People file out of the tent. But I stay. I want to talk to him. The searing heat hits me like a brick wall. Sweat traces its way down my spine, and my top clings to my back. It’s suddenly airless in here. Thirst grips my dry throat, but my water bottle is empty. I fan my face with the leaflet, itching to get out of here. People move slowly. Too slowly. I want to shout at them to hurry up. When I finally reach the exit, I look over my shoulder. A young woman with long black plaited hair is standing at the side of the stage waving for Marcus’s attention. Other women have flocked to speak to him, fawning over him like groupies.
I consider joining them. But first I need a drink. The late afternoon sunshine intensifies as I rush outside. I join the queue to a water station, willing people to hurry. It’s as if the heat has everyone on go-slow. When I finally reach the front of the queue, I refill my bottle and step aside, emptying it in one long guzzle as if it’s the first drink I’ve had all day.
I need to get on. I want to join those girls at the stage. I want to talk to this Marcus Aurelius in person. See his reaction when I show him the photo of my sister and ask if he’s ever seenher before. I hurry back to the tent, but the stage is empty, and Marcus is nowhere in sight.
I leave. I’ve had enough.
17
BETH
Distant voices wake me. I shield my eyes from the ray of sunshine through the arched window. At first, I think I’m still in that five-star hotel in Edinburgh with the fluffy pillows and heavy floor-to-ceiling silk curtains. And then I remember. Last night – that girl – and a dreadful foreboding hits me.
I check the time on my phone. Ten o’clock. I never sleep this long. Never. The weekend must’ve taken it out of me. I need to get out of bed. I have a hospital appointment this afternoon, and it takes me so long to get myself together these days. Even brushing my teeth seems to take an age. I need to do some work before we go. My inbox is jammed. Justin tells me not to worry. He’s got it all under control. Control. Control. He excels at that – having everything under control. But I can’t give up. I’m the CEO of our company, and if I let that go, I have little else.
Still disorientated, I rush to get up too quickly. My legs buckle as if my whole body’s given up on me. My head spins. I feel as if I’ve been drugged. I should never have mixed alcohol with my tablets last night. Even half a glass of champagne istoo much. I fall back down on the bed and drop my head to my knees. Today is a day when I wish I could go to sleep and never wake up again.
Voices drift through the floorboards from the kitchen below. It sounds like Justin, but I’m not sure. I heave myself up, walk to the window and open the blinds. Blue is in the garden, sniffing around the flowerbeds.
I go to Hattie’s room and look out of the window. Justin’s car is not in the driveway. He must’ve left me in bed and taken Connor to the station and that girl to the airport. Knowing I was still asleep, he would’ve taken Hattie, too. It must be the radio playing in the kitchen.
I check my messages. Connor has left a text.
Came to say goodbye, but you were still asleep. Love you, Mum. See you soon. X
My beautiful boy, always so thoughtful. I slip into my dressing gown and head for the door. At the bottom of the stairs, I pause and peer along the passageway to the annexe. The door is closed. I have to check. I step along the tiled floor and fling open the door. The bed has been stripped; the used sheets lie in a heap at the foot of the bed, along with a wet towel.
Overcome with relief, I breathe a heavy sigh.
She’s gone.
Perhaps Justin was right. It was my paranoia, after all. He means it this time. He has changed. A sudden desire to see him overcomes me. For him to hold me and tell me everything is going to be OK. That I’m going to beat this cancer and get well again. I’ve been so scared lately. After I had my mastectomy five years ago, and the consultant gave me the all-clear, I thought I was free of this disease. Free from all the painful biopsies, drugsand endless appointments. But then a blood test three months ago told me that wasn’t the case, and the nightmare started all over again. A nightmare I’m living every single minute of every single day.
I head to the kitchen. The voices grow louder as if they’re on the radio and someone is slowly turning up the volume.
Blue dashes in from the garden, wagging his tail. I hear a car enter the driveway. Justin. He must be back from taking Connor to the station and that girl to the airport. Thank God. At least she’s gone.
But as I enter the kitchen, I stop in the doorway and do a double take. I rub my eyes. Immy is sitting at the kitchen table with Hattie, talking as if they are old friends having a catch-up. Immy’s rucksack, with her grey and white shawl threaded through the front straps, rests at her feet. I rub my eyes again, hoping this is a dream. It’s got to be a dream. ‘What are you doing here?’
Justin bursts into the room as if he’s just run a marathon. ‘I was just about to come and wake you up.’
‘What’s going on?’ I look from him to Immy and back again.
‘Immy missed her flight.’ His words rush out. ‘But we got talking and she’s going to be staying with us for a while to help us with Mum.’
18
SCARLETT
The air has thickened, rising from the ground in waves. I walk the perimeter of the tent, zigzagging between trees to keep to the shade.
I take a different exit to the one George and I came in through. From Google Maps it appears to offer a less-crowded route back to the station. As I enter a back street, a car passes me, weaving between the parked vehicles. A BMW, a red so vibrant, it’s hard to miss. I stop in my tracks. Marcus is driving, and a young woman with black plaited hair who approached him on the stage is sitting in the passenger seat with an unusual stillness about her. The unease I’ve carried all day awakens in my stomach. But who am I to judge? She could be his daughter.
But it could also be someone’s sister who is not in the right frame of mind.
The sight of that girl bothers me all the way to the station. I want to call the police. But what would I say? I have a hunch that man had something to do with my sister’s death. They’d laugh me out of the door.
But when I reach the station and am waiting for my train, the same woman is standing on the opposite platform, shading her eyes with anA Meeting of Mindsleaflet. Marcus must’ve dropped her off. No harm done.
