Lauren’s voice rose: ‘Well, according to Chelsey Barton’s pregnancy book, swimming is the best exercise you can do if—’
‘Why don’t I take you upstairs, Annie?’ Lydia said quickly. ‘I’ve just bought a new dress I wanted to show you.’
I met Lauren’s eyes. We both knew Lydia was trying to get Annie out of the way.
‘You girls stay here,’ Lydia went on. ‘This one’s for middle-aged ladies only.’ She left the room, Annie trailing in her wake.
Lauren sat down heavily at the kitchen table again and rolled her eyes.
‘What is Annie like?’ she said with a sigh.
‘Tell me about it,’ I said. ‘I have to live with her.’
Lauren grimaced. She fingered the jewelled, vintage cross around her neck. ‘You know she’s been on the phone to me every day since I last saw you, worrying that you’re not coping with this sperm donor stuff and begging me to try talking to you.’
I looked away.
‘I’ve told her you’re too sensible to go chasing some ridiculous dream, but she won’t listen. She thinks you’re going to try tracking down the donor dad . . .’
‘Our donor dad,’ I said, turning back to her.
Lauren threw me a sharp look. ‘He won’t want to know you,’ she said. Her blue eyes bored into me. She took her hand away from the cross around her neck and pressed it flat on the table for emphasis. ‘If he’d wanted to know you, he wouldn’t have been an anonymous donor, would he?’
What was Lauren saying? That I wasn’t worth knowing? Well, she was wrong. Totally wrong. Allan did want to know me. Anger spiralled up inside me. How dare Lauren assume she knew what someone in Allan’s position would think or feel or say or do? How dare she think she knew better than me about what I should do?
‘Don’t look at me like that, Mo,’ Lauren said fiercely. ‘I’m only looking out for you.’
‘I can take care of myself.’ I marched to the door, feeling really furious now. ‘Tell Lydia I’m sorry about dinner and tell Annie I’ve gone home.’
‘Wait—’
But I didn’t stop to listen. Tears pricked at my eyes as I headed back to the front door and let myself out. I didn’t know why I was so upset, just that everything with Lauren seemed to be changing now. It was partly the baby and partly her refusal to understand how I felt about Allan . . . it really hurt.
I switched off my phone, got home and had the long soak in the bath I’d been looking forward to. Annie arrived back about an hour later. Again, she was all concerned and wanting to talk, and again, I walked away, shutting myself up in my room and watching movies into the small hours.
I slept late the next day, Sunday, and it wasn’t until I’d been awake for half an hour or so that I remembered my phone was still switched off. I turned it on, to find messages from Rosa and Esme. Rosa’s was an invite to go shopping the next day. Esme’s said:
Come over Thurs? No tigers! Ex
I texted ‘yes’ to both. Even if my family were really annoying, at least I had friends.
12
Undercover Mission
I enjoyed shopping with Rosa. She was full of questions about my meeting with Allan and wide-eyed with horror when I told her about escaping the tiger. I half thought of asking Esme if I could bring Rosa along to meet her, but it seemed a bit presumptuous. Anyway, I wasn’t sure if they’d get on. From the short time I’d spent with her, it was already clear Esme wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea.
Allan rang me just before lunchtime the next day. He said he was about to fly to France on business, but that he’d be back in The Examiner offices on Friday morning.
‘I’m in an all-day meeting with the editorial team,’ he said. ‘The desk editor is Matthew Flint.’ He paused expectantly, as if I should know who this was.
‘Wow,’ I said, hoping this was the right response.
‘Matthew’s young but he’s really building a reputation,’ Allan said proudly.
‘Actually, I’ve always wanted to be that kind of proper journalist.’ I hadn’t meant to tell him right then, but I couldn’t stop myself. As the words gushed out of me, I blushed. What was Allan going to think of me now?
‘That’s fantastic,’ Allan said. ‘I’m thrilled you’re interested. Perhaps . . . when I’m back . . . we can talk about that . . . about the best way to get started?’
‘Oh, yes, thank you.’
