere.
He grabbed the glass with the most wine in, and downed half of it. He winced.
‘It’s flat.’ He pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Do you think it’s really her? It can’t be, surely. It must be some lunatic wanting a bit of attention.’
‘I’ve no idea if it is or isn’t. How would I know that?’
Jack raised his eyebrows. He hates anything that borders on histrionic.
‘If it is,’ I said, ‘then it means she left us … That she left me.’
I saw the briefest flicker of irritation on his face. He gets like that when I talk about Debbie in that way. He hates people with a poor me attitude. It’s bad enough that I have a fear of swimming pools and spiders. I don’t want to be a victim. I have tried to overcome that feeling all my life.
He pulled off his tie, in the way he always does: wrenching it off with one hand, while grimacing as though he were being strangled. Who’s the victim now, eh? I thought to myself.
‘What a day,’ he said, as usual. ‘Have you got a copy of the email?’
‘Yes. Dad gave me and Robert a print-out. I wonder if we could trace the email address. Do you think I should ring Leo?’
‘Will he care?’
‘Course he’ll care … he grew up with us. At least, until I was ten.’
‘Sharing a bedroom with your brother would make anyone want to flee the country.’
I don’t laugh.
‘I’ll look at the email later,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a really long day. Is there anything in for tea?’
I looked at him for a few seconds, waiting for him to realise. But he didn’t. Sophie had claimed the balloon my dad gave me; it was floating from her bedpost. My cards were on top of the fridge, but Jack hadn’t noticed them.
I stood.
‘I’m going to bed,’ I said. ‘There’s a new volunteer starting tomorrow.’
He snorted. ‘Ah, the ex-con. And on a Sunday as well.’ He made the sign of the cross with his left hand. ‘Lock up your handbag.’
‘Yes, very funny,’ I said as I walked towards the door. ‘It’s part of the offender-rehabilitation programme Isobel’s been going on about.’
His chair scraped on the stone floor as he stood.
‘Guess I’ll just stick a pizza in the oven then.’
I tried to stomp up the stairs, but failed in bare feet. Happy sodding Birthday, Anna.
I look at him next to me in bed now, jealous of his ability to sleep soundly at this hour. He’s never had anything big to worry about. It’s 3.45 a.m. If I get up now, I’ll be a wreck later, but I can’t lie here with only my thoughts.
I manage to avoid all the creaking floorboards and make it quietly downstairs to the kitchen. The ticking of the clock is too loud. On the table, Jack’s plate is covered with pizza crusts, and crumbs litter the floor under the chair.
The three wine glasses are now empty. Why the hell did he want to drink flat champagne? I go to the fridge to count the bottles of beer left: there were six, and now there are none. No wonder he’s sleeping so soundly. I don’t know why he’s drinking so much when he’s looking after Sophie tomorrow. He’s usually the sensible one.
I sit opposite his empty chair. It’s wearing the jacket that Jack was earlier. His right pocket is slightly open, and the top of his wallet is peeking out.
Before I know it, I’m out of my seat.
The wallet slips out of Jack’s pocket so easily, it’s like it was waiting for me. Inside is a picture of Sophie and me. It’s old – from Sophie’s first birthday. I look quite together in the photo, which is surprising considering what I was going through. There are some receipts – the usual expenses he claims: newspapers, dinner. I scan the food he ate at lunchtime yesterday: steak, crème brûlée, and one small glass of pinot noir. Only one meal, but quite an extravagant one – on my birthday. I almost give up searching, but I feel like I am missing something.
There is a compartment I’ve not noticed before: to the side and underneath his cards. I wedge my fingers inside it. There’s something there. I grasp it, using my fingers as tweezers, and pull it out.
It’s a note. The paper is blue, with black lines – like the old-fashioned Basildon Bond writing pad my grandmother used. The creases are crisp; it’s not been read many times. I unfold it and look straight to the name at the bottom: Francesca.
I read the rest of the letter.
This woman definitely knows my husband.
Chapter Four
Friday, 27 June 1986
Debbie
Peter’s holding Annie while I pack. I almost don’t want to leave the hospital. With Bobby, I wanted to go home straight away, but regretted it as soon as I got back.
Ever since I gave birth to him, I’ve been scared that I’ll die any minute. I go to bed and, most nights, I think I won’t wake up. Sometimes I’m exhausted, but when my mind feels sleep begin – it’s like I’m slipping from life, and I’m jolted awake. I can’t sleep for hours after.
At least in hospital I’m safe. Plus, people give you food to eat, and you don’t have to worry about housework. As much as Peter said he’d become one of these New Men who help tidy up and change nappies, it didn’t happen. Now I know what’s waiting for me when I get home.
I had a little routine here. I got to know Stacy in the next bed. Actually … know is exaggerating it a bit. We watched Coronation Street together, and both our babies decided to sleep through it, which was a miracle in itself. Stacy couldn’t get over Bet Lynch being in the Rovers when it was on fire. I told her that it’s not real life, but she was having none of it. I put a cushion between us when she said she fancied Brian Tilsley – it still gives me shivers thinking about it.
‘Was it horrible spending the whole of your birthday in hospital?’ says Peter.
‘It wasn’t too bad,’ I say.
I smile at him, so he’ll probably think it’s because of Annie that I didn’t mind, because she’s enough of a present. He gives me a smile back. He thinks he can read my mind. I look at him and he’s the same lovely-looking man I’ve been with for years. I love him. Why are my thoughts telling me different? It’s like they’re betraying me.
I zip up my suitcase; the clothes inside’ll smell of hospital when I open it up. I’ll probably feel sentimental about it.
‘It’s too warm in here,’ I say.
He smiles again. Perhaps he likes the fact I’m suffering for our child – even after being pregnant and giving birth. Perhaps he’s right. It was a relatively quick labour – I’ve not endured enough to deserve the life I’ll go back to: swanning about the house all day watching Sons and Daughters, The Sullivans, and all the other soaps he reckons I watched during those long weeks when my maternity leave started.
‘Good luck,’ says Stacy, lying in the next bed, baby fast asleep in her arms – her only child.
‘Good luck,’ I say, to be friendly. ‘Not that you’ll need it.’
‘We should meet up for coffee sometime,’ she says.
‘Yes, we should.’
I pick the baby up from the bed and Peter and I leave the ward. I didn’t give Stacy my telephone number because we’ll never get together. People suggest it all the time and they never mean it. I’m not sure if I’ll regret it or not.
Annie’s wrapped up in the shawl we used for Bobby on his first day out into the world. We’re in the lift and Annie’s not opened her eyes since leaving the ward. She’s going to miss her first proper glimpse of sky if she’s not careful.
‘There, there,’ I say, stroking her soft, plump cheek.
‘Don’t wake her, Debs,’ says Peter. ‘The bright light might startle her.’
‘Don’t be silly. She’s got to see it some time.’
The lift doors open and there are people everywhere.
‘Can we pop into the shop to get a souvenir?’ I say.
I don’t wait for Peter.
‘Is Annie not souvenir enough?’
I pretend I didn’t hear. I want something to put in her little keepsake box, like I did for Bobby. Someday she’ll look at it and know that I cared enough.
On the counter, there’s a selection of pens. I pick one up that has a boat sailing up and down. She’ll like that, I know she will. I’d have loved my mum to have bought me anything that wasn’t on a birthday or Christmas, even if it were practical.
‘A pen’s got nothing to do with hospitals,’ says Peter.
‘They’re hardly going to sell stethoscopes and hypodermic needles.’
I smile at the lady behind the counter, but she doesn’t smile back. She’s not amused. I’m used to it. Peter’s always telling me not to be so honest in public.
I wind the window down because it’s as hot in the car as it was in the hospital. I’m holding on to Annie tightly on the back seat. Peter’s driving at about ten miles an hour. It’s a good job our house is only five minutes away.
I’m staring at Annie, willing her eyes to open, and it seems she’s telepathic: her eyes don’t even squint in the daylight.
‘Welcome to the world, little girl.’
I say it quietly, so Peter doesn’t hear. I’m keeping this moment for me.
They’re due here at three. The house looks okay; I have the baby as an excuse not to bother about it so much. If it were my mum visiting, I’d make it a bit messier – if only to give her something to do. She likes to feel useful.
Bobby’s waiting by the window. His little hands are around the cat’s neck as it lies on the back of the settee. Annie’s in the pram next to him by the window – the midwife said it’s the best way to get the jaundice out of her.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind Monica and Nathan coming round?’ says Peter. ‘I tried to put them off, but she wouldn’t listen.’
‘It’s fine, it’s fine.’
Sometimes I think Peter knows about my secret, but he doesn’t seem to let on.
He says I look good, considering, but I don’t feel it. I can’t move quickly with these damn painful stitches; I walk like I’ve drenched my trousers in starch. I’d planned what to wear when they came round, but my blouse gaped too much at the front. I’m like a cow that needed milking two days ago, and my breasts are leaking so much. So now, I’m wearing a jumper, in June, with two green paper towels from the hospital stuffed in each cup of my bra.
‘They’re here,’ shouts Bobby, jumping down from the settee, scaring the cat.
‘I’ll go,’ says Peter, as though he’s doing me a huge favour by answering the door.
I hear them in the hallway – Monica’s whispering in case Annie’s asleep, but Peter’s talking normally because we’ve decided to talk at a regular volume during the day so as not to make the baby used to silence. It took Bobby three years to learn that there didn’t have to be quiet in order to sleep.
I’m not the first person Nathan looks at when he walks in the room. His eyes are on the floor until his gaze reaches the pram wheels, and only then does he look up. He almost tiptoes, which isn’t really necessary on the carpet.
‘Well aren’t you a pretty little thing?’ he says.
Monica’s in my face and I almost jump, until I realise she’s kissing my cheek.
‘I know I saw you in the hospital,’ she says, ‘but bloody well done, you.’
