Oh God.
Oh God.
OH GOD.
I’m officially freaking out.
No.
NO.
I do not have time for this. I need to stop panicking and make a plan but my brain and body are refusing to cooperate. I know I have to get it together, though. I’m absolutely no good to Jojo flapping about like this. I need to focus. Unfortunately, focusing has never been one of my strengths.
I force myself to sit back down on the kerb and with trembling fingers type ‘Olivia Sinclair’ into Google.
And there it is. The same cherubic picture I saw on the news earlier.
I scan the article:
No confirmed sightings … police following several leads … public urged to come forward, etc. etc. 48
No mention of Swindon, but surely it’s only a matter of time. Jojo looks young for her age, certainly too young to be a mother. People would notice her. She’ll be on CCTV. She may have escaped it at the petrol station but there’s no way she could have avoided it on the trip to Swindon – it’s bloody miles away. And what is the statistic? That there’s one camera for every ten people? Or is the other way round? Either way, it’s a lot of cameras and Jojo and Olivia can’t possibly have escaped them all.
I wonder what the punishment is for kidnapping a baby.
I Google it.
Up to fourteen years in prison.
How old will Jojo be in fourteen years? Thirty.
Ancient.
I think of all the things she’ll miss. All the birthdays and milestones and rites of passage.
My eyes sting with panicky tears.
I have to get to her before the police do.
I look up train times to Swindon. The next train is at 20:22, changing in London.
I take a look at the prices. ‘How much?’ I gasp out loud. I don’t need to check my bank balance to know I have nowhere near that amount at my disposal.
Maybe I can get a coach. I look up timetables but there’s nothing until tomorrow morning and it calls at so many places in-between I wouldn’t arrive in Swindon until mid-afternoon, by which time Jojo might have left the hotel and gone God knows where. I can’t possibly leave it until then. I need to get there tonight, no matter what.
I need someone with a car.49
Someone discreet I can trust.
Someone who won’t insist we go to the police or get adults involved.
But who?
None of my mates are old enough to drive.
Then a photo pops into my head.
I saw it on Instagram just after Easter. I remember feeling a bit miffed by the caption – ‘meet the new love of my life’ – so much so I took a screenshot and sent it to Jojo, asking her if I had a right to be kind of gutted that I’d been so easily replaced by a heap of metal.
The photo was of my ex-boyfriend, Ram, a proud smile on his face, standing in front of a shiny black car.
I grab my bag and break into a run.
I’m nervous walking up Ram’s front path. I don’t know why. It’s not like I haven’t seen him since we broke up. Newfield isn’t massive and we’ve crossed paths a couple of times and it’s always been fine – a little awkward perhaps, but basically fine. This is different, though. This is his territory. And even though it was always a running joke that I got on better with Ram’s mum and sisters than I did with him half the time, I’m still uneasy about knocking on their door unannounced. Unlike Ram, I haven’t seen any of them since before we broke up and I have no idea how they feel about me all these months later. Certainly, I’m now regretting my decision to ceremoniously delete his number earlier this year. Calling him would have been so much simpler (not to mention quicker).
All the windows are open so there’s definitely someone in.
I take a deep breath and ring the bell.50
Ram’s mum, Cheryl, answers; spotting me, she lets out a gasp of delight. My chest floods with relief.
‘Frankie!’ she says. ‘What a gorgeous surprise. Come in, come in.’
Ram and I may have been doomed, but Cheryl and I liked one another from the start.
I let her usher me inside. Everything is exactly how I remember it, from the baby pictures of Ram and his two sisters on the sideboard, to the wonky shoe rack at the bottom of the stairs.
I’ve always loved Ram’s house. It’s not especially fancy or anything, just a narrow little terrace on an entirely ordinary street, but inside it’s as cosy and welcoming as anything. Unlike my house, which is all very beige and cream and brown (‘tasteful’, according to my mum), Ram’s house is a riot of colour. The living room, for example, is a symphony of reds and oranges, pinks and purples, from the cushions and throws on the sofa, to the framed posters on the wall and the shaggy circular rug in the centre of the floor.
‘It reminds me of a sunset,’ I remember telling Cheryl the first time I saw it.
