Justin, my alter ego, had informed her that she would be picked up by a taxi; and my car could pass for one if no one looked too closely. And what twelve-year-old did look closely? The idiot hadn’t even asked for Justin’s address, so had no clue where I was taking her.
Now, there she was, the aptly named Tiffany. Mummy’s little jewel, stolen away. She sat in the back of my car, staring out of the window or thumbing through her notebook as I drove. No idea what lay ahead of her. Didn’t appear worried until I pulled over in a lay-by near a wood, driving through a pothole full of water and smashing the reflection of the moon.
Ninety
Parking was a bit of a nightmare on Glenn’s old street in Nottingham, as it was bumper-to-bumper. I had decided to visit his ex, Marcie. Glenn would never find out because they didn’t have anything to do with each other. That would allow me to find out a bit more about his background, put my overactive imagination at rest once and for all. I had to park round the corner from his house, but walking to it gave me a chance to get a feel for the area.
The narrow road had been built for Victorian foot traffic, with no room to be widened. It was easy to imagine it cobbled, as it must have originally been. This was no tree-lined avenue. The terraced cottages faced each other, almost looking into one another. They didn’t have gardens, the front door opening straight on to a narrow pavement.
Some of the streets seemed quite affluent, but not this one. It had been missed for some reason by the changes that had swept through much of the area. The cars were rust buckets, the newest fifteen years old. Wooden window frames sported peeling paint. On the sill of one house, someone had left a used nappy. Open, so the contents could be fully appreciated.
Luckily Marcie did not live at that house, but a few doors down, at the opposite end to the one I had entered at. It was one of the better kept properties, the yellow paint on the door so new that it still smelled slightly.
I gave a timid knock at the door, cursing myself for this stupid idea. What the hell was I going to say? I hadn’t even rehearsed it first.
I’d just have to wing it.
After a minute I knocked again, harder. I started to have second thoughts. But what was the alternative? Let a murderer go free? Drive home and cry over the gaping hole in my life?
I’d knock once more. If no one answered, then I’d give it up as a bad job. Then I realised: of course, it was a Monday. Marcie was probably at work. Like normal people were on normal days. It was hard to get my head around the fact that the world was still functioning as usual, despite your death, Beth.
‘Just a minute,’ called a voice from inside. Thin and reedy, I recognised it from the phone. The door opened, revealing Glenn’s ex. She hung onto the door, a hint of wariness in her deep-set, ice-blue eyes.
‘Hi, umm, hello. We spoke the other day?’ My voice rose, as if I’d asked her a question. ‘I’m Melanie Oak.’
She looked blank. Then her mouth formed an ‘oh’ as realisation hit. ‘The lady whose daughter is in hospital?’
Don’t cry. Do not cry. I nodded furiously to try to disguise the rapid blinking of my eyelids.
‘How’s she doing?’
‘She’s fine.’ My voice sounded high-pitched and alien even to my own ears. Clearly Marcie had missed the tiny paragraph the national newspapers had written about your death. And I hadn’t said the words aloud yet, Beth; I’d never had to tell anyone that my beautiful daughter was dead. To say it for the first time would be a massive step, and one I wasn’t willing to take at that moment.
‘Come in,’ Marcie gestured.
Her thin face and sharp chin were transformed when she smiled. Everything about her was thin, in fact – her lips, the slightly beaky nose, the wispy blonde hair, feather-cut down to her shoulders. She had a startlingly high forehead, the pale skin covered in faint freckles. But that smile brought a lightness to her, making her eyes sparkle from beneath the heavy black kohl lining them top and bottom.
I found myself smiling back in spite of myself, warming to her as my nerves dissipated.
*
I stepped inside, straight into the lounge, as there was no hall, and sat on the squishy pink floral sofa, sinking lower than expected. I pulled myself forward a bit more, in danger of drowning in cushions.
‘Sorry to disturb you. Thought you might be at work, so it was a bit of a gamble.’
‘Ooh, I don’t work. Not with my back. Spondylitis. Would you like a drink? Kettle’s just boiled, so you’ve perfect timing.’
Was it awkwardness making me feel hot and cold all at once? Or was it because the electric heater was on full but the windows let in a nasty draught around my neck and ankles?
‘Ah, er, a coffee would be lovely, thanks.’
She bustled into the kitchen. I took the opportunity to have a nose round from my seat. The place was tiny, the furniture tired, but it was clean, tidy and clearly well looked after. The ancient brown carpet had threadbare whorls here and there, which Marcie had tried to hide beneath a large purple rug. A huge television took up most of the space on the wall opposite the window I sat beneath. Marcie’s lounge was too small for any other seats apart from the sofa.
A photo in a silver frame on the mantelpiece caught my eye. It was of Marcie and Glenn, laughing at the camera. Her angular face looked tiny beside his round one.
Marcie reappeared and handed me a mug.
‘Right, what can I do for you? Is it something to do with Glenn?’ As she asked, she perched on the edge of the sofa, her body turned towards me, our knees almost touching.
I took her in, trying to get a sense of her, trying to figure out how best to broach the subject of Glenn and the notebook. She wore a pale denim shirt, untucked, over black leggings, and on her feet were fluffy slippers with cat faces on. It was the slippers that did it, along with the photo of her and Glenn; this was a nice woman, I decided. There was an air of desperation about her, too; she wanted to be liked. She was so utterly different from the hard-faced bitch Glenn had painted. Well, he might not have any feelings for her any more, but judging from the photo on display, Marcie was still in love with him.
Going on my gut, I suddenly decided how I’d tackle this problem. I’d try to charm the information from her. I smiled my best ‘I’m a journalist and want to win you over’ smile, and popped the mug down.
‘Well, Glenn’s done so much for us, and we want to do something nice for him, you know? He talks about you, a lot.’ I almost winced at that blatant lie. Marcie tilted her head to one side, curious as a cat. Pink splotches of colour bloomed up her pale neck and cheeks as she blushed in surprise and pleasure. ‘So I wondered if there was anything I could do, to help smooth things between the two of you…’
Marcie bit her lip then looked at me, shaking her head.
‘Is that what he wants? Really?’
Her voice was a whisper, but the hope in it shouted. I felt dreadful, but told myself this was to help another mother, desperate for answers. A mother like me, who had lost her child. Eventually I’d just have to find a way of letting Marcie down gently after needlessly building her hopes up.