فصل 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I texted Lily twice. The first time was to thank her for what she had done to my rooftop. It’s so gorgeous. I wish you had told me. A day later, I texted to say I was sorry that things had become so tricky between us, and that if she ever wanted to talk more about Will, I would do my best to answer any questions. I added that I hoped she would go and see Mr Traynor and the new baby, as I knew as well as most that it was important to stay in touch with your family.

She didn’t reply. I wasn’t entirely surprised.

For the next two days I found myself returning to the rooftop, like someone worrying a loose tooth. I watered the plants, feeling a creeping, residual guilt. I walked around the glowing blooms, imagining her stolen hours up there, how she must have carried bags of compost and terracotta pots up the fire escape in the hours I was at work. But every time I thought back to how we had been together, I still went around in circles. What could I have done? I couldn’t make the Traynors accept her in the way she needed to be accepted. I couldn’t make her happier. And the one person who might have been able to was gone.

There was a motorbike parked outside my block. I locked the car and limped across the road to get a carton of milk after my shift, exhausted. It was spitting, and I put my head down against the rain. When I looked up, I saw a familiar uniform standing in the entrance to my block, and my heart lurched.

I walked back across the road straight past him, fumbling in my bag for my keys. Why did fingers always turn into cocktail sausages at moments of stress?

‘Louisa.’

The keys refused to appear. I riffled through my bag a second time, dropping a comb, bits of tissue, loose change, and cursing. I patted my pockets, trying to work out where they might be.

‘Louisa.’

Then, with a sickening drop of my stomach, I remembered where they were: in the pocket of the jeans I had changed out of just before leaving for work. Oh, great.

‘Really? You’re just going to ignore me? This is how we’re doing this?’

I took a deep breath, and turned to him, straightening my shoulders a little. ‘Sam.’

He looked tired too, his chin greyed with stubble. Probably just off a shift. It was unwise to notice these things. I focused on a point a little left of his shoulder.

‘Can we talk?’

‘I’m not sure there’s any point.’

‘No point?’

‘I got the message, okay? I’m not even sure why you’re here.’

‘I’m here because I’ve just finished a crappy sixteen hour shift and I dropped Donna off up the road and I thought I might as well try to see you and work out what happened with us. Because I sure as hell don’t have a clue.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

We glared at each other. Why had I not seen before how abrasive he was? How unpleasant. I couldn’t understand how I had been so blinded by lust for this man when every part of me now wanted to walk away from him. I made one last futile search for my keys and fought the urge to kick the door.

‘So, are you at least going to give me a clue? I’m tired, Louisa, and I don’t like playing games.’

‘You don’t like playing games.’ The words emerged in a bitter little laugh.

He took a breath. ‘Okay. One thing. One thing and I’ll go. I just want to know why you won’t return my calls.’

I looked at him in disbelief. ‘Because I’m many things, but I’m not a complete idiot. I mean I must have been – I saw the warning signs, and I ignored them – but, basically, I haven’t returned your calls because you’re an utter, utter knob. Okay?’

I stooped to pick up my things that had fallen on the ground, feeling my whole body heat rapidly, as if my internal thermostat had suddenly gone haywire. ‘Oh, you’re so good, you know? So bloody good. If it weren’t all so sick and pathetic I’d actually be quite impressed by you.’ I straightened up, zipping my bag. ‘Look at Sam, the good father. So caring, so intuitive. And yet what’s really going on? You’re so busy shagging your way through half of London you don’t even notice that your own son is unhappy.’

‘My son.’

‘Yes! Because we actually listen to him, you see. I mean, we’re not meant to tell outsiders what goes on in the group. And he won’t tell you because he’s a teenager. But he’s miserable, not just for the loss of his mum but because you’re busy swallowing your own grief by having an entire army of women traipse in and out of your bed.’

I was shouting now, my words tumbling over each other, my hands waving. I could see Samir and his cousin staring at me through the window of the shop. I didn’t care. This might be the last time I ever got to say my piece.