She hands me a Marks & Sparks carrier bag that she’s filled with magazines, Ferrero Rocher, and a mini bottle of Snowball. Is it too early to open it?
‘You don’t need to whisper, everyone,’ shouts Peter, as though there were a crowd in the room. ‘We’re doing this thing …’
I let him explain. It’s embarrassing. It’s like we’re pretending to be New Age parents when we’re probably the opposite. Does Nathan think I’m boring now – worrying about babies and what sort of noise is acceptable?
‘Did you see the match on Sunday?’ Peter says to Nathan.
‘Oh God, don’t mention it,’ says Monica. ‘He’s not stopped moaning about it all week.’
‘Bloody hand of God,’ says Nathan. ‘I’m not watching any more World Cup. I just can’t believe …’ He shakes his head.
Monica sits and pulls Nathan down towards the settee by his hand; he lands next to her. Peter goes to the kitchen, and Monica leans towards me, her hands on her knees.
‘Peter’s so good, isn’t he?’
I glance at Nathan; he’s still not looking at me.
‘He is,’ I say. ‘He’s the best.’
Monica tilts her head. They’ve left Leo at his friend’s so they can have a proper visit. She’s so nice to me, she’s been such a good friend. I suddenly have this sense of remorse and a crushing feeling of shame about the thoughts I’ve been having. She gets down onto her knees and reaches into her pocket for a rectangular tissue.
‘It’s only normal,’ she says. ‘I cried for days after I had Leo.’
I hadn’t realised I was crying.
I pat my face dry and look at Nathan above the tissue.
He narrows his eyes when he looks at me.
Was that hatred? Does he think I’m weird? I’ve always been inappropriate. I feel like I’m in the wrong life. I should be with Nathan, not Peter. He was with me first, after all.
There was a girl in my class at school who died in a car crash when she was fourteen. I’ll always remember her name: Leslie Pickering. It’s terrible that I think about her at times like this, and I don’t know why I do. I think to myself: she never has to go through this, and I wish I were her. These thoughts scare me.
‘It’s just … just …’
I think of poor Leslie Pickering’s parents. I bet they wish I were dead instead of her, too.
My face is in my hands. Why am I doing this in front of them?
Monica pats my knees and rubs them like I need warming.
‘We need to arrange a night out,’ she says.
I look up. Nathan wrinkles his nose.
‘Don’t be stupid, Monica,’ he says. ‘She’s just had a baby – why the hell would she want a night out?’
I sit up a bit straighter and stuff the tissue up my sleeve.
‘Mind your language in front of Bobby,’ says Monica. ‘What about Lytham Club Day tomorrow instead? We could let the boys go on a few rides.’
‘Actually, that doesn’t seem such a bad idea,’ I say, pretending I want to go outside – that I wouldn’t care if everyone saw me walking like I’ve a horse missing between my legs. I could take some painkillers. ‘I’ve been in the house for too long. I could do with getting out.’
I try to make eye contact with Nathan, but after a few minutes, it gets silly. I’m ridiculous. Because it’s all in my head. Why would he want me? A mother who’s just given birth to her second child, and a wife who’s supposed to be in love with her husband. I’m a joke.
Chapter Five
Anna
Sheila, the volunteer who comes in nearly every day, is in the back room of the bookshop, filling the kettle and sighing to herself. I don’t want to be here either. I need to be investigating the address that Debbie sent the email from.
It was at the end of primary school that I started the scrapbook filled with facts about her. I thought if I kept a list, then it would keep her alive – it was something tangible. As soon as I learned something new, I would write it down. There must be over a hundred snippets of information in there. Sometimes things would slip out of Dad or Robert’s mouth and I would repeat it again and again in my head till I could find a pen and paper. Grandad never said much about Debbie, though. I never had to carry a notebook when I went to his house. Perhaps he thought he was being kind.
Grandad usually comes into the bookshop on a Sunday after the ten o’clock Mass. He sits at the counter if he can wrestle Sheila out of the way. He said he wasn’t really into religion until Gran died nearly twenty years ago. He’s been to church every Sunday since.
My grandmother was sixty-nine when she had her first, fatal heart attack. I was ten, nearly eleven. She used to talk about my mother all the time. ‘I want you to remember all the little bits,’ she said, ‘in case I’m not around for long enough.’ It was as though she’d predicted her own death. She was the one who helped me create the scrapbook. ‘Your brother’s still too hurt to hear all of this. I don’t see that changing any time soon, Lord help him,’ she said. ‘But I’m glad you want to know. Frank can’t talk about her for long … He hides in his office.’
Grandad’s office is a little wooden shed he built in their back yard.
I wonder how he is taking the news about the note from Debbie. Dad must have told him by now, yet Grandad’s not answering his telephone or replying to his emails or texts. My messages are coming up as read, so I know he’s okay. But it’s not like him to ignore anything. He loves technology – he was the person who explained the workings of the Internet to me. ‘We are all closer together because of this,’ he said. ‘Though sometimes it makes us realise we’re worlds apart.’
The new volunteer is five minutes late. How can she expect to be taken seriously if she’s not punctual? She’s meant to be embarking on a new start. That’s what my boss, Isobel, said. I might be the manager of this bookshop, but sometimes Isobel sends volunteers here because she wants to appear more Christian than she really is.
At least it takes my mind off the letter for five minutes. Or rather, letters: plural. Why are different aspects of my life falling apart at exactly the same time? Can’t things go well for more than one day?
I put Jack’s letter back in his wallet last night, but only after I had taken a photo of it on my mobile phone. To the love of my life. That’s what she called him. It wasn’t dated, so I can’t tell if it is old or new. There were no references to any events past or present. I try to think back to when Jack and I got together, to remember names of past girlfriends, but I can’t. I don’t think we even mentioned our exes; it didn’t seem important once we found each other.
If the volunteer isn’t here in three minutes, I’ll look at the letter on my phone ag—
‘Annie Donnelly?’
I didn’t even hear the door open. A woman is standing in front of me. She is taller than me and in her late fifties, at a guess. She’s without make-up and her face looks weather-beaten and tanned, as though she spends her weekends outdoors. Her hair is dark, and her skin has a healthy glow that I will never have, being in this bookshop all the time.
‘It’s Anna,’ I say, a little more harshly than I intended.
I slide off the stool behind the counter.
‘Sorry.’ Her voice is quiet, but she returns my gaze. ‘I’m Ellen.’
‘It’s eight minutes past.’
I’m not usually so spiky, but already I get the impression she doesn’t want to be here. She glances at the clock behind me, then looks at her wrist.
‘My watch is behind … since the clocks went forward. I must’ve set it wrong.’
‘Right.’ I try not to waver from her gaze.
The clocks went forward nearly three months ago, but I don’t mention it.
‘Follow me into the back,’ I say, leading her into the small stockroom. Every spare space on the twenty-three long shelves is crammed with books.
‘I’ll get to my spot behind the counter,’ says Sheila, carrying her cup of tea.
‘Do you want to see my CV?’ asks Ellen, blinking so much now, it’s like there is something in her eyes. She reaches into her handbag before I reply, and hands me a brown envelope. ‘It sounds worse than it was.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘What they say I did. Did Isobel tell you?’
She means her criminal record. I’ve seen enough crime dramas to know that everyone says, I didn’t do it.
‘No. Isobel has this thing about confidentiality – she takes it seriously. If you want to tell me when you’re ready, then that’s up to you. As Isobel took it upon herself to get your references, you don’t have to tell me anything.’
I really want to ask what she was in prison for, but the words won’t come out. I’m the manager – I can’t engage in gossip.
‘Oh,’ says Ellen.
I’ve said too much, mentioning Isobel and her confidentiality, which I over exaggerated. She goes on about data protection, but she’s the biggest gossip I know.
We look at each other as I wait for Ellen to tell me all about it. She breaks my stare, looking instead at all the books on the shelves.
‘What do you want me to do?’ she says.
I try not to look disappointed – it might be on her CV. Though I doubt most people would count being in prison as an occupation.
I point to the table, which has three huge boxes of books on it.
‘These need sorting into categories and putting on the shelves, which are labelled with different genres, and fiction and non-fiction. Would you like a cup of tea first? My grandmother always used to say …’
I walk towards the kitchenette, not bothering to finish my sentence. Ellen’s already unpacking the books. I was boring myself anyway.
The sound of the kettle masks my opening her envelope. There is only one thing I want to check. If my mother were alive, she would be fifty-eight tomorrow. I look at the back of Ellen’s head. There is a photo of Robert in one of our old albums, where he’s gluing plane parts together; Debbie is sitting with her back to the camera – her long dark hair is pulled into a bun, so it looks like it’s shorter. Ellen looks just like her from behind.
I peek at the top of her CV. I see it.
I read it again to make sure.
Ellen has the same date of birth as my mother.
Sheila sniffs and remains on her perch behind the till.
‘I don’t have to go in the back if I don’t want to,’ she says. ‘If she wants to say hello, she’ll have to come in here.’ She leans forward. ‘She could be a murderess for all we know.’ She whispers as quietly as a church bell.
I could argue that Ellen probably isn’t a convicted killer, and that being the veteran volunteer of the bookshop with twelve years’ service, Sheila should make an effort to welcome her, but I don’t. It will fall on deaf ears, as things like this usually do with her – she pretends, at times convenient to her, that she’s hard of hearing.
Instead, I say, ‘How many people do you know that have the same birth date as you?’
It’s like I can hear the index cards sifting in her mind as her eyes drift away into the past.
‘Mavis Brierly,’ she says. ‘Fattest girl at school, though I don’t know how; no one had much money to buy so much food. After that, I met a woman in the maternity ward when I was expecting Timothy – can’t remember her name … began with a “C”, if I remember rightly. So, two people. Though they’re probably dead now. Most people I know are.’
