slightly.
He’s trying to look happy for Sophie and me, but the smile is only present on his lips. It’s a manner so familiar to me that it’s almost normal.
‘Happy Birthday, love,’ he says, before kissing my cheek, and stepping inside.
He ties a silver balloon to the end of the bannister and places a gift bag on the floor.
‘Am I allowed to play with it?’ Sophie says, standing on the bottom stair, and blowing the balloon sideways.
‘Maybe later,’ I say. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
Dad and Sophie follow me into the kitchen.
‘But it’s your birthday,’ says Dad, ‘and it’s a Saturday. Let’s have a drop of fizz.’
Sophie sits back at the table.
‘Why’s Grandad talking posh?’
‘I don’t know.’
Dad pulls out a bottle of champagne from my gift bag and hands it to me. It’s already chilled. He nudges me aside and reaches into the cupboard for three wine glasses. It’s like he can’t stop moving.
‘You know how I feel about birthdays, Dad. I don’t want a fuss.’
‘Course you do – it’s your thirtieth! We had champagne on your twenty-first, remember? I take it Jack’s at work … on a Saturday? I’ve never known a conveyancing solicitor work a weekend in my entire life.’ Dad glances at me and raises his eyebrows. ‘Anyway, your brother should be here any minute.’
I don’t say that Robert probably won’t drink either. Robert would think that ordering a taxi so he can enjoy a few glasses of champagne during the day is one step towards anarchy, lack of self-control, and being on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
He has always been the same. Robert was six when Debbie disappeared. Everyone says it’s harder for him, because he remembers. When I was little, Robert told me that Dad was arrested after we came back to England – that, for a few days, it was like he had lost two parents. He probably doesn’t remember telling me; he’s barely mentioned it since. He hates talking about her now. He couldn’t understand why, until only a few years ago, I had pictures of her everywhere. Most of those photographs are in the loft now.
‘Where’s Monica?’ I say. ‘Is she ill again?’
He fills the glasses halfway, waiting for the bubbles to melt before he tops them up. We’re not usually the champagne kind of family.
‘No – well, not physically – it’s just … we’ve had an email. I can’t tell you what was in it until Robert gets here. He won’t be long.’
‘An email? Why didn’t you just forward it to me, or tell me over the phone? Does Leo know?’
Leo is our stepbrother – Monica’s son – but he lives in America with his father.
‘No, no. We wouldn’t tell him without you two knowing first.’ He paces along the small space between the sink and the kitchen table. ‘I did wonder whether it was the right day to do this, but I couldn’t face you today without telling you.’
‘What does it say?’
He narrows his eyes and purses his lips.
‘Is it about Debbie?’ I say.
He nods slowly.
My legs start to shake. It feels like the blood has run cold in my face. I lean against the back of a chair.
What could an email say about her? If her remains had been found, or if she were still alive – it wouldn’t be in a casual email. Maybe this is how it’s done these days – especially if she were found in Tenerife. Has a dog found her while searching for a bone? Or has she been discovered in a hospital somewhere – her memory wiped by an accident?
I must stop thinking.
Dad wouldn’t open champagne if it were bad news, would he?
I open my mouth; I almost don’t want to say it out loud.
‘Is she dead?’ I whisper, so Sophie doesn’t hear.
‘Anna, love, just be patient. Please. He’ll be here soon.’
Why did he not just say no – put me out of my misery?
My stomach is churning. Deep breath. Breathe, breathe.
He looks at his watch and we stand wordlessly, with only the sound of the wine bubbling, losing its fizz. Briefly, the mask slips from his face when he thinks I’m not looking – I have seen it often over the years: the sadness of remembering something lost.
‘Sophie,’ I say. ‘I’ll put a film on for you while we wait for Uncle Robert. Then we can have some cake.’
‘Cake?’
‘Yes, love.’
She takes my hand, and we go into the living room. I flick on the television, but it takes too long to find a film – my hands are shaking.
‘Just put the kids’ channel on,’ she says, her head tilted to the side as she looks at me.
‘Good plan. Thanks, sweetheart.’
She’s only six, but she can be so perceptive at times. I pull the living-room door closed as much as I can without her panicking that I am going to abandon her.
Dad’s looking at the clock when I walk back into the kitchen.
‘It’s not like Robert to be ten minutes late,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you open your present? Monica’s so excited about it.’
‘Why isn’t she here then?’
‘She thought she’d give us some space while I tell you the news.’
‘That’s very understanding of her.’
Dad narrows his eyes for a second. Perhaps I was too sarcastic. Monica has been married to my father since I was eleven, but she has always been in my life. My mother is presumed dead in the eyes of the law.
‘She hasn’t taken it well,’ he says. ‘She didn’t even want me to read it.’
‘What? Wasn’t it addressed to you?’
I follow him as he walks out of the kitchen and into the hall. He peers through the window next to the front door.
‘Dad?’
He is saved by the bell. I open the door to Robert.
‘Happy Birthday, Anna,’ he says, unwrapping his scarf – he’s never without one. ‘Hotter than I thought it’d be today. Should’ve gone with the cotton.’
Robert hands me a birthday card, which will contain fifteen pounds.
