Page 103

‘I feel for him,’ she said. ‘Living alone. You can see it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t think he’s taking care of himself.’

‘In what way?’

‘Did you see his hands?’

Martin shook his head. ‘What about them?’

‘They were filthy. Dirt under the fingernails. And his trousers looked like they needed washing. They had mud on the knees and the hems.’

Martin shrugged. ‘Maybe he’d been foraging in the forest. Looking for mushrooms, or digging up roots. That might be what he had in his bag.’

‘I don’t know,’ Sandra said. ‘But he’s getting older, and he needs someone to look out for him. And he was so good to me when I was ill. I’ll go round and see him. Take a look at his house. We need to take care of him.’

‘Sure,’ Martin said. ‘It’s very neighbourly of you.’ He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. ‘And don’t think I’ve forgotten what we were talking about.’

She returned the kiss, then put her hand on his lower back and pulled him against her.

‘I won’t forget,’ she said. ‘I’ll be looking forward to it.’

2

Sandra glanced at her watch. On the countertop the fish pie she’d made was cooling. It was James’s favourite – had been since he was young – so when she had texted to say We’re selling the business, come over to celebrate, she’d followed it up with I’ll make fish pie, C U at 6?

Yum, he replied. See you there.

Now, though, it was six thirty and he wasn’t here. She picked up her phone.

Are you coming?

She half expected a text saying Sorry, went to the pub and lost track of time. Maybe save me some pie for tomorrow, which would have been fine. She understood he didn’t want to waste his Saturday night with his parents. But he had said he was coming, and she had made a meal and it would have been nice for him to let her know if his plans had changed, and it—

She stopped herself. She could hear the hectoring tone in her thoughts. If he wasn’t coming, he wasn’t coming. It didn’t matter. Let him have fun. One thing she’d learned from Maggie’s disappearance was that life was too short to get upset about stuff like your twenty-two-year-old son not showing up for the dinner you made. What mattered was that he was happy.

Or as happy as he could be. When Maggie went, it wasn’t only her they lost. For a while, James had disappeared. He’d become someone different. Quieter, more thoughtful. Wounded. She wasn’t sure he’d ever fully recovered. She’d discussed it with her therapist, who had told her that he probably was changed forever, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Everything changed us, one way or another, everything left its mark. Everyone had to deal with grief and loss and pain. So, yes, maybe he wasn’t fully recovered, but that was who he was now, and the best he – and her and Martin – could do was to help him be the best version of that person he could be.

Which was probably right, in theory. In practice, though, not everyone did go through the same things. Not every teenage boy lost his sister in the way James had. Yes, we all had wounds, but his was deeper and more abiding.

And it was still there. So Sandra wasn’t going to waste time arguing with him about a missed dinner.

Hey. Guess you’re not coming? No problem. Maybe tomorrow, if you feel like it? xoxo, Mum.

She added the xoxo, Mum so that he would know she was not upset with him. She and Martin could eat together. She took out two plates, a bottle of white wine, and headed for the kitchen table.

‘No James?’ Martin asked, as he sat down.

‘He said he was coming. I texted him, but he didn’t reply.’

There was a long pause. Since Maggie, anytime James was unavailable or didn’t reply or was missing in any way, however innocent, there was a moment when the panic and terror of her disappearance was right in front of them again.

‘I’m sure he’s OK,’ Martin said.

‘Probably in the pub.’

Sandra spooned some of the fish pie on to Martin’s plate. He glanced at his phone. ‘What time was James supposed to be here?’