Matthew moved across the kitchen to retrieve the cube and try again.
‘Now, Mummy says you are a very clever girl and that you can do this already. Like a little Einstein.’ Matthew held the red cube close to the red-coloured square hole by way of a clue, and then handed his daughter the cube for the second time. She looked at him as if he were mad, put the cube down on the tray and drank more juice.
Matthew moved a plate of toast fingers from the kitchen table to his daughter’s tray, shook his head and took out his mobile. Just time to try his contact in the local planning office. ‘Hi there – Samantha. It’s Matt Hill here.’
‘And what favour are you after this time?’
‘Just an eensy-weensy tiny one. Nothing irregular.’
She laughed. Matthew had helped her out with her divorce evidence in the first year of working as a PI, and she had been forever grateful. And a very useful contact.
‘OK. So I need some details on a planning application. A consortium looking for outline planning permission in Tedbury.’ He could hear that she was writing this down, which was a good sign. Matthew paused to pull faces to make his daughter smile as she stuffed toast into her mouth.
‘It’s all in the public domain but it will take me forever to go through official channels. So I was hoping you might help me speed things up. Find out what’s what and who’s behind it all . . .’
‘Can’t help you out right away.’ She had lowered her voice. ‘Got the suits in.’
‘Your boss?’
‘Whole army of them.’
‘Oh dear. Right. Look. Don’t want to put you on the spot today then, but can I email you the full details? See what you can dig out when things are quieter?’
‘Sure. So long as it’s public information.’
‘Course. Just looking to speed things up. You’re a star. I’ll message you straight away. Many thanks.’
Matthew put the phone back in his pocket. He would send the email soon as he could. Just at that moment, there was the key in the door, and father and daughter turned to see Sally appear, carrying two bags of shopping and a bunch of tulips, all of which she placed next to the fridge.
‘How’s she been?’
‘Thirsty. But in no mood for genius shape-sorting. I think you might have imagined it, love.’
Matthew’s wife glanced at the large shape sorter on Amelie’s tray and narrowed her eyes. ‘You have to look the other way. Did I not mention that?’ She then carried the bunch of flowers to the draining board.
‘Excuse me?’
‘She won’t do it if you’re watching.’
Matthew could hardly believe it.
Sally walked over to hold up the red cube to hand to their daughter. ‘Bet Amelie has no idea where this goes?’ She turned her back on her daughter and grabbed at Matthew’s shoulders to spin him around also.
‘This surely can’t be a good idea,’ Matthew protested. ‘We are creating a monster here, Sally. A little girl whose only vocabulary is no and who refuses to be cooperative unless you look away . . .’
‘Shhh. Now, I wonder if Amelie has a surprise for us.’ Sal had raised her voice to an excited pitch as they both turned back.
To Matthew’s astonishment the small cube was gone. At first he looked around the floor, imagining she had thrown it again. But Sally picked up the shape sorter and rattled it to confirm the cube was inside.
‘It’s a poltergeist,’ Matthew announced. ‘She can’t have done it. She’s not supposed to be able to do that for weeks.’
Sally laughed, and moved back to the sink to take a vase from the windowsill which she filled from the tap.
‘It’s a poltergeist, isn’t it, Amelie?’
‘No!’ Amelie picked up her juice cup again as Matthew leant forward to kiss her on the forehead.
And then it happened.
‘Dadda.’
There was a pause; a freeze-frame of complete stillness. Matthew heard the echo of the word as if it was bouncing off all the walls but hardly dared imagine that it was real.
‘What did you say?’ He whispered the question as Sal turned, tulips in her hand.
‘Dadda.’
Amelie was looking right into his eyes before sucking again on her juice. The moment of pure magic. The moment that suddenly surpassed all the ones that had gone before. The day she was born. The day she came home. The day she first smiled.
This day.
The day his stubborn and adorable little Amelie finally called him her dadda.
TODAY – 6.30 P.M.
And now – trance-like. Shallow breathing. Still. Staring.
