My eyes darted back and forth, examining every red brick and lick of mortar of Fabien’s shopfront.
Even when Margaret and I signed the contracts, it still took a while to sink in that the boutique now belonged to me. Somewhere along the line, I’d become the owner of a shop I was once too frightened to step inside.
‘Well done, girl,’ came Margaret’s voice from behind me. ‘You have no idea how proud I am of you.’
I did, actually, because I was so chuffed with myself that I couldn’t stop grinning. But I wasn’t daft. It was all very well taking over a business with a proven track record, but it was going to take gumption and elbow grease to keep it a success.
I continued making a range of my own clothes, either at home or in the back room of the shop while my old supermarket co-worker Selena worked front of house, dealing with the day-to-day running and charming the clientele.
Emily started showing an interest in my work like I’d done with my mum’s. But even when she got under my feet or slowed me down, I refused to follow the example I’d been set. She wasn’t even eight, but I was already teaching her to sew on buttons and chalk up hemlines. And I’d encourage her to help me pore through fashion magazines looking for inspiration and to keep up with current trends.
While Robbie found a new interest in computer games and Tom taught James new songs on his guitar, I cherished the time Emily and I spent together. But at the same time, I pitied Simon for what he’d lost.
1 August
Silence didn’t come to the cottage very often, but when it did, I welcomed it like an old friend.
Tom enjoyed taking the kids out on his own every now and again, and it gave me a few rare hours without the TV blaring or the sound of a football banging against the garage door. So while the rabble was at the park, I fulfilled a long-delayed promise to myself to clear Simon’s clothes from our wardrobe.
I’d thought about it several times over the past few months with Tom now in our lives. But it always seemed such a daunting prospect, like throwing another part of him away. And even if he were to miraculously reappear on our doorstep, I didn’t think it would be for a change of shirt.
So I closed my eyes and opened the wardrobe door. Then, one by one, I carefully removed Simon’s things from the wooden hangers, folded them up neatly and placed them into plastic bags I’d earmarked for the charity shop.
Each item brought with it a forgotten memory, like watching him unwrap a new jumper I’d bought for his birthday, or a shirt he’d worn to a party. I lifted the lapels of his brown corduroy jacket to my nose and found a vague trace of his Blue Stratos aftershave. Around my hand I wound the blue-striped tie he’d had on for his first appointment with the bank manager to ask for a business loan. I’d tied him a Windsor knot because his hands were shaking too much to do it himself.
I’d expected to break down in tears, but I felt warmth, not sadness. I was giving his clothes away, not him. The bags were spreading across the floor when the telephone rang.
‘Could I speak to Mr Simon Nicholson, please?’ a gruff male voice asked.
‘I’m afraid my husband has passed away,’ I said. ‘Who’s calling, please?’
‘My name is Jeff Yaxley. I’m a warden at Wormwood Scrubs prison in London.’ That piqued my curiosity.
‘Mr Nicholson’s father died a few months back and I have one of his possessions he asked us to send his son,’ he continued.
‘Arthur’s dead?’ I asked, shocked. ‘Sorry, did you say you were calling from a prison?’
‘Arthur? No, Kenneth Jagger. When Mr Nicholson visited him, he put down your address.’
‘I think you’ve got the wrong Simon Nicholson,’ I replied. ‘His dad is called Arthur and lives in the next village. And as far as I’m aware, Arthur’s never been to prison.’ A mental picture of the old coot behind bars made me smile.
‘Oh, there must have been a mix-up,’ he replied. ‘Sorry to have troubled you.’
‘Wait,’ I said quickly before he hung up. ‘So someone using my husband’s name and address visited this man in prison? When was this?’
‘Bear with me a minute,’ he said, and I heard the rustling of papers. ‘According to the visitor’s book, it was June eighth, four years ago.’
‘Well, that definitely couldn’t be Simon, because he went missing on June fourth.’
‘Missing?’
‘Yes, my husband disappeared that day and hasn’t been seen since. The case is still open but he’s presumed dead.’
I mulled it over but I couldn’t work out who might’ve pretended to be him.
‘What did this man Kenneth leave for him?’ I asked.
‘A watch.’
Suddenly the dim glow of a lightbulb emerged in my brain. I swallowed hard.
‘It’s a gold Rolex,’ he continued. ‘It feels quite heavy. Nice-looking piece . . .’ But by then I’d stopped listening. I felt a stabbing pain in my chest as his words bloomed like a drop of blood in a glass of water, staining everything.
I hung up, then raced up the stairs and back into the bedroom to face a square green box lying on a shelf at the back of the wardrobe. Inside should have been the watch from Simon’s mother: the only thing she’d ever given him, yet I’d never once seen him wear it.
I held the box in the palm of my hand and then stopped myself from opening it. If his watch was inside, someone had used his identity. If it was empty, it could only mean one thing: that Simon had taken it with him and that he’d left me on purpose.
‘Please, please, please,’ I whispered as the gold hinges creaked open. There was nothing inside.
No, you must have put it somewhere else, I thought. So I rooted around the rest of the wardrobe, but it was almost bare. I yanked all the folded clothes from inside the bin bags and rifled through each pocket. Nothing. I felt inside each pair of shoes to see if he’d put it there, then rummaged through the drawers of his bedside table. Every time I drew a blank I thought of somewhere else to look. I searched each nook and cranny of the house, even places I’d already hunted through when he first disappeared. Then I threw my trainers on and ran to see the one person who could put my mind at ease – Arthur.
Fifteen minutes later, I was at his front door, almost breathless from running.
‘Who is Kenneth Jagger?’ I gasped.
I prayed for him to plead ignorance. Instead, Arthur’s face immediately drained of all colour. Two things I was now sure of – that a man called Kenneth Jagger was Simon’s real father, and that my husband had planned to leave me.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he replied nervously and tried to close his front door. I stuck my foot out to block it.
‘Who is Kenneth Jagger?’ I repeated.
‘I don’t know who you’re talking about. Now, please leave.’
‘You’re lying, Arthur, and I’m staying here until you tell me the truth. Or would you like me to involve Shirley in this?’
He soon surrendered when he saw my threat wasn’t an empty one.
‘I’ll meet you behind the garage in five minutes,’ he replied. He was there in two.