I offered to walk her home, still holding out a faint hope, but she dismissed the offer as though I hadn’t really meant it, and walked off in the opposite direction to me, with a wave over her shoulder and a ‘See you later’.
My mood was not improved by the walk into town past drunken schoolchildren and stinking kebab shops, nor by the half-hour wait for the bus back to Leanne’s. When I got in, Lisa was there, drinking tea and watching TV.
‘Where’s Leanne?’ I asked.
‘Outside,’ Lisa said, with a jerk of her head. ‘Having a fag.’
I really wanted to go up to bed and be alone, but I don’t get to see Lisa very often – largely because I make little effort to do so – and I felt as if I ought to at least pass the time of day with her now, so I sat down. It’s not that Lisa and I don’t get on but I’m just not close with her, not like I am with Leanne. Lisa and I are similar: slim, quiet, self-contained, sandy-haired and fair-skinned. We take after our dad. Leanne and Pete are short, dark and dominate every room and every conversation, whether they intend to or not, the same as Mum used to. Lisa and I tend to rely on Leanne to bring out the more relaxed, life-loving side of ourselves. When it’s just the two of us, the conversation is usually either awkwardly stilted, or it’s non-existent.
‘So, Leanne says you’re still going on about our Pete.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘I’m not “going on about” him. I’m doing some research. I’m trying to find him.’ Her tone hadn’t been overtly hostile, not like Leanne’s the other day, but I could tell she too was unconvinced that my whole project was a good idea.
‘I know,’ she said, looking me in the eye – something, I realised, she rarely did. ‘But why? What do you think you’re going to find out that nobody else has found out these last twenty year?’
I was silent a moment. ‘That’s what Leanne said, too. But I just want to try, you know?’
‘What, a last ditch effort?’
I shrugged. ‘Something like that.’ I rubbed my hands down my face, searching for a way to explain why I was doing what I was doing. ‘I mean, twenty years is a long time. People will have forgotten about it or at least stopped thinking about it as much. If I can do something to stir it up a bit, even if that just means writing a little piece for the Donny Free Press then it might help us find him. Don’t you think?’
‘Who, though? Whose memory are you trying to jog? Everyone who ever met him?’
‘Well, yeah. Why not? I mean even you and Leanne, I know you both still think about him all the time, same as I do, but people bury things, put them away, choose not to look at them. We all do it. And, you know, by us talking about it, even just this here, tonight, maybe that’ll make one of us think twice about something that happened back then, maybe some pieces will fall into place that never have before.’
Lisa was still looking me in the eye, and the coolness of her stare unnerved me. I couldn’t tell if she was angry or sad, or simply uninterested. ‘Maybe,’ she said quietly. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
Leanne came into the room through the back kitchen, trailing chilly evening air and stale cigarette smoke. ‘Good night?’ she asked me, barely suppressing a wink.
Lisa grinned, the coolness of our conversation instantly thawed by Leanne’s presence, both of them sensing yet another opportunity to gang up on me. ‘Yeah, hot date wasn’t it?’
I pursed my lips. I wasn’t ready for this. ‘No, we’re just – ’
‘What?’ Leanne interrupted. ‘Don’t tell me the sexy librarian was too buttoned up to put out, even after three dates. You’re losing your touch, bro.’
‘It’s not that,’ I protested. ‘I just don’t want to sit around here discussing it with you two like some bad episode of Loose Women.’
Lisa laughed, though whether with me or at me, I wasn’t sure.
‘Where are you going?’ Leanne barked at me as I stood up.
‘To bed.’
‘Wait, I want to ask you something first.’ She was either insensible to my mood, or it was something really important.
I sighed. ‘What?’
Leanne glanced sideways at Lisa, who gave a subtle nod. ‘Are you doing anything tomorrow night?’
‘No.’ I squinted quizzically at the pair of them. ‘I’m never doing anything.’
‘I thought you might be out with that library woman again.’
‘Her name’s Tash. And no, I’m not out with her tomorrow.’ The way things went tonight, I wouldn’t be going out with her ever again.
‘So, do you want to come out with me?’
For a moment, I was too shocked to speak. I was the dorky younger brother. I had longed to be invited along to places by Pete or Leanne – even by Lisa – when they were all well-dressed, sophisticated teenagers and I was a pathetic swotty bookworm who couldn’t even ride a bike, but the invitations had never materialised. Here one was being proffered on a plate, and I was naturally wary. It had to be a trap.
‘Where?’ My suspicion was well-founded. I could not recall a night out with Leanne that had not involved biker pubs, hairy rock bands, maximum strength cider and someone making me look at their new tattoo.
‘Round the town, just with me and a few of the girls. You said yourself, you’re always stuck in the house, you should get out more.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘Are you trying to – ’
‘Look,’ she cut in, holding up a hand, ‘I’m not trying to set you up with anyone, it’s just there’s this girl I know from work, Helen. She manages one of the care homes, she’s single and I reckon she’d be your type.’
‘My type?’ I tried to keep my face neutral but must have failed.
‘Don’t worry,’ Leanne said mockingly, ‘she’s nothing like me.’ I opened my mouth to speak. ‘Or like any of my other mates either. She’s nice. Honestly, I think you’d like her.’ She looked to Lisa for backup.
‘She is,’ Lisa said, nodding earnestly. ‘I’ve met her. She’s dead normal. Honest.’
‘And how do you know I’m even looking for a girlfriend?’
‘Why wouldn’t you be?’ Leanne snorted. ‘You just said, nothing’s happening with this librarian woman and you told me she’s not even divorced yet. Anyway, when was the last time you had a girlfriend? You can’t tell me you’re not getting a bit desperate.’
‘I had a girlfriend in Dubai,’ I protested, which was true after a fashion. I’d had an ongoing understanding with Jen, one of the other journalists on my magazine that whenever we were drunk, bored or horny – or, more usually, all three – we would meet up on some pretext then, pretending we had never intended such an unseemly outcome, have a quick and uncomplicated shag. I had liked Jen, in a slightly awe-struck way. She had seemed impossibly posh to me – albeit posh in what politicians would call a middle-class way. She was like someone from a university prospectus or a youth TV presenter, all unkempt hair and board shorts and oversized hoodies, spending her whole life looking perfect, as if she had just got out of bed, only she smelled sweet and clean, and she was always wearing eye make-up. She was by far the best-looking woman I had ever been involved with, but she was nearly ten years younger than me and more interested in wallowing in the boozy ex-pat lifestyle than in any kind of serious relationship. We