‘And, yes, yes, I know, I was stupid enough to be one of those women. So for him, and from me, you’re a knob. And that’s why I don’t want to talk to you right now. Or ever, actually.’

He rubbed at his hair. ‘Are we still talking about Jake?’

‘Of course I’m talking about Jake. How many other sons have you got?’

‘Jake isn’t my son.’

I stared at him.

‘Jake is my sister’s son. Was,’ he corrected himself. ‘He’s my nephew.’

These words took several seconds to filter into a form I could understand. Sam was gazing at me intently, his brow furrowed as if he, too, were trying to keep up.

‘But – but you pick him up. He lives with you.’

‘I pick him up on Mondays because his dad works shifts. And he stays with me sometimes, yes. He doesn’t live with me.’

‘Jake’s … not your son?’

‘I don’t have any children. That I’m aware of. Though the whole Lily thing does make you wonder.’

I pictured him hugging Jake, mentally rewound half a dozen conversations. ‘But I saw him when we first met. And when you and I were talking he rolled his eyes, like …’

Sam lowered his head.

‘Oh, God,’ I said. My hand went to my mouth. ‘Those women …’

‘Not mine.’

We stood there in the middle of the street. Samir was now in the doorway, watching. He had been joined by another of his cousins. To our left everyone at the bus stop turned away when they realized we knew they’d been watching us. Sam nodded at the door behind me. ‘Do you think we could talk about this inside?’

‘Yes. Yes. Oh. No, I can’t,’ I said. ‘I seem to have locked myself out.’

‘Spare key?’

‘In the flat.’

He ran a hand over his face, then checked his watch. He was clearly drained, weary to the bone. I took a step backwards into the doorway. ‘Look – go home and get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow. I’m sorry.’

The rain suddenly grew heavy, a summer dump, creating torrents in gutters and flooding the street. Across the road Samir and his cousins ducked back inside.

Sam sighed. He looked up at the skies and then straight at me. ‘Hang on.’

Sam took a large screwdriver he had borrowed from Samir and followed me up the fire escape. Twice I slipped on the wet metal and his hand reached out to steady me. When it did, something hot and unexpected shot through me. When we reached my floor, he pushed the screwdriver deep into the hall window frame and started to lever upwards. It gave gratifyingly swiftly.

‘There.’ He wrenched it upwards, supporting it with one hand, and turned to me, motioning me through, his expression faintly disapproving. ‘That was way too easy for a single girl living in this area.’

‘You look nothing like a single girl living in this area.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘I’m fine, Sam.’

‘You don’t see what I see. I want you to be safe.’

I tried to smile, but my knees were trembling, my palms slippery on the iron rail. I made to step past him and staggered slightly.

‘You okay?’

I nodded. He took my arm and half lifted, half helped me climb clumsily into my flat. I slumped down on the carpet by the window, waiting to feel normal again. I hadn’t slept properly for days and felt half dead, as if the fury and adrenalin that had sustained me had all leached away.

Sam climbed in and closed the window behind him, eyeing the broken lock on the top of the sash. The hall was dark, the thrumming of the rain muffled on the roof. As I watched, he rummaged around in his pocket until, among other detritus, he picked out a small nail. He took the screwdriver and used the handle to knock the nail in at an angle to stop anyone opening it from outside. Then he walked heavily over to where I was sitting, and held out a hand.

‘Benefits of being a part-time housebuilder. There’s always a nail somewhere. ‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘If you sit there you’ll never get up.’

His hair was flattened from the rain, his skin glistening in the hall light, as I let him pull me to my feet. I winced, and he saw.

‘Hip?’

I nodded.

He sighed. ‘I wish you’d talk to me.’ The skin beneath his eyes was mauve with exhaustion. There were two long scratches on the back of his left hand. I wondered what had happened the previous night. He disappeared into the kitchen and I heard running water. When he came back he was holding two pills and a cup. ‘I shouldn’t really be giving you these. But they’ll give you a pain-free night.’

I took them gratefully. He watched me as I swallowed them.

‘Do you ever follow rules?’

‘When I think they’re sensible.’ He took the cup from me. ‘So are we good, Louisa Clark?’

