Page 46 of All Our Missing Pieces

It is a double lock: unless we both act, nothing will happen.

I can do nothing. Perhaps she will do nothing. And then nothing will change.

I am torn between hope and fear. Hope that I might see her at last, and everything will be wonderful. Fear of – well, everything else. Confronting my own weakness and failure. Coming face to face with someone who will surely hate me – how could she not hate me, after what I did to her? And fear, most of all, of raking up the past just when I have finally found myself somewhere I feel safe.

Am I, though? I’m almost certain that Beatrice has been in my room, going through my things. And weeks ago, before we cleared out the rooms on the first floor, I heard her there at night, searching. Searching for what? It can only be for secrets she believes this house holds – or the secret I myself hold.

THIRTY

‘Slate had a nightmare last night’ – Frances applied a careful curve of scarlet lipstick before snapping her compact mirror closed and tucking it in her purse – ‘but he’s all good now. Me, not so much. I’m shattered. And Parker’s got a bit of a cold coming on, I think. She’s been grouchy all morning.’

‘Gotcha.’ Beatrice’s bus had been delayed, and she was only just stepping out of the elevator, rushed and flustered.

‘I’m in meetings all day and I’ve got a product launch this evening,’ Frances went on. ‘Likely I’ll only get in about nine. Peter might be back earlier, but I can’t promise anything.’

‘Okay.’ Beatrice suppressed a sigh and forced a smile. It was going to be a long day.

Already, she could hear Parker grizzling from the kitchen island and Slate’s feet kicking his stool in a way that set her teeth on edge. The summer holidays, which had started two weeks before, seemed never-ending, with both kids home all day – she wouldn’t even have the respite of packing him off to pre-school.

‘I’m out of here.’ Frances stepped into the elevator. It seemed to Beatrice that she might as well have been getting on a magic carpet that would take her away from the grind of motherhood, out into a world where everything was adult, stylish, clean and interesting.

‘Right,’ Beatrice said. ‘Have a great day. Okay, Parker, I’m coming.’

She hurried into the kitchen in response to the little girl’s whines, stepping on some abandoned Lego bricks on the way, skidding and almost going flying.

‘Fuck.’ She couldn’t help the word slipping out as she fought to regain her balance on the treacherous polished floor.

‘Bibi said a bad word,’ Slate crowed. ‘Did you hear, Parker? Bibi said fu⁠—’

‘That’s enough, mister.’ Beatrice fought to keep her tone light. If she made a drama out of it, he’d be chorusing fuck-based songs at her all day – and, worse, at his parents when they arrived home in the evening. ‘Sometimes grown-ups say bad words when they’ve had a shock, but that doesn’t mean it’s okay for little kids to. So pardon me for my French.’

‘What?’ Distracted, Slate stopped kicking the island. ‘You weren’t talking French.’

‘No, but I can.’ Sensing an opportunity, Beatrice launched into a flood of schoolgirl French. ‘Voici les chaises, et la fenêtre. Tu as joué avec les briques de Lego, mais maintenant tu vas manger le petit déjeuner avec ta petite soeur.’

Slate gazed at her, impressed. Beatrice dropped a kiss on Parker’s head. The little girl did look poorly, she reckoned – her cheeks were flushed, her eyes red-rimmed and her nose crusty.

Great, she thought. One kid ill and the other bored shitless. Fun times.

‘What’s for breakfast then, Parker?’ she asked brightly. ‘Toast and peanut butter? Oatmeal? Or I can make you an egg.’

‘Pancakes?’ Slate suggested hopefully.

‘No.’ Parker thumped down on the floor on her bottom. Beatrice sensed that the word was addressed to the world in general, rather than pancakes specifically. She conducted a rapid risk-reward analysis in her head. Pros of pancakes: tasty, easy, took a bit of time, could distract the kids by making shapes. Cons: utter pain in the ass to clean up, Frances wouldn’t approve if she put cinnamon sugar and maple syrup on them, which, let’s face it, she would, and if they liked them they’d start demanding them every day.

The lure of an easy win came up trumps.

‘Pancakes it is, then.’

Slate jumped off his stool and did a victory dance round the kitchen island, but Parker stayed where she was, thumb in her mouth.

‘Come on, Parker,’ Beatrice cajoled, ‘come help me and Slate make the batter. I’ll show you how to put a hole in the eggshell so the witches can’t sail away in it.’

Where the hell did that come from? she thought.

As she whisked the lumps out of the flour, helped Slate measure out a cup of milk and gave Parker an empty eggshell and a spoon, Beatrice fought to keep her mind from – not so much wandering as veering away. Away to Mr Isaacs’ living room and the things he’d told her there. To Orla’s bedroom, where she’d been hunting for the missing puzzle piece she knew must be there, somewhere in that house. To Livvie’s outraged reaction to finding her there and Beatrice’s success in deflecting her anger.

She didn’t know what she was going to do next. If she’d asked anyone sensible, anyone she trusted, like Frances, say, or even Neil, she knew what they would say.