How cool was that? Allan was being really encouraging, like he thought it was perfectly realistic for me to want to be a serious journalist. Annie was so negative about everything . . . always seeing the potential problems in any course of action. It was wonderful to have someone listening to my hopes and dreams and sounding so enthusiastic.
I told Allan that I was going over to see Esme on Thursday.
‘At her house?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Great,’ he said. ‘That’s . . .’ He paused. ‘That’s great.’
I was sure there was something else he wanted to say. My mind ran over the possible options. Was he worried about me going alone to a house where a suspected criminal lived? Or was he hoping I’d have a chance to speak to Baxter himself?
‘Mr Baxter will be at work, won’t he?’ I said.
‘I would think so.’ Allan hesitated again.
‘Yes.’ I frowned, still trying to work out what was on his mind. And then I thought I saw . . . I’d be in a brilliant position to try and find out more about the stuff on Baxter that Allan was investigating. If I could discover something useful, Allan would be really pleased and I’d show him I was serious about becoming a journalist.
‘D’you want me to ask Esme if she knows anything . . . say, about Miriam 21?’
‘No,’ Allan said quickly. ‘No, I’m sure she won’t know and if she happened to mention you’d said something, it might put you in danger with Baxter himself.’
‘OK, well, shall I just keep my ears open? See if anyone mentions it?’
‘Only if you’re comfortable doing that,’ Allan said. ‘I don’t want you putting yourself at risk.’
Time passed slowly until Thursday afternoon. I arrived at Esme’s house five minutes early so hung around outside for a bit. The marquee was gone from the front garden, and the house itself looked even bigger than before. It really was a mansion. Three floors high, plus the hidden warren of basement cellars, and at least six rooms across, with wings extending away, towards the back garden, on either side.
Esme let me in. She was wearing black leggings and a fitted orange top. I glanced at my own jeans and black T-shirt. Esme’s clothes were just as casual as mine but, on her, everything looked amazing. That top was definitely designer, anyway. Esme flicked back her long blonde hair and grabbed my arm as she led me up two flights of stairs. She chattered non-stop.
‘It’s awesome that you’ve come round. I get so bored in the holidays. Bertie, that’s my older brother, he’s such a freak and the twins are a total nightmare. They’re all out right now. Do you have brothers and sisters?’
I started explaining about Lauren – I wasn’t quite ready to talk about Shelby – but I’d only said a few words before Esme was onto another topic.
‘Wolf’s coming over too. He kept bugging me about calling you.’ Her eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘I was starting to think maybe I should be jealous . . .’
‘Oh, er . . .’ I stammered, feeling embarrassed. ‘Is he your boyfriend, then?’
Esme stopped and blinked at me. ‘No, not exactly.’ She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I mean, I think he’d like to take things further but to be honest . . . well, don’t get me wrong, Wolf’s great, but we’ve known each other forever. I don’t really think of him like that.’
I nodded, hoping my cheeks weren’t as visibly flushed as they felt. It was kind of a relief to know I wasn’t barging in on some boyfriend/girlfriend thing, but the news that Wolf might be into Esme made me feel strangely empty. I glanced over at her. Esme was wearing glittery eye make-up that would hav
e looked ridiculous on me, but that on her looked sophisticated. The word ‘sparkling’ could have been invented for her.
Of course Wolf was going to be into her. What boy wouldn’t be?
Esme turned off the stairs onto the second-floor landing. ‘My room’s along here,’ she said, pointing to the corridor on our right. As we walked along, she explained what lay behind each of the doors we were passing. ‘Spare room. Never used. Spare bathroom, if you need it.’ She waved her hand to the left.
‘What about back there?’ I pointed to the other side of the landing and the corridor that lay beyond.
Esme made a face. ‘Daddy’s office is down there. We’re not even allowed along the corridor in case we mess anything up.’
‘Really?’ My heartbeat quickened. Baxter’s private office was surely the most likely place for him to keep data on his dodgy business dealings.
‘Yeah.’ Esme rolled her eyes. ‘Daddy’s a total control freak.’
We walked on. ‘I’m in here.’ Esme opened a door into the biggest, most elegant teenage bedroom I’d ever seen. Forget posters on the wall, Esme had signed, framed photographs of every major music or film star I’d ever heard of – and plenty I hadn’t.
