“You wanted to see me?” Holly says. She strives to keep the impatience out of her voice.
“Such a strange day,” Jane says, gazing out the window. Her voice is low, as if she’s speaking to herself. “Sunny this morning and now such dark skies. And the paper said a flock of starlings flew through the city, so many that when they landed on the hour hand of Big Ben they stopped the clock. Stopped time, for a brief moment. A murmuration, they called it. Can you imagine that?”
This is unsettling. Jane isn’t given to flights of fancy except for Peter. “Mother. I’m sure you didn’t call me here to discuss birds with you.”
Jane doesn’t turn around, but she squares her shoulders. She meets Holly’s eyes in the mirror. “You do realize what an awkward position you’ve placed Nan in, having this boy over? The poor girl works for me.”
“You’re the one who said yes.”
“I refuse to play the role of bad policeman to my grandson,” Jane says. “That’s your job. And I have no problem with them socializing outside of the house. But I expect you not to make a habit of it here.”
“Right,” Holly says, biting back a smile at her mother’s botched American expression. “Got it.” She knows from past experience that agreeing is the fastest way out of the room.
“And don’t expect me to supervise. It would be too awkward. Besides, I have a tour and lunch at the Tate scheduled.”
“I need to run out for about an hour or so. Work,” Holly adds in answer to her mother’s raised eyebrows. She has no intention of telling Jane about the private detective until she’s sussed out the situation herself. She leans forward and pecks her mother on the cheek Jane proffers. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”
Downstairs, Ed has arrived and is sitting in the kitchen with Jack and Nan. He’s handsome, with dewy skin any of the Darling Skin Care models would die for, as if he has his own supply of Pixie Dust, and a wide build. He stands up when Holly enters the room, and it’s impossible to miss the pride in Nan’s face when she looks at him. A quick, sharp pang stabs Holly’s heart. Jack would have been like this with Eden. With Isaac. He’s been robbed twice over. Left with nothing but shadows of memories.
“Hey, Dr. Darling,” Ed says. “Thanks for having me over.”
“Our pleasure,” Holly says, pulling herself back to the present. She eyes Ed again. Someone has certainly taught him good manners. “It’s very kind of you to come.” She turns to Nan. “I need to run out for a bit. I know the boys will probably be fine, but would you please keep an eye on them, just in case?” She ignores Jack’s eye roll. “And here’s some money for lunch. They can order takeaway from wherever they want.”
She kisses Jack’s forehead. “I’ll be home as soon as I can,” she says. Despite the eye roll, he doesn’t duck away. She takes it as a good sign. With a little luck, this detective will be skilled enough to bring Eden home soon too. And maybe, just maybe, Jack will get a chance to be a brother—and Eden a sister—again after all.
Chapter Fourteen
Holly takes the Tube to her meeting. On the ride there, she checks her phone. Barry has texted the address, as promised, as well as another reminder to call him when she’s done. Maybe he’s forgiven her for her sins of omission after all. She hopes so. She can’t imagine life without Barry. It’s one of the reasons she’d slid them toward friendship after those few times together, away from the flaming disaster her love life inevitably becomes on the rare occasions she’s tried dating since Robert. As her friend, he’d stay.
At her stop, her map app shows the pub is only two blocks away. Luckily she’s brought her umbrella, as it’s pouring.
The pub isn’t the dark place she’d assumed a private detective would want to meet. Perhaps she’s watched too many American television shows. Even so, it takes her eyes a moment to adjust. The room is crowded, and as she glances around, she sees she’s easily the best dressed person in the room—in a sea of jeans and trainers, the black dress makes her stand out as she’d planned. Good. When you have to go begging, it’s never wise to appear as a beggar.
A man in the far corner of the room is looking at her, his gaze lingering. He’s the perfect image of an ex-military detective—close-cropped gray hair, white button-down, blue suit jacket—so she starts in his direction.
“Dr. Darling?” says a voice in her ear. She looks up, startled. There’s a man standing next to her, but even as she nods, he’s turning away.
“I’m over here,” he calls over his shoulder. It’s too fast for her to get a good look at his face. Without another word he walks to a booth in the back of the pub, leaving her no choice but to follow. He’s tall, but slender, with longish black hair. He’s wearing jeans and a thin black sweater with sleeves that fall past his wrists.
The man slides into the booth, leaving her to take the chair. She leans the umbrella on the wall beside him. He’s pale, with full lips and blue eyes so dark they’re almost black. A trace of stubble, not quite a beard, covers his jaw. His upper torso is heavily muscled, which surprises her because he moves as lithely as a dancer.
He tucks a stray lock of hair behind his right ear, and she sees that he wears a small silver hoop in it. She tries to guess his age. The way he’s dressed, his grooming, makes her think he’s a few years younger than she is, but there’s something about his eyes and face, a world-weariness, that belies his appearance.
Either way, he’s not at all what she was expecting.
She realizes she’s being rude, but he doesn’t seem uncomfortable with her scrutiny. He leans back in the booth and nods to her.
“I’m Christopher. Christopher Cooke.”
“Holly Darling.”
He doesn’t offer to shake hands. Fine. Tall, strong, and handsome is a type she’s encountered many times before, and she knows how to play this. She leans forward, aware that half the men in the room are gazing at her, and gives Mr. Christopher Cooke her best smile. But before she can utter a word, he speaks.
“Your lawyer friend said that you’re trying to find an ex-lover?”
The way he says it, eyebrows raised, is slightly insulting. It catches her off guard, makes her flush. He’s managed to somehow imply both that she’s had too many lovers, and at the same time, that she’s woefully naive, as if she has no idea how difficult finding even one such carelessly misplaced lover will be. She rocks back in her seat and loses the smile. This isn’t going the way she’d planned.
“That’s right,” she says coolly. “We share a daughter, and she’s disappeared.”
“Your lawyer didn’t mention a missing daughter in our telephone call. Does he know?”
She ignores this. “The person I’m trying to find—her father—I think he’s involved in her disappearance. I’m sure of it.”
He looks at her with considerably more interest.
“Your lawyer didn’t mention that, either.”
“It’s not his job to know everything,” she says, with a silent apology to Barry. “His job was to prescreen you. And frankly, based on the conversation so far, I’m not certain he was successful.”
He’s about to reply, but is interrupted by the appearance of the waitress, who smiles at him with a familiarity that implies he’s a regular.
“Drinks, love? Or just food?” she says.
“Both, please. The usual to start. And my guest will have . . .” He turns to Holly.
“Tea for me, please,” she says stiffly. The waitress’s smile fades and she leaves.
“Drinking on the job?” Now it’s Holly’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
“Ah, but I’m not working yet, now am I?” He grins at her.
“Excuse me?”
“Right now I’m not working. I’m deciding whether I want to.”
She bites back the words she wants to say, takes another deep breath. If Barry thinks this . . . this bounder . . . is the best, then he must be.
The waitress returns with their drinks—a pint for Christopher, and Holly’s tea.
“Sure you don’t want food? Shepherd’s pie here is quite good.”