wouldn’t have made the slightest difference, Alan, I promise you.”
Alan Sherman picks up his mug, takes a long drink of his tea. A solitary tear escapes from the outer corner of his eye, traveling down over his sharp cheekbones and into his collar. He doesn’t seem to notice. “You just wonder, don’t you? What you could have done differently? I’ve often thought over the years—if I could just roll back time and change things somehow . . . ?”
Martha knows this feeling only too well. Even as he speaks, she’s asking herself, How did I not know about this person Juliet was writing to? Why didn’t I question her harder when I knew she was keeping secrets?
“What about her fellow volunteers?” she asks, clenching her jaw, trying to not be moved by his quiet grief. “Do you recall any names?”
Alan crosses the room and fetches a photo album from the bookcase, barely making a sound on the carpet. “I’ve got a couple of photos you can borrow, if they’re any help?” He slowly turns the pages before stopping at a pair of photographs, sliding them out and passing them to Martha before sitting again. “The first one was taken by the local newspaper—I think Square Wheels won some kind of community award. And the second one was from a boat trip out with David Crown. A reward for some volunteer work, I think?”
The newspaper photograph shows the group posed with food-laden bicycles, David Crown in the center, flanked by two volunteers on either side, the Square Wheels banner overhead, nailed to the side of the wooden hut where the sandwiches were prepared. It must be winter, because they’re all dressed in coats and hats and scarves, their skin showing the cold glow of exertion. Juliet stands on the right side of David; to her right is a girl whose face looks unfamiliar to Martha, and to David’s left are another girl and a boy. The caption reads, “Local Heroes Scoop Community Award.”
“Do you know the names of these other volunteers?” she asks.
Alan reaches across the coffee table and points to the faces in turn. “I don’t know the one next to Juliet, but this very thin one on the other side of David Crown—I seem to think her name was Karen, and the boy beside her—don’t you recognize him?”
Martha scrutinizes the picture more closely. “Oh, yes! God, I can’t believe I didn’t see it at first. Tom!” She turns to explain to Toby. “Tom was—is—Juliet’s brother. But I don’t remember Tom being a volunteer.”
Alan smiles and shakes his head. “I don’t know how well you knew Tom at the time, but he was never a sticker. He did help out there a handful of times, but that’s all. He just happened to be passing on the evening the newspaper guy took that picture, and they needed another body. Typical Tom: all the glory and none of the work.”
“Do you think we could talk to Tom? Ask him if he can think of anything particular about that night? He was there, at the Waterside Café, the night Juliet went missing.”
“I’m sure he’ll be happy to talk to you, but do you know he’s living in Paris now? We sold the house, after his mum, well—”
“Oh, yes,” Martha interrupts; she’s ashamed not to have mentioned it before. “I was so sorry to hear about Mrs. Sherman. I didn’t know about it at the time—but she was always so lovely. You both were. It must have been very hard.”
“You know we’d separated by the time she died? I only moved back in toward the end, to help Tom, really, although Ann and I still loved each other if we’re honest. But it’s difficult to carry on together when something like that happens. Juliet.”
Martha nods, wondering how Alan Sherman keeps on going. How does he keep getting up in the morning and dressing and feeding himself and telling himself everything will be OK? How can he believe everything will be all right when his entire life is living proof that life can turn out very bloody far from all right?
“How is Tom these days?” she asks. “I haven’t seen him for years.” Since that night.
Now Alan Sherman’s face breaks into an unexpected smile. “He’s very happy. Works as a sommelier—wines—something of that kind. Married, with a baby on the way. Imagine—I’m going to be a grandfather.”
And there Martha sees it: hope. That’s what keeps him going. Hope that the next day will be better than the last, that next week will be an improvement on the one before, that next year will be happier than the year just gone. “Congratulations,” she says, and can’t find more words, stunned into silence.
“I’d almost given up hope—of a grandchild.” He smiles, and he swipes away another tear, his eyes shining with the pleasure of this piece of joy. “They think it’s a boy.”
“When’s it due?” Toby asks, and Martha is glad to have him beside her more than she could ever have imagined possible.
“May. Spring baby. Good time of year.”
Same month as Juliet’s birthday, Martha thinks, and their eyes meet in this unspoken knowledge.
Mr. Sherman smooths down his trousers and gives a brief bob of his head. “I’ll give you Tom’s details before you leave.”
“And this other girl? You definitely don’t remember her?” Martha asks, returning to the photograph and pointing to the girl beside Juliet.
“As I say, no idea. I don’t recognize her at all. I think they had a fairly fast turnover of volunteers. Juliet said a lot of people came along and never returned once they realized it was hard work and bloody cold.”
“Like me and Liv,” Martha says, grimacing.
Alan smiles warmly. “She called them the ‘lightweights.’ This girl could’ve been one of them.”
Martha turns her attention to the second photograph and feels her insides flip. The image is of a summer’s day, four youngsters on a riverbank, wet-haired in underpants and T-shirts, smiling and waving at the person behind the camera. Three of them sit cross-legged beneath a tree on a picnic blanket surrounded by sandwiches and drinks, while Juliet’s brother Tom hangs like a monkey from the branch overhead, his sinewy legs kicking out. The three on the picnic blanket look equally carefree: young, vibrant, beautiful.
“Remember this one?” Alan asks, dewy-eyed again, and Martha finds she cannot speak.
The three on the blanket are unmistakable. Juliet, Olivia, and Martha. And the terrifying thing is, until now, she’d forgotten all about that day, forgotten about that boat trip with David Crown and her closest friends. But even as the details of the trip remain just beyond her reach, Martha can’t shake the feeling that by the time that day was over, nothing would ever be the same.
7
Casey
I love Fridays, because this is the day the man from the supermarket comes. Having my weekly groceries delivered has changed my life, really, in so many ways—and would you believe it, I have Liv to thank for introducing me to the idea. It was during that second house-viewing last winter, when we stood in her kitchen as she made me a cup of coffee, just how I like it, milky with two sugars. Miriam, the estate agent, was there too, but she has faded to a shadow in my memory, because it was Liv and I who were deep in conversation, leaning casually against the worktop eating ginger biscuits. I felt as though I’d known her forever! I’m not used to meeting people as short as me, but she carried it off in a petite,