‘Jeez,’ I said, looking around. A lot of the pictures were old, of people in thirties and forties style poses. The effect was incredibly glamorous. All the photo frames were black and the walls behind were cream with a black lace effect at the top and bottom. There was a black lace cover on the huge double bed and a large walk-in closet at the far end of the room, past two red velvet sofas. ‘Wow!’
Esme giggled. ‘It’s just a bedroom.’
Her phone rang. She muttered into it for a moment, then came off the mobile with a sigh.
‘Mum’s nagging me about sorting out some school stuff I left in the car. I told her you were here but she’s insisting I go down and deal with it. I’ll only be a few minutes. Eight or ten max. Why don’t you wait here?’
‘No problem.’ I wasn’t sure I could face Esme’s mum yet. If she was anything like her husband or her daughter, I imagined she’d be pretty scary.
I stood at the door and watched Esme walk away. As she disappeared down the stairs, I glanced across the landing towards the corridor opposite, where Esme had said her dad’s office was located.
Allan would give his right arm to be here now, with such an opportunity to investigate. I could just see him, creeping over to the office and looking for information on Miriam 21.
And then it struck me. Why shouldn’t I go looking? Mr Baxter wasn’t here. Esme wasn’t going to be back for at least another five minutes. I could certainly have a quick peek . . . My heart pounded. It was reckless to even consider doing such a thing. But I wasn’t really risking anything. If Esme came back and couldn’t find me, I’d just pretend I went wandering about and had got lost. A thrill of excitement throbbed through me. Why shouldn’t I investigate?
It was what a proper journalist would do. And it would be helpful to Allan. He’d be really impressed if I came back with information about Miriam 21.
Yes. That thought settled it. I took a deep breath and set off.
13
Miriam 21
Seconds later, I had crossed the landing. No sounds rose up from the stairs or along from the corridor. The whole house still felt deserted though it was so large that a party could probably have been going on in a different wing and I wouldn’t have heard it. I scuttled along the forbidden corridor. The first door opened onto a bathroom – the mirror image of the one I’d just passed on the other side of the landing.
The second door led into an office: Baxter’s private study. I took in the two long desks and array of computers at a glance. The room was almost entirely paper-free. A bookcase containing several rows of leather-bound hardbacks stood against one wall but there were no filing cabinets . . . no notes or pads . . . no diaries. If it wasn’t for the three computers and ornamental pen set at the end of the desk, you wouldn’t even know this was an office.
I raced across the room and tapped on the first computer’s keyboard. The machine fired – to a screen requesting a password. It was the same with the other two computers. I sighed. What had I expected? That an eminent businessman would leave his work content unprotected?
I tugged at the shallow drawer that ran under the first desk. Empty, apart from a couple of Post-it notepads and two biros. It was the same with the second desk. I looked back at the computers and a strong sense of defeat swamped me. When Lauren had been investigating her birth family, she had broken into offices and found clues to her past . . . names and addresses and all sorts of useful data. I couldn’t even get beyond the first hurdle of a password. I was certainly kidding myself if I thought I stood a chance as a proper journalist.
I wandered over to the bookcase again. A photograph of Baxter and a lady I assumed was Esme’s mum stood on one shelf. Below was a row of other snapshots. One in particular stood out. It looked like a family shot, mum and dad plus four children: a blond boy with a sulky expression, two small kids in matching overalls and a little girl who was unmistakably Esme. She had positioned herself in the middle of the photo, her arms spread wide and a huge, beaming smile on her face. Her hair was shorter than now, but even blonder. She made the other people in the picture look somehow washed out.
I reached out to take a closer look at the photo and accidentally knocked the one next to it onto the ground. I crouched down to pick it up. Honestly, what was I doing? I really needed to get out of here and make my way back to Esme’s room before she returned.
As my fingers curled around the picture I’d knocked onto the floor, the bottom row of books on the bookcase caught my eye. The leather label on one of the books was peeling. Surely real leather wouldn’t come off like that? I touched the book. The whole label came away in my hands, revealing a plastic frame behind. I gasped. The whole book was a fake. Just a fancy-looking cover. I scanned the entire bottom row. They were all fakes . . . false fronts of books in front of hollow plastic frames.