Is this shock? I don’t know.
Maybe this is what it takes to simply survive this journey. My own limbo land with the trees just a blur through the rain, streams of water tracing an angle down the train window. And somehow I sit now, staring and staring until my heartbeat matches the beat of the train and I travel with the trees and the rain back through time – much, much further back – watching how it all began. How simple and perfect and special it was that night I first met Mark. How safe I felt back then.
Love can do that. Make you feel safe . . .
I look across at him now. He has his eyes closed and I wonder what he is thinking; if he is trying, like me, to just zone out. To remember better times? Safer times.
We met at an awards do, me and Mark. We were both pretending not to mind that we had each come runner-up in our category; we were standing side by side at the hotel reception desk, in a queue to order a cab for an early exit as the winners sprayed Bollinger over their colleagues back in the awards hall.
Mark had only just set up his own company and had been pipped at the post by an arch-rival, PRO-motion. Oh God, I see it so clearly – how young I look. Young, and yes, quite pretty even though I was so cross and disappointed; smiling through gritted teeth too, as a fellow copywriter, prone to stealing clients (also husbands if rumours were to be believed) wiggled to the podium in a spray-on dress.
Half an hour. Those were his very first words to me. The wait for a cab, I mean. Half an hour.
I looked at him and I remember that I instantly liked what I saw. Nice jawline but ill-fitting suit. Too big, as if he had just lost a lot of weight.
But I was grumpy and so I shrugged and headed to the door of the hotel, where outside I discovered he had followed me.
‘Can I help you?’ I wasn’t flirting at first, just puzzled. Disappointed and keen to leave.
‘You’re not going to try to hail one?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘A cab – at this hour? No chance. Not here. I’ve already tried.’
This was before Uber and phone apps and my face must have betrayed what I was thinking, that I could not see how this was his business.
‘It’s just that I don’t like to think—’
‘Little girl out in London on her own? So late?’ I widened my eyes as I spoke.
‘I’m sorry.’ He raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘I didn’t mean to cause offence.’
And that’s when I pressed pause and felt this physical shame at my tone as he blushed.
‘I’m sorry. I’m being a complete cow’ – and then, holding out my hand – ‘Sophie Hill. Copywriter for X-posure. Tipped, inaccurately, to win Slogan of the Year. I really didn’t mean to be so pissy. I’m just a bad loser.’
He smiled then and held out his hand. Formal handshake, which I thought was quite sweet. ‘Mark Edwards. Runner-up for New Agency Award. Bloody hate losing too, but I’m very pleased to meet you.’
And then he undid his bow tie and top button and we fell into step, failed to hail a cab as predicted, and instead took refuge in a corner bar, following the scent of decent coffee.
It was a really old-style bar. Faux Parisian. Dark cane furniture. We talked travel, mostly Paris, and I was pleased to discover he liked the same out-of-favour districts as me.
Two hours, three coffees and I knew the map of his life. Working-class boy mad
e good. First in his family to make it to university, high-flyer in his first two agency jobs and now the owner of a terrifying business loan for his own start-up.
‘So you needed to win tonight?’
‘It would have helped, but hey – c’est la vie.’
His text the following morning was perfect:
Dinner – Paris. Two rooms. No strings . . .
I used the second room for the first night but not the second.
We made each other laugh so much back then.
Made love so much back then; as if the world were ending each time . . .
And yes.
He made me feel safe.
CHAPTER 19
BEFORE
Meeting Emma on Hobbs Lane was probably the moment I would come to revisit the most. Perhaps will for the rest of my life.
It came to feel like the turning point – more so, strangely, than the terrible and bloody scene with Gill and Antony because it was the moment I realised something had shifted between me and Emma.
So why did I not listen to the discord inside? Why did I not listen to Mark? Why did I not tell her right away about the woman on the cliff?
I don’t know.
