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MCTAVISH: Dinnae be daft. Lauren once had a secret baby that no’ even she knew aboot. That’s TV gold, right there.
I smile to myself. My future sister-in-law seems intent on monopolizing my wedding, and my fiancé might be lying to me about…something… but at least I can still rely on my friends to cheer me up. I take another sip of my drink, and when the phone goes off again, I pick it up, wondering what kind of sarcastic reply Frankie will have come up with on the topic of Lauren, whoever she is, and her secret baby.
I’m still smiling as I swipe up to open the message app, but the grin instantly fades as I scan the message in front of me.
Because this one isn’t from Frankie or McTavish.
No, it’s from the same unknown number that contacted me before, and it’s definitely not aboutNeighbours— or even mackerel.
Have you never wondered why you haven’t met any of his family? Just something to think about. x
P.S. Jack is lying to McTavish.
Chapter 4
“But what actually happened when you called the number?”
It’s the next morning, and I’ve called an emergency meeting with Frankie and McTavish at The Wildcat Cafe, which is a fish and chip restaurant-slash-takeaway in the center of town.
“Nothing. It just rang out. I must have tried at least a dozen times, but no one picked up, or replied to any of my messages.”
I answer Frankie’s question then go back to staring morosely into my coffee cup.
“And ye didnae hear a phone ringing anywhere inside the house?” asks McTavish, who’s tucking into a large plate of chips and cheese (“Definitely nae fish,” he said, looking slightly green…), despite the fact that it’s only 10 a.m. “Because that’s what would happen if this was a movie.”
“The call’s coming from inside the house,” says Frankie dramatically, and I resist the impulse to steal some of McTavish’s chips to throw at them both.
“Thisisn’ta movie, though,” I point out. “It’s my actual life, and I somehow doubt Jack would be messaging mehimselfto tell me he’s a liar.”
Ishe a liar, though? And what’s he lying about, if so?
“Well, not unless he wanted out of the engagement,” says Frankie, before catching the look on my face. “Sorry,” she says quickly. “Just joking. It’s obviously not that.”
“Oh, God, this is a nightmare,” I groan, putting my head in my hands. “It’s making me doubt everyone. Why do these things happen to me?”
“To be fair, you’ve never had anything quite likethishappen to you,” says Frankie reassuringly. “I mean, this is pretty wild, even for you, Emerald. What did Jack say?”
I stare at my coffee cup guiltily.
“Oh, Emerald,” groans Frankie, putting her head in hands dramatically. “Why wouldn’t you justtellhim? There must have beensomeopportunity to do it?”
“There wasn’t,” I insist. “He was… he was so excited about his sister being here, and, well, we ended up having quite a lot of champagne. Then this morning he was up and out of the house before I even woke up, like always.”
All of this is true. It’s not thewholetruth, though, which is why I can’t quite bring myself to look her in the eye as I say it. The fact is, I don’t really know why I didn’t immediately tell Jack about the second message. It’s not like me. (Well, other than during the whole “pretending to be someone else” fiasco, which, like I said, was anaccident.) I normally tell Jack everything; all the little random details about my day that no one else could possibly care about, but which Jack always listens to, as if they’re the most important stories in the world. From the moment we get up, we have this ongoing conversation — either in person or via WhatsApp — which serves as a kind of running commentary on our respective days. We genuinely tell each other everything. Or, at least, I thought we did.
But I haven’t told him about this; and I’m nottotallysure I was being honest when I told Frankie it was just because of Rose and her unexpected arrival.
I look at her now, chewing my lip thoughtfully.
“It’s just weird,” I say, stating the obvious. “I mean, I wasjustthinking how odd it was that none of Jack’s family had ever bothered to come and see the place they’re from — or meet me — and then I get a message sayingalmost exactly that. It was as if whoever it was read my mind.”
“Maybe it’s you, sending yourself messages subconsciously,” says Frankie, making me groan again. She and McTavish start arguing about how this could even be possible (“She pretended to be two different people, once,” points out Frankie. “So it wouldn’t bethatmuch of a stretch for her…”) and I sit between them, only half-listening.
What I haven’t told either of them is that the message I got last night has bothered me much more than I’m letting on. Because, the fact is, it wasright, wasn’t it? Until Rose arrived yesterday, none of Jack’s family had shown even the slightest interest in meeting me. Not even once. I’ve spoken to his mum on the phone a few times — polite, strained conversations in which it’s always obvious that both of us are desperate for me to hand the phone back to Jack — but they’ve never come to visit, or asked us to go and see them.
Why is that, I wonder?
They’re rich. They could easily afford the plane fare to Inverness; and even if they couldn’t, I’m sure Jack would pay it for them. But he’s never suggested it either; which makes me wonder if it’s his family who’ve been putting off our first meeting, or if it’shim.