Why would anyone bother to stack a shelf with pretend books? I pulled at the plastic frame I’d first revealed. I was expecting it to be wedged in, but it came away easily in my hand. Gently I moved the book-fronted frame next to it. And the next. A small wooden tray was hidden behind the frames. Six memory sticks sat on the tray. I scooped them up and brought them into the light. My heart beat against my throat. Why was Baxter hiding stuff here?
Each stick was marked in highlighter pen with the letter ‘M’ and a number. I scanned them quickly: M15, M4, M16, M19, M8 . . . M21.
Was this Miriam 21?
I placed the other sticks back in the wooden tray and shoved the plastic frames and their false fronts into position. I replaced the leather label from the first frame and propped the family photo back on its shelf. Then I looked down at the memory stick in my hand.
A cold chill snaked down my spine. Should I try opening it on one of these computers?
‘Madison?’ The voice from the doorway made me jump.
I looked up, my fist closing over the memory stick. Wolf was standing, gazing at me with a frown on his face.
‘What are you doing in here?’
‘I . . . er . . . I got lost.’ Jeez, the excuse I’d imagined using earlier sounded ridiculous now it was actually coming out of my mouth. I could feel my cheeks burning.
‘Oh.’ Wolf was still frowning. ‘Esme’s room is down there.’ He pointed along the corridor. ‘I just saw her downstairs. She was having a row with her mum but she said I should come up and keep you company.’
‘Right. Great.’ I was still holding the memory stick tightly in my hand. Should I leave it on the desk? Drop it on the floor? No. Even if Wolf didn’t see, when Mr Baxter next came in here, he’d know someone had been snooping around. Anyway, I needed to look at what was on the stick.
Wolf led the way back to Esme’s bedroom. I tucked the memory stick into my jeans pocket. How on earth was I going to examine its cont
ents?
Wolf glanced round at me. ‘How’re you doing, Madison?’
‘Great,’ I lied. ‘How about you?’
‘Great,’ Wolf echoed. He was dressed in skinny jeans and a longer-sleeved version of the black top he’d had on at the party. Like Esme, his clothes seemed effortlessly put together – almost as if he’d been styled.
As we reached Esme’s bedroom, Wolf ran his hand through his thick fair hair. He seemed suddenly awkward and embarrassed.
‘Er, thanks f . . . for sticking up for me with my dad the other day.’ His face turned crimson.
I shrugged. ‘Well, you saved us,’ I said, my mind flashing back to the tiger. ‘If you hadn’t said to walk slowly, I’d have run and the tiger would have chased us and caught us before we’d got to the gate.’
‘My dad hates me anyway,’ Wolf said quietly.
I stared at him. Surely hate was too strong a word. Then I remembered how I sometimes felt about Annie. ‘Why d’you think that?’ I asked.
Wolf made a face. ‘You’ve heard my name: Wolfgang William blah . . . blah . . . blah . . . I was called after Mozart and Shakespeare among others and . . . well, that’s a lot to live up to. I guess my dad thinks I’m a f . . . failure.’
The atmosphere in the room tensed. I had no idea what to say to that. Luckily, Esme chose that moment to bounce in.
‘Oh my God, my mother is such a nightmare. She kept me down there for hours. I’m so sorry, Madison. Hey, Wolf, shall we go to the music room? We could carry on with “Fever Light”. What d’you think, Madison?’
I stared at her. ‘What’s “Fever Light”?’ I asked.
‘A song Wolf wrote. He’s laid the backing track. I’m doing vocals.’
‘Wow.’ I looked at Wolf. He was still looking a bit awkward, but I was pretty sure it was because he was embarrassed about his dad. He had no idea I’d been snooping about in Mr Baxter’s office. My hand drifted to my pocket. I could feel the memory stick pressing against my jeans. I had to find some way of looking at it, then returning it to its hiding place behind those fake books. Hopefully the music room Esme was referring to wasn’t too far away and I’d be able to slip out while she and Wolf were busy and make my way back here.
Missing Me Page 7