by Linda Coles
“I can’t really,” he said. “And what about the boys? Your mother is in no state yet to look after them. She’s still grieving. And we can’t ask Gary’s mum again. They were only round there last night, eating her out of house and home, I shouldn’t wonder.”
None of this was news to Chrissy, and she knew he’d never head out with her. But in asking, it made it feel like it was his choice not to tag along rather than her choice to leave in the first place. One day, he might surprise her and say yes. But she’d deal with that if the situation ever arose.
Scooping scrambled eggs out onto perfectly cooked toast, she handed him a plate and they sat down to eat.
“Look at that,” she said. “Perfect eggs. Who said I can’t cook?”
Chapter Forty-Five
After she’d had a long hot shower and Adam and the boys had left for the day, Chrissy called Glendene School again. The same bright and extremely high-pitched voice answered her call, and Chrissy did her utmost once again not to laugh. She idly wondered if surgery might have been responsible for the woman’s peculiar tone. Bubble from Absolutely Fabulous sprang to mind. Perhaps this woman dressed similarly too.
“Hi. It’s Chrissy Livingstone here. You—”
There was no need to go on. The bright voice talked straight over the top of her. Rather excitedly.
“Hi!” she squealed. “Horse & Hound Magazine lady!”
Chrissy left a moment of silence empty in case there was more to follow. When the coast was clear, Chrissy went on. “Yes. What a great memory you have.”
“Thanks! Do you need something else? I guess you’ve heard?” Incredibly, the woman’s voice suddenly dropped several octaves as she asked the last part of her question. The bubbles sounded like the gas had left them.
“Heard?” she enquired. “I spoke to Mr. Browning yesterday at lunch. Have I missed something?”
“Oh,” the woman replied. The syllable was tinged with sadness.
Chrissy waited, then pressed on. “What’s happened?”
“Mr. Browning fell terribly ill yesterday, I’m afraid. A taxi took him home after lunch, but the driver ended up taking him straight to the hospital. His breathing. He’s in intensive care, and it doesn’t sound good by all accounts. It’s awfully sad.”
Chrissy couldn’t quite believe her ears. Only yesterday she’d sat eating pork pie with him while he sipped on his half pint. And she’d badgered him with questions from the past, about boys whom he quite obviously knew. About a secret he was never going to let her in on. And now he was gravely ill. He’d take what he knew to his resting place.
But had Chrissy contributed to his anxiety, bringing up whatever it was that he’d been keeping secret? She was conscious of the woman’s voice on the other end of the telephone. The light fog cleared around her thoughts and she said, “I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”
“Thank you. Everyone here is quite upset. Mr. Browning is a well-respected man. He did so much for the school, and now he’s almost gone.” Her tone changed upwards again, thoughts of the man’s illness evaporating rapidly, Chrissy assumed. “So, what can I do for you?” Back to gas-filled bubbles.
“Actually, I’m trying to trace another chap for my story. He attended the school in 1987, so he’d have been around fifteen then. Robert was his first name. Would you be able to tell me his surname, perhaps?”
“Oh. I wouldn’t be able to, I’m afraid. I wasn’t here then.”
Chrissy rolled her eyes. My goodness, but this woman was dim.
“I realise that,” she said politely. “Would you be able to look up his surname for me? I can’t think there’d be too many Roberts attending in 1987. I’ll know it when I hear it, and then I can get hold of him.” Chrissy figured she’d write all the names down as the woman reeled them off, then fake excitement at the last one. It had worked in the past.
“I’ll have to check with the secretary,” Bubble said, though she sounded nervous about it. Damn. Chrissy couldn’t afford to lose another lead, and she knew that the secretary would not divulge the information. They were worse than the old ward sisters in protecting their patients. She needed to rescue the situation before all was lost and she left empty handed. Chrissy decided to go out on a limb, though a fake one.
“Well, how about when I’ve finished this article, I get the photographer to pop on over and grab some shots of you in the grounds perhaps? And I’ll make sure you’re in the magazine, since you’ve been such a big help already. We’re looking at the Christmas edition currently. Maybe you could wear red that day?”
There was a delighted but low squeal, and Chrissy pushed the phone away from her ear until it passed.
“Well. . .”
“If you read the handful out, I’ll know which one I’m looking for. I’m pretty sure his parents are still around Berkshire.” Chrissy cringed at her own untruths.
May your mouth turn black.
There was a light clackety-clack from fingers tapping a keyboard, then, “Here you go.” Chrissy had her pen poised, ready. “There are six. Jones, Harvey, Newsome, Smithson, Turner and Vegar. Do you recognise the one you need?”
“Wonderful! Thank you so much—yes. You’ve been extremely helpful. And I’ll not tell a soul.”
“Well, let me know what day I should wear red, won’t you?”
“Of course. I’ll be in touch. Thanks again.” Chrissy disconnected before the woman asked any more questions. She doubted she’d be able to call for anything else in the future. Looking at the paper in front of her, she smiled at the six names. It was time to get back to more digging.
The rest of her search was tedious work and took her up until lunchtime, but she only had to get halfway through the list to find what she needed.