I nodded.

He let out a long breath. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

Afterwards, I wasn’t sure what made me do it. My hand reached out and took his. I felt his fingers close slowly around mine. ‘Don’t go. It’s late. And motorbikes are dangerous.’

I took the screwdriver from his other hand, and let it fall onto the carpet. He looked at me for the longest time, then slid a hand over his face. ‘I don’t think I’m good for much just now.’

‘Then I promise not to use you for sexual gratification.’ I kept my eyes on his. ‘This time.’

His smile was slow to come, but when it did, everything fell away from me, as if I had been carrying a weight I hadn’t known.

You never know what will happen when you fall from a great height.

He stepped over the screwdriver, and I led him silently towards my bedroom.

I lay in the dark in my little flat, my leg slung over the bulk of a sleeping man, his arm pinning me pleasurably beneath it, and gazed at his face.

– Fatal cardiac arrest, motorbike accident, suicidal teenager and a gang-related stabbing on the Peabody Estate. Some shifts are just a bit …

– Sssh. It’s okay. Sleep.

He had barely managed to get his uniform off. He had stripped to his T-shirt and shorts, kissed me, then closed his eyes and collapsed into a dead slumber. I had wondered whether I should cook him something, or tidy the flat so that when he woke I might look like someone who actually had a handle on life. But instead I undressed to my underwear and slid in next to him. For these few moments I just wanted to be beside him, my bare skin against his T-shirt, my breath mingling with his. I lay listening to his breathing, marvelling at how someone could be so still. I studied the slight bump on the bridge of his nose, the variation in the shade of the bristles that shadowed his chin, the slight curl at the end of his dark, dark eyelashes. I ran through conversations we had had, putting them through a new filter, one that pitched him as a single man, an affectionate uncle, and I wanted to laugh with the idiocy of it all, and cringe at my mistake.

I touched his face twice, lightly, breathing in the scent of his skin, the faint tang of antibacterial soap, the primal sexual hint of male sweat, and the second time I did so I felt his hand tighten reflexively on my waist. I shifted onto my back and gazed out at the streetlights, feeling, for once, that I was not an alien in this city. And finally, I found myself drifting …

His eyes open on mine. A moment later he realizes where he is.

‘Hey.’

A lurch into waking. The peculiar dreamlike state that suffuses the small hours. He is in my bed. His leg against mine. A smile, creeping across my face. ‘Hey yourself.’

‘What time is it?’

I swivel to catch the digital readout of my alarm. ‘A quarter to five.’ Time settles into order, the world, reluctantly, into something that makes sense. Outside, the sodium-lit dark of the street. The minicabs and night buses rumble past. Up here it is just him and me in the night and the warm bed and the sound of his breathing.

‘I can’t even remember getting here.’ He looks off to the side, his face faintly lit by the streetlights, frowning. I watch as memories of the previous day land softly, a silent, mental Oh. Right.

His head turns. His mouth, inches from mine. His breath, warm and sweet. ‘I missed you, Louisa Clark.’

I want to tell him then. I want to tell him that I don’t know what I feel. I want him but I’m frightened to want him. I don’t want my happiness to be entirely dependent on somebody else’s, to be a hostage to fortunes I cannot control.

His eyes are on my face, reading me. ‘Stop thinking,’ he says.

He pulls me to him, and I relax. This man spends each day out here, on the bridge between life and death. He understands. ‘You think too much.’

His hand slides down the side of my face. I turn towards him, an involuntary reflex, and put my lips against his palm. ‘Just live?’ I whisper.

He nods, and then he kisses me, long and slow and sweet, until my body arches and I am just need and want and longing.

His voice is low in my ear. My name, pulling me in. He makes it sound like something precious.

The next three days were a blurred mass of stolen nights and brief meetings. I missed Idealization Week in the Moving On Circle because he turned up at the flat just as I was leaving and we somehow ended up an urgent mess of arms and legs, waiting for my egg-timer to go off so that he could dress and race to pick Jake up on time. Twice he was waiting for me when I returned from my shift, and with his lips on my neck, his big hands on my hips, the indignities of the Shamrock and Clover were, if not forgotten, swept aside along with last night’s empties.

