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But I breathe. The first thing the police will do is ask the parents at the school anyway. So I nod slowly, seeing the back of Jenna’s newly exposed neck beneath the blunt curtain of her dark hair.
Did I even see her face today? Look her in the eye?
I try to conjure her but I see her as a sleeping, puffy-cheeked newborn, pink hat drawn over her bare head.
‘She was in this morning – all her teachers have confirmed. Let’s ask the children if they’ve seen her since lunch.’
I remember holding her on that first day home, tiny and warm, pressing my nose to her impossibly soft head and breathing in her intoxicating scent. A wave of emotion rolls over me, but instead of wobbling, my voice comes out sharp. ‘She’s been missing since lunch, and you didn’t know?’
He colours slightly. ‘Sixth-formers don’t need permission to leave school grounds. I think it was the same in your day?’
I make an effort not to cross my arms. I don’t need him to feel attacked. But that isn’t a clever rule, is it? We loved it when we were sixth-formers, but now I see it in a different light.
‘Mrs Beaufort-Bradley – Frances – I am sorry. I’m sure everything’s fine, but I understand your worry.’
I stiffen the corners of my mouth to stop them from turning all the way down. ‘I’ve been trying to call Rose Godfrey, but she’s not picking up. Can you try?’
‘I’ve tried already.’ He gives a regretful smile. ‘Let’s get this message out.’ He types away. I notice there are pastry flakes on the desk and I resist the urge to tell him to clean them up. This is one of the most expensive schools in England, not a run-of-the-mill comp.
I smooth my dress over my lap.
‘Okay. “EMERGENCY TREE ALERT: Jenna Beaufort-Bradley, sixth form C, has not come home from school today. Last confirmed leaving English (Mr Derby) before lunch. Please speak to your children and message back if they saw her after that.” How’s that?’
I nod. ‘Did Miss Smith say anything else?’ I ask, trying to keep my tone light, my brother’s words in my head.
He shakes his head. ‘Sorry. Nothing else.’
My phone buzzes with the alert and it sends a fresh bolt of fear through my heart. I can’t stop looking at it: Jenna Beaufort-Bradley, sixth form C, has not come home from school today.
Immediately, my phone starts pinging with messages from friends on the PTA, before Mr Whitlow even starts to get them. They each want to tell me how sorry they are, that they haven’t seen her, that they’ll ask their children, that they’re sure nothing’s wrong.
One mother says her son is having a party this afternoon and she’s just searched the house and she isn’t there. Another asks if she could have gone to Glastonbury for the music festival. It’s this weekend.
I stare at the messages piling up and want to scream at these kind people for clogging up my phone with useless sympathy.
‘Nothing else?’ I press.
Mr Whitlow clears his throat. ‘Miss Smith mentioned you and your brother might have some thoughts about her coming to teach here when I hired her, but you never raised it at the time.’
I feel suddenly desperate for water, desperate for air. I stand, take Mr Whitlow’s glass and drain it at the open window, looking down on the fountain.
How could I raise it if I didn’t know?
Georgia didn’t report Jenna missing.
I remember the last thing she ever said to me, years ago: ‘May you burn in hell, Frances.’
This is what that feels like.
But everything that happened – it was thirty years ago. And even Georgia couldn’t do something to a child.
I set the glass on the windowsill. A man on a sit-on lawnmower trundles up the driveway. ‘I didn’t raise it because I didn’t know,’ I say, just about keeping accusation out of my tone.
‘You didn’t know?’
I shake my head, forcing myself to sit back down.
He frowns. ‘We must have mentioned her at PTAs… I’ll admit it was rushed, with Ellen going off on mat leave early, but the announcement was in one of the round-ups.’
