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I get out and walk towards Lydia and Rose’s house. Behind the closed curtains, the rooms are dark.
Years ago, when Jenna first asked if Rose could come over, I made excuses. Of all of the people to make friends with, why Lydia’s daughter? We hadn’t spoken since school.
But I had to give in. Since their first day at PES, they’ve been best friends.
I’ve dropped off Jenna here hundreds of times but I’ve never been past that door.
Which is why our encounter at Morrisons yesterday was so mortifying.
God – there was a time when I knew Lydia’s number off by heart. Georgia, Mina, Lydia and me, we’d discuss what we were going to wear before we ever met up. Once, Lydia decided that she had full ownership of the colour purple. Which was fine, because the rest of us decided purple was a bit lame anyway.
I guess Lydia was slightly less firm in the group. Which, as top dog, was perhaps my fault. I was never mean. A bit closed-off, maybe.
I realise now I was plain jealous. She was just so beautiful.
I remember a sleepover, we must’ve been barely teens, lying on damp grass and watching a meteor shower, us all holding hands.
It’s such a shame we fell apart. It’s such a shame I let Georgia in and my parents ever met hers.
I knock and knock but no one answers. I go round to the side gate, but it’s locked. I call over the fence then try hoisting myself up so I can see into the garden. There’s a concrete bird bath and some stubby bushes. I go back to the front and call through the letterbox, cool air rushing out.
No answer.
A wood pigeon coos in a fir tree. From far off comes the tinkling of an ice-cream van.
Suddenly it hits me, right in the stomach, and I double over, winded. I try and try to draw in a breath but I can’t and my nose stings and I let out a whine.
Where is my daughter? Where is my baby?
I stagger to the short wall and sit down, my insides disintegrating. I look up at the house. I had really thought she would be here. I curl down towards my knees and sob.
Georgia has her. I have to tell the police. There will be records of what happened. Some of the parents at school will remember – I won’t seem crazy.
I still haven’t spoken to Rose, to my parents, to Lydia. But how long do I have to keep trying to get hold of them all?
It’s almost six thirty. My parents will be home soon. I’ll speak to them, then I’ll make the call. I sit up and rub my eyes with the heels of my palms but the tears don’t stop.
A mad impulse makes me want to drive to Trevethan House, where Georgia used to live, but it was sold thirty years ago. Who knows how many people have lived there since?
And then, I’m sure, the living room curtain twitches.
17
NOW
I rush over, cup my hands round my eyes and peer through a slit in the curtains. Beige carpet, yellow sofa, mid-century coffee table, an archway through to a small dining room, a rubber plant in a big white pot.
No one.
Is this really how Lydia lives? Her parents have a solarium with a sea view. But it looks nice actually. Calm and cosy. No squirrel excrement in sight.
More liveable, in a way, than our extension, with its bodged cupboards and gappy floorboards and hand-me-down furniture.
I peer in for a whole minute. Behind me a car slows as it goes past. I look like a burglar. I straighten, still watching the curtain, then call through the letterbox again. The house smells of wood polish.
Maybe I imagined it.
I retreat to my car, but I can’t drive away.
