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I nod to myself. He’s right. Of course he’s right. I am overreacting. I knew talking to my brother would help.
I try calling my father but he doesn’t pick up, which is normal. I leave a message. My mother doesn’t even have a phone. But they’re together – always – so it doesn’t matter. It’s not like Jenna would ever be with them in any case.
I call Ava.
‘Nope,’ she says. ‘We’ll call if she comes home.’
I push the smile back on, smooth my hair and swipe on more lipstick before striding towards the front doors.
Smile. Smile. Everything is fine. This is my school, my halls, my kingdom.
13
NOW
The head, Neil Whitlow, is on the phone. I stand outside his office, listening to his deep voice, muffled by the thick wooden door. He laughs, which is good, because Sarah said he was speaking to someone about my baby. Sarah types away, peering at her screen, pushing her glasses up her nose.
Nothing has changed: the cast-iron radiators are still painted white, the notice board is a cork sheet in a wooden frame, the brass bell sits by a potted plant on the reception desk. It smells of beeswax and paper.
Jenna hasn’t been found yet at school. Security has almost finished a sweep of the buildings and soon they’ll check the playing fields.
I reminded Sarah of where they back onto the woods and how the fence is easily climbed under cover of towering horse chestnut trees, and she nodded patiently.
Now, she gives me a smile from behind her desk, which is kind. I need to remember that, to Sarah, I’m not just a crazy mum overreacting and keeping her here late. I’m also the woman who ripped her head off for ordering the wrong colour balloons for the Valentine’s dance. I cringe at the memory. At the time I had been so irate, baffled that anyone could ever confuse fuchsia and burgundy.
But it’s all fine. She knows I’m nice really. She’s promised the truffles I bought her more than made up for it. I like her attitude: deal with it, move on, wipe the slate clean.
I sit on a plush tweed armchair and text Mina, who says she’s on her way back from St Ives and hasn’t heard anything from Jenna.
I’m about to message Dan again when the office door creaks open and Mr Whitlow ushers me in. ‘Mrs Beaufort-Bradley!’ he says with a warm smile.
I’d place Mr Whitlow at about fifty. His thick dark hair is peppered with grey and his moustache is a bit woodsmany, but I’d bet he rowed at uni. The mothers were very pleased when he took over.
I’ve always thought he seems a little immature for this role, but he’s careful to keep in my good books, which I appreciate.
‘She hasn’t turned up then?’ He looks at his watch and runs his hands through his hair, which makes my heart pound again.
He pulls out a chair for me. It has lion’s claw feet and a red leather seat and I’ve sat in it quite a few times since I was eleven.
‘That was Miss Smith.’ He gestures at the phone, then stares at it for a moment too long. ‘She said she saw Jenna come in this morning but that she wasn’t in class today. She said she asked Rose where Jenna was, and Rose said Jenna hadn’t been feeling well and went home at lunch. She thought nothing of it other than to hope Jenna felt better, and think it was a shame she would miss the rehearsal.’
Which means Jenna has been missing since lunch.
I feel like I’ve been plunged into a bucket of ice.
14
NOW
I stare at Mr Whitlow’s wide brown eyes, his rugged jaw, his loosened navy tie.
Five and a half hours missing. Not one and a half. Five and a half.
It’s a good job I’m sitting down because inside it feels as though something might snap. I don’t flinch. But I can’t say anything either. My mouth is wired shut.
Mr Whitlow takes a deep breath. ‘The first thing we need to do is activate the parent tree. We’ll message every single parent we have on file and ask them if their children have seen Jenna.’
The parent tree? How ridiculous. What about calling the police? What about raising the alarm all around the local area, across Cornwall and up and down the country?
