herself.
As I write up the call sheet, I notice a message flash up on my muted phone. It’s from Mum, inviting me and Charlie over for Sunday dinner. I’m still annoyed with her for what she said about Ruth and if I go over there, one of us is bound to say something we’ll regret and it will probably be me.
I send a swift excuse before returning to my computer to check my Facebook page. Meathead has accepted my friend request so I go straight to his list of friends. Lewis’s name isn’t amongst them and none of the thumbnail photos jump out at me. I go through the list again, line by line until I come across someone called Lewis McQueen whose profile picture is a team photo – very sporty. I click on the name to reveal a small collection of public photos and my heart leaps in my throat. Lewis has aged, unlike my Meg.
I click on a photo of Lewis standing on a beach. His sea-salty hair is long enough to tie back and his pale complexion concealed by a glowing tan. Of more interest to me is the woman he has his arm around in a proprietorial pose. She doesn’t look much older than Meg.
When the phone rings again, I snatch it up.
‘Hello?’ I ask.
There’s silence on the other end of the phone and I calm myself. ‘You’re through to the Lean On Me helpline. How can I help?’
There’s another pause and I’m expecting a put-down, but then, ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Jen. Can I take—’
There’s a small intake of breath. ‘You are Megan’s cousin?’
The next pause is of my making. The caller is another young woman, possibly around Gemma’s age but with an Eastern European accent. I think she might be Polish but I’m less concerned with her nationality than the question she just posed. I decide to stay professional but cautious. ‘Could you tell me why you’re calling today?’
‘I saw the helpline on the news,’ she says, confirming she must be in the North West to have seen the piece on TV. ‘It’s very bad what happened to Megan. Her mother should not have to go through such a thing. No mother should.’
‘No, they shouldn’t. That’s why we set up the helpline,’ I reply. I’m trying not to prejudge the situation, but it crosses my mind that I could be dealing with a freelance journalist in search of a scoop after Ruth’s revelations, or else a member of the public with a morbid curiosity. I’ve had my fair share of crank calls but, for the moment, I can’t discount the possibility that this girl has recognised herself in Meg’s story and needs our help.
‘It must be hard for you,’ she says.
‘Would you like to give me your name?’ I ask. Unsurprised by her hesitation, I add, ‘It doesn’t have to be your real name. What you tell me is confidential unless you say otherwise.’
‘What do you mean otherwise?’
‘We’re here to listen and we’ll do that for as long as you need us,’ I reply. If she is a reporter, she can at least hear the full sales pitch. ‘We can’t offer practical help but, if you need it and are happy for us to act on your behalf, we can speak to other agencies – people who might be able to give you the extra support you need.’
‘You can call me Ellie.’
‘And you were affected by the news story about Megan?’
‘Yes.’
I leave a pause for Ellie to fill.
‘What was she like?’
She was a contradiction, I reply in my head. She was the tomboy and the princess, the captain of the team and the recluse. She was irrepressible and she was repressed. Megan McCoy wasn’t only my cousin, she was my best friend and after all this time, I still feel the gaping hole she left in my life. ‘I’d rather talk about you,’ I say.
‘I do not know what to say.’
‘Tell me about yourself. What do you like about your life?’ I ask as a prompt.
‘I like living in Liverpool,’ she says.
‘And where are you from originally?’
‘Romania.’
‘But you’ve settled into the area? You like the people?’ I ask as I search for a rhythm in the conversation to keep it flowing.
‘I work a lot of the time,’ she replies, offering no insight to why she might be calling.
‘And what is it that you do?’
There’s a pause. She doesn’t want to tell me. ‘I work in a shop. Not very exciting.’
‘Do you live with anyone?’ I ask, hoping that I’m edging closer to where the problem lies.
‘I shared a house but now I live by myself.’
‘You’re not in a relationship?’
‘It is not important.’
I lean forward in my seat. I want to get closer to her so that I can work out why she’s making me feel so uncomfortable. ‘Then what is important, Ellie?’
‘The truth,’ she says simply. When I don’t respond, she adds, ‘Megan’s boyfriend did not hurt her.’
My jaw clenches. I’ve been trying to work Ellie out and I think I just have. She’s not a reporter, or any other sort of ghoul, but neither is she a genuine caller. ‘Has someone asked you to phone?’
‘No, it was when I saw the news. Mrs McCoy is wrong.’
‘Why is she wrong?’ I ask, a little too sharply. ‘Do you know Megan’s boyfriend? Is that why you’re defending him?’
‘I do not mean to upset you. And I do not want to upset Mrs McCoy. I thought you should know that Megan had other problems.’
‘Really?’ I ask. ‘Look, I don’t know what you’ve been told but I can’t discuss what happened to Megan with you. If you’re having difficulties of your own, I’m happy to listen. And if someone’s pressurising you or intimidating you in any way, I can help.’
‘No, I do not think you can. I am sorry, I should not have phoned. Please, do not say anything to Mrs McCoy. I will go. Goodbye, Jen.’
The phone goes dead and I’m left stunned.
‘The bastard,’ I hiss as I jump up from my seat and start to pace. ‘The utter bastard.’
Lights flicker on, tracing my path through the maze of empty desks as I gather my thoughts. Lewis has to be behind the call. Why else would Ellie phone up to defend him? Is she the girlfriend in the beach photo? How easy would it be to convince her that it was Meg who had the problem? Whoever this woman is, she doesn’t know the real Lewis, and for her sake, I’m glad.
When I return to my pod, the entire office is ablaze with light. I feel exposed to the darkening city and crouch behind the privacy screen as I type up the call sheet. The one thing Ellie and
