I tried to keep calm. Becky, it transpired, did not only not know where Joe was, but she didn’t have a number for Michael’s parents or know what their surname was.
‘I think she said her name was Julie. Or something like that.’
‘But you know her, don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘But you said Joe went there all the time.’
‘No, I didn’t – I said he goes to play with people all the time. And Mum never minds.’
‘But Charlotte does know this Julie?’
‘I don’t know.’
Alarm was radiating through my chest. I tried to stay rational.
‘But Michael’s a friend of Joe’s?’ I persisted.
‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘And so he’s been there before?’
‘I don’t know – I can’t remember.’
My voice rose in exasperation. ‘Try to think!’
Christ, supposing it was Hannah – suppose she really was a lunatic and had taken Joe as a way of getting to Roger. But surely Joe wouldn’t just go with a stranger? Then again, she was a woman and looked normal enough and she’d probably have told him she was a friend of mine or Charlotte’s. She’d be able to talk about how his mum had gone to Paris. The bitch …
Becky was still gazing at me vacantly.
‘What did this woman say exactly?’ I asked sharply.
‘She just said was it OK if Joe came home with them for lunch and I said OK.’
‘Without even asking where they lived? For Christ’s sake, Becky. Didn’t you think at all?’
Becky put both hands to her head and tugged at her hair. ‘Stop going on at me,’ she suddenly shrieked. ‘It’s not my fault!’ She burst into tears.
‘Oh Becky, I’m sorry,’ I said, stricken, putting out my arms to her. She backed away from me.
‘Why are you being like this?’ she wailed. ‘Mum said you’d gone all funny.’
I stared at her, feeling terrible. ‘Oh darling, I’m sorry – I haven’t gone all funny. I’m just worrying because I’m supposed to be looking after you both. Come on, Bex, you know I love you – I’ve known you all your life – you’re like my family. Please don’t cry.’ She let me hug her this time and I felt close to tears myself as I stroked her hair.
Stanley came into the kitchen in his socks, took one look at Becky sobbing and hastily backed out again.
‘Look,’ I said, trying to sound brighter than I felt. ‘Let’s give your mum a quick ring. She’ll know where Michael lives.’
And if she doesn’t, and she’s never heard of Michael or Julie then I’ll really start to panic.
‘You give her a ring, Becky, and I’ll make us some tea.’
As I put the kettle on the Aga hotplate, Becky fetched her mobile phone. After a few moments she held it away from her ear. ‘She’s switched off.’
‘Try your Dad.’
He was switched off too. It was 4.55 p.m. I felt sick. ‘Oh well,’ I said with forced cheer, ‘when nobody comes to get Joe, Michael’s mum will phone again. Then I’ll ask where they live and go and get him.’
Becky took her mug of tea and nodded. ‘I’m going to wash my hair,’ she said. ‘Before X Factor .’
‘OK!’ I beamed at her. ‘You do that and I’ll get us all some dinner once Joe’s home.’
As soon as she’d gone upstairs, I stared anxiously at the clock. Then at the phone. What the hell was I going to do if nobody called?
Nobody had by 5.15 p.m. But Julie – if she existed – was probably still waiting for someone to arrive. She might not think to phone for another half an hour yet. At what point did I give in to hysteria and call the police? By 5.30 p.m. I was pacing the kitchen.
What would I say to the police if I did call? Yes, that’s right. I’m in charge of this seven-year-old boy who has gone off to the house of someone whose name and address I don’t know but who may in fact be a mad woman called Hannah whose surname also eludes me and I have no idea where she lives either.
I’d have to do something if I hadn’t heard by six. I had the handset on the table right in front of me next to my third cup of tea and was glaring at it, willing it to ring.
At 5.50 p.m. my mobile burst into life instead. I snatched it up from the work surface. It wasn’t a number I knew.
‘Yes?’ I squawked.
‘Laura? Is that you?’ The voice at the other end sounded uncertain. ‘Thought I’d got the wrong number for a minute.’
It was Andrew, trying to organise a training session with Clara and Alfie for the next morning. ‘Nine a.m.?’ he was saying. ‘Or is that too early for a Sunday? We need to start getting our act together if we’re going to be the dream team in this challenge.’ He gave a groan. ‘Not that I quite see myself in that role …’
Eventually, I stuttered something incoherent back.
‘Laura,’ he said, ‘are you all right there?’
I’d had no idea he lived in Kingsgate too. Within ten minutes of me weeping down the phone, he was in Charlotte’s kitchen, patting me on my heaving shoulder.
‘I don’t generally burst into tears every five minutes,’ I assured him shakily, before sitting down at the kitchen table and doing just that.
When we’d put the kettle back on and I’d mopped at my face with some kitchen roll, Andrew assessed the situation. ‘They’ll phone eventually,’ he surmised. ‘They won’t keep someone else’s child all night.’
‘But suppose it wasn’t really Michael’s mother who phoned?’ I wailed. ‘Suppose it’s a set-up and someone’s taken him?’
