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‘The potatoes,’ he muttered. ‘Concentrate on the potatoes.’
‘There’s the mantra,’ Lisa said. ‘Find inner peace while getting the peeling done at the same time.’
A few minutes later, once the potatoes were safely peeled and bobbing in a saucepan of cold water, Lisa told Jacob to fetch a couple of the kids to set the table. He went down the corridor to the common room, worried about seeing Charlotte, wondering how much of their conversation she might have overheard. Would she hate him? Would she look at him with pity? He couldn’t imagine that he would see anything else in her eyes.
In the common room, however, she was nowhere to be seen. The chess sets had been packed away and the children were tidying up their toys and books. For the first time that Jacob could remember, the television was off.
No sign of Charlotte. He looked around in desperation. Eventually, he had to ask.
‘Michaella … uh … where did Char … Ms. Harding go?’
‘Oh, she had to go home. She said she could see you were busy so didn’t want to get in the way.’
‘Really?’ he croaked.
‘She said she’ll see you next time.’
‘Oh.’
‘See you again,’ a little boy said with an innocent smile. ‘Not “see you next time”, but “see you again.”’
Jacob stared at him a moment, then nodded. The subtle difference meant so much. The first meant she would be back; everything was fine; she hadn’t overheard anything, or even if she had, it hadn’t upset her or made her feel awkward.
The second, however, was a whole other game. It meant she would never, ever, ever see him again; she would never, ever, ever come back to the children’s home, or go within a hundred paces of anywhere she might have to see him, and if she happened to pass him on the street, she would cross to the other side. It meant she had overheard everything, didn’t like him, didn’t like that he liked her, and wanted to escape the situation as quickly as possible.
His life—at least the version of it that might have involved Charlotte, even to a minuscule degree—was over.
Had he not been leaning against a table when Lisa clapped him on the shoulder, he would have fallen to the ground.
‘She’ll be back,’ Lisa said. ‘Don’t worry.’
Jacob could only give a brief nod, his throat too dry to respond.
The briefly euphoric notion of sharing fish ’n’ chips with Charlotte left him so shattered that he couldn’t face going back to his flat and eating alone, so he stayed and ate dinner with the kids and Lisa. To his dismay, most of the table conversation centred around Charlotte, how nice she was, how kind, how they hoped she would come back. Luckily, none of the kids seemed to have picked up on his awkwardness around her, but by the time he headed for home, he felt more deflated than ever.
It had begun to snow again, and Brentwell, with its strings of Christmas lights around windows and in front gardens, looked magical. Jacob, struggling to get into the spirit of things, stared at each line of tracks in the fresh snow, wondering if one of them belonged to Charlotte.
She had to have overheard him, and it had ruined her night. She would most likely never talk to him again.
By the time he got back to his flat, it was nearly nine o’clock. Inside, it was freezing, so he stood around shivering while he waited for the heating to work its own form of magic. He sat down in an armchair and put on the television, but it was all wars and murders and disasters, golf, or comedy shows aimed at teenagers, so he switched it off and opted for a book instead.
About eleven o’clock he decided to head to bed. Glancing out through the curtains, he watched the snow steadily falling for a few minutes, its gentle calm relaxing him. Everything would be all right. Even if Charlotte never spoke to him again, everything would be—
His phone buzzed, startling him so much he headbutted the window glass. Rubbing his forehead, he retrieved his phone from the table, desperately hoping it was Charlotte, even though she didn’t have his number.
It wasn’t one he recognised. Perhaps some dodgy bot or junk mail, he was nevertheless intrigued when it didn’t ring off straight away.
‘Hello?’ he said.
‘I’m sorry to call so late,’ came a woman’s voice on the other end. Jacob was immediately crestfallen because it wasn’t Charlotte. The woman sounded older, and had an accent he didn’t at first recognise. ‘I’m afraid I’m not sure what time it is over there right now. Is that Jacob?’
‘Yes. Yes, it is.’
‘Oh, great. This is Rita Crennick. I’m Nora Shapton’s daughter.’