Robert Newsome was the boy, now the man, she was looking for.
And thankfully, Dr. Robert Newsome appeared to be alive and presumably well.
Chapter Forty-Six
There wasn’t a whole lot of time to go and see the doctor. Dr. Robert Newsome would not be getting a visit from Chrissy before she left for LA the following day, but that didn’t mean he would be forgotten about. It was bad timing—or was it good timing? To be scheduled and going to LA at all was fortuitous. Or an omen. But there were things she needed to do before she left, things for her family, and they were far more important than her own private investigation.
Since Chrissy had never been known for her cooking skills and the family regularly groaned when she attempted to create something, she often used a cooking service, meals she ordered online that were then delivered vacuum packed and ready to be warmed up. They weren’t bad. In fact, some would say they were better than what she produced herself, and so she relied heavily on them. Scrolling through the order page, she clicked on various meals for the three hungry males in her life, ordering enough for the next ten days and adding a few desserts in as special treats. She’d only be gone a week, but it didn’t hurt to have excess in the freezer to give everyone a bit of choice. Her mother would have grimaced if she saw what Chrissy was doing, but at least the lads were getting fed and would not be living on sandwiches or takeaway crap.
Or sushi.
Or burgers.
She added all the items to her account—no need for credit card details, as they were already preloaded—and printed out her order so that Adam could easily see what was available. There would be no need for him to rummage in the bowels of the freezer. He was a busy man, too, and mundane things like eating during the week had to be made as simple as possible all round. The food order service was a godsend and a time saver.
Satisfied everything was sorted for their nourishment needs, she made her way downstairs and gathering her handbag, slipped on sandals and left the house. She had errands to run before she left, things that couldn’t be avoided, like picking up Adam’s dry-cleaning and her prescription from the pharmacy. She unlocked her car, climbed in and set off in the direction of Egham, only a couple of miles down the road, a town she could
in fact have walked to on any other day.
On a day she fancied a long walk.
Her stomach growled, sounding like water gurgling down an outside grid, as she drove the short distance, so much so that Chrissy herself commented in the emptiness of her car.
“I’d better make lunch my first stop,” she said as she pulled into a parking space in the small car park five minutes later. There was a café that she liked to frequent just around the corner and, gathering her belongings off the passenger seat, she made her way round.
It was a little after 1 PM and the place was heaving. Peering towards the back of the café, she spotted a vacant table for two and made a beeline for it before somebody else saw it and swooped in. There was a tall, skinny, well-thumbed menu propped against the cruet, though she knew the entire contents of the list without needing to read it. There was always a slight possibility she might try something new, but it was the same thing each time. She had been sat only a moment when the waitress came over.
“What can I get you from the kitchen?” she enquired. Efficient and polite enough.
“I’ll have the bubble and squeak with poached eggs, please, and a chamomile tea,” she ordered. The young woman wrote it down without saying another word and Chrissy watched as she headed over to the till to input her order. She wondered about the young woman, about her life; she wondered if she was happy.
Chrissy often watched people. It was a habit from a previous life and one that she carried on with because people fascinated her. She turned in her own seat so that she could watch the front door better, always interested in who was coming or going. What secrets did they hold? What went on behind their closed doors? Were they happy? Did they have a special someone somewhere? It wasn’t as though Chrissy wasn’t happy; she was—how could she not be? She worked for herself in sales and that took hardly any of her time up. She was free to come and go as she pleased, and that included overseas travel. To a point, though. She had to be careful not to raise suspicion.
A man in a suit walked in. He looked like any other forty-something businessman, and Chrissy watched him as he approached the counter and ordered what she assumed would be his lunch. While he waited for it to be prepared, he took out his smartphone and scrolled. She watched his fingers moving up and down as he scanned, looking for something to engage his attention. When something did just that, he stood, stooped at the shoulders, and read what was on his tiny screen intently. It could have been a news article, it could have an email, it could have been his Facebook newsfeed; who knew? But watching him reminded her of Philip, whom she was going to look up when she got to LA. He had the same aura about him, from what she’d deduced from the ‘About Us’ page. Maybe this guy was a divorce lawyer too. He could easily have been Philip Banks or his partner Alistair Crowley.
How would that go, exactly? She couldn’t just go barging into their office and say “Hello. Why is your face in a tin with some other boys’ pictures? And how do you know my father?” She’d come across as a nutter. No, she’d be a little bit more covert than that. She knew he was a divorce lawyer—nothing spectacular there. And there was a connection to her father; of that she was sure. The same was likely true of all the boys in the tin; otherwise, why would her father have hidden them in the shed? No, her father knew them, all right.
The man at the counter picked up a brown paper bag that contained his order, uttered a couple of words, most likely his thanks, and made his way back towards the door. From behind, he could have been Adam. Same height, same sort of close-cropped hair, same navy suit. A moment later her own lunch arrived, and she tucked in hungrily, bright orange-yellow egg yolk spilling out onto her plate after her knife pierced it. The eggs in LA always seemed paler by comparison, more like pale custard made from a packet, like her grandma used to make. It was a small observation, nothing important at all, but over the years noticing tiny things had become second nature, to her, each one filed away. Maybe it would be recalled later, maybe not, but she knew from experience that omitting detail could get you in trouble. Or out of it.
