Page 55 of All Our Missing Pieces

‘And what about you?’ Orla’s eyes rested searchingly on Beatrice’s face.

Maybe I could say that’s what I was doing – the shock kept me awake and then I thought I heard something down there.

But there was something about Orla’s steady gaze that told Beatrice she’d only be digging herself deeper if she tried that.

Instead, she heard herself saying, ‘I’ll be okay. It’s strange though. I never realised how… how fond I’ve got of her. Of both the kids. I was quite calm at the time, but afterwards…’

‘A delayed reaction. It’s often the way. Maybe take it easy for a few days. Make sure you get plenty of rest.’

‘Yes, I will. Thanks, Orla.’

More confused than ever, Beatrice picked up her bag and left. Had her unintentional display of vulnerability saved her? Or were those words – Make sure you get plenty of rest – a warning of some kind? Were the pages she’d seen Orla writing on – A diary? A letter? – some sort of trap intended to catch her out prying again, this time red-handed?

Beatrice had no idea.

All week she lived with a creeping dread, worse than waiting for a dentist appointment because this had no fixed time or date. She could step, unsuspecting, into an ambush at any moment.

When the letter she had been expecting finally arrived, her mouth went dry with fear. There it was, on the kitchen table, placed neatly on top of the pile of post that included leaflets from local Indian restaurants, a flyer from a gutter-clearing company and several bills for Orla. Furtively, her heart pounding, Beatrice shoved it into her purse.

If Orla had seen it, surely now she would say something.

Only Orla didn’t pounce or ambush Beatrice. She treated her just the same as she always had, with the exception of those occasional long, searching stares which made Beatrice feel as if Orla was rummaging around inside her head the same way she’d rummaged through Orla’s paintings. That, and a lock appeared on the door leading to the cellar one evening, the hasp surrounded by a dusting of fresh wood shavings, a bright new brass padlock securing it.

That settled it. Orla knew that Beatrice didn’t plan to abandon her investigations, so she’d taken steps to prevent her.

But why wasn’t she saying anything?

As the days passed, Beatrice’s sense of anxiety heightened, but as a week went by and then a weekend, when she was off work and in the house most of the day, alone with Orla because Livvie and Luke were out and she couldn’t, somehow, force herself to go out and do any of the London sightseeing she’d promised herself and her mother she would, it ebbed.

If Orla was going to ask her to leave, she would surely have done so by now.

So Beatrice went to work on the Monday morning feeling – not relieved, exactly, but as if a storm cloud had lifted without any rain having fallen. The cloud was still out there somewhere, the deluge might still come, but for now she was safe.

Except she still hadn’t found the courage to open the letter. It was still there in her purse, sealed, the official logo on the envelope sending her heart pounding whenever she looked at it.

She also found herself approaching a new week of work with a sense of excitement and delight she’d never felt before. This could be the week when Slate signed his artwork without the ‘S’ being written backwards. It might be the week when Parker cracked putting on a T-shirt by herself. Now, when she stepped out of the elevator into the apartment, the day ahead felt replete with possibility, and she found herself dropping to her knees and pulling both the children into a hug when they came running to greet her.

‘You’re looking better, Bibi,’ Frances observed, turning away from the remains of her and the children’s breakfast on the kitchen island. ‘Not as tired as you were a while ago. Good weekend?’

‘Yes, thank you. I got plenty of rest.’

‘And what are you planning to get up to today?’

Beatrice knew her employer’s mind was already on her own working day, and that whatever she answered, the question would be repeated in the evening: And what did you get up to today?

But she said, ‘I thought we could go to the new messy play session at the SureStart place this morning. And then maybe the park in the afternoon. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, kids?’

‘I want to go to the library,’ Slate said.

‘Do you now, my little bookworm?’ Frances brushed a manicured hand over her son’s head.

‘I want to see Neil. Neil tells the best stories.’

‘Are you sure?’ Beatrice asked. ‘It’s going to be sunny. We could go on the slides in the park.’

‘Stories,’ Slate insisted.

‘Then Bibi will take you to the library, honey.’ Frances kissed each of her children on the head then stepped past Beatrice into the elevator. ‘Won’t you?’