At the time I simply walked to Hobbs Lane, wondering why Emma had suggested this so soon after my return from Cornwall. I felt uneasy, unsure whether I should mention my disorientation over her doppelganger; also worried that she would be upset that I was still not ready to commit to the deli project – but I put these feelings aside, imagining she just wanted to show off the property, the potential. Make a stronger case? I expected also that she wanted to distract us both from the police inquiry and the cloud of shock and sadness hanging over Tedbury.
On the way there I rehearsed in my head my stalling tactics. I would be honest about why I was still undecided; that the terrible scene with the Hartleys had hit me harder than I realised – no lie. I was not saying a final no to the deli but it had to be a no for now. Emma would need to be patient.
The first thing I noticed on arrival was that the single-storey building had material up at all the windows so that you couldn’t see inside. That was both new and odd. There was no bell or knocker so I tapped on the door with my knuckles. Immediately there was a scraping sound inside, like a chair being disturbed, and then the sound of a heavy bolt as the door was opened.
Emma’s expression as she peeped around the door was at first difficult to read. ‘You OK, Sophie? Did Cornwall help? Sorry I didn’t reply to your texts. Phone was playing up.’
‘It’s fine. I had a good rest, thank you. But never mind me – what about this brick through your window? I spoke to Heather. I’ve been really worried about you.’ I didn’t add that I wished she had phoned rather than just a text.
‘Well – stop right there and close your eyes, Sophie.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I have a surprise.’ Emma’s face was more animated.
‘Look, I’m not really in the mood. We should talk about the brick and about the message . . .’
‘Do as you’re told and close your eyes.’ Her voice was all excitement.
And so, like a child, I did as I was told. I closed my eyes. I allowed Emma to lead me inside by the hand as she closed the door. And then I opened my eyes . . .
The shock of the image inside Hobbs Lane was still pounding in my head the next day as I stood with all the other first-time mothers in the playground as Ben prepared for his first day of school.
The teacher, a blonde gentle soul with a quiet voice, was admiring all the soft toys which the children were clutching – each animal sharing the same battered and grey evidence of tug-of-wars twixt child and mother and washing machine. Mrs Ellis was exactly what you would hope for in a reception teacher. Flowing skirt and comfortable shoes matching her flowing hair and comforting voice.
There had been a ‘home visit’ several weeks earlier, in which she did a puzzle with Ben at the kitchen table, explaining he could bring his favourite soft toy along for the first few weeks of school until he felt comfortable. There was to be a week-long induction period of mornings-only to help the children adjust, but they were encouraged to stay for lunch to get used to the routine in the dining hall.
I looked at Ben in his uniform, thinking of the picture shared earlier with his dad. Though the trousers looked better for the hem adjustments, he still looked much too small for this, clutching his towelling giraffe.
‘What’s his name?’ Mrs Ellis crouched down to Ben’s level.
‘Mr Giraffe.’
And now came the spasm to my stomach, realising that I could too easily grab his hand, explain that there had been the most terrible mistake, and take him home to remove the uniform and replace it with his Robin Hood outfit. We could go to the park, then visit the garden shop to gawp at the lizard and tarantulas before large slices of cake in the cafeteria.
‘Nice to meet you, Mr Giraffe.’ Mrs Ellis was nodding her head as I fought the ridiculous stabbing of tears, realising that I had no idea how teachers managed their job. The patience. The energy. All those young faces staring at you. It was hard enough when you loved them.
Inside the cloakroom there followed the collective chaos of coat hooks and cuddles and then much too quickly all the children were gone – ushered seamlessly by the very clever and evidently well-practised Mrs Ellis into the bright distractions of toys already laid out in the reception classroom. Buckets of Lego and bricks and counting beads and puzzles. I barely caught Ben for the swiftest of kisses before he was working his way through the rails of dressing-up outfits. ‘OK, children. Why don’t you all have a good look around for a bit. See what we have here and then we’ll sit down for circle time and do our register.’ Mrs Ellis was making exaggerated shooing signals with her hands at all of us mothers peering through the window from the corridor.
