by Leah Mercer
‘It’s Ella Morgan,’ I said, although I was sure he wouldn’t have the slightest clue who I was.
‘One moment, please.’ She picked up the phone. ‘Greg, there’s an Ella Morgan here to see you.’ She paused. ‘Okay, I’ll bring her through.’
The woman came out from behind the desk. ‘If you’d like to come with me?’
I followed the receptionist through a side door and into a large room crammed full of screens perched on beaten-up desks and swivel chairs. So much for cutting-edge newsroom, I thought, lifting an eyebrow. Then again, this paper was hardly known for its hard-hitting investigative pieces, preferring to expose only scantily clad models on its pages.
‘Right, here’s Greg.’ The receptionist gestured towards a man in his twenties, with highlighted hair gelled straight up.
‘Hiya.’ Greg swivelled around from the desktop. I couldn’t help glancing down at his skin-tight jeans, wondering how he could move without splitting them. ‘What can I do for you? I’d show you into a meeting room, but they’re all taken right now. Anyway, don’t worry. Theresa won’t eavesdrop, eh, Theresa?’ He jerked his head towards his neighbour and smiled what I’m sure he thought was a flirtatious smile but looked more like his lips had got stuck to his teeth. The woman sitting next to him let out a slow breath, rolling her eyes.
‘Thanks for seeing me.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Um, it’s about an advert that was in the paper a couple of weeks ago,’ I began, feeling awkward hovering over him while he lounged in his chair, manspreading with the best of them. The more I tried not to look at his very prominent crotch area, the more my horrified eyes were drawn to it. ‘There was no contact information, and I wondered if you could tell me if whoever placed it left their name or paid by credit card . . . anything that could help me track them down.’
‘Oh.’ Greg spun back to the keyboard, his crotch now safely tucked away out of sight underneath the desk, thank God. ‘Can’t help, I’m afraid. Data protection and all that.’ He shook his head, clearly enjoying his role as a gatekeeper.
Impatience swelled inside of me. I’d known he might say that, and I hadn’t come all this way to be put off by some jegging-clad jobsworth. Bertie’s words about the kindness of strangers floated into my head, and I sighed. Maybe I wouldn’t rely on the kindness of strangers but on their ego being stroked.
‘Look, I really need your help.’ I pulled over a chair since he clearly wasn’t going to offer me one. I forced myself to smile at him, and I saw something his face twitch in response. This was definitely a man who liked to be flattered.
‘My mother disappeared thirty years ago,’ I said, launching into my story. ‘I thought she was dead – everyone thought she was dead – until I saw the advert in your classified section.’ I swallowed. ‘“I am always with you. I will always be here”. Those ten words . . . she used to say them to me every night. That advert appeared on her birthday, and, well, I know it’s silly, but I can’t help wondering if, somehow, it might be her. If she is alive, after all of these years.’ My cheeks coloured as he raised an eyebrow. I felt ridiculous, spouting these words. Of course she wasn’t alive.
I paused, my eyes locking on to his. ‘Please, if you can help me . . . anything at all you can tell me would be great.’ I put a hand on Greg’s arm. ‘Please.’
Greg held my gaze, then shifted in his chair. ‘Okay, okay. They don’t call me Mr Softy for nothing.’ There was a snort from the woman beside him, and Greg turned towards her. ‘Because I have a big heart, okay? Christ.’
I held my breath as Greg clacked away on the computer. ‘What date did the advert appear?’
‘The twenty-first of July,’ I said, watching him peck in information and wishing he’d taken a proper typing course. At this rate, we’d all be dead before he found anything.
Finally, he turned back around to face me. ‘I’m afraid I still can’t help you,’ he said. ‘It says here that whoever placed the ad came in person to do it, about a week before the advert appeared. They paid in cash, so I can’t even tell you their name.’
Shit. My heart sank at the thought of telling Angus and Bertie I still couldn’t find out anything; of leaving Bertie’s hopes all stirred up.
‘You didn’t talk to them?’ I asked. ‘The person who placed the advert, I mean.’
