My phone rang at 4 pm. Jack!

‘Just checking on you.’ His voice was warm and deep. He’d been the most enthusiastic audience member at last night’s performance. I was proud of the songs I wrote, but people clapped louder when Jack initiated the applause. He was respected. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Well, I’ve had to cancel my hairdressing appointment. I was planning to make myself beautiful.’ I avoided mentioning the Beckwiths. He’d be furious. It was a day for sticking to plans.

‘Really? A hot date tonight?’

Just last weekend we’d rambled together around local vineyards wine-tasting and eating too much cheese, and had more visits planned. ‘If we survive.’

Jack laughed without sincerity, then got down to the terrible business of his call. ‘Caleb isn’t with us. Is he home?’

I hosed down the day’s first emotional blaze of panic and clutched my phone as I walked through the house. ‘I dropped him off ages ago.’

Was Caleb in his room?

He was not. He wasn’t in his bedroom, drawing, or in the bathroom showering, or in the kitchen grilling a cheese sandwich.

‘Jack!’

‘Don’t panic, Phoebe. It isn’t time to worry…’

Jack had no children.

‘When would that be?’

‘Phoebe. Think, for a moment. Could he be with his father?’

I didn’t think so. I shook my head.

Of course, Jack couldn’t see over the phone. ‘Phoebe?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said slowly. ‘Jack? He trusts you. You’ll find him, won’t you?’

‘Likely he’ll find us. Don’t worry, Phoebe. Concentrate on keeping safe. Knowing Caleb, he’s popped out for food.’

Jack disconnected. I tried Caleb’s number. It rang out. He could have the volume turned down. Could have it in his locker. I checked again the places where Caleb and I sometimes left messages but there was no note in the entry way, no note on the fridge.

Could he be with Penelope? I returned to his room. Heat intensified the lingering odour of unwashed body. In Rome, I’d reconstructed ancient mosaics, jigsaw puzzles of stone, glass, ceramic tesserae. From apparent detritus, I’d reconstructed the faces of individual Romans, people who’d lived. My creations once featured in an art history magazine. Who knew what I might discover in the messy collage of Caleb’s life? Penelope watched suspiciously from his walls. If I had her phone number, I could ask if she knew where he was. (Which was probably why Caleb hadn’t given me that number.) Where was he?

I tried to remain logical. Caleb was a young adult, capable of making his own choices. I didn’t need to panic every time I didn’t know where he was. So, I wouldn’t panic.

Crossing to his window, I kicked aside a pair of discarded jeans. The window was closed. He kept it open only during winter, when I asked him not to. And although I’d banned smoking inside, one of my best crystal wine glasses was an ashtray beside his bed. He didn’t care what I saw anymore than he cared what I said.