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‘Not even the chief whip. Apart from Amira, you’re the only one.’ He flashes me a broad smile, the clouds lifting as abruptly as they came. ‘With great power comes great responsibility. Use it wisely, Alexa-san.’
Our server returns with two coffees and a small saucer of amaretti biscotti. I take one, unwrapping it and smoothing out the tissue-thin wrapper on the table.
‘Lottie used to love these,’ I say. ‘Luca would do that trick for her, you know, setting it on fire. He’d tell her to make a wish.’ My voice is suddenly thick. ‘She always wished for a puppy. I said it wasn’t fair, a puppy would be lonely stuck at home all day while she was at school—’
Suddenly, there isn’t enough air in the room.
Jack takes the wrapper from me and rolls it into a cylinder, and then touches one end of it to the guttering candle on the table between us. My vision is blurred as it catches fire andfloats up to the ceiling. Why didn’t I just let her get the damned dog?
‘Bloody widows,’ Jack says. ‘Always trying to pull at your heartstrings with their kidnapped baby stories. There was no need to add the puppy.’
I let out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob.
His hand covers mine, and this time the gesture is honest and straightforward, the consolation of a friend. ‘Hang on in there, Alex,’ he says. ‘If we weren’t getting close, someone wouldn’t have broken into your study. I don’t know how the fuck our information leaked, but I’ll find out. Something’s going to break soon, I can feel it.’
Me.
I’m suddenly swamped by a tidal wave of pain so intense, it takes my breath away. Time does not heal. Nor does it stop: life goes on, however much of an insult that seems. Grief simply comes along for the ride. The wound is as raw now as the day Lottie was taken, a constant throb of heartache and misery.
Lottie was – is – my greatest achievement. I’ve never done anything else that matters, nothing of real worth, not in comparison to being her mother. My tragedy is that I didn’t realise it until it was too late. I handed off my mothering to Luca, to her grandparents, to strangers at nursery, never knowing what I was giving up.
I’m so angry, so jealous of every mother who still has her child safely beside her. I’m sadall the time. People think I’m OK, that I’m getting better, moving forward, and sometimes there are moments when I almost believe it myself.
But these sobbing, agonised convulsions are not the lapses. They’re my new normal; this is me all the time now.
The Alexa who copes, who works and smiles and talks and eats, is the front. I remember what normal used to feel like,so I do an impression of that and people buy into it. But I’m not OK.
I’m never going to be OK.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Jack says, flinging down a sheaf of twenties.
Outside, he hails a black cab and gives the driver my address, climbing into the back seat after me. He says nothing as I howl like a child, snot-nosed and hiccoughing and ugly. He doesn’t try to soothe me or touch me. He simply sits vigil with me in my darkness.
Finally, I stop crying, as much from exhaustion as anything else. I close my eyes and rest the side of my head against the cool glass, my body aching all over, as if I’ve run a marathon.
‘I had a son,’ Jack says. ‘He died.’
I’m too drained to feel anything, even surprise. Instead, there’s simply a quiet sense of pieces slotting into place. Six words can tell the story of a man’s entire life.I had a son. He died.I don’t ask any questions because, in the end, what else do I need to know?
‘I’m not the person I was before Ramzi,’ Jack says. ‘I have to remind myself who I used to be, and act like that. And what I’ve learned, Alex?’ His voice is weary. ‘What I’ve learned is that it doesn’t matter. We’re all acting, all the time.’
We travel in silence as the cab negotiates the short journey to my house, jolting over speed bumps in darkened residential streets. The cabbie double-parks outside and Jack gets out, then extends a hand to help me out. For a moment, I wonder if he’s expecting me to invite him in, but then he climbs back into the cab.
‘You still have hope, Alex,’ he says, reaching for the door strap. ‘Hold onto it. Trust me, it isn’t always better to know.’
The cab idles in the road until I’ve safely reached my front door, its distinctive rumble echoing in the street. I watch Jack’stail-lights disappear and almost trip on an Amazon delivery box as I open my door.
I bend to pick it up. It’s the only reason I see the sudden movement from the shadows behind me.
I swing around, my arm raised in self-defence. My forearm makes contact with flesh and bone, and there’s a sickening crunch.
The motion sensor on the house next door suddenly trips, illuminating my scrubby patch of front garden.
‘Christ almighty,’ I say, as I see the face of my assailant for the first time.