I shouldn’t have asked her; I shouldn’t be thinking like this.
The last time it happened was six years ago. It was the woman who used to work in the bakery a few doors down from the shop I used to work in. If it hadn’t been for Jack, I’d have a restraining order against me.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘So, it’s not as unusual as I thought.’
‘Obviously not. There are only three hundred and sixty-five days in a year, and millions of people in this world.’ She leans towards me again. ‘Why do you ask? Has Tenko in there got the same birthday as you?’
‘Sheila! You must stop talking like that. Everyone deserves a second chance.’
Ellen clears her throat. She’s standing at the doorway.
‘This book,’ she says. ‘I think it might be valuable. It’s a Harry Potter first edition.’
Sheila picks up a pen and writes on the notepad next to the till on the counter. She pushes it towards me when she’s finished. She’s probably a thief.
My face grows hot as I rip the sheet from the pad. I screw it up and drop it into the bin, before ushering Ellen back into the storeroom. She can’t have seen what Sheila wrote, but she will have noticed the whispering, and the silence that followed her presence.
‘I’m so sorry about that,’ I say, in case she read it. ‘I’ll give Sheila a warning. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.’
Ellen sits at the table and places the book in front of her.
‘It’s okay. I’m used to it,’ she says. ‘There was one person in particular who targeted me when I was inside: Jackie Annand. She never liked me. But that’s another life. I’m here now.’
She looks up at me and smiles. She has the same eyes as Sophie.
Chapter Six
Wednesday, 2 July 1986
Debbie
We need to bin this digital alarm clock. Even when I close my eyes, I can still see the angry red numbers reminding me I’m not asleep. It’s one fifteen in the morning. If I go by her previous feeds, Annie’ll be waking again at three thirty. I could go and heat a bottle ready, in case she wakes early.
I keep checking she’s still breathing. She’s only a foot away, in her basket. What if I fall asleep too deeply, roll off the bed and crush her? No, no that couldn’t happen – I’ve not fallen out of bed since I was a child. But you never know. I shuffle away from the edge a bit.
I close my eyes, but my mind is busy with too much crap. My body’s exhausted – why won’t my brain listen to it? It’s no good. The memory of last Saturday keeps coming back to me. I wish I’d never gone with them to Lytham Club Day. There were too many people around – everyone stared at me. You shouldn’t be outside. I bet that’s what they were thinking.
I watched Bobby and Leo on the little rides, while Nathan, Monica and Peter went on the waltzers. It was too warm. The children’s rollercoaster went round and round and round, hundreds of times. I had to sit on the grass.
Peter and the others came over, swaying.
‘That was amazing,’ said Monica. ‘I haven’t been on one of those since I was a teenager.’
‘You have to go on something, Debs,’ said Peter.
I ended up climbing onto the lorry that had been converted into a two-storey ‘fun’ house with the boys. Bobby took me by the hand and pulled me up the stairs.
‘You’ll love it, Mummy,’ he said.
Halfway up the stairs, my legs started to shake. Why hadn’t I realised how high it would be up there? The eyes on the faces painted on the walls watched me. I tried to cover them with my hands as I walked past, but there were too many. Their gaze followed me until we reached the outside part of the upper level.
I held the rail opposite.
Peter and Monica stood waving at us; I couldn’t let go to wave back.
It was too high. I couldn’t breathe. A cold sweat covered my body.
Oh God, I thought. I’m going to die.
I kneeled on the metal floor. The ringing in my ears got louder.
‘Mummy? Mummy? Are you okay?’
Breathe, breathe.
I put my head close to my chest, closing my eyes.
I don’t know how many minutes passed before Bobby’s hand touched my shoulder.
‘Is it too high for you, Mummy?’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll help you down. I used to be like this when I was four.’
He reached down for my hand; I looked up at him.
My breathing gradually slowed.
‘I’m sorry, Bobby.’ I looked around, relieved I could get the words out of my mouth. The sound in my ears faded. ‘Come on, love. Let’s find something fun for you to go on next.’
I don’t know what happened to me that day.
Am I dying? I feel numb and my body doesn’t feel like mine any more. That day, I could barely breathe – there must be something wrong with me. My mind might be shutting down first.
1.23 a.m.
Oh God. I might go insane with tiredness. In an article in one of Mum’s magazines, it said if you can’t get to sleep, get up and make a milky drink, but I can’t find the energy.
After counting three hundred and fifty-six sheep, I turn onto my back and look up to the ceiling. This is torture. I bet Monica never had this.
I can’t believe I was trying to catch Nathan’s eye on Friday. What was I hoping to achieve? My face feels hot with the memory of it. He doesn’t even know how I feel – I don’t even know how I feel. Monica wouldn’t have noticed anyway. She was too busy being amazed by how great Peter is.
‘We should get a microwave too, Nath,’ she’d said. ‘We could have jacket potatoes every day, then.’
He’d rolled his eyes at her back, but frowned when he realised that I saw him.
Go away, Nathan, I’d thought to myself, fully aware that – as always – my feelings were as fickle as Preston sunshine. There’d been a smash of china in the kitchen, and Monica had jumped up immediately.
‘Are you all right, Peter?’
It was my turn to roll my eyes. I glanced at Nathan, but he was looking at the impression Monica had left on the settee. I wondered, then – as I do now, in the darkness – if he’d had the same thought that I did. That perhaps Monica was in love with my husband.
‘Get up! Get up!’
I sit up quickly.
‘I’m coming, Uncle Charlie,’ I say without thinking.
But there’s no one here. The bedroom is semi-lit by daylight filtering through the curtains. Annie’s basket is empty – so is Peter’s side of the bed.
Why did I call out for Uncle Charlie? My mum’s brother has been dead for years.
I battle with the cover, tangled in my legs, almost tripping out of bed.
Bobby’s duvet is made up as though he’s not slept in it.
‘Peter!’ I shout as I run down the stairs. I push open the living-room door, and there, sitting in the armchair holding Annie, is my mother.
Bobby’s sitting on the floor, eating dry Rice Krispies, and watching Picture Box on the telly. That’s not right – it can’t be after nine thirty.
‘Is this on tape?’ I ask Mum.
She looks to the heavens.
‘Course not, love. Since when have you seen me operating machinery? And shouldn’t your first question be why Bobby’s not at school?’ She doesn’t wait for me to reply. ‘He said he wasn’t feeling very well. The baby must’ve kept him up all night.’
‘What? No, that can’t be right. Where’s Peter?’ I’m still standing at the door in my nightie; she’ll tell me to get dressed any minute now. ‘Has he popped to the corner shop?’
‘He’s at work.’
‘Really? Has a week passed already? That went quickly.’
Mum’s eyes widen, and she shakes her head a little.
‘I do wonder about you sometimes,’ she says. ‘You have not been asleep for a whole week. He popped into work for an emergency – said he wanted you to catch up on your rest.’
She sits Annie up, rubbing her little back.
She knows I didn’t mean that, but she’s doing me a favour by being here, so I don’t argue with her. Part of me wishes I had slept for a week. 3.15–9.30 a.m. – that means I’ve had six hours and fifteen minutes’ sleep. A record. I haven’t slept that long since I was four months pregnant.
‘I was just joking about sleeping that long,’ I say.
I know she doesn’t believe me. She probably thinks I’m not coping. It’s family legend that the day after I was born, she was up and about doing housework, or sheafing wheat in the fields or whatever.
‘Do you know what’ll do you some good?’
I glance at the ceiling. ‘What?’
‘Getting a bit of exercise. I’ve been doing it every morning with what’s-her-name on TV-am.’
‘You mean Mad Lizzie? Have you heck been doing aerobics, Mum.’
‘Well, I watch her do it while I have a cup of tea. Her energy’s infectious.’
‘She’d make me feel worse,’ I whisper, turning to look at myself in the hall mirror. Before Mum has a chance to mention it, I say, ‘I’ll just have a quick wash and get dressed.’
As I put my foot on the first stair, she hollers, ‘Best run a bath, Deborah. You look like you could do with one.’
I stare at my face in the bathroom mirror until it becomes a boring collection of features that could belong to a stranger. My body has been hijacked for so long, it’s going to be months before I feel like it’s mine again.
Mum thought I believed I’d slept for a whole week. I have my moments, but I’m not that ditzy. She probably remembers the time I swallowed an apple seed when I was pregnant with Bobby. I telephoned her in a panic that it might harm him – everything scared me then.
‘What do you think will happen, Deborah? That an apple tree will grow inside you?’
I’ve since learned that apple seeds contain cyanide, so I’ll be sure to tell her that if she brings it up again.
The steam from the bath starts to blur the glass.
‘You know it’s not meant to be like this.’
A man’s voice. It sounded like Uncle Charlie again. But what if it’s not him – what if it’s God trying to speak to me?
I open the bathroom door.
‘Mum? Is that you?’
Silence.
There’s nobody upstairs. What’s happening to me?
I dress quickly, putting on whatever’s on the back of the chair in the bedroom.
Downstairs, Mum has dressed Bobby, and a sleeping Annie is in her pram under the window. Mum looks up at me as I loiter at the living-room door again, as though it’s not my house.
‘Are you all right?’ says Mum. ‘You look as though you’ve forgotten something.’
‘I’m fine.’
I walk straight to the kitchen without saying another word. After the sleeping for a week conversation, I can’t tell her what’s actually worrying me; she wouldn’t understand. The voice I heard sounded as though it was outside of my head, but there was no one there. I feel like someone’s watching me all the time.
I don’t know what’s real and what’s not any more.
Chapter Seven
Anna
It has been five days since I read the email and I still can’t find the right words to write back. I searched the loft for the box of Debbie’s things, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. This morning, Jack suggested it might be in the storage unit with the rest of the belongings we haven’t seen for years. I must not have looked at her things for over three years. Jack promised he would go over later to collect what he can find.
