The Love of My Life(34)

‘He’s in London at the moment . . . But generally he lives in Boston, which is a big city across the sea.’

‘Why does he live across the sea?’

‘He’s studying there. At university.’

‘Uvines . . .’ Ruby says, trailing off. She purses her lips again, considering Jeremy. Then: ‘Does he miss you?’

‘I hope so!’

‘I don’t want to live across the sea,’ she tells us, after a pause. Then: ‘Does he like you?’

At this, Jeremy laughs out loud. ‘I think he does, yes. He’s a bit angry at the moment, but he still likes me.’

‘Why?’

I want nothing more than to remove Ruby from this room, and then Jeremy from my house, but I want to hear his answer. I want to know every ridge and furrow of the Rothschilds’ family life. I always have.

‘Why is he angwy?’ Ruby asks, in her wheedling baby voice. She wraps her hands around the arm scroll of the sofa, swinging back and forth.

‘His mother has done something he didn’t like,’ Jeremy’s voice is soft.

Ruby nods sympathetically. ‘Sometimes I get angry with my mummy,’ she says.

‘That’s the problem with parents.’ Jeremy smiles, and I see how hard he’s trying.

I can’t take my eyes off him. The deep creases of exhaustion and sadness under his eyes. The creped skin under his chin. I wonder if his radio guests would be quite so afraid of him if they could see that skin up close; its vulnerable softness, its humanity.

‘Right, I’m taking you back up to bed,’ I say. Ruby nods, and says to Jeremy, ‘Are you having a sleepover with us?’

He shakes his head. ‘Definitely not.’

‘OK. Bye bye,’ says my daughter, after another long, hard stare.

‘Bye bye,’ he replies.

I mouth, please don’t go, but he isn’t looking at me.

*

When I get back downstairs he’s gone, the letter left on my armchair. I run out into the lane, but it’s empty. The sea, below me, is miles out; a band of darkening mercury. The remaining light silhouettes two people and a dog on the beach. A ball being thrown, clouds racing north to Scotland. No sign of Jeremy.

Sorry, he texts, as I stand there. I couldn’t do it with Ruby there.

Another text: I’ve told you all you need to know, now. Please contact me immediately if you think there are any clues in Janice’s letter we might have missed.

Then, in a final text: Ruby’s perfect. I’m sure you’re a great mother.

I go back inside and tear open Janice’s letter. I feel unhinged.

Dear Emma,

I know this letter will come as a shock. But I had to write to you. You crop up in my thoughts often.

It’s about that crab we spotted all those years ago. On Alnmouth beach remember. Of course you remember. I have watched your television series and know you’ve never stopped looking for it. Anyway, I think you should look on Coquet Island.

In Shakespeare, islands are like magic, and he knew what he was talking about.

Coquet Island is the only place on that coast that’s completely out of bounds to human beings

& I paid a fisherman to take me out there once to look at the birds and although you’re not allowed to land there I saw many things including, I’m sure of it, one of your crabs . . . I guess you only really get bird lovers going out there so nobody’d notice an unusual crab, they’re all there for the puffins and roseate terns

I’m sorry I’ve kept this information from you for so long. I should have told you years ago. I mean it I am so sorry.

sorry again Emma

Janice



I take the letter to the kitchen, where I sit and read it again. Then again.

I haven’t spoken to Janice in nearly two decades, but Jeremy’s right – nothing about her sounds right here. The lack of punctuation, the repeated apology – the very existence of this letter, this friendly communication with a woman she hates, feels wrong.

But it’s her. Jeremy’s right about that, too. It’s definitely her, I know her handwriting. And, unless she’s broken her silence about how intimately we’re connected, nobody other than the three of us know she was with me the day I found the crab.

This letter is off, I message Jeremy. I agree.

He replies immediately.

You can understand my concern about her mental state. Is there anything I’ve missed? Anything that might tell us where she is?

Despite my complicated feelings about Janice, I can’t help feeling guilty as I scan through the letter again. There are few things she’d be more horrified by than the idea of Jeremy and me discussing her mental health.

Nothing obvious, I write. Apart from the fact that she’s talking about Northumberland, but I’m guessing that’s why you’re up here – to look for her?

Jeremy replies: Yes. But I don’t think she’s here. We get a message if anyone deactivates the alarm at the cottage, but there’s been nothing. Besides, if Janice had been up here, somebody would have spotted her. I’ve asked practically everyone in Alnmouth, nobody’s seen her. And I’ve checked, just to be certain, but there’s no possibility she could be hiding on Coquet Island. It’s still off limits to everyone other than RSPB wardens. I’m not giving up, because I can’t, but I really don’t think she’s here.