As I inch my way north towards Chalk Farm and Belsize Park I allow myself to sift through the stuffed pocketbook of lies Emma must have told me. The trips to Northumberland – all those fucking trips she took, all the times I waved her off so she could have some time alone, looking for crabs, when she was just trying to stalk the Rothschilds.
The day Ruby was born; the sympathy the maternity team must have felt for me as I held my baby for the first time, dizzy with joy, oblivious to the fact that this was Emma’s second child.
And, talking of precious days, what about our marriage? Is it legal, if Emma failed to tell the officials she’d changed her name? She said nothing about it when we gave notice at the town hall. And yet, a few months later, she stood opposite me at the registry office and said she knew of no legal reason why she, Emma Merry Bigelow, should not marry me, Leo Jack Philber.
Her criminal record. The stalking of the Rothschilds, even when we were together. The ‘dinners’ with Jill when she must have been doing God knows what; her refusal to come to any industry parties, presumably because she was avoiding a public meeting with Jeremy.
The traffic is stop-start all the way up Haverstock Hill. My fingers drum against the steering wheel, my leg twitches. Being trapped in here with these thoughts is unbearable.
When I pull up at my house I scan for Emma, just in case, but the only familiar car is Olly’s.
My heart pounds. I’m exhausted. I have no idea what to think, what to do, what my next move should be. My heart is afraid for Emma – my heart which has loved her so long, and so deeply – but I am angry, I am in shock, and I do not see how I could ever trust her again.
And if there is no trust, there is no us.
As I lock my car I hear another car door closing behind me. I whip round, certain it will be Emma, only to find Sheila standing in my road, under a streetlight. Normally quite casual, she’s wearing a trouser suit tonight. She could not look more like a high-ranking intelligence official if she tried.
‘Sheila? What are you doing here?’
‘I have some news,’ she says. ‘About Emma.’
Chapter Fifty
Olly and Tink are looking at something on Tink’s laptop when we get into the house; Mikkel and Oskar are asleep under a blanket.
I introduce Sheila.
Olly eyes her with some interest. ‘Are you the ex-spy?’
‘Olly!’
‘What? I’ve never met a spy!’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ Sheila says, which Olly loves.
I remove John Keats from the Queen Anne chair in the study and bring it through for Sheila. ‘It’s a bit doggy ...’ I trail off: Sheila isn’t interested. She sits on the hairy chair. I take a seat on the floor.
‘I went to your daughter’s nursery and asked to view their CCTV,’ she begins. ‘It seemed expedient; it was the last place Emma was seen.’
I stare at her. ‘And they let you?’
She nods, almost surprised. ‘Of course. Anyway, I saw Emma leave at exactly the time they told you. She looked upset, just like they said. And you’re quite right, she didn’t have so much as a handbag on her.’
A sleepy John wanders in from the study, an ear stuck to the top of his head. He goes straight over to Sheila and sticks his head into her crotch.
Sheila removes him. If she has any feelings about this, her face doesn’t betray them.
I am horrified and delighted. Not just by my dog and my brother, but by the thought of Sheila, marching into a nursery and demanding CCTV footage. It’s exactly the sort of thing I’ve always imagined Sheila doing.
‘I then watched a car pull up outside the nursery entrance. She got into it and drove away, quite willingly, I’d say: she didn’t really hesitate.’
‘You think it’s someone she knows?’ Olly asks.
‘I do.’
Sheila pulls out her phone and swipes a few times. ‘ZQ16 5LL,’ she says. ‘Silver Peugeot. Does this ring any bells?’
I frown. ‘No ... At least, I don’t think so ... Oh, actually, her friend Heidi has a silver car, a big estate thing ... ? Roof rails? Bike rack on the back?’
