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4
June 2019
I go for a run the following morning. I must be honest and say that I really don’t like running. But then neither do I like going to the gym and seeing all those perfect boys who don’t even glance in my direction. The gym used to be my playground, but no longer. Now I dress down, keep my eyes low, grit my teeth until I feel that comforting, satisfying connection between my feet, the ground, my thoughts and the beat of the music in my ears, and I keep doing that until I’ve done a full circuit of Regent’s Park. Then my day is my own.
But today I can’t find that sweet spot. My breath grinds through my lungs and I keep wanting to stop, to sit down. It feels wrong. Everything has felt wrong since I found out that Phin still exists.
My feet connect with the tarmac so hard I can almost feel the bumps of the aggregate through the soles of my trainers. The sun appears suddenly through a soft curtain of June cloud, searing my vision. I pull on my sunglasses and finally stop running.
I’ve lost my way. And only Phin can guide me back.
I call Libby when I return home.
Lovely Libby.
‘Hello, you!’
She is so very the sort of person who says ‘hello, you’.
I return it as fulsomely as I can manage. ‘Hello, you!’
‘What’s new?’
‘New? Oh, nothing really. Just had a run. And a shower. Just thinking about what we were discussing at your birthday dinner the other night.’
‘The safari?’
‘Yes, the safari. Lucy says I shouldn’t come.’
‘Oh. Why?’
‘She thinks that you and Miller want it to be a romantic getaway for just the two of you.’
‘Oh, no, nonsense. Of course, you’d be welcome to come. But we’ve hit a snag.’
‘A snag?’
‘Yes. Miller called the lodge the other day to ask about an extra person on the booking and apparently Phin has …’ She pauses.
‘Yes?’
‘He’s gone.’
I sit heavily on the nearest chair, my jaw hanging slack with shock. ‘Gone?’
‘Yes. Said he had a family emergency. Didn’t know when he’d be back.’
‘But …’ I pause. I’m fuming. Libby’s boyfriend Miller is a well-regarded investigative journalist. He’s spent a year of his life tracking Phin down (not for me, you understand, but for Libby) and then five seconds after finally tracing him, Miller’s clearly done something utterly stupid that has resulted in Phin taking flight, the journalistic equivalent of stepping on a twig during a stag hunt.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say, trying to sound calm. ‘What went wrong?’
Libby sighs and I picture her touching the tips of her eyelashes as she often does when she’s talking. ‘We don’t know. Miller could not have been more discreet when he made the booking. The only thing we thought is that Phin somehow recognised my name. We assumed, you know, that he would only have known me by my birth name. But maybe he knew my adopted name. Somehow.’
‘I’m assuming, of course, that Miller made his own booking under a pseudonym?’
There’s a brief silence. I sigh and run my hand through my wet hair. ‘He must have, surely?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, why would he need to?’
