Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan(37)

“Doesn’t sound familiar. Do you think he’s a fame stalker?”

She still runs into these types, people obsessed with her family and story, who can quote entire chapters from the book and have scrapbooks and websites devoted to Wendy and John and poor little Michael. They’re usually as odd as one would expect.

“I didn’t get that impression. But something definitely piqued his interest. He’s willing to meet you today at noon. There’s a pub near Hyde Park. That’s where he’ll be.”

“That’s only an hour from now,” Holly says, glancing at her watch.

“I got the distinct impression that he didn’t care whether the timing was convenient for you. If you want this, you need to be there. I’ll text you the address if that’s what you decide.”

“How will I recognize him?”

“I asked him that. He said he’d find you.”

It’s a public place, and likely to be crowded at lunchtime. And if Barry’s contacts say he’s good, there’s a solid chance he can help her. She makes up her mind. “He sounds odd. But if he’s as good as you say, I’ll have to risk it. Text me the address. If I’m going to make it by noon, I need to run. And Barry? Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do—”

“Let me know how it goes,” he cuts in, preventing her from embarrassing them both. “And Holly?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful.”



* * *





As soon as she disconnects the call, Holly dashes upstairs for a quick shower. She chooses a well-cut black dress that shows precisely the right amount of cleavage. She uses a light hand with her makeup, sticking with a spare palette of pale browns and pinks.

When she’s finished, she double-checks her work in the mirror. Good, but . . . she hesitates, then reaches into her bag and pulls out a tiny sample of Pixie Dust. It’s her own personal concoction, adapted from the recipe the company is using for the launch, and it has a single drop of plasma from Eden in it. She blows a minuscule amount into the air, closes her eyes, and holds her face up.

For these few seconds she lets herself think of her daughter, the way it felt to hold her in her arms, the warm squirmy weight of her as a child, the way she was never still. When the dust lands on her skin, it feels like a thousand tiny bubbles popping.

When she opens her eyes and looks at herself again, her face is glowing. Beauty can be wielded as a weapon, she’s learned, and she’s happy to add it to her arsenal if it will captivate Mr. Cooke and help her find Peter and her daughter.

She goes downstairs. Jack is still eating, a sandwich of some sort, and playing on his phone. He stands when he sees her and gives her a quick, casual hug, so fast she isn’t sure it happened.

“What was that for?” she says. He’s already eating again.

“Nothing. Grandma Jane said yes. But she wants to see you,” he says between mouthfuls. “She’s upstairs in her room.”

“Ahhh,” Holly says. Still, she’d brave the lion’s den a hundred times if it meant getting that reaction from Jack. She steals a glance at her watch. It needs to be quick.

“Okay,” she says. “And then I have to head out for work. Behave. Especially if you have this Ed kid over. Hang in the library and watch a movie or something.”

“Of course,” Jack says, giving her his best wide-eyed and innocent look.

“I mean it,” she says. “And so will your grandmother.”

Upstairs, Jane is sitting at her dressing table, brushing her hair. Long, slow strokes, as if she has all the time in the world.

“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.”