“Oh. Good.” His voice is soft. “And, for the record, I’ve a friend who had a baby at seven months, it was frightening.”
“Mine were born at six.”
He whistles. “Jesus, Carrie. Well—that’s a whole other conversation.” He pauses for a moment and I know he’s imagining me as a mother. “What I was trying to say was that I’m glad it wasn’t because of me. That would have been awful. You were born to do that job.”
For a moment, I allow myself to smile gratefully. Nobody has really wanted me to go back. Even Mum, who’s far more interested in careers than she is parenting, has been doubtful, and Robin’s still worried I’m going to have a breakdown. He’s been calling every morning at six o’clock to check in.
“Carrie…” Johan’s voice is close, quiet.
“Yes?”
“I’m—I’m glad this is happening. Us speaking. I’ve thought about you a lot since January.”
I’m not sure I’m breathing.
“I’ve been wanting to…” He stops, and I hear him rubbing a hand over his face. He always did that in times of uncertainty. “Have you been OK? Since we met?”
Maya is quite literally on the edge of her seat. There is no point in me taking the phone into the bathroom. The walls are made of fiberboard; she’d hear every word.
“Yes and no.”
He remains silent, as if inviting me to continue, so I do. “I spent years thinking you’d been trafficking drugs. Sleeping with other women, leading a double life. So it’s blown my universe up a little, discovering that that wasn’t the case.”
“This is what I keep thinking about. You dealing with that on yourown, day after day, month after month, year after year. No closure, no explanation, nothing.”
I shake my head. I won’t be derailed by concern and kindness. It’s far too little, far too late. “You say that, Johan, and yet an explanation is the one thing you still refuse to give me. You thought someone else had explained the whole thing to me and yet you won’t tell me who that someone else is or why they haven’t spoken up. And so here I am. Still in the dark.”
I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t.
“Look,” I say. “I need to know: Was it Dad?”
“Was what your dad?”
“You asked about Dad’s memory loss, specifically in relation to what happened in Thailand. And then I found a call from Dad’s mobile to our hotel in Bangkok, the night you arrived. It was at exactly the time I was scratching my head, wondering what had happened to you. Johan, if my father was involved—if he’s the one you expected to tell me—Ihaveto know.”
Johan goes silent, and my sister comes over and holds my hand.
“Oh, Carrie,” he says eventually. Somewhere in the background, I hear an engine revving. “…I wish you’d got in touch earlier to ask. That phone call to Thailand…” He breaks off. “Hang on. Let me get somewhere a bit quieter.”
After a few seconds he returns to the line. “Just ducked into a side street.”
“And?”
He sighs. “The call from your dad’s mobile was him calling me back. I called him as soon as I checked in to the hotel because I wanted to ask him if I could propose to you.”
That silences me.
“Your dad was, as ever, very kind and insisted on calling me backon the landline in our room so I wouldn’t have to spend two hundred pounds asking him the question. We had a lovely conversation; I still remember it—I always enjoyed talking to him. We talked for ages—he was telling me so many funny things about you as a little girl—and that’s why I was so late for our first dinner. You were exhausted and upset by the time I got to you. I felt bad. That’s the story.”
Maya and I look at each other. She touches my flushed cheek with the back of her hand.
“You called him to ask permission?” I ask, even though I heard him perfectly well the first time.
“Yes.” I hear him rubbing a hand over his chin again. It’s as if we’re in a phone box together. I can hear his breath, the sound of his facial skin under his fingers. “Yes, I did. My proposal was not a moment of madness on a boat. I was very serious about it. About you. Us.”
I try to concentrate only on the facts.
“But you still won’t tell me why you assumed I knew what had happened to you?”
