can’t believe I don’t know any of this, that Eleanor kept it a secret all these years. ‘Did Dad know? Does Dad know?’
‘He does now. He wishes I’d told him sooner.’
‘Maybe you should have.’
A silence falls, as she rises to pour a brandy. ‘Are you sure you won’t have one?’
I shake my head and get up too. ‘I should go,’ I say.
‘You do understand why I didn’t tell Willow, don’t you, Rose?’ she says, ‘Why I kept it quiet for so long. What good would have come of her knowing her mother was murdered?’
It seems vital to her that I understand. ‘Of course,’ I say, and turn to leave.
*
By the time I get home, I’m emotionally drained. What I’m not up for is a full-on argument with my daughter, who, going by her stance as she stands in the hallway, is ready for one.
‘OK,’ I say, before she can say anything.
‘OK?’
‘You can come,’ I go on, as I tug off my shoes. What I don’t say is her grandpa and Eleanor are going away, so I have no choice but to take her to Cornwall. That the last thing I want is her hanging about at home without supervision. ‘But if things get tough, Becky, we’re coming straight home.’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ she says, lunging at me, and hugging me. ‘Yay!’
At that moment it hits me that I need her with me.
Now
My eyes are closed, but I’ve barely slept, my mind far too busy with thoughts of Willow – the nips of guilt that I should already be in Cornwall waking me on the hour, every hour; the heat of the night making it difficult to drop back off.
I reach across the bed. I know Aaron isn’t here, but I imagine he wraps his hand tightly around mine, and wallow for a few moments thinking of him, before prising open my eyes and pulling myself to a sitting position.
My mouth is dry from the fan whirring on my bedside table. I click it off, knocking a photo of Aaron to the floor. I pick up my phone, and rub sleep from my eyes, trying to focus. It’s 6 a.m.
I grab the glass of water that’s been standing on my bedside table all night and swallow a gulp of the warm liquid before trying to call Willow. It goes straight to voicemail.
‘Hey, Willow,’ I say into the phone. ‘Can’t wait to see you later. Call me as soon as you can.’ I end the call, trying not to worry. She’s a late riser. That’s all.
I need coffee, always my go-to first thing in the morning. And then we need to get going as early as possible.
But still I sit, my eyelids drooping.
The sun’s fingers reach in through a gap in my flimsy pale-blue curtains, picking out Becky’s life so far in photos that jostle for space on the far wall. My daughter is beautiful. I wish she could see what I see when she looks in the mirror.
My eyes fall on a study of Willow at sixteen, her naturally curly hair straightened to shiny sheets of gold – the face of an angel.
She was spotted by a scout and picked up by a big modelling agency at sixteen. In no time her beautiful face was bounced from magazine cover to magazine cover. Her tall, slim body shuttled from fashion show to fashion show.
At first she revelled in it. Enjoyed the attention. Her eyes sparkling as cameras flashed. Although thrilled for her, it was strange seeing her face everywhere – from billboard posters to national newspapers – not looking quite like the Willow we knew and loved. We were worried too. Worried about the effect it was having on her.
‘I wish I looked like Willow,’ Becky would say, just nine years old at the time.
Willow was almost seventeen when I took one of my monthly trips by train to London to meet up with her. She was renting a huge apartment with three other models, which looked out over the River Thames.
We met in an Italian restaurant in Leicester Square, and as we hugged hello, I felt how dangerously thin she was, noticed how sallow her cheeks were, how the sparkle had disappeared from her eyes that now rested on dark cushions of flesh.
‘So how’s it going?’ I said, trying for upbeat as we studied the menus.
‘Great,’ she said, not looking up.
‘You look tired, Willow.’ I reached across the table, rested my hand on hers.
‘I am,’ she said. ‘I barely sleep.’
‘Have you tried lavender?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve tried everything from hypnosis to sleeping tablets. Nothing works.’
‘Then take a break? Come home for a bit.’
‘I can’t, Rose. They’ve got so much lined up for me over the next few months. Anyway, I love it. I love everything about it.’ Her words didn’t match her lifeless tone. ‘Let’s order, shall we?’
She barely ate that day, and it was a couple of weeks later she disappeared. It was all over the tabloids. We were in such a state.
She was found a week later in a motel in Scotland. A wreck. A mess. Addicted to prescription drugs. Suicidal. The whole experience had been too much.
I cried so hard when we got her back, holding her tightly, never wanting to let her go. Blaming myself that I hadn’t done something when I’d seen her last. That despite spotting how dreadful she looked, I’d done nothing.
She gave up modelling and came home, and seemed her usual upbeat self far too quickly, but there was something different I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Then she took off again, refusing to tell anyone where she was – saying she needed to escape, needed time out. It was the first of many escapes. Something we’ve got used to over time. It’s what Willow does.
Even now I sometimes Google her name and they are still there – thousands of images of Willow Winter. I want to rip them all down. Stop people ogling. Tell them to leave her alone. Leave her in peace.
*
Once we have showered and dressed, Becky and I load our holdalls into the boot of the car, and climb in.
Becky plugs her earphones into her ears, and her thumbs tap her phone screen. I start the engine, but before I pull away, I notice a voicemail on my phone from Willow. She must have called when I was getting ready.
I listen to her strangled voice. ‘Rose. Rose. Pick up, please.’ A pause. ‘I know who killed her. I know who killed my real mum. I’ve worked it all