I pull up outside Dad and Monica’s to collect Sophie. I haven’t seen nor heard from Monica since last week. I should have brought her a box of chocolates or something to let her know I’m thinking of her – that I appreciate all that she’s done for me.
Growing up, neither I nor Robert called her Mum. Robert had always known her as Monica, so I must have copied him. ‘Why do you call your mum by her first name?’ friends used to ask. ‘She just likes it that way,’ I’d say, too embarrassed to tell the truth.
Monica never treated us any differently to Leo. It must have annoyed him. I haven’t heard from him in months – he’s been living in America near his dad for almost ten years. It must be so hard for Monica, Leo being so far away.
Dad opens the door before I have the chance to ring the doorbell.
‘Good day, love?’ he asks, as though it is a normal, unremarkable day.
How can he act so nonchalant? My mother is alive! Perhaps he’s worried about Monica. Leo’s been gone for so long, and now my mother might be coming back to replace her. Like she did to Debbie.
I put my head around the living-room door. Sophie raises her hand in greeting, chewing something without taking her eyes off the television. There’s a plate next to her with an unopened tangerine.
‘Not bad, thanks,’ I say. ‘Is that chocolate she’s eating?’
Dad’s hovering in the hallway and doesn’t answer my question.
‘Do you want a cup of tea, or do you want to head straight off?’
‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’
I follow him into the kitchen. He puts the kettle on and beckons me to stand closer to him. He waits until the water starts to hiss until he speaks.
‘Monica’s not feeling too well,’ he says.
He points to the kettle, then up to the ceiling. What he means is that the walls are very thin in their three-bedroomed terraced house – you can hear next door sneezing, and I dread to think what else.
‘Shall I take her up a drink?’ I ask.
Making yourself heard whilst trying to be quiet is harder than it seems.
Dad shakes his head. ‘Best leave her to it, love.’
‘It’s okay,’ I say, pouring hot water into the teapot. ‘I want to see Monica for myself. I’ll take her up a digestive.’
Dad doesn’t look happy, but what is he going to do? Wrestle me to the ground to stop me? I pour tea into a china cup, and milk into a little jug, and place them on a tray with a biscuit she probably won’t eat. I carry them upstairs, everything rattling.
I balance the tray on the palm of one hand and knock on their bedroom door with the other. There’s no reply. She used to do this a lot when she and Dad had arguments about the boys when they were teenagers. Robert and Leo didn’t get on most of the time. They had to share a bedroom. Robert’s side was reasonably tidy; Leo’s not so much.
I knock again.
‘Monica, it’s me, Anna.’
Still no reply.
I open the door. My eyes go directly to their bed, but she’s sitting in the chair that faces the window. I place the tray on the little table, and sit on the footstool next to her.
‘Have you been crying?’ I ask.
She blinks several times.
‘Oh, hello, Anna. I’m sorry. I’m not with it today.’
‘That’s okay. Is it the news about Debbie?’
I can’t call Debbie my mother in front of her. It feels disloyal to Monica; she has always been here for me.
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ she says. ‘It’s all come as a bit of a shock.’
I pick up the cup of tea and offer it to her.
‘I’ve put two sugars in it.’
She purses her lips in a smile. ‘You’re too good to me. I don’t deserve it.’
‘Of course you do. Who else would put up with Robert and me?’
There is an answer that hangs in the air that neither of us even jokes about: Not my mother.
‘You know,’ she says, ‘I felt tremendous guilt getting together with your dad after your mother left. She was my best friend, you know. I met her in the third year of secondary school. I’d just moved up north, and spent the first couple of days sitting on my own at dinner time. Then Debbie came over to me – of course, she was Deborah, then. Her mum, you see, she always wanted her to be Deborah, never Debbie.’
I love hearing Monica talk about my mother like this. Grandad still calls her Deborah – when he talks about her, that is.
‘Has Dad told Grandad about the email?’
Monica drops a splash of tea onto her skirt as she sips from her cup. She frowns, disorientated at being interrupted.
‘I imagine so. You’ll have to ask him.’
I take the tea cup away from her as she dabs at the blotch.
‘Where was I? Oh yes, at school. She walked up to me, her dark, wavy hair flowing behind her – you’ve got her hair, you know, the exact same. She looked stunning. Who looks so beautiful while they’re a schoolgirl? Back then it was different – kids weren’t allowed to wear make-up to school, and I had terrible spots. Debbie thought she was hideous, but she was never hideous. She was a joy to be around … well, until the end … Anyway, when she met my eye that day, I was sitting on a bench near the Maths block. I had to turn around to check it was me she was talking to. “I hear you’re from London,” were her first words to me. “I’d love to go there,” she said.’
‘What did you two used to get up to?’
I have asked the question so many times, but Monica never complains. Sometimes, there will be something I’ve never heard before.
‘We didn’t get up to much really. In the first summer we spent together, we were fourteen. All we did was talk about boys, though the ones at our school could never compare to David Cassidy.’ She smiles at me. ‘He was famous in the seventies – Google him. We were so naive. We read about boys and sex from a book, for God’s sake. Forever by Judy Blume – though we’d heard about most things by sixteen.’ She returns her gaze to the window. ‘We didn’t spend much time at her house. I think she was ashamed, but she needn’t have been – her parents were lovely.’
‘Why would she feel ashamed?’
‘Her parents sent her to a school in the next town – she mixed with other people than those on her estate.’ She looks at me and places a hand on mine. ‘I’m not saying that it’s right or anything, for her to have felt like that. It’s just how it was. Her parents were older than most when she was born. When she was growing up, they focused on what was best for her. I wish my parents had been like that, but Debbie felt embarrassed that they showed so much interest in her life. It made her lonely, I think. She didn’t have many friends. She was like you, really.’
‘A loner, you mean?’
‘No, no. As if I’d say something like that to you.’ She squeezes my hand, rubbing the top of it with her thumb. ‘She chose her friends carefully … was wary of other people. Her parents sheltered her from the big bad world, protected her from the hardship they suffered.’ Monica sighs. ‘Time goes by too quickly. She was always there for me. Until the end. It was all my fault.’
My ears tingle with a new bit of the story – she has never mentioned any cross words between them.
‘What do you mean it was your fault?’
‘Has your dad never talked about the troubles we had?’
‘He doesn’t talk about her much at all, let alone any problems.’
‘Thinking about it … I don’t know if Peter would want me to say anything to you about it.’ Monica’s not looking at me any more. ‘We haven’t talked about it for such a long time, I don’t know what he remembers. Memories can get distorted … hold you back, you know? Such a horrible time.’
Monica is staring out of the window again. It’s like a mist has covered her eyes, between the past and the present. I follow her gaze. Mr Flowers, from the house opposite, has dropped his keys; he’s trying to pick them up using the end of his walking stick. I should go out and help him, but I want to hear what Monica has to say.
‘I’ve said too much. Your father never wanted you to find out anything bad about Debbie. He blames himself, too, I imagine. There’s a lot that’s been airbrushed from Debbie’s history.’
‘What do you mean?’
She sits up and reaches for a tissue to wipe away the fresh tears.
Dad’s heavy footsteps are on the stairs.
Monica leans over and puts a hand on my shoulder.
‘Please don’t tell your dad I told you anything, will you? He’d kill me if he found out I mentioned anything.’
‘I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. You’ve hardly said anything.’
She leans against the back of the chair.
‘I loved her, you know. She was like a sister to me.’
Dad turns the handle of the bedroom door. I put a smile on my face, so that when he opens the door, he’ll think everything is fine.
I put the key into our front door, and remember the letter hidden in Jack’s wallet. I have spent the past week worrying about it, but barely thought of it today. Does that mean I don’t care about him any more? I need to confront him, but that would mean admitting I was snooping again. I can’t have him think I’m not coping. It can’t be like last time. I nearly lost everything.
I let Sophie in through the door before me. She looks so small in her little grey school pinafore – her cute little legs. I can’t lose my little girl; I must keep it together – pretend everything is okay. But I make a mental note to go through all of Jack’s contacts on Facebook to see if there’s anyone by that name – there can’t be many. I have never met anyone called Francesca.
I reach into Sophie’s school bag and take out her reading book. She skips through to the kitchen and sits at the table next to Jack. I place the book in front of Sophie and she begins reading quietly to herself.
‘You’re back early,’ I say.
I glance around the kitchen. Jack’s put all the dirty dishes into the dishwasher and the empty beer bottles into the recycling. The worktops have been wiped clean and the bin has been emptied.
There’s a carrier bag of food on the counter. I peek inside: ingredients for a spaghetti bolognese and a bottle of red wine. I kiss the top of Jack’s head and we almost clash as he jolts in surprise.
‘Did you remember at last?’ I say to him.
‘Remember what?’ He winks and walks out of the kitchen, coming back seconds later with a bouquet of flowers and a small gift bag.
‘I’m so sorry, Anna,’ he says. ‘I’ve had the present in the boot of my car for days. I was mortified when I got to work this morning, saw it, and realised the date.’ He hands me the bunch of roses. ‘I got these as an extra – to say sorry.’ He strokes my cheek. ‘Are you going to open your present?’
‘I might save it for later – when I can really appreciate it.’
He’s smiling for the first time in weeks – I don’t want to spoil it by mentioning anything about love letters from strange women. He’s still looking at me, but his eyes glaze over.
‘Are you all right?’ I say.
He tilts his head to one side, blinking his thoughts away. ‘I was about to ask you the same thing. After that email—’
‘I’m fine.’ I don’t want to talk about it in front of Sophie. I nod in the direction of our daughter, her little head down in concentration.
‘If you put Sophie to bed,’ says Jack, ‘I can nip out to the storage unit and get that box of things you were looking for the other day.’
‘That would be great. Thank you.’
It seems I’m not the only one pretending we’re all right. I know he’s tried to make it better with the flowers, but I know there is something he’s hiding from me.
