The Love of My Life(33)

‘So will the police still help? If they know she’s alive?’

Jeremy picks up his tea again. ‘Yes, but it’s scaled right back now. We’ve told them she’s vulnerable but they’re less interested. Which, I suppose, is understandable, but it’s very hard to take.’

I nod. What a desperate situation. If Leo just disappeared – no warning, no note, nothing – I don’t know what I’d do.

I search for something to say. ‘Ah . . . So – where was the letter posted?’

‘No idea,’ Jeremy says. He looks at a criminally awful watercolour on the wall, one of many the rental cottage owner has painted.

‘No postmark?’

Jeremy shakes his head. ‘Letters tend not to get postmarked anymore.’

‘Really? I didn’t know that.’

‘Well, you do now. But as I said, there was also a letter for you in the envelope.’

There’s a caution in his eyes. ‘I’ve read it, obviously. Just in case there was anything that might help us trace her. So I can tell you now that it’s not what you’re hoping for.’

He leans forward to retrieve the letter from his back pocket, which I take, wordlessly. It does not sit well with me to hear him talk about my hopes, when he’s spent years battering them.

‘I’ll leave you to read it,’ he says, getting up. ‘Get back to the cottage.’

‘Hang on.’ I put the letter on the coffee table. ‘Before you go, I’d really like you to explain why you complained about Leo to his boss.’

This surprises him: I think he’s actually embarrassed. For a few seconds the only sound in the room is the wind tracing in from the sea.

‘You’re right, I did complain,’ he admits. ‘And I hope it didn’t cause him too much trouble. But none of the other papers dug up the story about the postnatal psychosis. I panicked.’

‘Well, then the other newspapers’ journalists are crap. Why punish Leo for doing a thorough job?’

‘I’m sorry. It took me so completely by surprise that I thought you must have come clean with him. About our history. I thought he was trying to send me a message.’

‘I could never tell Leo,’ I remind him. ‘You know that better than anyone else.’ Besides, the idea of Leo sending a coded message to Jeremy via a newspaper article is ridiculous. I tell him that.

‘Well, my wife has gone missing,’ Jeremy says, flatly. ‘Forgive my inability to think cogently.’

I take a breath. ‘Let’s start again. I’d like to read this letter with you here. Will you stay a bit longer?’

He thinks for a moment, then sighs, ‘OK.’

‘Mummy?’

Ruby stands in the doorway. My warm girl; a little puff of blonde with eyes scrunched against the light.

I cross the room at the speed of sound. ‘Hello! Why are you up?’

‘I didn’t go to sleep,’ she says, rubbing the thick sleep out of her eyes. ‘Hello,’ she adds, looking at Jeremy. She sits on my hip and stares, with the unabashed curiosity of a child. She inserts one of Duck’s knotted corners into her mouth. I can’t think quickly enough.

Jeremy stares at Ruby, his body still. His face, which I once thought very handsome, is bloated and ugly in the aftermath of tears. ‘Hello,’ he says, quietly. Then he smiles. ‘You must be Ruby.’

‘What’s your name?’

He glances at me, I shake my head. ‘Paul,’ he tells her, extending a hand. ‘I work with your mummy. It’s very nice to meet you, Ruby.’

She looks at his hand but doesn’t shake it. ‘How do you know my name?’

‘I’ve heard all about you! Your mother’s very proud of you,’ he says.

I feel faint. Jeremy Rothschild is talking to my daughter. I have a letter from Janice on the coffee table.

Ruby squashes her lips together, considering this man, with his red face and surprising knowledge.

‘My big name is Ruby Cerys Bigelow Philber,’ she says. ‘Do you want to know what my short name is?’

‘I do.’

‘Ruby Booby!’ She falls about laughing, and Jeremy gamely joins in.

Then: ‘Who’s that?’ she asks, pointing at his phone. He’s just checked it again, for perhaps the tenth time since he’s arrived. It’s the same each time he touches it. A photo, the time, and a couple of bars of service.

Jeremy looks down. ‘My son,’ he says.

Ruby holds out her hand for the phone. ‘Please can I look at him?’

‘Ruby . . .’

‘Please?’ she adds. I tell her no, but Jeremy is already up. ‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘Here you go.’

I sit back down with Ruby. Together, we look at the man on the screen. He has one of those enormous foam fingers they wave around at American sporting events; a broad smile bursting out from under a cap. ‘What’s his name?’ she asks.

‘Charlie,’ Jeremy said, and I see the pride in his eyes. ‘His big name is Charlie Ellis Rothschild.’

‘Where is he?’ Ruby asks, looking at Charlie Ellis Rothschild.

My heart. My heart might never recover from the sight of my little Ruby, talking to Jeremy Rothschild.