I wanted to resist him, but I couldn’t. I was giddy, diverted, sleepless. I got cystitis and didn’t care. I hummed my way through work, flirted with the businessmen, and smiled cheerfully at Richard’s complaints. My happiness offended my manager: I could see it in his chewed cheek, the way he sought ever more feeble misdemeanours for which to tell me off.

I cared about none of it. I sang in the shower, lay awake dreaming. I wore my old dresses, my brightly coloured cardigans and satin pumps, and let myself be enclosed in a bubble of happiness, aware that bubbles only ever existed for so long before they popped anyway.

‘I told Jake,’ he said. He had half an hour’s break, and he and Donna had stopped outside my flat with lunch before I went off for a late shift. I sat beside him in the front seat of the ambulance.

‘You told him what?’ He had made mozzarella, cherry tomato and basil sandwiches. The tomatoes, grown in his garden, burst in little explosions of flavour in my mouth. He was appalled at how I ate when I was alone.

‘That you’d thought I was his dad. He laughed more than I’ve seen him laugh for months.’

‘You didn’t tell him I told you his dad cried after sex, right?’

‘I knew a man who did that once,’ said Donna. ‘But he really sobbed. It got sort of embarrassing. The first time I thought I’d broken his penis.’

I turned to her, open-mouthed.

‘It’s a thing. Really. We’ve had a couple in the rig, haven’t we?’

‘We have. You’d be amazed at the coital injuries we see.’ He nodded at my sandwich, which was still on my lap. ‘I’ll tell you when your mouth’s empty.’

‘Coital injuries. Great. Because there aren’t enough things in life to worry about.’

His gaze slid sideways as he bit into his sandwich, so that I blushed. ‘Trust me. I’d let you know.’

‘Just so we’re straight, my old mucker,’ said Donna, offering up one of her ever-present energy drinks, ‘I am so totally not going to be your first responder for that one.’

I liked being in the cab. Sam and Donna had the no-nonsense wry manner of those who had seen pretty much every human condition, and treated it, too. They were funny and dark, and I felt oddly at home wedged between them, as if my life, with all its strangeness, was actually pretty normal.

These were the things I learned in the space of several snatched lunch hours:

– Almost no men or women over the age of seventy would complain about their pain or their treatment, even if a limb were actually hanging off. – Those same elderly men or women would almost always apologize for ‘making a fuss’. – That the term ‘Patient PFO’ was not scientific terminology but ‘Patient Pissed and Fell Over’. – Pregnant women rarely gave birth in the back of ambulances. (I was quite disappointed by that one.) – That nobody used the term ‘ambulance driver’ any more. Especially not ambulance drivers. – There would always be a handful of men who would answer, when asked to describe how much pain they were in out of ten, with ‘eleven’.

But what came through most, when Sam arrived back after a long shift, was the bleakness: solitary pensioners; obese men glued to a television screen, too large even to try to get themselves up and down their own stairs; young mothers who spoke no English, confined to their flats with a million small children, unsure how to call for help when it was needed; and the depressed, the chronically ill, the unloved.

Some days, he said, it felt like a virus: you had to scrub the melancholy from your skin along with the scent of antiseptic. And then there were the suicides, the lives ended under trains or in silent bathrooms, their bodies often unnoticed for weeks or months until somebody remarked on the smell, or wondered why so-and-so’s post was now spilling out of their pigeonhole.

‘Do you ever get frightened?’

He lay, oversized, in my little bath. The water had turned faintly pink with the blood from a patient’s gunshot wound that had leaked all over him. I was a little surprised at how swiftly I had got used to having a naked man in the vicinity. Especially one who could move by himself.

‘You can’t do this job if you’re frightened,’ he said simply.

He had been in the army before he’d joined the paramedics; it was not an unusual career arc. ‘They like us because we don’t scare easy, and we’ve seen it all. Mind you, some of those drunk kids scare me far more than the Taliban ever did.’