It was four years ago when I first searched Jack’s belongings. Sophie was asleep, and Jack had nipped to the bathroom. He’d just used his phone and the pin number wasn’t needed so I picked it up. There were several texts from a woman.
Jack caught me looking, though I was hardly subtle. I was standing in the middle of the living room with his phone in my shaking hands.
‘What are you doing, Anna?’ he’d said.
‘I was just borrowing your phone – mine’s out of battery.’
I didn’t look up. He walked towards me quickly, holding out his hand for me to give him the phone, but I held on to it.
‘But we’re at home,’ he said. ‘Use the landline.’
‘Who’s Samantha?’
‘What? Give me the phone, Anna. You can’t just go through people’s things.’
He lifted his hand to grab it, but I put my hand behind my back.
‘You’re my husband, Jack. We shouldn’t have secrets.’
He folded his arms slowly.
‘There are boundaries, Anna. People have boundaries. Haven’t you learned that from what happened with Gillian Crossley?’
‘That’s nothing like this. And you said we’d never mention it. It was two years ago.’
He tilted his head to the side.
‘I know. But sometimes I get scared you’ll do something like that again. She said you were stalking her. It’s happened one too many times.’
‘That’s below the belt, Jack. You know I wasn’t well. I had counselling. I know the signs, when to get help.’
He stared at me.
‘You’d tell me if things were getting on top of you, wouldn’t you? I love you. I’m not your enemy.’
I glanced at the photographs on the wall: of Jack and me, of Sophie.
‘I know. I’m just tired.’ I brought my hand round and handed him the phone. ‘But who is Samantha? I’m sure any wife would want to know who the woman texting her husband is.’
He shook his head, grabbing the phone from my hands.
‘A new solicitor at work. And if you’d read the texts properly you’d have seen that.’
My face burned.
Later, when he was asleep, I checked his firm’s website and there she was: Samantha Webster, Solicitor – her arms folded in a serious pose for the camera.
I look at him now, listening to Sophie read, and you wouldn’t think he was hiding something. If I were to admit I had searched his wallet, he would accuse me of relapsing. But what happened all those years ago has taught me one thing: two can play at that game.
Monica used to say that if a boy caused you so much heartache, then they weren’t the right one for you. My first heartbreak was aged twelve. I lay on my bed, listening to LeAnn Rimes belting out ‘How Do I Live’ to drown out the sound of the boys arguing in the room next to my head. Monica knocked at the door.
‘Are you okay, Anna? You’ve not come down for your tea.’
‘Fine,’ I shouted over the noise.
She walked in, closed the door, and opened the curtains and the window.
‘A bit of fresh air is what’s needed in here,’ she said. She sat on the edge of my bed and swiped the hair from my face. ‘What’s wrong, love?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I’ve plated your dinner up. I’ll leave it on the side. Just heat it up in the mike when you’re ready to come down.’
She didn’t move from the bed, was still stroking my hair.
‘Thanks.’
‘If you want to talk about it, I’m here.’
‘Hmm.’
The song ended, but it started again because I’d put it on repeat.
‘Is it your friends, Annie? Have they all ganged up on you again?’
I shook my head. That hadn’t happened in months, but it wasn’t them this time.
‘A boy?’
I shrugged, my shoulders cushioned against the pillow.
‘It’s hard, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘I suppose.’
I had to blink quickly so my tears didn’t fall out of my eyes.
‘Hannah said yes to a date with him. She knew I liked him.’
In the end, I couldn’t stop the tears falling.
‘Oh, love.’
I sobbed into the pillow. Monica lay down next to me, put her arms around me, and I cried into her jumper.
‘Let it all out, sweetheart.’
We lay like that for ten minutes. The song played another two times, and I finally stopped crying.
‘He wasn’t the right one for you, that’s all. The One will come along and he’ll like you right back.’ She stood up. ‘Talk to me about it whenever you want. I’ve been there. School is tough, I know. It’ll pass quickly enough.’
Now I blink away the tears that have formed in my eyes as I hear Jack’s car pull up outside. I open the front door quietly and watch him open the boot and take out the box.
Is he being nice because he feels guilty, or because he genuinely wants to help me? Heartache sounds too indulgent when you’ve been with a person for years. I might not like Jack sometimes, but he’s my family. I love him. Perhaps that’s why I haven’t confronted him: I don’t want to hear the truth.
He’s trying hard to be quiet, so he doesn’t wake Sophie. I stand aside as he carries the box into the house as though it were a boulder. I shove my hands underneath and take it from him. It’s not that heavy at all, but I pretend it is as I lower it to the ground.
‘Careful – it’s weighty,’ he says.
‘It’s okay. I’m used to carrying boxes of books at the shop.’
It’s fifty centimetres square and painted pale blue with hand-drawn flowers all over it. It has my writing in black marker: Mother. I don’t remember writing that; it’s been years since I’ve seen it. I want Jack to leave the room, so I can look at the contents alone.
‘Well?’ he says.
‘Well?’ I repeat, in the hope he’ll take the hint, but he sits on the edge of the sofa.
I sit on the rug and lift the lid off. Straight away I see my scrapbook. It’s decorated with pictures of beaches in Tenerife from holiday brochures, models from Mizz and Woman’s Own who I thought might look like her, and The Beatles. Inside the box are the 45rpm singles Gran gave me: ‘Norwegian Wood’ and ‘Heart of Glass’. Dad always switched the car radio off if one of those songs came on.
After Gran died, I began asking him more questions about Debbie. He gave me a telephone number, saying it was for Debbie’s old mobile. At first, I rang it every day, but there was never a reply, obviously. I used to tell the answer machine my problems, what was happening at school, how much I missed her. It only dawned on me a few years later that it can’t have been Debbie’s – she wouldn’t have had a mobile phone in 1986. It was probably one of Monica or Dad’s old numbers; there must be at least a thousand missed calls on it. I don’t want to imagine them listening to the messages I left.
‘That’s an unusual collection of pictures,’ says Jack, making me jump.
I had forgotten he was here.
‘I was a child when I decorated it.’
I shouldn’t feel embarrassed in front of him, but I do.
‘But why beaches?’ he says.
‘It’s Tenerife. It was where she was last seen.’
‘That’s a bit macabre, isn’t it? What if she was …’
He stops himself from saying what he usually says after he’s been drinking.
‘I just thought she must have really liked Tenerife,’ I say, ‘to have never come back.’
It’s like my eleven-year-old self is saying the words.
Jack gets up and heads towards the door. Before he leaves, he turns around.
‘Why didn’t you just put a picture of Debbie on it – instead of models who look like her?’
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He looks away from me and tilts his head as though pondering. He hasn’t seen the memories inside my shell box. He might have feigned interest when we first started going out, but he isn’t bothered about the details of her as a person. He would rather pontificate at length about what happened to her – as though he were discussing a murder victim on the television.
I lay everything out on the floor as I take it out of the box. The records, the scrapbook, the old cigar box Debbie decorated with seashells – half of which are chipped. I know what’s in it without opening it, but I flip the lid anyway. It’s quite pathetic really, the number of things in there: my hospital wristband, a stick of Blackpool rock – now a mass of crumbled sugar held together by a cylinder of cellophane. There’s also a pen with a moving ship and a silver pendant depicting the Virgin Mary with the words Bless This Child, threaded on a piece of pink string. Dad can’t remember buying any of the items in the box, so I like to think Debbie chose them just for me.
I open my scrapbook.
She wore flip-flops in the summer and Doc Martens boots in the winter.
She had a birthmark in the shape of Australia on the top of her leg.
She ‘couldn’t take her drink’ after having children.
The front door shuts – I hadn’t heard it open. Jack walks into the living room carrying a box the same size as my seashell one.
‘I forgot this,’ he says, placing it on the floor beside me.
It’s decorated with what looks like real Liquorice Allsorts. I pick it up; it smells sugary, medicinal.
‘They’re real sweets,’ I say. ‘Where did this come from?’
He shrugs, and walks towards the door.
‘It was packed next to your box. I’m going upstairs to make an important phone call. Don’t just walk in, if that’s okay? It’ll seem unprofessional.’
I wave my hand in reply. His phone call might be far from professional, but I can’t take my eyes off the box covered in sweets. It must be Robert’s. It’s an old King Edward cigar box like mine. I knew he must have had one, but I’ve never seen it before. I assumed he’d thrown it away. What was it doing in our storage?
I don’t open it straight away. Like with presents, an unopened object is far more interesting than an unwrapped one. I turn it in my hands and hold it. She must have spent ages gluing them on like this.
I place it on the floor and slowly lift the lid.
There are more items in this one than in mine. Robert probably added some pieces himself. There’s his conker that Grandad told him to bake in the oven for seven hours. After that, he painted it with five coats of Ronseal in mahogany. I would have been three or four years old. I bring it up to my nose – I remember the scent as he painted it, but it doesn’t smell of anything now. The treatment was effective; it still looks as smooth and shiny as it did then.
I take out his other things: hospital wristband; a Pez dispenser, with a few rectangular sweets still inside; his first report from primary school; and birthday cards signed from Mummy and Daddy. I don’t have any birthday cards with my mother’s name inside. I run my fingers along the writing in one of them.
Underneath all of these is an old photo processing envelope. It lists different sizes and finishes of photographs – our old home address is scrawled on the form in childish handwriting. It’s dated 20 February 1987 – nearly seven months after my mother disappeared. There is a cylinder inside it. I stick my hand in and pull out a black plastic container. I peel the cap off it, praying there’s something inside.
There is.
A whole roll of film that might contain pictures of my mother that I’ve never seen before.
Chapter Eight
Friday, 4 July 1986
Debbie
The sun on my face is delicious. I feel like I haven’t been outside for weeks, when it’s only been days. Being inside feels so oppressive, like there are a hundred faces watching every move I make.
