I watch them stop by Allan. I can’t hear the words, but Allan glances up at me and smiles. My stomach flutters. Maybe we can get through this, after all.

21

Lottie

3 August 2018, 11.35 p.m.

The house was in darkness as Lottie climbed the stairs to her room feeling a bit drunk. The brandy she’d thought would make her sleepy hadn’t done so. Her mind felt fuzzy, not tired. It had been a bad idea. But she was good at those. Spending any more time with Alex Hoskine would fall into that category. He’d lost none of his appeal. She shook her head and walked to the bathroom to fill her water glass. But she stopped before she reached it. Sitting cross legged on the hallway floor was her mother. The closet door beside her was open and she had an old shoebox on her lap. By the light of her phone torch she was going through photographs.

‘Mum?’ Lottie knelt down beside her.

‘I don’t remember any of this.’ She held up a picture of her in Red Square with a man Lottie guessed was her grandmother’s first husband. Her mother’s hand shook. ‘I only have the one picture of my father.’

‘The memory you told me about.’ Thinking of the diary, Lottie was grateful it seemed her mother didn’t recall everything.

She nodded, and Lottie took the photo from her. There was not enough light to see things in great detail, but her grandfather, Allan Trewin, was a handsome man. His charisma radiated from the faded snapshot. ‘You never showed me that picture.’

‘No point. But now I’m faced with all these new photos.’ She dug into the box and pulled out another one with her father sharing a camel with her.

‘How did you find these?’ Lottie peered into the darkness of the closet.

‘I went to go to bed and found I had no sheets or pillowcases.’

Lottie frowned. ‘They aren’t kept here.’

‘I didn’t know.’

Of course she didn’t. She hadn’t even stayed overnight that terrible evening ten years ago. She had stood by the bedroom door while Lottie packed her things. Once they were in the car the silence had been the worst. If she had shouted it would have been better. That silence was so damning. Here was a woman who made her living with words and yet she had had none for Lottie.

Taking her phone out of her pocket now, Lottie pointed its torch into the darkness. The closet was filled with garment bags and boxes. She’d never known this closet to be unlocked. She unzipped one of the bags and glimpsed the shimmer of green silk.

‘Looks like it’s all Gran’s old clothes.’ She ran her fingers over the fabric.

‘She’s hidden all this from me . . .’ Her mother’s voice faded.

‘I wouldn’t say “hidden”.’ Lottie opened a box to find a pair of black pumps with a grosgrain ribbon bow. They were in beautiful condition.