Greg shook his head. ‘No, I was in Ibiza that week and, anyway, taking down adverts is not my job. Whoever did it probably would have talked to Reception.’
‘Right.’ I stood up. I needed to go and see that receptionist right now. Even if she hadn’t been at the desk, maybe she could tell me who’d been working that day. ‘Thanks for your time.’
Greg nodded and spun to face the monitor again, and I made my way back to reception.
‘Can I help you?’ the receptionist asked, clearly not remembering who I was. Dismay rushed through me. If she didn’t recognise me from fifteen minutes ago, how could she remember who had placed the advert a few weeks ago?
‘This might sound like a strange question,’ I started, ‘but were you working here the week before the twentieth of July?’
‘If it was a weekday, then I was here,’ she said. ‘I practically live at this place. Unfortunately.’ She tilted her head. ‘Why?’
‘I’m looking for someone . . . someone who placed a classified advert. Whoever it was came in person to do it, and Greg thinks they might have talked to you.’
‘Let me think.’ She leaned back in her chair and tapped a perfect teal nail against her glossy lips. I stared, afraid to move in case I interrupted her reverie. ‘Yes, I do remember . . . if it’s the advert you’re thinking of. People don’t usually come in person to do it – it’s so much easier to just place it online these days. It was kind of a strange ad, too. Just a few words, and that was that.’
‘That’s it!’ I wanted to punch the air. ‘Was it “I will always be with you. I will always be here”?’ The words tumbled from my mouth. The receptionist nodded, and relief swept over me. Thank God.
‘Yes, that’s the one.’
‘Can you tell me what the person looked like?’ I leaned against the counter, willing her to remember – willing her to say it was a man, a teen, something to put a definitive full stop in Bertie’s mind.
The receptionist closed her eyes, then opened them and stared straight at me. ‘She looked a bit like you, actually.’
My mouth dropped open. What?
‘I mean, not exactly,’ the receptionist was saying. ‘She was way older, but there is some resemblance around the eyes and the top part of your face. I’m pretty good with faces, my boyfriend always tells me. Anyway, I asked if she wanted to leave her name and contact information – I mean, what’s the point of placing an advert if people don’t know how to contact you? But she said no, gave me the money, and left. She seemed kind of sad.’
I held her gaze, unable to look away as thoughts ran through my head. My mother was dead. My mother was dead. And yet . . .
A woman had come here, to place an ad on the same day as my mother’s birthday, with the same words she’d said to me every night.
A woman who looked like me.
A woman Bertie had claimed to see, just two short years ago.
A woman whose body had never been found.
Could she . . . Could she be alive, after all?
The room swung around me and I blinked to try to right it again, but it felt like my whole world had tilted and I was about to slide off the edge.
‘Are you okay?’ The receptionist’s eyes were wide.
I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t even think about how I might be feeling right now. Scrabbling to grab a foothold, I managed to leave my name and number in case she remembered anything else. My voice sounded far away, as if it was coming from another planet.
Out on the street, I stood for a minute and tried to grasp hold of what had just happened; tried to steady my world. I looked up and down, taking in the busy pavements and the people rushing past. Had my mother seen this exac
t view just a few weeks ago? Had she stood here after placing the ad, feeling the sun beat down and heat rise from the asphalt?
Was she in this city right now?
I took a step, and then another, moving faster and faster, as if the more distance I put between myself and the newspaper office, the faster I could bury what the receptionist had just told me. All of this . . . well, none of it meant it was her. Anyone could have placed that advert. The receptionist probably thought all women over twenty resembled each other. And Bertie could have spotted anyone that day – he hadn’t seen my mother for years, after all. We could spend years trying to track my mum down, and it could all come to nothing. And I couldn’t – I wouldn’t – go through that again. I couldn’t let the spectre of hope hover over me once more. I couldn’t take the risk of thinking she might be out there, only to never find her.
No. She was dead; she was gone.
End of story.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ELLA
Rain slanted through the sky when I walked out of Hastings station. Despite the weather, I turned my face upwards. Water splattered my hot cheeks and I breathed in the salty air, willing calm to slip over me. I may have spent the past two days way out of my comfort zone, but I was home now. I’d call Bertie and tell him what I’d found out, and then I was finished.