Outside, I feel free, away from prying eyes. Annie’s sleeping in her pram, and even though I’ve only had two hours’ sleep I feel calm for the first time in days.
Peter’s finally back at work (I didn’t tell him it was silly starting back on a Friday) and Bobby’s at school until half three so I’ve over two hours of freedom. I park the pram outside the newsagents and pull the hood up.
The bell dings as I push the door.
‘Is it okay if I leave it open? The baby’s asleep outside.’
‘Right you are, love,’ says Mrs Abernathy.
There’s that new song on the radio playing: ‘The Lady in Red’. It’s not like Mrs Abernathy to have the radio on. For a love song, it sounds pretty dreary – it’s no ‘Addicted to Love’, that’s for sure. I can’t remember it on Top of the Pops last Thursday, but then I can’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning. I do remember the ‘Spirit in the Sky’ video though, because it cheered me up. Mum wouldn’t approve. She keeps harping on about Bobby being baptised so he can go to a better secondary school. I told her that’s hardly the Christian way of thinking about things, but she just spouted her usual words of eternal damnation. I’ll probably be waiting for my children in the burning fires of hell, if my mother’s prediction comes true. It’ll be more fun there anyway. Though the temperature might get a bit much; it’s far too hot today.
Under the window is a giant freezer. I used to love picking an ice cream out of those as a kid – when Mum and Dad could afford one, that is.
I choose a lemonade ice lolly and, as I close the lid, I see him outside.
He’s getting out of his car across the road. I quickly pay for the ice and dash out of the shop. He’s walking in the opposite direction; he hasn’t seen me. I’ve never been an attractive runner, so I try to walk a little faster. He’s still a fair distance away from me. My flip-flops are smacking my heels – I’m surprised he can’t hear me. I look around; there aren’t many people.
‘Nathan!’
He stops and turns around. I stop trotting just in time, and the breeze blows my long dress so it clings to my legs. He’s still looking at it when I reach him.
‘Hi, Debs.’ He lifts his sunglasses and puts them on the top of his head. ‘Pete let you out of the house, did he?’
I just nod. There are tiny freckles on his nose.
‘Are you all right?’ he says. ‘Fancy a quick coffee?’
‘Okay.’ It seems the ability to think and speak has abandoned me.
He takes me by the hand and doesn’t let go as we cross the road. I should be worried that someone we know might see us, but I’m not. He only lets go of my hand when he pushes the door of the café.
There are at least six tables free, but he chooses one at the back next to the door to the toilets. He pulls a chair out for me, and I sit. I feel like my head’s out of my body – this whole situation feels so weird. We’ve not been alone since we were an item ten years ago.
That summer was so intense. We were sixteen, and secondary school had finished. We had no distractions from each other. Both of his parents went out to work, and we’d spend lazy days lying on his bed, listening to records and smoking cigarettes.
‘Promise you’ll never leave me for someone else,’ he said to me one hot afternoon.
We’d closed the curtains for shade and they blew gently in the breeze.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I said, staring at the ceiling.
He rested his hand on my tummy and I placed my hand on his.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if you did.’
He’s still as good-looking now – better even. He’s holding the menu, but staring into my eyes. I know, without glancing in the mirror, that my chest and neck will be red and blotchy.
‘I’m sorry I was a bit quiet at yours the other day,’ he says.
‘I didn’t notice.’
He laughs. ‘You didn’t notice? You were giving me evils.’ He leans forward and puts his hand on mine. ‘You won’t tell Monica you’ve seen me today, will you? It’s just—’
The waitress clears her throat – she’s standing at the side of the table. How long has she been there? I swipe my hand from under Nathan’s. I don’t recognise her, but then, I’m not the best with faces these days. She’s holding a notepad, a pen poised in her other hand.
‘What can I get you?’ she says.
I look down at my skirt. The top of my leg feels cold and wet. I grab a serviette, but it’s no good. Something must’ve fallen from the table. I reach into my pocket and there’s a wrapper. I take it out.
‘Oh God.’
The ice lolly. From the paper shop.
I run out of the café without saying goodbye, and sprint down the street.
How could I have forgotten my little Annie? What if Mrs Abernathy tells the police and they’re waiting for me. They might send me to prison.
I’m only seconds away. I can hear Nathan shouting my name, but I don’t turn around.
What if Annie’s not where I left her?
It’ll be my punishment. What would I do without her?
As I cross the side street, I see the hood of her pram outside the shop.
Please be in there, please be in there.
I reach it, and push the hood of the pram down.
‘Oh, thank God.’
I bend over to catch my breath.
Annie’s still fast asleep. My beautiful, sleeping baby is where I left her.
Mrs Abernathy comes to the doorway. ‘Did you get what you went for?’
I try to work out if there’s a hidden meaning in what she’s asking, but when I look at her face, I realise there’s no agenda behind her words. She’s not as dishonest as I am.
I can never see Nathan again.
‘Yes,’ I say to her. ‘Thanks for keeping an eye on her.’
‘Anytime, dear.’ She turns and walks back into the shop.
I’m nearly at my house when the tears start streaming down my face. How could I have been so stupid? I reach under the pram for a tissue.
I see his shoes, his legs, walking towards me.
‘Are you okay, Debbie?’ Nathan can barely speak, he’s breathing so hard. ‘Did I say something to upset you? I didn’t realise you had Annie with you.’
I’m still crouching near the floor, dabbing my face. I must look a right mess.
I stand to face him.
‘I forgot about her … left her outside the shop. Please don’t tell Peter.’
He frowns. Is he angry with me as well?
‘What do you take me for, Debs? Course I won’t tell him. What would I say? Sorry, Pete, but while I took your wife for a sneaky coffee, she left the baby outside a shop?’
I bury my face in the tissue. He strokes the top of my arm; I step away from him.
‘I can’t see you again,’ I say, sniffing away the last of my tears.
‘Why are you being so serious? We have to see each other. I’m married to your best friend.’
‘What time is it?’
He looks at his watch. ‘Ten to three.’
I turn around and walk away. I’ve forty minutes to get to Bobby’s school. I can’t forget another child. I dab my face to wipe away the remaining tears. I can’t be seen crying at the school gates.
The phone’s ringing as I open the front door. I back into the hallway, pulling the pram over the step and into the house.
If it’s still ringing when I’m properly inside, then I’ll answer it. I’m not in the mood to speak to anyone on the phone. Sometimes it can ring and ring and ring until the sound buries itself into the middle of my brain and I want to rip the cord from the socket.
I shut the front door and wheel Annie into the living room.
The phone’s still ringing.
It might be Peter. I haven’t spoken to him since this morning. The thought of him covers me in a warm hug. But I don’t deserve that – not after the way I’ve behaved.
‘Hello?’
‘Debbie?’
Oh. It’s Monica.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s me.’ Who else would it be?
‘You sound funny,’ she says.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Hmm.’ She says it in that disapproving way of hers. ‘I’ve just seen you running up and down the high street in your bare feet – are you wearing a nightie?’
‘What?’
My blood feels as though it’s been replaced with antifreeze.
‘Up and down the street. Are you okay? Do you need me to pop round? Is Annie all right – only I didn’t see her with you.’
I don’t understand what she’s talking about.
‘When?’
‘Just now. I was driving back from work.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Did you see Nathan too? I saw him near the shops.’
‘Debbie, are you sure you’re okay? I can be there in five, no problem. I can watch Annie while you have a sleep.’
‘I don’t need a sleep. I’m getting Bobby at half three.’
‘I know, but even half an hour might help.’
‘Help? Are you sure you didn’t see Nathan? He’ll tell you I wasn’t running around in my nightdress without my shoes on.’
I almost want to laugh at the image.
‘Debbie, Nathan’s at work. He’s just telephoned me from his office.’
‘Oh,’ I say.
‘I can come after school. Would that be better?’
‘No,’ I say, but I can’t think straight. How could Nathan have phoned her from the street? I can’t remember where the nearest phone box is … where is it? ‘It’s okay – Peter’s coming home early today.’
He isn’t, but it gets her off the phone.
Why the hell would she think I was running around without shoes? And in a nightie?
I feel the soft fabric of the carpet, underneath my toes.
I look down.
My flip-flops aren’t on my feet any more.
Chapter Nine
Anna
The rain is battering against the bookshop window; it’s going to be quiet today. Even though it’s not Sunday, I’m hoping Grandad will come in today. I left him a message to say that Sheila’s not coming in, so he can have free rein of the till, but I haven’t heard back from him. Dad doesn’t seem worried – perhaps he’s been to see him. Maybe Grandad’s angry with me. If I don’t see him today, I’m going to bang on his door and sit on the doorstep until he opens it … or until I need to collect Sophie from after-school club.
Ellen’s in the back room, pricing books that she thinks might be valuable. She said she has never used the Internet before, but I find that hard to believe. Prisons must have computers these days.
‘Annie?’ she says. ‘Can you just help me again with this – the page is blank. I’m not sure it’s connecting.’
I have given up trying to tell her that I don’t like being called Annie, but it doesn’t seem to register. I sit next to her, checking the side of the laptop. I click to slide a switch to the left.
‘You must have put it into airplane mode by mistake,’ I say.
‘But why would I do that if I’m not on an aeroplane?’
I look at her as she stares at the screen, frowning. Surely she must know how laptops work. I click on the refresh button and the Amazon page loads. As I’m getting up, I notice there is another tab in the background. It’s a site I’m familiar with: Missing People.
Ellen has been on the computer for nearly an hour. I keep trying to catch her looking at the missing persons’ website again, but she’s too quick, and both times I’ve gone into the storeroom she’s minimised what she was looking at. I should warn her about using the Internet for personal use, but I haven’t introduced a policy for that yet; we’ve only had the laptop in the bookshop for a fortnight. And once she’s gone, I’ll probably use it myself.
