Chapters (65)
‘I must have the wrong road,’ she said. ‘These little houses all look the same, don’t they?’ Realising that pointing this out might cause offence, the woman’s hand shot up to her mouth and she blushed furiously. ‘God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean . . .’ Then she bit her lip as a tiny but unmistakable giggle escaped. ‘I’m making a proper mess of this, aren’t I? Listen. Ignore me. I’ll try the next road along. Sorry again.’
By rights I should have been insulted. I mean, she’d already dissed my house and my street and I didn’t even know her name. But actually, I thought it was quite funny. Or I would have done if we hadn’t been in such a rush. Then the woman was backing down the path with her palms up, apologising to me as if her life depended on it.
‘No worries,’ I called after her. Then I added, ‘I hope you find it.’
And I really did, because she seemed a bit lost and it was obviously important to her, even though it was nothing to do with me.
Noah appeared at my side, his swimming goggles firmly back on his head.
‘Who was that, Mummy?’ he asked as the woman meandered down the road and towards the sea.
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ I said, closing the front door.
‘She was nice,’ said Noah, seeing straight to the heart of the matter with the intuition that only a four-year-old possesses.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She was.’
2
2
CLIO – NOW
Clio sat in the café overlooking the sea, her cup of tea now cold on the Formica table in front of her. Outside the window the water lay like a sage-green bedspread, flat all the way to the point where it touched the mottled sky. A single boat bobbed for a moment and then set off towards the lighthouse, a flurry of seagulls in its wake.
The morning had not gone quite as planned. The woman who lived in the house had been friendly enough, despite Clio’s terrible timing, but she’d clearly had no idea what Clio had been talking about. She had probably moved in relatively recently and couldn’t be expected to know anything about the house’s history. And she hadn’t fallen for the ‘holiday home’ line which Clio had hoped might give her access to the inside.
Clio had the right place, though, of that she was certain. The address had been written in her father’s lavish script in the little notebook that the nurse had handed to her with all his belongings after he passed away.