Guilt pricked me when I thought of how I’d reignited Bertie’s hope and, for a second, I considered keeping the receptionist’s information to myself. He’d be so delighted that, even though the newspaper hadn’t been able to give me a name, a woman who’d looked me had placed the advert. For him, this would be the ultimate proof that my mum was still living. I could already picture his shining eyes; hear the excitement and hope in his voice.
I sighed as I hurried down the promenade in the darkness, the rain seeping through my jacket and jeans. Going to see Bertie had been a huge mistake, but I’d started this and I owed him the information – the truth of what I’d found. Maybe I could temper it with a dose of reality.
By the time I reached my flat, I was wet to the skin and dying for a shower, eager to crawl under the cosy duvet with Dolby and hunker down in the solitude of my home. My space was just that: mine, and mine alone. After the events of the past two days – the past few weeks, even – I needed that peace more than ever. I needed to anchor myself in the familiar and return to the rhythm of my life once again.
I’d only just fitted my key in the lock when my neighbour yanked my door open from the inside. I blinked in surprise and took a step backwards. What on earth was she doing here? My heart dropped when I remembered I’d invited her into my home.
‘Oh, hello!’ Lou said, grinning at me with my cat in her arms. Lou looked as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as ever, despite the late hour. ‘Just popped in to check on Dolby and make sure she was all right. I wasn’t sure when you’d be home.’
‘Thank you.’ I pushed out the words, forcing myself to smile, even though it was the last thing I felt like doing. I did appreciate her looking after my cat at such short notice but seeing her in my studio with my cat nestled up against her . . . I felt like wrenching my pet away and closing the door; blocking her and everything else out.
‘Well, you have the cutest cat ever,’ she said, handing over the key. ‘I’m happy to look after her any time you like.’
I nodded, even though I knew that wouldn’t be necessary. I wouldn’t be going anywhere any time soon.
‘And maybe we can grab a drink sometime?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said, the words coming out much harsher than I intended. ‘I’m not much of a night-out kind of person,’ I added, guilt swooping through me as her face fell. She was nice, but . . .
Okay, then,’ she said. ‘Well, maybe coffee some time. Dolby’s great, but I’m dying for some human companionship!’
I could see the hope in her eyes, and I sighed inwardly. I’d never understood being lonely. I was more than fine on my own, and never did I need that more than right now. Lou seemed like Carolyn: you gave her an inch (or a key) and she wanted a mile. I didn’t have the energy right now to fend her off, though, so I simply nodded, regret sliding over me as her eyes lit up. She’d never let me forget this, but I’d deal with that later.
‘Great. G’night!’ She put down Dolby and closed my door behind her. I breathed in the silence, feeling myself unwind. I sloughed off my wet jacket and slicked back my hair, thinking of Bertie and Angus, and how close they were – how Angus kept an eye on Bertie and made sure he was okay. I’d admired their relationship, but I was nowhere close to wanting that myself. I picked up Dolby, breathing in her sweet-smelling fur and steeling myself for what I needed to do next. One final phone call to Bertie and I could put all of this behind me.
I grabbed my mobile. It was late, but I knew he’d be waiting to hear from me. I punched his number into my mobile, absently stroking Dolby as the phone rang and rang.
‘Hello?’ The voice that answered was a whisper, and my brow furrowed. That wasn’t Bertie.
‘Angus?’ Despite my exhaustion, I suddenly felt more alert. ‘It’s Ella. Listen, is Bertie around?’ Best not to beat around the bush. I’d tell him what I found, wish him the best of luck, then hang up.
‘Bertie’s sleeping right now,’ Angus replied. ‘He had a tough day.’
‘Is he okay?’ I sank down on the futon with Dolby in my arms.
Angus sighed. ‘Well, he is and he isn’t. He’s been a little confused since he woke up this morning, and he kept trying to get out and go down to the river, for some reason. Obviously, that’s not such a great idea – he gets a little unsteady on his feet sometimes. I couldn’t get him to settle. I just managed to get him into bed about an hour ago.’