I’m still looking towards the back room when I smell a waft of Obsession.
‘Anna?’
It’s Isobel. Luckily, I have the accounts on the counter so at least I look busy. She glances at them and wrinkles her nose.
‘I do hope you don’t have those in view when we have clientele,’ she says. ‘It’s highly confidential.’
I can’t win.
‘I was just having a quick check while the shop was empty.’
I slam the book shut and shove it under the counter.
‘I’ve popped in to see how your new volunteer is getting on. Is she in?’
Isobel breezes past – the smell of her hairspray never fails to nauseate me.
I try to listen in, but they are talking too quietly. It’s not like Isobel at all. Perhaps she knows Ellen more than she’s letting on.
After nearly half an hour, all I have managed to overhear are the words ‘vicar’ and ‘they might not want to know.’ Now they’re saying their goodbyes, I rush to the window so they don’t think I’ve been listening. I move the elephant bookend a fraction, concentrating on it as though it were the most interesting thing in the world.
‘See you soon, Anna,’ says Isobel. She hesitates at the door, glancing at the window display. ‘I must think of some other paperwork for you to do. We can’t have you twiddling your thumbs all day.’
She hums to herself, putting sunglasses over her eyes before leaving the shop. That woman notices more than I thought. I wish I could tell her what I’m going through – that I can’t concentrate on anything because the mother I can’t remember has come back into our lives and, at the same time, my marriage might be falling apart. But I can’t. She’ll tell the whole of Lancashire.
‘Annie.’
I turn quickly.
‘Sorry,’ says Ellen. She’s already in her jacket. ‘Isobel said it was okay if I left a bit early. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got an interview for a new flat.’
‘Oh, okay. Yes, I suppose that’s all right.’
‘Sorry. I hope you don’t think I’ve gone above you … it was just she was asking about me finding a place to live and—’
‘Don’t worry about it. I know what she’s like.’
‘She told me about your mum.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. She keeps saying sorry. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’
‘I’m just surprised. I’m sure everyone knows about it anyway … it’s not a big secret.’
‘Do you still think about her?’
‘What? I … Of course. Why?’
She shrugs. ‘I’m getting too personal.’ She looks at her watch. ‘I’ve corrected my time now. I’d better go. See you next week.’
I watch her walk away until she disappears from view. I hurry into the back room and click on the Internet icon, then the ‘History’ button. Who was she looking for on that website?
I will never know: she’s deleted today’s history.
I’ve been standing outside Grandad’s for five minutes. People walking past are looking at me. I have thirty minutes until I need to collect Sophie from school. The curtains are closed, but when I press my ear against the window, I can hear the television on low. Today’s silver-top milk is still on the doorstep.
‘I know you’re in there, Grandad. Are you okay? Are you hurt?’
There’s a shadow moving behind the curtains.
‘Grandad! If you don’t answer the door in a minute, I’ll call the police – they’ll break the door down, you know. Then everyone will come and have a nosy – even Yvonne from across the road. She’s in, I can see her net curtains flapping. I’ve got my mobile right here, I will ring them.’
The left curtain flashes open.
Grandad’s standing at the window. He hasn’t shaved for days; he’s still in his tartan dressing gown.
‘Are you going to let me in?’
His shoulders rise and fall as he sighs. He rolls his eyes.
Moments later, he opens the door, but stands behind it so no one can see him.
‘Well, come in then,’ he says. ‘Don’t make a show of me.’
I do as he says and follow him down the hallway.
‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ he says. ‘Go through to the living room.’
‘I didn’t come here for a drink, Grandad. I came to see if you were all right.’
I sit on the sofa anyway. He always makes a drink for visitors, so at least I know he still has his senses. Dad said that when Gran, Debbie’s mother, was alive, Grandad was never allowed to touch the kettle. Dad was probably exaggerating.
Diagnosis Murder is on the television, but it’s barely audible. I look to the mantelpiece. There have always been three pictures of Debbie on there: one on her Christening day; a faded school photo, her hair flicked at the sides like a Charlie’s Angel; and a third with Gran and Grandad – Debbie the only child.
Grandad comes into the living room carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. He’s changed from his dressing gown into his usual beige cords and burgundy jumper over a checked shirt. He must have a wardrobe full of the same clothes. He places the tray on the coffee table. I wait until he’s finished pouring the tea until I speak.
‘I take it Dad’s told you about the email.’
‘He has.’
‘At least we know she’s alive, that’s something isn’t it?’
‘Do we? How can we know if it’s really her? Anyone could’ve written that. What we should be asking is why? If it is her, then why now?’ He plucks a white cotton handkerchief from up his sleeve and presses it against his nose. ‘I wish to God it were her. I’d give anything to see her face again. I just can’t see her not picking up the phone, to tell us she was all right. She was our only child. A miracle, we called her at the time. She came to us later in life – we thought we’d never … I didn’t believe in all that religious stuff before Marion died. But you have to believe they go somewhere, don’t you?’ He looks up to the ceiling. ‘I hope to God we find out the truth about my girl.’
‘I’m sorry, Grandad. This must be so hard for you. But I have to believe that she’s out there. Perhaps she got into trouble? She might have been in prison. Or maybe she had an accident and has only just recovered her memory.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘You’ve been watching too many films, Anna.’ He picks up his mug of tea and takes a sip. ‘It can’t be your mum. She’d have written to me, too.’
I stare at my cup on the tray.
‘But no one could’ve known about the shells. It could only have come from her.’
‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘Don’t go getting your hopes up, love. At least one good thing may come from this: we might find out what happened to her.’
‘I’m going to try and find her – or trace who wrote the email,’ I say. ‘If the police think it’s a crank, then I’m going to get to the bottom of it.’ I pull out the roll of film from my handbag. ‘I found this in Robert’s keepsake box. It might have some clues.’
Grandad shakes his head. ‘This is only going to lead to heartache, Anna. The police will say it’s some lunatic, obsessed with her or something – they won’t even be interested, they weren’t last time. It’s been too long.’
‘Last time? What happened last time?’
He flaps his hand.
‘A letter, in strange writing. I took it to the police and they said it might be her, or it might not. They logged it and that was that. Said she was an adult – that she left of her own accord.’
My shoulders slump. Robert mentioned another letter the other day, and now Grandad. But I can’t ask him more about it now – he looks exhausted. His eyes are bloodshot, even though he’s tried to hide it with reading glasses. I shouldn’t be talking to him like this. His only child. The bed she slept in upstairs still has the same duvet cover; her record player is still by the window.
‘I’m sorry, Grandad.’
He doesn’t look at me when he says, ‘It’s been hard for us all.’
The carriage clock chimes five.
‘I have to go,’ I say. ‘The after-school club closes in half an hour.’
‘They never had such things in my day.’
I smile a little as a tiny glimpse of the Grandad I know shows through. I lean over and kiss him on the cheek.
‘I’ll see myself out.’
I’m turning the roll of film in my hands, waiting in the queue. Who knew Max Spielmann would be so busy?
‘What are we buying here?’ says Sophie. ‘I’m hungry.’
She says it like she’s auditioning for Oliver Twist.
‘Pictures.’ I hold up the film. ‘This shop can change this little thing into photographs.’
Her mouth drops open and her eyes widen. She steps closer to me.
‘Is this a magic shop?’
‘Yes.’
The man in front leaves, but the woman behind the counter is typing something into the computer. She has one long coarse hair growing from her chin and she’s stroking it as though it were a beard.
‘Is that woman a wizard?’ says Sophie.
She hasn’t got the hang of whispering yet. My cheeks are burning.
The woman looks up quickly; I’ve half a mind to run out of the shop.
‘Not quite, young lady,’ she says, looking up. ‘I’m a witch. And you have to be good for your mum or you’ll end up in my rabbit stew.’ She smiles. ‘How can I help you?’
I put the film on the counter.
‘Can you develop this? I think it’s nearly thirty years old.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem. As long as it’s been kept in its container.’ She opens the lid and slides out the film. ‘It looks intact. I’ll have to send it off though – we don’t do 34 mm any more in store. No demand, you see. I’ll post it off tonight and it should be back in two or three days.’
I fill out my details and she winks at Sophie as we leave. Sophie doesn’t smile back.
Out on the street, I feel like celebrating. I thought they’d say it couldn’t be done – that they didn’t do things like that these days.
But the pictures might not even come out.
I take Sophie’s hand and pull her away from the kerb.
‘Is there a word for that?’ she says.
‘Word for what?’
‘You always walk on the pavement near the cars.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.’
‘What would happen if a car crashed into us and got you first? Who’d look after me?’
‘Don’t think like that.’
‘But who would? Daddy’s always working.’
‘He’s not always working. I work too. I’ll think of the word.’
‘What word?’
‘For protecting you on the pavement. I’ll Google it. And I’m glad you’re thinking so practically.’
She starts skipping. My hands go up and down with hers.
I wish I were in her head.
The back of my neck prickles; I feel as though someone’s watching me. I turn around quickly.
There’s no one there.
I shouldn’t get my hopes up about the photographs. Grandad always says I should manage my expectations. But if I had a choice between forgetting everything over the past few days, or being hurt from finding the truth, then I’d choose the truth.
Chapter Ten
I’ve been watching her for weeks and she hasn’t noticed. She’s too busy living in that head of hers. I watch in the rearview mirror as she gazes out of the window. She’s looking around.
I glance over at the pile of pink notepaper on the passenger seat. It’s surprising how much meaning can be conveyed in so few words. Will it mean anything to her, to them?
I slide down in the seat of the car as someone passes. I don’t recognise him; he mustn’t be a neighbour. Streets have gone all Neighbourhood Watch nowadays.
The radio plays ‘Norwegian Wood’ by The Beatles. My fingers go to the radio – a reflex – and switch it off. Shutting the memories down. We used to listen to that together, didn’t we? I can’t remember if it was your favourite song, or mine.