When Chrissy had finished her lunch, she sipped on her chamomile tea and carried on her lazy surveillance of the small café for no other reason than to fill her time. The lunchtime crowd had thinned now, and a waitress cleared tables, including Chrissy’s own, apart from her tea. There were only two tables plus her own that were occupied now, and the inhabitants of the others both had their heads in books.
Feeling suddenly anxious, though she couldn’t understand why, she left the remains of her tea, grabbed her bag and left the café at a pace, like she had a destination to get to. A feeling of restlessness filled her body as she headed out into the warmth of the afternoon, stalking purposefully towards the drycleaners, though she couldn’t put her finger on why. Normally, the day before she was going away, she was calm, looking forward to going and having some alone time, but this time it didn’t feel that way. Maybe it was because she had slipped back into her old ways, from her previous life, and had a target firmly set in her sights. Maybe it was a strange sort of thrill that was rippling through her body, not restlessness at all. Maybe it was the excitement, the idea of something she could get her teeth into, something other than her everyday life.
This time tomorrow, she’d be hanging out in the trendy part of LA, at Abbot Kinney, watching and waiting for two faces from the tin.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Monday 10th August 1987
We had simply the best day down by the river. Our river—that’s how I’ll always think of it. Not our spot, but our river. The tranquillity of it was so like her, as we lay entwined in each other’s arms, the ferocity of it on other days an equal match to her passion when we make love. So gentle, yet so rapid. I should call her my river—yes, it sounds so like her. My river Sylvia: bubbling, vivacious, calming, tranquil, transparent yet deep. All the words I think of to describe her also describe the river that runs by our feet.
She brought sandwiches today, cut into squares rather than triangles, which is her all over—different. Why do people make triangles when squares work as easily? The simplicity of her drives me mad with desire, and today I got frustrated with myself that I couldn’t find a release, not there, not then. We are more than sex—there is a lot more to our relationship—but I know I’ll never be able to show the world. There would be too much pain. And right now, there is only my own to contain.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Flying was not something Chrissy neither looked forward to nor loathed. It was a means of getting somewhere, the whole experience neither pleasurable nor non-pleasurable, only ho-hum. And maybe a little bit tedious. The flight out to LA took up the full day and then some, even though the time change made up for it, making it seem like you’d only had a handful of hours in the air. Not likely—eleven hours was fidget worthy. Even in business class. Her personal bar selection held no appeal, though she noticed others had all but drained theirs. Should she offer her own as a pleasant gesture? And everyone seemed to be keeping themselves to themselves; there was not much chattering going on. Many had their heads buried in laptops. Everyone was in the navy suit brigade, as the man getting his lunch yesterday in the café had been. There were just two women plus herself; everyone else in the cabin was male. Was that representative of business people nowadays, she wondered? Or simply of those who could get away? Wanted to get away? They’d all have their reasons, though Chrissy doubted any would be as intriguing as her own.
Carrying on a previous lifestyle.
Is that what you call it?
So what if it is?
She checked her watch, which she’d put on LA time when the aircraft had taken off. It helped to get her body clock adjusted quicker, she believed; she did the same thing in reverse on the return trip to London. The dial read almost noon; three more hours to go. She’d decided that as soon as she’d got to her apartment and showered, a walk would be in order. A walk that would take her by the offices of Banks & Crowley. If she was in luck with her
timing, she’d see them leave for the evening. Should she follow them, maybe? Perhaps they liked to go for a drink after work, or tennis perhaps. Were they even in the office today?
A flight attendant broke into her thoughts and asked if she could fetch her anything. After ordering another coffee and a couple of biscuits, Chrissy closed her eyes, put her head back, and tried to relax a little. It would be a long time until bedtime in Santa Monica.
The congestion around the airport was nothing new, but Chrissy managed to find her Uber driver without a hitch. She was grateful he wasn’t a chatterbox; no need to ask him to be quiet. Some drivers picked up on their fare’s mood, but others carried on, seemingly on autopilot. She always felt ungrateful asking drivers to leave her in peace, but since she was paying, she wanted what she wanted.
Being back in the bustle and congestion that was LA felt both exhilarating and relaxing at the same time, and she felt at home instantly in her unfamiliar surroundings. She knew that by tomorrow, she would feel like she’d never left. Englefield Green and Santa Monica were two completely different places, worlds apart. The driver entered Wilshire Boulevard and Chrissy felt a tingling sensation inside her stomach; for some reason she felt a little nervous. But why? She’d arrived here on her own dozens of times before but couldn’t recall ever having had such a feeling. She put it down to slight nerves at being on a mission of sorts. It had been a long while.
Another couple of minutes on and she was parked outside her place on Yale Street, a smart weatherboard craftsman-style home, somewhat secluded with thick green bushes and shrubs, though not overgrown. The gardener, Joseph, took care of that while she was away, and on her return, he invariably met her at the house and flung the patio doors open, freshening the place out. There’d be a few basic items in the fridge too. And coffee. Tea in England, coffee in the States. How very English of her.