The Child (Kate Waters #2)(65)

? ? ?

I get off the tube and walk to the little café Harry likes in Hyde Park, near the lake. She can walk there from home and it’s a treat for me to sit outside and feel the sun on my face.

Paul thinks I am at the doctor’s. He’s going to ring my mobile in about thirty minutes and I’ll have to lie about what Dr. Gorgeous thinks. It’s okay. I know what I’m going to say. I’ve practiced on the tube.

I’m early so I read Kate Waters’s story in the paper again. The story is long now; it’s growing details and there are more people involved, talking and guessing about what happened. But at the center is little Alice Irving. There’s only one picture ever used of her, and it is so blurry and old it is hard to make out. But there is a photo of Angela Irving, the mother, standing in our garden in Howard Street.

I feel the truth fluttering so close. They must see it. Surely.

I’m about to ring Kate Waters again to see what she suspects, but I see Harry coming through the park. I’ll do it later.

She hugs me tightly, then pushes me back so she can have a good look at me.

“God, Harry,” I say. “I’m fine.”

But we both know she knows I’m not. Harry crashes down into a seat, swinging a vast handbag onto the chair next to her. “Yeah, yeah,” she says. “You look lovely, by the way.”

“I look like hell. I’m supposed to be at the doctor’s,” I say, and she raises her eyebrows.

“Why aren’t you?” she says.

“Don’t feel like it,” I say and pick up the laminated menu. “Anyway, if Paul rings, I’ll have to lie. Okay? Oh, don’t look like that. You’ve done worse.”

She laughs and pulls the menu out of my hand. “Actually, I was supposed to go last week and ducked out, so I won’t grass you up.”

“What was yours for?” I ask.

Harry pulls a face. “Lump in my breast. Well, not even a lump really.”

“You idiot,” I say. “Go. Make another appointment.”

“Yes, yes. Okay. I’ll do it tomorrow. What do you want to drink?”

I watch her disappear into the café and thank God for her.

? ? ?

It was Harry who finally made me take stock of my shambles of a life. It was the summer of 1994 and she breezed into the pub where I was working. Pulling pints, defrosting shepherd’s pies, and treading water.

“Emma!” she called when she spotted me bringing a tray of food to the next table. It was so weird seeing her again. It had been years and all the context had gone so she was familiar but a stranger—like someone famous you spot in the street and can’t quite place for a moment.

And Harry didn’t look like the best friend I’d last seen.

This Harry was glamorous in her tailored trousers and jacket, manicured nails, straightened hair, and eyes hidden by outsize sunglasses.

And I suppose I didn’t look like her best friend anymore. I’d grown taller, my hair was bleached blond and cropped short, and I was stick thin. In photographs of myself from that period, I looked like a heroin addict.

“Hello, Emma,” she said.

I had sort of expected her to turn up one day. Secretly hoped, I suppose. I missed her when I let myself think about my previous life. Little things would set me off: a song on the radio we used to sing together, a phrase she used to use, and I’d be stopped in my tracks. I’d be a teenager again. Just for a moment. Then I’d get back on with scraping greasy plates or pulling pints.

It was hard seeing her and remembering how close we’d been once. I held myself back from her, as if she was some sort of threat.

“Hello, Harry,” I said. “Can’t stop, sorry. Got a kitchen full of orders.”

She pushed her sunglasses onto her head and looked at me hard.

“No problem. I’ll wait,” she said.

Later, when I sat with her in the park, in this park, cans of cider and bags of chips in our hands, like the old days, I started thinking she was my wake-up call.

She knew I’d gone to live with my grandparents, but I’d left without saying good-bye to her and she was still furious about being deserted when we finally met again. It was only when I told her I’d been thrown out by Will and Jude that she calmed down. That day in the park, I told her I’d left school as soon as I could because I didn’t want to be tied down.

“I chose freedom instead of a degree and a mortgage,” I boasted. “I wanted to do what I liked and go where I wanted.”

Harry had given me another one of her looks and said: “Then why aren’t you out there, conquering the world, Emma?”

The cider and nostalgia had lowered my defenses and I started to cry. Fat tears splashed on my chips.

In that moment, I longed, physically longed, to be me again. The girl I used to be.

Harry put her arms round me and held me without speaking.

“Because I am nothing,” I managed to say.

“Not to me,” she said. And waited.

And I started to tell her how I really felt.

“Jude used to tell me I could be anyone,” I said. “When I was little. But the reality is, I’m no one.”

The years of pub work and waitressing in the winter, changing beds and cleaning loos in the summer, dirty sheets, dirty strangers, drifting from job to job, had worn me down.