I frown. Daisy hated all forms of social media. I’m not a social media person, either, unlike many people I know. I have a business page –MOVE WITH SCARLETT– but I only go on my personal pages now and again to catch up with what friends are up to.
‘I didn’t know she was on social media.’
‘Yeah. It wasn’t healthy. I tried to encourage her to back off, but she wouldn’t listen.’ Chucking the box aside, he starts taping another one but stops and places his hands on his hips.
‘But it doesn’t correlate with her taking a drug overdose.’ I grab one of the large envelopes and try to open it, but the tape is too strong. ‘What are you suggesting?’
George fixes his eyes on me with a steely glare. ‘Look, Scarlett. Let me be quite clear. I don’t for one minute buy that Daisy took an overdose, even if it were by accident. I want to find out what really happened to her as much as you.’
‘How do we do that?’ I ask, grateful for how vehement he is. He’s on my side.
He pulls his phone from his jeans and scrolls. He turns the screen to me, revealing a TikTok page advertising another – what he would term – happy-clappy convention. ‘We start here.A Meeting of Minds. It has quite a following. They hold a convention every other month in different locations across the UK. Daisy went to two of them this year. She was on her way home from one when her phone went dead. Someone knows what happened to Daisy, and it starts right here.’
I shudder.
‘There’s one being held in Brighton this weekend.’ He’s way ahead of me.
I stare at the video showing a man speaking on a stage. ‘You think she met someone there?’
He clenches his jaw. ‘Who knows?’
‘What are you doing this Saturday?’ I ask.
‘Nothing planned.’
‘Let’s go to Brighton.’
11
BETH
I leave the kitchen to go to collect the takeaway. But first I want to check if my suspicions are correct. If I find Justin in the annexe, I swear I’ll kill him.
The hallway is in darkness, except for the beam of light spearing through the glassed recess above the oak door. A voice startles me. I jump.
‘I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to scare you.’ Hattie’s frail hand grabs the rail as she stands at the bottom of the carpeted stairs in her long white nightie. She’d look like a ghost, haloed in the insufficient light, except I can just make out that she’s wearing bright red shoes with kitten heels and matching lipstick that looks as if she’s applied it with the wrong hand. ‘I’m looking for Harold. Do you know where he is?’
It breaks my heart. Harold is Hattie’s ex-husband – Justin’s father – who walked out of their family home thirty years ago for a younger version of the beauty she once was. Hattie travelled the catwalks of the world and appeared on the cover ofVoguethree times during her career as a model. Harold emigrated toAustralia after their split, and they never heard from him again. On bad days, she asks after his whereabouts at least fifty times a day, like a record on repeat. On good days, she remembers him for the selfish bastard he was.
‘Why don’t you take those shoes off, Hattie?’ We don’t need any more drama in this house tonight. I worry about her negotiating the stairs as her condition worsens. Justin assures me she’s OK. But I’m not so confident, and Connor agrees with me. I need to mention it again.
She reaches out her hand, leaving it hovering. ‘Have you seen Harold, dear?’ She started calling medearwhen she moved in with us. And apart from Justin and her ex, it’s how she now addresses everyone, because she no longer remembers anyone’s name.
I take her hand. ‘Here, let me help you take those shoes off.’
She shakes me away. ‘I’m wearing them for Harold. He likes me wearing these ones. Where is he?’ Connor was right. She is having a bad day.
‘He’s away on a business trip.’ It’s the staple answer. Anything else and she’d break down sobbing until she can’t remember why she was crying and then ask where he is again.
‘Business trip? Whereabouts?’ she asks.
‘Up north somewhere.’
‘He works too hard, doesn’t he?’
‘He’ll be back tomorrow.’
The doorbell rings again. Blue barks.