Andrew spoke calmly. ‘In my experience, people do not go pinching small boys in Broadstairs and if they did, they wouldn’t phone up to warn you first.’
I told him about Hannah. He listened carefully.
‘Even so,’ he said, when I’d finished, ‘it’s one thing to get hung up over a bloke, it’s quite another to kidnap his child.’ He gave my arm a small squeeze. ‘I’m quite sure it’s all OK.’ He cupped his chin in one hand, thoughtfully. ‘Who organises the football club? They’ll have a list of all the kids involved.’
‘I don’t know. I did ask Becky but …’ I shrugged, glancing anxiously at the clock. It was 6.30.
He looked round the room. ‘Have you got a computer here?’ I fetched my lap top from the chair in the corner.
‘Let’s see if we can find out,’ he said, opening it up. ‘What school was it at?’
I put my head in hands. ‘What will Charlotte say? The last thing she said was that I had to look after her children. Now I’ve lost one, traumatised the other, and I haven’t even fed them yet.’
As if on cue, Stanley appeared in the doorway, looking suitably famished. His eyes widened with horror at the sight of his form tutor sitting at the table while I sniffed.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he muttered, leaving again.
I watched Andrew tapping away at the keyboard.
‘I was supposed to collect Joe at five – it’s now an hour and a half later,’ I said. ‘Do you think I should call the police?’
He stopped and looked at me. ‘Well, if you’re really worried …’
And then the doorbell rang. I flew out into the hall. Joe was on the doorstep wearing an unfamiliar tracksuit, with another boy of about the same age and a large, smiling woman of about 35 with a mop of dark curls. She stuck out her hand.
‘Hi, I’m Judy – sorry if we’re late. I didn’t realise the time and then when I did, I wasn’t sure if you thought I was bringing him home or you were just running late yourself.’ She laughed. ‘I know what it’s like. I did try phoning but your line’s engaged. Kept going straight to answerphone. Lucky old Charlotte, eh? Being whisked off to Paris. When’s she back? Do you need any help with the school run?’
I leant on the doorpost, weak with relief as she rattled on. ‘Do you want to come in?’ I asked eventually
‘No, must go – I’ve left the dinner on.’ She handed me a carrier bag. ‘Joe’s kit. He was covered in mud so I popped him into something of Mikey’s. Tell Charlotte no rush to get it back.’
‘Thank you. Thank you so much for bringing him home.’
I shut the door and hugged Joe hard. ‘Stanley’s upstairs somewhere, sweetheart,’ I told him as he squirmed. ‘Shall I come and run you a bath?’
Joe screwed up his nose and shook his head.
Becky appeared in her dressing gown. She smiled at me. ‘Back then!’
‘She was called Judy,’ I said.
‘Oh, was she?’ said Becky vaguely, adding, ‘Oh, yeah, I think I’ve heard Mum mention her.’
Andrew was on his feet when I went back into the kitchen, teeth firmly clamped to my tongue.
‘All’s well that ends well, eh?’
‘She’d been phoning,’ I said, pulling a face. ‘Becky must have been on the line upstairs …’
‘Oh well,’ Andrew shrugged. ‘No harm done.’
We looked at each other for a moment. ‘It was so kind of you to come,’ I said awkwardly.
‘No problem.’
‘Would you like a glass of wine?’
He hesitated. ‘Um. Yes, why not.’
‘Oh – unless – will your wife mind? Do you need to get back?’
‘She’s not there. Taken the boys to visit her sister.’
‘Oh.’
I handed him a drink and dug about in the freezer for something to feed the children. When I’d filled a baking tray with sausages and put it dubiously in the Aga – with little idea how long it would take to cook – I sat down opposite him with my own glass.
‘How old are your kids?’
They were his stepsons, he reminded me, and they were 13 and 15. He’d married Elaine eight years ago, so they’d been through a lot together. ‘They’re great lads,’ he said. ‘How’s Stanley now?’
As usual, he was easy to talk to. We had a second glass of wine and before I knew it, I’d given him the full low down on Daniel and The Twig and how upset Stanley had been the day Daniel had finally packed his bags.
‘I felt such a failure,’ I said, the words surprising myself because I’d not analysed it before. ‘It’s not that I want him back – especially now he’s got really boring about everything. But it felt as if I wasn’t good enough to be able to keep my husband. Though how could I compete? Emily is 20-something, naturally blonde – well unnaturally, probably,’ I added bitchily, ‘and her whole body is about the size of one of my thighs.’
Andrew grinned.
‘And there was a time,’ I went on, ‘when Daniel used to talk about women being too thin and how he liked nothing better than a steak and kidney pudding.’
‘Certainly nothing to feel a failure about then,’ said Andrew. ‘If Daniel hadn’t left you, and gone off with this young, skinny, blonde girl, you’d be feeling fine about yourself, wouldn’t you?’
I looked at him quizzically. ‘Well, maybe, but the point is, he did.’
‘And the point is – it’s him who’s changed, not you. Mad fool, I say. You’re lovely.’