Secretly, I was deflated. I had expected many things of this moment but it had not occurred to me that Ben would be absolutely fine.
Back at home I was soon sitting stunned on the sofa. In the hole of silence I again saw the scene at Hobbs Lane. I felt anxious. Confused. And so I did what I always do by way of distraction – I hoovered. Not a general sweep around the furniture, you understand, but a veritable assault – moving all the sofas and chairs, the sets of pine drawers, the heavy coffee table and even the dark mahogany tallboy in the bedroom upstairs, regretting this latter struggle as the phone went.
‘So how did he get off? The picture looked great.’ Mark’s tone was buoyant.
‘Fine.’ I was twisting my hair around my finger, unable to find the right tone.
‘Sophie – has something happened?’
A pause.
‘He was too fine, Mark.’
‘How can someone be . . . too fine?’ I could hear the smile in his voice.
‘You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?’
‘I’m not—’
‘He hardly looked back, Mark. No wave. Nothing. It was all so hurried; not what I expected at all – I’m worried that it was all bravado. That he could be in a complete state by now and I won’t know.’
‘Look, Sophie. He’s a really confident little boy. He’s been looking forward to this. It just means you’ve done a good job.’
And now I had to cover the receiver with my left hand.
‘Oh, Sophie, you’re not crying?’
‘Of course I’m not crying. I just thought he would miss me, that’s all.’ I was fishing in my sleeve for a tissue, ridiculous tears running into my mouth. ‘I’m fine, honestly.’
‘So how’s the hoovering going?’
And now I let out this huff of air, wondering when we reached this point, knowing each other this well.
‘Look, I’ve got to go. Meeting. I’m serious – don’t overdo the distraction cleaning. I love you. And text me when he gets home, yes?’
‘OK. Love you too.’
I put the phone down, whereupon it rang again instantly.
‘Thought you had a meeting.�
�
‘Pardon?’
‘Oh – sorry. Emma. Thought it was someone else.’ I felt my heartbeat immediately quicken. Hobbs Lane. Thank Christ I didn’t tell Mark. ‘So how did Theo get off? At playgroup?’
‘Not a backward glance. I’m feeling completely redundant and unloved. How about Ben?’
‘Same.’
‘Fancy a walk?’
I was aghast. ‘Oh, I don’t know. No, look, I’m in the middle—’
‘Come on, Sophie. I need to talk to you about yesterday. And we’ll only mope.’
I looked at my watch; I had until 1.30 p.m. tops.
‘I was thinking a bit of the coastal path, while we’re free of the boys.’
‘You have got to be kidding.’
‘Deadly serious. I’ve checked the map. There’s plenty of time to do Bantham to Thurlestone and back if we leave straight away. It’ll stop us worrying.’
‘But what if the car breaks down? We can’t just—’
‘I’ll toot outside your house in ten minutes. See you in a bit. We need to talk.’
I didn’t remember saying yes, but as I scrambled to lock up, I felt a creeping unease which had nothing to do with Ben. I closed my eyes and pictured it again. The woman on the cliff in the red coat. The shock of seeing Hobbs Lane; not the empty ruin I expected but fully painted with a shiny new floor and all my equipment installed. The oven. The refrigeration unit. The grills. The counter. The coffee machine. All of it.
My equipment.
‘What have you done, Emma?’
‘It’s my surprise – to cheer you up!’ Emma had clapped her hands like a child and moved over to the coffee machine to demonstrate that it was already connected. ‘Best coffee you will have ever tasted. I promise you.’
‘But I didn’t agree to this. I haven’t even said yes, Emma . . .’ I was reeling. ‘This is my stuff.’
And then Emma’s face had fallen. ‘You’re not pleased?’
I was so disorientated – so utterly winded – that I honestly had no idea what to say.
‘But I did this for you, Sophie. I’ve worked day and night at it. I thought you would be pleased.’
Our exchange over the next ten minutes was something I will pick over for the rest of my life.
The Friend: An emotional psychological thriller with a twist Page 13