I sat on the loo seat beside him and stared at his body in the discoloured water. Even with his size and strength, I shivered.

‘Hey,’ he said, seeing something pass across my face, and reached out a hand to me. ‘It’s fine, really. I have a very good nose for trouble.’ He closed his fingers around mine. ‘It’s not a great job for relationships, though. My last girlfriend couldn’t cope with it. The hours. Nights. The mess.’

‘The pink bathwater.’

‘Yeah. Sorry about that. The showers weren’t working at the station. I should really have gone home first.’ He looked at me in a way that showed me there had been no chance of him going home first. He pulled the plug to let some of the water drain away, then turned on the taps for more.

‘So who was she, your last girlfriend?’ I kept my voice level. I was not going to be one of those women, even if he had turned out not to be one of those men.

‘Iona. Travel agent. Sweet girl.’

‘But you weren’t in love with her.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Nobody ever says “sweet girl” about someone they were in love with. It’s like the whole “we’ll still be friends” thing. It means you didn’t feel enough.’

He was briefly amused. ‘So what would I have said if I had been in love with her?’

‘You would have looked very serious, and said, “Karen. Complete nightmare,” or shut down and gone all “I don’t want to talk about it.” ’

‘You’re probably right.’ He thought for a bit. ‘If I’m honest I didn’t really want to feel much after my sister died. Being with Ellen for the last few months, helping look after her, kind of knocked me sideways.’ He glanced at me. ‘Cancer can be a pretty brutal way to go. Jake’s dad fell apart. Some people do. So I figured they needed me there. If I’m honest, I probably only held it together myself because we couldn’t all go to pieces.’ We sat in silence for a moment. I couldn’t tell if his eyes had gone a bit red from grief or soap.

‘Anyway. So, yes. Probably not much of a boyfriend back then. So who was yours?’ he said, when he finally turned back to me.

‘Will.’

‘Of course. Nobody since?’

‘Nobody I want to talk about.’ I shuddered.

‘Everyone’s allowed their own way back, Louisa. Don’t beat yourself up about it.’

His skin was hot and wet, making it hard for me to hold on to his fingers. I released them, and he began to wash his hair. I sat and watched him, letting the mood lift, enjoying the bunched muscles in his shoulders, the gleam of his wet skin. I liked the way he washed his hair: vigorously, with a kind of matter-of-factness, shaking off the excess water like a dog.

‘Oh. I had a job interview,’ I said, when he finished. ‘For a thing in New York.’

‘New York.’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘I won’t get it.’

‘Shame. I’ve always wanted an excuse to go to New York.’ He slid slowly under the water so that only his mouth remained. It broke into a slow smile. ‘But you’d get to keep the pixie outfit, yes?’

I felt the mood shift. And, for no reason at all other than that he didn’t expect it, I climbed fully clothed into the bath and kissed him as he laughed and spluttered. I was suddenly glad of his solidity in a world where it was so easy to fall.

I finally made an effort to sort out the flat. On my day off I bought an armchair, and a coffee-table, and a small framed print, which I hung near the television, and those things somehow conspired to suggest someone might actually live there. I bought new bedding and two cushions and hung up all my vintage clothes in the wardrobe so that opening it now revealed a riot of pattern and colour, instead of several pairs of cheap jeans and a too-short Lurex dress. I managed to turn my anonymous little flat into something that felt, if not quite like a home, vaguely welcoming.

By some beneficence of the shift-scheduling gods, Sam and I both had a day off. Eighteen uninterrupted hours in which he did not have to listen to a siren, and I did not have to listen to the sound of pan pipes or complaints about dry-roasted peanuts. Time spent with Sam, I noted, seemed to go twice as fast as the hours I spent alone. I had pondered the million things we could do together, then dismissed half of them as too ‘couple-y’. I wondered whether our spending so much time together was wise.

I texted Lily one more time. Lily, please get in touch. I know you’re mad at me, but just call. Your garden is looking beautiful! I need you to show me how to look after it, and what to do with the tomato plants, which have got really tall (is this right?). Maybe after we could go out dancing? x I pressed send and stared at the little screen just as the doorbell rang.