I looked at him, startled, suddenly acutely aware he was not only Stanley’s teacher but married to boot. Should he be paying me compliments like that? ‘Will you tell your wife what you’ve been doing?’ I blurted out, unable to stop myself.
Andrew looked surprised. ‘Probably’ he said. ‘If she’s interested. The thing is ’ he began, stopping as Becky came into the room.
‘Is it food soon, Laura?’ she asked beseechingly. ‘We’re starving.’
I jumped up. ‘Yep, sorry – just coming.’
Andrew got up too. ‘I’ll leave you to it. I’ll call you tomorrow about the gym.’
I felt exhausted by the time the kids had eaten a mountain of sausage, chips, and beans (I’d fill them up with vegetables tomorrow) and were collapsed in front of the TV. I had a last mouthful of wine, ate a stray sausage myself, and went upstairs for a long shower, thinking that then I’d attempt to shepherd everyone into bed and have an early night.
As the hot water drummed down on my back I thought about the days ahead. This time next week I’d be doing the final filming with Cal – we’d be in the hotel now. Before that I had Stanley’s birthday to think about – the new iPhone had already arrived and was safely hidden away, but I hadn’t organised anything else – and in the meantime I had heaps of work to get through for Mike. What with the Joe fiasco I hadn’t looked at any of that today. I should be thinking of ad ideas for water coolers …
But I was really tired now and my mind slipped away from all these issues (except for a delicious vision of Cal’s lips touching mine, possibly while he had no shirt on) and refused to concentrate. I turned off the water and gave up trying. I’d be better after a good night’s sleep.
I came downstairs in my dressing gown, rubbing my hair with a towel. The boys had gone back to the PlayStation, but Becky was still curled up on the sofa, a bowl of crisps beside her. ‘Mum called,’ she said.
‘Oh good. How did she sound?’
Becky shrugged. ‘Fine. Like Mum.’
I nodded. However many domestics Charlotte was having in Paris, she’d sound fine to the kids – it didn’t mean a thing.
‘Are they having a nice time?’
‘Suppose so – she didn’t really say. Just wanted to know if we were all OK.’ She gave me sudden smile. ‘I didn’t tell her about Joe. Though she’d only have laughed if I had.’
I tried to smile back. I wouldn’t bet on it, I thought.
‘Did you speak to your dad?’ I asked casually.
‘No, he was in the shower too.’
‘Oh, OK. So no message?’
‘No,’ said Becky, turning back to The X Factor . ‘Mum just asked what you were doing and I told her you were upstairs.’ She settled herself down among the cushions. ‘Then she wanted to speak to Joe.’
But she didn’t want to speak to me …
Despite my unease about Charlotte, I slept better than I had done the night before. We spent the morning drifting about in our pyjamas and then I insisted on a mass exodus into the outside world to walk the dog which, with the exception of Joe getting a Wellington boot full of sea water and Benson losing two more rubber balls, passed without incident.
Late afternoon, I made a heroic effort to do what Charlotte would have done and cooked them all a roast dinner, under the questionable supervision of Becky, who provided tuition on how to use the Aga.
The chicken seemed to cook in a flash but by the time I came to do the potatoes the oven didn’t seem hot enough and they took forever to brown. Meanwhile the chipolatas (Joe had begged for more sausages) were wizened. It was all two hours later than planned but it tasted all right and the kids shoved it down happily enough.
By the time I’d got Joe into bed, prised Becky away from Facebook, surgically removed the PlayStation from Stanley’s sweaty grasp and sent Benson to his basket for the night, I had the sense of having almost completed a survival course.
Once all the kids had been safely despatched or delivered to school the next morning, I heaved a sigh of relief that echoed round Charlotte’s eerily quiet kitchen.
Benson and I walked to the corner shop and bought some fresh milk to leave in the fridge and I did the last bit of washing-up. Roger and Charlotte would be back in time to pick Joe up and be home for when Becky got in.
I picked up a piece of paper to write a note. What should I say?
Hope all OK?
Hope the Bunny Boiler didn’t phone?
Trust Roger has explained all, and the divorce has been shelved?
In the end I decided it was a matter of least said, and simply wrote Welcome Home.
Then I called Benson in from the garden, checked his water was topped up, gave him a biscuit, and patted him on the head.
‘Thank you for being a good dog and not chewing anything this time,’ I said, carefully shutting the kitchen door so he couldn’t have a relapse the moment I left. He jumped up at me eagerly – clearly thinking we were going for another walk.
I pushed him down. ‘Not now. One of them will take you out when they get back.’
I put on my coat and gathered up my overnight bag and Stanley’s, suddenly feeling that strange blend of homesickness and nostalgia and regret you can feel when you are leaving a place where you’ve been happy and now realise you will never go back to.
‘I’ll see you soon,’ I said firmly to Benson, to dispel this depressing thought. ‘Oh, and Benson,’ I added, catching sight of the huge pot Charlotte used when she was making curry for the masses. ‘Watch your back.’