Chapter Eleven
Friday, 4 July 1986
Debbie
The oil from Bobby’s fish fingers spits from the frying pan; a drop touches my lips. I put my finger on my mouth to rub the sting away.
I can’t have imagined Nathan this afternoon. We had a conversation.
‘We have to see each other,’ he said. There must be meaning in that. But why would Monica say Nathan was at work? And if she was so worried about me looking hysterical in the street, why didn’t she pull over?
The front door slams shut. It must be ten past five. Bobby’s banging his legs against the chair under the dining table. Thump-thump, thump-thump.
‘Stop it!’
He doesn’t look up, but stops his legs.
It’ll take Peter another five seconds to hang up his jacket. Five, four, three, two—
I hear him throw his newspaper onto the settee. He usually says hello.
‘Everything okay?’ I say, peering through the kitchen doorway into the living room.
‘Hmm.’ He pulls off his tie. ‘I’ve brought in your flip-flops. They were on the doorstep.’
‘What? Again?’
I can feel my heart banging in my chest. Has Monica told him about this afternoon? Has Nathan? I’m sure I had them on after I picked Bobby up from school.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘They probably slipped off again when I was getting the pram in.’
‘It didn’t look like it. They were placed together, just outside the front door – like someone had put them there like that.’
‘How odd. Did Monica ring you?’
He looks at me, wrinkling his nose. ‘Are you being serious?’
Bobby must’ve seen my flip-flops slip off, picked them up. Or I might’ve put them there before I closed the front door. That could’ve happened. Monica must’ve mistaken my flip-flops for bare feet earlier – they must keep coming off without me noticing. Easily done. I’ll wear sandals next time I go out.
I don’t tell Peter I haven’t prepared our tea. Instead I say, ‘I thought I’d go to the chippy for us tonight. A treat for you – after working so hard.’
I sound like my fifty-two-year-old mother.
I should’ve become a Career Woman. I heard that Michelle Watkinson from college flew to the Bahamas last year, first class. Though she probably has to put up with letches feeling up her arse as she pushes the trolley up and down the aisle. She hasn’t spoken to me since I had children. And I haven’t put make-up on since Annie was born, so I wouldn’t be any good at her job.
I’m stuck, in limbo.
I don’t know why I’m trying to appease Peter anyway. It wouldn’t hurt him to offer to cook tea once in a blue moon. But I’d never say that. What if he knows something? What if he can read my thoughts?
‘Hmm,’ he says, again.
I interpret that as: You’ve done nothing all day. The least you could’ve done is stick a Fray Bentos in the oven and some chips in the fryer.
‘I’ll make you a cup of tea while you think about it,’ I say.
He goes straight to the baby; she’s lying on the blanket on the living-room floor.
‘Hello, my little angel,’ he says.
I fill the kettle, roll my eyes at the wall, and immediately feel guilty for it. I put a bowl of beans in the microwave and turn the dial. It’s handier than I thought it’d be. It pings, and I burn my fingers taking the bowl out. Peter’s already sitting in his chair at the table.
‘Had a nice day, have you?’ His tone is neutral.
‘Well, you know. Been stuck in the house for most of it.’
‘You should get yourself out and about.’ He leans back in the chair. ‘If I had the day to myself, I’d be out there. Spot of fishing, trip to the park.’
Day to myself? I want to shout. If I had the day to myself, I wouldn’t choose to be inside all day. But I don’t want to appear ungrateful.
‘But you don’t even fish.’
‘I’d take it up, probably.’
‘You can’t take a baby fishing.’
The kettle clicks off and the beeper sounds in his pocket.
‘For God’s sake,’ he says, the chair nearly toppling behind him as he gets up to use the phone in the hall.
I pour hot water into the mug with Mr Tea on it.
When did we become people like this? We used to laugh about friends who turned into their parents. We said we’d never be like that when we had kids. We said we’d go out all the time, cook nouvelle cuisine, and listen to records. Trisha over the road is always zipping about here and there. They’ve got a car seat for their precious Tristan and they’ve been to Marbella twice since she had him. And she has highlights. They’ve got the money, I suppose. She’s got a white Ford Escort cabriolet that she loves showing off. It’s a C reg; Peter says that’s only last year’s. She’s went back to work at the hairdressers’ when her little one was seven months. I heard her shouting about it outside to her friend. It’s exhausting just thinking about work.
I dump three sugars into Peter’s mug.
His face is red when he comes back into the kitchen. He’s breathing hard through his nose.
‘What’s happened?’ I say.
‘I’ve got to go back in. The alarm’s going off in the shop and there’s nobody else answering their bloody phone.’
‘Have a sip of tea before you go.’
I grab his cup from the counter and hold it out to him.
He frowns. ‘I haven’t got time for that.’ He flicks his wrist.
The cup flies out of my hand and smashes onto the floor. Tea splats like paint from a tin. For a moment, we lock eyes.
He shakes his head, turns around and walks out, slamming the front door behind him.
I’ve managed to get both the kids asleep at the same time. It might only last a few minutes. Peter still isn’t home. I hope he doesn’t come back while I’m watching EastEnders. Since I became pregnant with Annie, I’ve become obsessed with soap operas – especially this new one. They empty my brain just enough.
A few minutes after the opening titles, the key goes into the front door. I press pause. I don’t want him to think I’ve just been lounging around. He comes straight into the living room – without hanging up his jacket – just as I’m getting up. He glances at the telly.
‘I didn’t know this was on on a Friday.’
‘I taped it.’
He takes off his jacket and flings it onto the opposite couch.
‘Everything okay?’ I say.
I cleaned up your mess and swept your favourite mug into the bin.
He slumps onto the settee. I look at him, and I don’t think I know him at all. He can’t have been at Woolworths for nearly three hours – it doesn’t take that long to turn an alarm off. His eyes aren’t meeting mine. He’s not usually this secretive – perhaps he’s planning something. I glance around the room. He might’ve been watching me while he was out. I’ve seen those hidden cameras on Game for a Laugh.
‘I’m tired,’ he says. ‘All these broken nights.’
‘Oh,’ I say, narrowing my eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you woke up too. You always seem so fast asleep.’
He waves his hand. ‘Never mind.’ He sits up. ‘I’m going to book a holiday – or rather, I was hoping you could do it. It’ll get you out of the house for a bit. I can get some brochures this weekend. We can get one of those last-minute deal things. You could let your hair down.’
I want to tell him it’s a ridiculous idea, but all I say is, ‘We can’t go with a newborn. It’s a stupid idea.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ he says. ‘These first few weeks are the easiest – she won’t take much looking after.’
‘Easiest for who?’ I whisper.
‘They always sleep at this age,’ he says. ‘I was thinking. We could ask Nathan and Monica to come. Leo could keep Bobby entertained. It’ll be fun.’
‘I don’t know if a holiday’s such a good idea. Anyway, wouldn’t it be better just the four of us? Me, you and the kids. Annie’s so young, she might keep everyone awake.’
‘We don’t have to share accommodation … though that would make sense financially. She’ll be sleeping soon, if Bobby’s anything to go by.’
I feel the urge to scream and laugh hysterically in his face.
‘And,’ he continues, ‘I was thinking of going abroad. We’ve not been anywhere hot together before, have we? And it’ll be something to look forward to. I’ve seen loads of last-minute deals on Teletext.’
‘Hmm. I’ll speak to Monica about it tomorrow.’
The thought of going on an aeroplane makes my stomach churn. I’ve always hated heights.
‘Ha!’ he says, leaning forward. ‘I know what you’re like: if you’re not keen on something, you go quiet, hope it gets forgotten.’
I open my mouth to speak. He gets up quickly.
‘I’ll give Nathan a ring now.’
‘But it’s twenty to nine – you might wake Leo.’
My mother would never telephone anyone after eight o’clock at night – nor would she answer it. ‘If it’s an emergency,’ she says, ‘then they know where we live.’
‘It’s fine,’ he says, getting up and turning on the hall light.
‘Don’t talk too loud,’ I say, ‘or you’ll disturb the kids.’
My heart thumps as I hear him speak. I want to listen in and hear what Nathan says in reply … or grab the receiver out of Peter’s hands and talk to him myself.
Why is he being so stubborn about a holiday? It’s not like him to be this impulsive, or sociable. I turn my ears off, and only switch them on when he’s preparing to say goodbye.
‘I’ll get Debs to give you a bell when it’s arranged.’
Me? Why is he suggesting I ring Nathan?
‘Okay then,’ he says down the line. ‘Will do. Bye, Monica.’
I stand up quickly.
‘You were talking to Monica?’
He shrugs as he walks into the living room.
‘Yeah. Nathan was out.’
‘Where?’ It comes out of my mouth before I think.
Peter wrinkles his nose. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask.’
He’s the least curious person I know. ‘Why didn’t you pass the phone to me?’
‘Because it was my idea … and Monica is my friend too.’
Don’t I know it. He looks so pleased with himself.
‘I’m making a brew,’ he says, walking into the kitchen. ‘Do you want one?’
‘No. It’ll only keep me awake. Think I’ll head upstairs, early night.’
‘Night then,’ he shouts, above the sound of the kettle.
I switch off the telly, which was frozen on Lofty behind the bar at the Queen Vic. Poor Lofty, always taken advantage of … being messed around by Michelle. I used to think that about Peter, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe he’s not so predictable after all.
My hand’s reaching for the switch in the hall, when I notice a pink envelope on the doormat. It’s no one’s birthday, I think, as I bend down to pick it up. Didn’t Peter notice it when he came in?
There’s no name on the front. The flap isn’t stuck down; it’s tucked inside. I open it and take out the piece of paper. There are only six words. I hold on to the wall to steady myself.
I know your dirty little secret.
Ücretsiz ön izlemeyi tamamladınız.