‘Hey.’ He filled my doorway, holding a toolbox in one hand and a bag of groceries in the other.

‘Oh, my God,’ I said. ‘You’re like the ultimate female fantasy.’

‘Shelves,’ he said, deadpan. ‘You need shelves.’

‘Oh, baby. Keep talking.’

‘And home-cooked food.’

‘That’s it. I just came.’

He laughed and dropped the tools in the hallway and kissed me, and when we finally untangled ourselves, he walked through to the kitchen. ‘I thought we could go to the pictures. You know one of the greatest benefits to shift-working is empty matinées, right?’

I checked my phone.

‘But nothing with blood in it. I get a bit tired of blood.’

When I looked up he was watching me.

‘What? Don’t fancy it? Or is that going to stamp all over your plans for Zombie Flesh Eaters Fifteen? … What?’

I frowned, and dropped my hand to my side. ‘I can’t get hold of Lily.’

‘I thought you said she’d gone home?’

‘She did. But she won’t take my calls. I think she’s really upset with me.’

‘Her friends stole your stuff. You’re allowed to be the one who’s upset.’

He started to pull things out of the bag, lettuces, tomatoes, avocados, eggs, herbs, stacking them neatly in my near-empty fridge. He looked up at me as I texted her again. ‘Come on. She could have dropped her phone, left it in some club, or run out of credit. You know what teenagers are like. Or she’s just throwing a massive strop. Sometimes you need to let them work it out of their system.’

I took his hand and shut the fridge door. ‘I need to show you something.’ His eyes lit up briefly. ‘Not that, no, you bad man. That will have to wait till later.’

Sam stood on the rooftop and gazed around him at the flowers. ‘And you had no idea?’

‘None at all.’

He sat down heavily on the bench. I sat next to him and we both stared at the little garden.

‘I feel awful,’ I said. ‘I basically accused her of destroying everything she went near. And all the time she was creating this.’

He stooped to feel the leaves on a tomato plant, then straightened, shaking his head. ‘Okay. So we’ll go talk to her.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Lunch first. Then cinema. Then we’ll turn up on her doorstep. That way she won’t be able to avoid you.’ He took my hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Hey. Don’t look so worried. The garden is good news. It shows that her head’s not in a totally bad place.’

He released my hand and I squinted at him. ‘How come you always make everything better?’

‘I just don’t like seeing you sad.’

I couldn’t tell him that I wasn’t sad when I was with him. I couldn’t tell him that he made me so happy I was afraid of it. I thought of how I liked having his food in my fridge, how I glanced at my phone twenty times a day waiting for his messages, how I conjured his naked body in my imagination in the quiet minutes at work and then had to think very hard about floor polish or till receipts just to stop myself glowing.

Slow down, said a warning voice. Don’t get too close.

His eyes softened. ‘You have a sweet smile, Louisa Clark. It’s one of the several hundred things I like about you.’

I let myself gaze back at him for a minute. This man, I thought. And then I slapped my hands heavily on my knees. ‘C’mon,’ I said briskly. ‘Let’s go watch a movie.’

The cinema was almost empty. We sat side by side at the back in a seat where someone had knocked out the armrest, and Sam fed me popcorn from a cardboard bucket the size of a dustbin, and I tried not to think about the weight of his hand resting on my bare leg, because when I did I frequently lost track of what was happening with the plot.

The film was an American comedy about two mismatched cops who find themselves mistaken for criminals. It wasn’t very funny, but I laughed anyway. Sam’s fingers appeared in front of me, bearing a bulbous knobble of salted popcorn and I took it, and another, then, as an afterthought, kept hold of his fingers between my teeth. He looked at me and shook his head, slowly.

I finished the popcorn and swallowed. ‘Nobody will see,’ I whispered.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m too old for this,’ he murmured. But when I turned his face to mine in the hot, dark air, and started to kiss him, he dropped the popcorn and his hand slid slowly up my back.

