but now I’m not so sure. Maybe he’s not so predictable after all.
My hand’s reaching for the switch in the hall, when I notice a pink envelope on the doormat. It’s no one’s birthday, I think, as I bend down to pick it up. Didn’t Peter notice it when he came in?
There’s no name on the front. The flap isn’t stuck down; it’s tucked inside. I open it and take out the piece of paper. There are only six words. I hold on to the wall to steady myself.
I know your dirty little secret.
Anna
I wait until Sophie has gone to bed before I mention Debbie. I didn’t want to confuse her by talking about another grandmother – who she thinks has passed away. How am I going to explain to her that Debbie is alive after all?
‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ says Jack − words I have heard many times − while he pours himself a glass of white wine.
‘I’m not,’ I say. ‘But the woman behind the counter said photos usually come out well, even after all that time.’
I grab my laptop and take it into the living room. I still don’t know what to say in my reply to Debbie. It is too important to just fire off a few words when I have a whole lifetime to write about. She won’t be expecting a message from me, but I doubt Monica or Dad have replied yet. They would have told me if they had, though I’m not sure of anything these days.
‘Just ask to meet,’ says Jack, reading my mind. ‘You don’t have to write an essay. If she is who she says she is, then you’ll find out soon enough.’
Perhaps it is as simple as that. There is a tiny part of me – self-preservation, again – that tells me not to give too much away in an email. She must earn the right to hear my news. The least she could do is meet me.
I click on the email forwarded by Dad. I already know her words off by heart, but I still read it. ‘The memories of shells and sweet things …’ No one else could know about that.
I type out the reply before I can think about it, and press send.
I look up and flinch. Jack is standing just centimetres away from me.
He laughs.
‘You were off in dreamland then.’ He hands me a piece of paper. ‘These are a few of the private investigators we use at work. The other partners hire them to find people for court summonses. One of them might be able to help if you don’t get a reply. Tell them to charge it to my account.’
‘What makes you think she won’t reply?’ I say. He shrugs. I look at the list. ‘So, are these PIs like Magnum?’
‘Er, no. Unfortunately not. They’re more likely to drive a Volvo estate than a Ferrari.’ He laughs at his own joke.
I settle back into the sofa. Some names to research; it makes me feel useful. I’ve never spoken to a private investigator before; they must lead such exciting lives.
‘They’ll probably jump at the chance of this job,’ says Jack. ‘They’re usually sitting in a car for eight hours at a time, pissing into a coke bottle.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m just nipping down to the shop for more wine. Tough case at the moment.’
‘But it’s Friday night.’
‘If I can get this done, I can relax for the rest of the weekend.’
‘You can’t drive – you’ve already had a glass.’
He tuts. ‘I’m walking to the offy on the corner.’
It’s what I hoped he’d say.
As soon as I hear the front door shut, I race up the two flights of stairs to Jack’s office in the loft. Tough case, my arse. He’s a conveyancing solicitor, not a human rights lawyer.
There’s no door to open – the whole of the loft is his work space. Three walls are hidden by bookcases filled with leather-bound books I’m certain he’s never read, and sports trophies from his university days. There’s a sofa bed to the left and a large mahogany desk under the roof window. The blue screen of his laptop is reflected in the skylight. If I’m quick enough, the screensaver won’t have kicked in yet. He’s protective over his passwords.
I slide onto his chair. His Facebook account is open. I click on the messages tab, but there are none. Not even the link to our old house for sale that I sent him last week. I check the archive folder. Still nothing. I must have at least fifty messages archived in mine. He must have deleted every one. Who does that? Especially someone who professes to hardly ever use Facebook.
Francesca was the name of the woman who signed her name at the bottom of the letter. I go to his friends list, my hands shaking. Jack might only be minutes from walking through the door.
He only has fifty-nine friends. She’s not hard to find. I could have looked on his friends list from my account. Francesca King. Even her name sounds glamorous. She has long chestnut-coloured hair and her photo looks professionally taken. I click on her profile, and jot down everything I can see in her About section. Partner at Gerald & Co, Winckley Square, Preston. She works across town from Jack. I want to look through her posts and photos, but I don’t have time.
I tear off my notes from Jack’s pad, scrunching the paper into my jeans pocket. I click back to his news feed. As I put both my hands on the chair arms to get up, a red notification appears over the message icon. He has it on silent … of course he does.
I should leave it. If I read it, he will know – there’s no way of marking them as unread.
But I can’t stop myself.
A sharp intake of breath as I read the words.
Have you told her yet?
I look to the sender. It’s not Francesca King, but a name that is vaguely familiar: Simon Howarth. Where do I know it from? I thought I had met all of Jack’s colleagues, but they aren’t the most interesting of people – I can’t remember all of their names. It can’t be a relative of Jack’s; he’s an only child, as are both of his parents.
The front door clicks shut. I race down the loft stairs and go straight into the bathroom. I stand behind the closed door. The kitchen is directly below me; I bet he’s pouring another glass of wine. I hear him put the bottle noisily into the fridge.
If he sees my face, he’ll know what I’ve been doing. I flush the toilet and run the taps, waiting until I hear him tread the stairs.
I have a lot of research to do.
The information I found about Francesca King was the same limited details from her Facebook account. On her firm’s website – no win, no fee ambulance chasers – was a notice for a drop-in consultancy clinic on Monday nights. I wouldn’t have the bottle to face her – what if
