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I take a wide swipe with my stick and take the feathery head off some Timothy grass. ‘I thought you had your one-to-ones.’
‘I’m just popping home for something.’
Just popping home, or looking for me?
‘Come on, ride with me.’
I drop the stick and turn to face her. There’s no judgement there, no hurt, just a wide smile, her eyes gently sparkling. Miss Smith. She’s just perfect, isn’t she?
34
NOW
I sit on Tristan’s bottom step, the cold of the stone seeping into me. I dial nine three times and hear myself asking for the police. I press the phone hard against my ear and breathe in and breathe out.
Deep breaths lower the heart rate, blood pressure and muscle tension; they increase oxygen in the brain, helping you think more clearly.
This is just a precaution. My baby probably went to make up with Rose and forgot to call.
Then I’m telling a woman the address.
Rose isn’t a bully, is she? I’ve felt lucky, despite my initial misgivings, for their friendship. Rose seems so genuine, outgoing, relaxed. But Ash thinks that’s a cover for adults.
I explain that Shorthorn Lodge is an old farm, technically in Port Emblyn. My mind whirrs. Jenna couldn’t possibly be at Glastonbury.
‘You’re too young for a festival like that,’ I’d said. It had been another argument and I hadn’t been able to say we just couldn’t afford it, even though she must’ve known. That’s why she hasn’t mentioned it again.
Then I hear the operator’s voice saying, ‘What is the nature of the emergency?’
And me saying, ‘My daughter is missing,’ and my voice breaks. I fold over and press my eyes against my knees. I’m about to say that they must find Georgia immediately when I feel my brother sit down and throw his arm around me.
I lean into him and try to take strength from his warmth and solidity.
Blood beats in my ears.
‘Take a breath,’ the woman says.
Tristan pulls me close, almost too tight, and I press my head against his shoulder.
‘What’s your daughter’s name?’
‘Jenna Beaufort-Bradley. She’s sixteen – a lower sixth-former at Port Emblyn School. Five-six, short dark brown hair – very dark, straight, almost black. Very pale skin. She’s wearing her uniform – black skirt and a white shirt and a purple blazer with a yellow lighthouse emblem on the breast. She’ll have her headphones – big black ones. She has a red backpack – an Eastpak, I think.’
I give them her mobile number and service provider. I explain where she was last seen and assure her I’ve tried to speak to everyone who might know and get tangled over Dan because he still isn’t picking up – but I tell her he’s in Exeter, that there’s no way she could be with him because he left before I took her to school and isn’t home yet.
I say that she might be depressed, which I realise is true, that she argued with her best friend, who might be bullying her, that she has with her the journal she writes in obsessively.
‘Tell them about Glastonbury,’ says Tristan.
I look at him and he nods.
‘I… My brother thinks she might just have gone to Glastonbury.’
The woman on the end of the line hesitates. ‘But you don’t?’
‘She did want to go, but she hasn’t mentioned it to me in months, and she isn’t the kind of child to do anything secretly. She’s never run off or gone behind my back before.’
And I know Tristan doesn’t want me to mention Georgia Smith. He doesn’t want to talk about her or risk any public examination of his far-off history – because Tristan Beaufort-Bradley refuses to be a victim; he was never a vulnerable schoolboy, but Georgia came back and now Jenna’s missing and I don’t believe in coincidences. She’s evil.
