‘So you have no idea where she is now?’
‘No.’
‘Where were you at school?’
‘Down near Croydon. John Hardy School.’
‘Is Croydon where you both grew up?’
‘Do you know the area?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘It’s near Croydon. Next to it.’
‘Do you remember her address?’
‘It’s funny. I can’t remember what happened last week, but I can remember everything about when I was young. Ledbury Close. Number eight. Are you going to try and find her?’
‘I think so.’
Agnes nodded slowly. ‘I should have tried myself,’ she said. ‘I often wonder about her – if she’s OK.’
‘You think she might not be?’
‘She was in a bad way when I last saw her.’ Frieda waited for Agnes to continue. ‘She’d left home and she had a habit.’ She gave a shiver. ‘She looked pretty bad, thin, with spots on her forehead. I don’t know how she was getting the money to pay for it. She didn’t have a real job. I should have done more, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘She was in trouble, I could see that, and I just wanted to run a mile, as if it was contagious. I tried to put her out of my mind. Every so often I think of her and then I push her down again. Some friend.’
‘Except you remembered that story, and passed it on.’
‘Yeah. I can see her now, telling me. Grinning.’
‘What did she look like when you knew her?’
‘Little and thin, with long, dark hair that was always falling over her eyes, and a huge smile. It used to take over her whole face. Gorgeous, in an odd kind of way. Like a monkey. Like a waif. She wore eccentric clothes she picked up from vintage shops. Boys loved her.’
‘Does she have family?’
‘Her mum died when she was little. Maybe things would have turned out differently if she’d had a mother. Her dad, Lawrence, was lovely – he doted on her but he couldn’t keep her in order, not even when she was small. And she has two brothers, Ricky and Steve, who are several years older than her.’
‘Thank you, Agnes. I’ll tell you if I find her.’
‘I wonder what she’s like now. Maybe she’s settled down, become respectable. Kids, a husband, a job. It’s hard to imagine. What would I say to her?’
‘Say what’s in your heart.’
‘That I let her down. So odd, though, how it’s all come back like this – just because of a silly story I told to poor Rajit.’
Frieda – you haven’t answered my last phone calls or my emails. Please let me know that everything’s all right. Sandy xxxxx
THIRTY-THREE
Frieda walked home slowly. She could feel the warmth seeping into her body, hear her feet softly tapping on the pavement. People moved towards her and then flowed past, their faces blurred and indistinct. She saw herself from the outside; the thoughts that streamed through her brain seemed to belong to someone else. She knew that she was tired after all the nights of wakefulness and disordered dreams.
She did not go straight to her house but turned aside to sit awhile in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. It was a small, green square, bright with blossom and new tulips. In the middle of the day it was often full of lawyers in their smart suits eating their lunch, but now it was quiet, except for a pair of young women playing tennis on the court at the far side. Frieda sat down with her back against one of the great old plane trees. Its girth was tremendous and its bark dappled. She closed her eyes and tipped her face to the sun that fell through its leaves. Perhaps she should do as Sandy said and go to New York, where she would be safe and with the man she loved, who loved her and who knew her in a way that no one else in the world ever had. But then she would no longer be able to sit in the shade of this beautiful old tree and let the day settle around her.
When she got up again, the sun was sinking lower and the air was beginning to feel cool. She thought wistfully of her bath. And she thought of Chloë, took out her mobile and made the call.
Olivia’s voice was ragged. Frieda wondered if she’d been drinking. ‘I suppose Chloë’s been telling you all sorts of horrible lies about me.’
‘No.’
‘It’s no good pretending. It’s no good anyone pretending. I know what you all think.’
‘I don’t –’
‘Bad mother. Fucked-up. Wash our hands of her.’
‘Listen, Olivia, stop!’ Frieda heard her own voice, harsh and stern. ‘You need to talk about this, it’s clear, but I’m not washing my hands of you. I’m ringing up to talk about Chloë.’
‘She hates me.’
‘She doesn’t hate you. But it’s probably a good thing if she stays with me for a few days while you sort things out.’
‘You make me sound like a sock drawer.’
‘Say, one week,’ said Frieda. She thought of her tidy, secure house invaded by Chloë’s mess and drama and experienced a feeling of near-panic. ‘I’ll come over tomorrow evening and we can talk about what you’re going through and try to make some kind of plan to deal with it. Half past six.’
She turned off her phone and put it into her pocket. Her own plan was that she was going to go home, have a very long, very hot bath in her new and beautiful bathroom and climb into bed, pulling the duvet over her head, shutting out her thoughts. And hope that she wouldn’t dream, or at least that she wouldn’t remember her dreams.
She opened her front door. Several pairs of muddy shoes lay on the mat. A leather satchel. A jacket she didn’t recognise. There was a nasty smell coming from the kitchen. Something was burning and an alarm was making a piercing sound that felt to Frieda as though it was coming from inside her head. For a moment she considered leaving her own house and simply walking away from everything that was going on in there. Instead, she went up to the alarm in the hall ceiling and pressed the button to turn it off, then called out for Chloë. There was no reply but the cat dashed past her and up the stairs
The kitchen was full of fumes. Frieda saw that the handle of her frying pan was blistered and twisted. That must be the nasty smell. There were beer bottles, empty glasses, a lovely bowl had been used as an ashtray and two dirty plates lay on the table, which was sticky and stained. She cursed under her breath and threw open the back door. Chloë was in the middle of the yard, and she saw that Ted was there as well, sitting with his back against the far wall and his knees drawn up to his chin. There were several cigarette butts scattered round him, and a beer bottle at his feet.
‘Chloë.’
‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘There’s quite a mess in there.’
‘We were going to clear it up.’
‘I’ve been speaking to Olivia. You can stay here for one week.’
‘Great.’
‘But there are rules. This is my house and you have to respect it and me. You clear things up, for a start. Properly. You don’t smoke inside. Hello, Ted.’
He raised his face and stared at her. His eyes were red-rimmed and his lips were bloodless. ‘Hi,’ he managed.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘I was just going.’
‘Have you both been at school today?’
Chloë shrugged and gave her a defiant look. ‘Some things are more important than school, you know. In case you forgot, Ted’s mother was killed.’
‘I know.’
‘If you had to choose between double biology and helping your friend, which would you choose?’
‘Helping friends is something you do after double biology.’ She looked at Ted. ‘When did you last eat?’