And then my phone rang. There was a hiss of disapproval from the two people at the front. ‘Sorry. Sorry, you two!’ (Given there were only four of us in the cinema.) I scrambled off Sam’s lap and answered. A number I didn’t recognize.

‘Louisa?’

It took me a second to register her voice.

‘Just give me a minute.’ I pulled a face at Sam, and made my way out.

‘Sorry, Mrs Traynor. I just had to – Are you still there? Hello?’

The foyer was empty, the cordoned-off queue areas deserted, the frozen-drinks machine churning its coloured ice listlessly behind the counter.

‘Oh, thank goodness. Louisa? I wondered if I could speak to Lily.’

I stood, with the phone pressed to my ear.

‘I’ve been thinking about what happened the other week and I’m so sorry. I must have seemed …’ She hesitated. ‘Look, I was wondering if you thought she would agree to see me.’

‘Mrs Traynor –’

‘I’d like to explain to her. For the last year or so I’ve … well, I’ve not been myself. I’ve been on these tablets and they make me rather dim-witted. And I was so taken aback to find you on my doorstep, and then I simply couldn’t believe what you both were telling me. It all seemed so unlikely. But I … Well, I’ve spoken to Steven and he confirmed the whole thing and I’ve been sitting here for days and digesting it all and I just think … Will had a daughter. I have a granddaughter. I keep saying the words. Sometimes I think I dreamed it.’

I listened to the uncharacteristic flurry of her words. ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I felt like that, too.’

‘I can’t stop thinking about her. I do so want to meet her properly. Do you think she’d agree to see me again?’

‘Mrs Traynor, she’s not staying with me any more. But yes.’ I ran my fingers through my hair. ‘Yes, of course I’ll ask her.’

I couldn’t focus on the rest of the film. In the end, perhaps realizing that I was simply staring at a moving screen, Sam suggested we leave. We stood in the car park by his bike and I told him what she’d said.

‘There, see?’ he said, as if I had done something to be proud of. ‘Let’s go.’

He waited on the bike across the road as I knocked on the door. I lifted my chin, determined that this time I would not let Tanya Houghton-Miller intimidate me. I glanced back, and Sam nodded encouragingly.

The door opened. Tanya was dressed in a chocolate linen dress and Grecian sandals. She looked me up and down as she had when we’d first met, as if my own wardrobe had failed some invisible test. (This was a little annoying as I was wearing my favourite checked cotton pinafore dress.) Her smile stayed on her lips for just a nanosecond, then fell away. ‘Louisa.’

‘Sorry to turn up unannounced, Mrs Houghton-Miller.’

‘Has something happened?’

I blinked. ‘Well, yes, actually.’ I pushed my hair from the side of my face. ‘I’ve had a call from Mrs Traynor, Will’s mother. I’m sorry to bother you with this, but she’d really like to get in contact with Lily, and as she’s not picking up her phone, I wondered if you’d mind asking her to call me?’

Tanya gazed at me from under perfectly plucked brows.

I kept my face neutral. ‘Or maybe we could have a quick chat with her.’

There was a short silence. ‘Why would you think I would ask her?’

I took a breath, picking my words carefully. ‘I know you have strong feelings about the Traynor family, but I do think it would be in Lily’s interests. I don’t know if she told you but they had a rather difficult first meeting the other week and Mrs Traynor would really like the chance to start again.’

‘She can do what she wants, Louisa. But I don’t know why you’re expecting me to get involved.’

I tried to keep my voice polite. ‘Um … because you’re her mother?’

‘Whom she hasn’t bothered to contact in more than a week.’

I stood very still. Something cold and hard settled in my stomach. ‘What did you just say?’

‘Lily. Hasn’t bothered to contact me. I thought at least she might come and say hello after we got back from holiday but, no, that’s plainly beyond her. Suiting herself, as usual.’ She extended a hand to examine her fingernails.

‘Mrs Houghton-Miller, she was meant to be with you.’

‘What?’

‘Lily. Was moving back in with you. When you got home from your holiday. She left my flat … ten days ago.’