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.
Anna
I wait until Sophie has gone to bed before I mention Debbie. I didn’t want to confuse her by talking about another grandmother – who she thinks has passed away. How am I going to explain to her that Debbie is alive after all?
‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ says Jack − words I have heard many times − while he pours himself a glass of white wine.
‘I’m not,’ I say. ‘But the woman behind the counter said photos usually come out well, even after all that time.’
I grab my laptop and take it into the living room. I still don’t know what to say in my reply to Debbie. It is too important to just fire off a few words when I have a whole lifetime to write about. She won’t be expecting a message from me, but I doubt Monica or Dad have replied yet. They would have told me if they had, though I’m not sure of anything these days.
‘Just ask to meet,’ says Jack, reading my mind. ‘You don’t have to write an essay. If she is who she says she is, then you’ll find out soon enough.’
Perhaps it is as simple as that. There is a tiny part of me – self-preservation, again – that tells me not to give too much away in an email. She must earn the right to hear my news. The least she could do is meet me.
I click on the email forwarded by Dad. I already know her words off by heart, but I still read it. ‘The memories of shells and sweet things …’ No one else could know about that.
I type out the reply before I can think about it, and press send.
I look up and flinch. Jack is standing just centimetres away from me.
He laughs.
‘You were off in dreamland then.’ He hands me a piece of paper. ‘These are a few of the private investigators we use at work. The other partners hire them to find people for court summonses. One of them might be able to help if you don’t get a reply. Tell them to charge it to my account.’
‘What makes you think she won’t reply?’ I say. He shrugs. I look at the list. ‘So, are these PIs like Magnum?’
‘Er, no. Unfortunately not. They’re more likely to drive a Volvo estate than a Ferrari.’ He laughs at his own joke.
I settle back into the sofa. Some names to research; it makes me feel useful. I’ve never spoken to a private investigator before; they must lead such exciting lives.
‘They’ll probably jump at the chance of this job,’ says Jack. ‘They’re usually sitting in a car for eight hours at a time, pissing into a coke bottle.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m just nipping down to the shop for more wine. Tough case at the moment.’
‘But it’s Friday night.’
‘If I can get this done, I can relax for the rest of the weekend.’
‘You can’t drive – you’ve already had a glass.’
He tuts. ‘I’m walking to the offy on the corner.’
It’s what I hoped he’d say.
As soon as I hear the front door shut, I race up the two flights of stairs to Jack’s office in the loft. Tough case, my arse. He’s a conveyancing solicitor, not a human rights lawyer.
There’s no door to open – the whole of the loft is his work space. Three walls are hidden by bookcases filled with leather-bound books I’m certain he’s never read, and sports trophies from his university days. There’s a sofa bed to the left and a large mahogany desk under the roof window. The blue screen of his laptop is reflected in the skylight. If I’m quick enough, the screensaver won’t have kicked in yet. He’s protective over his passwords.
I slide onto his chair. His Facebook account is open. I click on the messages tab, but there are none. Not even the link to our old house for sale that I sent him last week. I check the archive folder. Still nothing. I must have at least fifty messages archived in mine. He must have deleted every one. Who does that? Especially someone who professes to hardly ever use Facebook.
Francesca was the name of the woman who signed her name at the bottom of the letter. I go to his friends list, my hands shaking. Jack might only be minutes from walking through the door.
He only has fifty-nine friends. She’s not hard to find. I could have looked on his friends