Despite fear tripping through me, I check any physical response that might give the game away. Mentally, I run and keep on running. It strikes me then that this is what I do often.
“I’m not a religious person,” Stephanie says. “No time for church, but what I feel,” she says, her fingers wrapping around a pretty necklace that I suspect Tom gave her, mainly because he never gave me jewellery, “is that his spirit is here, not in my heart, but here, maybe not in this town, but somewhere. Maybe, it’s because there was nothing left to bury.”
“No?” This time, I’m unable to muzzle my shock.
“The crash obliterated everyone involved. It was literally an inferno.” Her eyes fill with utter sadness, “Thailand isn’t like England when it comes to taking care of people’s remains. Perhaps that’s why I still can’t grasp it.” She looks at me with such fervour that, although I understand that her feelings for Tom take a dissimilar shape to mine, I know deep inside how much this woman loved the man. It humbles me. “We had a funeral of sorts, so that should be the end of it.” Her voice tails off. I have no idea what to say. I’m too busy trying to stop myself from ranting and spilling all I know.
Stephanie fills the gap. “Is that so stupid of me, do you think?” Voice cracking again, she turns and swipes a box of tissues from off the work surface, snatches one out and stems a tear seeping from the corner of her eye. It takes everything I have not to do the same, if for rather different reasons.
“Hark at me go on,” she says, blowing her nose. “You have your own troubles.”
She deserves better than this. How I long to tell her the truth because, out of all of my friends, including Vick, and my brother, Stephanie alone would share my burden. It’s selfish of me, yet I’m torn. She has more right than she’ll ever know to be told that the bond she feels has not been broken, that Adam, or Tom, is alive somewhere and out there in the real world. I stumble a reply, despite a sensation of stone-cold panic that she might read the blatant struggle going on inside me. What’s worse, her face breaks out in a wide expression of warmth and reassurance.
I feel a heel. Morally bankrupt. A dissembler. Just like the man called Adam who changed his name to Tom.
“Will you be able to find your own way back?”
“Down here, straight over at the roundabout and keep on walking, didn’t you say?”
“I could run you in the car? Oh, goodness,” Stephanie breaks off, glancing over my shoulder. “I hadn’t realised the time.” I turn, step aside and follow her gaze to a young woman with two children, a boy and girl in primary-school uniform. The woman smiles and walks toward us. The little girl bobs along, fizzing with energy. She carries a pink lunchbox decorated with unicorns. A sparkly slide glitters in her soft dark hair and, Vick was right, she has the same oval-shaped face as her mother, although her eyes are different, green, not brown, and the lids heavier, probably taking after the man who fathered her.
Stephanie opens her arms wide and the little girl skips towards her, beaming from ear to ear. “Mummy, can I go and play at Wilf’s house? Jess says it’s all right.”
“Steady,” Stephanie laughs, tousling her daughter’s hair.
“Don’t, Mummy,” she scolds, pulling away. Stern.
“Roz, this is Zoe,” Stephanie says.
“Hi, Zoe,” I say. The little girl glances up, pays the least attention, mumbles ‘Hi’ and then dismisses me. After all, I’m a grown-up, a strange species. Who can blame her?
“And this, Roz, is Jess, and Wilf, Zoe’s best pal.”
Jess nods hello with a friendly expression. Wilf tugs on Zoe’s arm, indicating that playing at his house is a done deal.
“Can I?” Zoe wheedles, “Please say yes, Mummy.” To impress the point, she tilts toward Stephanie, reminding me of a loyal dog leaning hard against his owner’s legs in a gesture of affection. Stephanie grins and throws a questioning look at Jess.
“Fine by me,” Wilf’s mum says. “I’ll bring Zoe back after tea, if you like.”
“Yes,” Wilf bursts out, punching the air with a fist. His cheeky face splits into a wide grin.
“Looks like I don’t have a choice,” Stephanie says with a wry laugh.
Zoe pushes her bag and lunch box into her mother’s hands. “And look after Sealy for me,” she commands, before belting off down the street with Wilf in tow. “I will. Be good, poppet,” Stephanie calls after her. “Sealy is Zoe’s favourite toy,” she lets on. “Adam gave it to her when she was tiny. They’re inseparable.”
“Better go,” Jess says, trotting after them.
Observing a small slice of family life, I’m gripped with envy and sadness. Any hope I have of motherhood, or being in a secure financial position that allows me to adopt, disappeared less than twenty-four hours ago. I’m seized with the idea that my life will be forever bleak and empty. Irrational, perhaps, yet my heart aches for imaginary and random misfortunes as well as the more obvious one of being betrayed by Tom. Stephanie slices into my sudden melancholy.
“I know I’m biased, but she’s glorious, isn’t she? So full of life.”
I agree, my fingers digging deep into the palms of my hands. “I’m glad for you.”
“Right,” Stephanie says, switching from Mummy-mode to professional. “I’ll grab my keys and run you back.”
“Honestly, it’s no bother.” I want to walk. I need to. I think better that way. How else do I process that the man for whom I still have strong feelings, confused and bad, acted a role in which I played no part in the production?
She sketches a frown. “Are you sure? I don’t mind.”
“Enjoy your moment of freedom.” I itch to escape into anonymous, alien streets.
“Come and see me when your mum gets back,” Stephanie says, hovering on the doorstep. “Better still– ” She breaks off, disappears for seconds, returns and presses a card into my hand. “My direct number. I’ll come up with a good deal for her, promise.”
“That’s kind.” I push another smile. “Thanks for the coffee,” I add, plunging my hands deep into my jacket pockets. The wind, if anything, is stronger now, boisterous too. Good.
“Thank you for listening,” she says, touching my sleeve.
“Likewise.”
I feel Stephanie’s gaze bore into my back as I trudge away. Turning left, like she said, I cross over past a one-stop shop and head straight towards town. My gait is leaden. My mind is a grubby and disorganised mess, a cheap sale of bric-a- brac in a tatty village hall. Tom and Adam Charteris are one and the same. No doubt about it. While there are consistencies in his story, only his occupation is verifiable.
One thought jabs at me more than the rest: why is Tom on the run again?
Something makes me shiver and I hitch a fast look behind, yet there is nobody there. Bound to be jumpy after what happened, after what I was told.
I pick up pace and cut down a narrow cobbled alley, past a French restaurant and deli on my left, and old-fashioned sweetie shop on my right, and cross over the road at the brow of a hill as the lights switch from red to green. Keep walking. Keep moving.
I consider the dead brother and the Devon connection and whether or not I can trace Adam’s trajectory. Surely, there will be archived information about what allegedly happened to them both?
Inserting myself into a shoal