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.