What together?
And Matthew refuses to even look at me as he revs the car and pulls out and heads down the hill, his tyres squealing on the tarmac. He hits the wing mirror of an old Jeep further down the road, taking it clean off – but he doesn’t stop.
Another squeal of tyres round the corner and he’s gone. The only sign of him is the metal mirror rattling in the middle of the tarmac.
And it’s only when I turn to go back inside that I see the note, pinned to the door by an old tack.
This is not right is it, baby Jean? it says. This wasn’t how it was meant to go.
* * *
Frantic, I try to reach Frankie in France, but his phone doesn’t even ring. Perhaps his pay-as-you-go isn’t working any more.
Where is the email with the details of where he’s living? I rifle through things, hands shaking, folders of bills and letters I’d brought with me, but I am so panicked I am just making a mess of everything and not finding anything I need.
Breathe, Jeanie. I sit down. What can I do that would be helpful?
I debate ringing Scarlett – but it might just make things worse. I don’t dare make anything worse.
So I ring Kaye. She doesn’t answer.
I ring Marlena. She doesn’t answer either – but I leave her a message, half sobbing into the phone, begging her to call me back.
Then I go to work. I have no choice.
* * *
I limp through the hot, sticky day, thoroughly distracted, constantly wanting to check my phone.
By two o’clock the kids have sensed my lack of concentration and are really playing up. I set a composition on the topic of ‘Suspicion’ for the last half hour and warn them that if isn’t done, there’ll be consequences next week.
I don’t go to the staff meeting after class. I plead a migraine and cycle home. The weather has broken, and it is drizzling a fine misty rain now.
But I haven’t heard back from anyone, and Matthew isn’t answering my calls either. I keep ringing until he messages me:
Stop calling – it’s harassment.
I eat half a sandwich alone at the old wooden table. It is humid and sticky and horrible despite the open windows. I feel horrible. I chuck the second half of the sandwich away.
How different this is to last night – last night when there had been some kind of hope again. God – what an idiot. What a terrible stupid fool I’ve been.
I opened myself up to him – and just look what had happened. I hate myself.
Tears threaten – but I think, vehemently, I will not cry about this. Action not tears.
I try Frankie again; still not even a voicemail to leave a message on. But I have at least found the web address of the vineyard. There doesn’t seem to be a phone number, so I write an email in my poor French, asking them to please pass a message on to my son Frank Randall to call me ‘immédiatement’.
Marlena had sent a text as I’d pedalled home; I’d read it as I trudged in the front door.
Keep calm and carry on. I’m in Turkey, back tomorrow night – will call then x
She’d put a rare kiss at the end of the message.
Was it pity perhaps?
I go to bed early, wanting this day to be over. Before I do so, I check every door and window.
In the early hours, a noise wakes me from a broken sleep.
I sit up, listening intently.
Nothing – I’ve imagined it…
Haven’t I?
The owl is flying, calling his mournful warning as he makes his regular sweep above the fields behind the cottage.
I lie back down.
The noise again – a kind of scrabbling on wood. A rat maybe? I hope it is a rat.
I get out of bed very quietly and stand at the top of the stairs, listening again. It’s not a rat— There is definitely someone down there.
I have no weapon – I have nothing. I am wearing only a T-shirt and pants; my phone’s downstairs; there’s no landline to call from up here.
So I have no choice. I pull my jeans on quickly and creep down a stair or two.
‘Who’s there?’ I call bravely, trying not to let the tremor creep into my voice. Nothing – but still the scrabbling. Perhaps it is an animal after all.
I edge down a few more stairs. ‘Is someone there?’
I can just make out the room, veiled in darkness, and suddenly a hand comes through the window and I scream – and then a voice is saying, ‘It’s me! Don’t scream, Jeanie, it’s only me.’
I turn the light on.
It is Scarlett.
* * *
When I’ve calmed down enough to let Scarlett in the front door – ‘The sensible and normal way to come in,’ I point out – I ask her what on earth she’s doing here.
I don’t mention the bank account or her father; I don’t know if it is linked to this sudden appearance, but it all seems very odd.
‘I’m assuming your parents don’t know you’re here?’
‘I’m meant to be on a geography field trip,’ she says. ‘Part of my coursework. I’m starving, Jeanie. I ran out of money at Leicester. Can I have something to eat?’
‘How did you get here?’