Angus sounded exhausted. ‘Maybe you should see if a care worker can help out?’ I asked.
‘There is a community care worker assigned to him, but she can only come once a week or so to see how he’s getting on,’ Angus said. ‘It’s not enough now. I’ve been on the phone to them, and they’re going to see what they can do. But for now . . . I’ll keep doing as much as I’m able.’
Angus paused. ‘So . . . how did it go in London? I hope you don’t mind, but Bertie told me a bit about why you came to see him and what you were doing today. If I understood him correctly, you were trying to find out something about your mother? Where she might be living now, or something like that? He was pretty worked up about it, so I’m not sure I got it right. Just tell me if you don’t want to talk about it,’ he added.
I put down Dolby and crossed to the window. Given how close Angus and Bertie were, I was sure Bertie wouldn’t mind me telling Angus about his relationship with my mother and what had happened – if he hadn’t managed to already. And maybe . . . maybe Angus could steer Bertie away from wasting what little time he had left on a search that could only bring more heartache. My heart panged at the thought of kind, gentle Bertie using what time he had left chasing someone who’d dumped him years ago – someone who’d died years ago. How could he even want to waste his precious time chasing a dream from the past?
‘My mother and Bertie lived together, ages ago,’ I said. ‘She left him suddenly, and he tried for years to find her. But she died – five years after she had me, she killed herself. Her body was never found, but . . .’
‘I’m sorry,’ Angus said quietly, but I didn’t let his words touch me.
‘Bertie thinks he saw her, a couple of years ago in London, but it couldn’t have been her. And then there was this advert . . .’ I stared out at the sea. ‘An advert with the same ten words she used to say to me and Bertie, placed on her birthday. That led me to Bertie, but he said it wasn’t him who placed it. He’s convinced it was my mother reaching out to us, and he wants to find her.’
‘Wow.’ Angus was silent for a moment. ‘And did the newspaper tell you anything? Was it your mother?’
‘They couldn’t tell me much, apart from saying whoever placed the ad was an older woman who looked like me
.’ I turned away from the window and sat down on the bed. ‘Angus . . . I know Bertie will think it’s proof my mum is alive and that she’s reaching out, but maybe it’s not such a great thing for him to go looking for her. She’s been gone for thirty years. To pin all his hopes on some random advert, well . . .’ My voice drifted off.
The line went silent, and I could almost see Angus’s face as he mulled over my words.
‘I hear what you’re saying, and you might be right,’ he responded at last. ‘It’s not a lot to go on, but it is something, isn’t it? And Bertie, well, he may look like a pushover, but when he gets an idea in his mind, I can’t stop him. If he wants to look for your mother, I won’t be able to convince him otherwise. I’ll be there for him if he needs me, though, I can promise you that.’ Silence fell once again.
‘But what about you?’ Angus’s voice was soft. ‘If there is the slightest chance your mother is alive . . . well, don’t you want to find her?’
I swallowed as his question hit me. For a split second, I let my mind hover over the possibility I’d shoved away so quickly earlier, that my mother was out there . . . that she was alive. Pain swirled inside me as I realised exactly what that meant: that she’d left to live another life, a life where she’d stayed out of touch for thirty years. She hadn’t abandoned me because of depression. She’d simply wanted to live a life free of me.
My gut twisted, and for a second I thought I might be sick. I gulped in air and glanced around the flat at my familiar things, willing my stomach to settle. What was I afraid of? So my mother might be alive. So what? Whether she’d left to live alone or whether she’d killed herself, she’d still left. I’d built a good life without her – a smooth, comfortable life where all I needed was me . . . and Dolby, of course. Whether she was alive or not, it didn’t make a difference. She was still dead to me.
‘No.’ The word tore through my throat, and I swallowed, trying to keep a grip on my emotions. ‘No, I don’t want to find her.’ Not because I feared hope, and not because I couldn’t bear it. Because I didn’t need her. I didn’t want her.