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Kitabı oku: «11 Missed Calls: A gripping psychological thriller that will have you on the edge of your seat», sayfa 3
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.