‘That’s exactly what I was going for, Frankie,’ she replied happily, before turning to Ram and saying, ‘I like this one,’ her eyes shining with approval.
‘Now, let me get you a nice cold drink,’ Cheryl says. ‘I’ve got some of that posh elderflower cordial stuff in. I wasn’t sure I’d like it, but I tell you what, it goes lovely with fizzy water, especially on a day like today.’
‘Sounds great,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
Cheryl totters towards the kitchen, her slippers clacking against the laminate flooring. Cheryl is the only person I know 51who wears slippers with a heel – satin pink mules trimmed with marabou feathers, a bit like the sort of the thing a film star from the 1950s might wear. Then again, she’s glamorous full stop. Even today, probably the hottest of the year so far, she’s in full make-up. I suspect most of my make-up slid off my face within moments of my leaving the house, but Cheryl’s is immaculate. Even her double set of false eyelashes is refusing to wilt.
I follow her, lingering for a moment outside the living room. The door is ajar. On the mantelpiece, the shrine to Ram’s dad sits as proudly as ever. Mr Jandu died in a car accident when Ram was fourteen, Laleh was nine and Roxy just four. In all the pictures, he’s model handsome. The photos of him as a young teenager in Iran look uncannily like Ram. They have the same shock of black hair and intense gaze, the same loose-limbed ease, the same quietly devastating smile.
‘Ice?’ Cheryl calls from the kitchen. ‘Or is that a silly question.’
‘Yes please,’ I say, scurrying after her.
‘Now, what can I do for you?’ Cheryl asks, setting my drink (complete with novelty ice cubes, a cocktail umbrella and a slice of orange) down in front of me on the breakfast bar. ‘Not that there has to be a reason for your visit,’ she adds quickly. ‘You’re welcome to drop in whenever you like.’
I take a quick sip. ‘Um, I was just wondering if Ram was about actually?’ I ask. ‘I, er, don’t seem to have his number in my phone for some reason.’
‘Oh sorry, sweetheart, no. He’s at work. He won’t be back for another couple of hours yet.’
‘Work?’
‘Yes. At the rink.’ 52
Ram has a part-time job working as a skate marshal at Nottingham ice arena.
‘I didn’t think he usually worked on Thursdays,’ I say.
Thursday used to be one of our designated date nights. We’d watch Netflix, or, if we could be bothered and had the cash, go to the cinema, or out for a Nando’s.
‘He’s been doing some extra shifts over the holidays,’ Cheryl says.
‘Oh. OK.’
‘Why? Is it anything urgent?’
‘Er, not exactly,’ I say. ‘I just kind of need to talk to him about something.’
‘Oh yes?’ Cheryl says, her eyes sparkling with interest.
‘Nothing to do with us,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s about a, er, mutual friend.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Cheryl says, her disappointment clear.
‘Frankie!’
I turn towards the doorway. Roxy, dressed in her pyjamas, hurtles towards me, flinging her wiry little body into my arms. In addition to being a hit with Cheryl, I got on like a house on fire with both his sisters, especially little Roxy. When we broke up, she even made me a card. She covered it with sticky lipstick marks and scrawled the words ‘I’ll miss you!’ across the front in red felt-tip pen, insisting on posting it through my letter box by hand.
While Roxy smothers me with kisses, Laleh emerges from the garden, her long dark hair tucked under a faded baseball cap. When she sees me, she breaks into a wide smile, the metal from her newly acquired braces glinting in the dipping evening sunlight. 53
‘Oh my God, Laleh,’ I say. ‘When did you get so tall? You look like a supermodel or something!’
Laleh giggles and looks at her feet, proud and bashful in equal measures.
Wow, I’ve missed them. All of them. I hadn’t realized how much. That’s the sucky thing about breaking up with someone. It’s not just them who you break up with.
‘Do you love my brother again?’ Roxy asks.
I hesitate, my face reddening. The last thing I want to do is give any of them false hope.
Cheryl saves me. ‘Let Frankie finish her drink, Rox,’ she says.
I throw Cheryl a grateful smile and ask them to fill me in on their news. They happily oblige. I quickly learn that Laleh has been chosen to represent the county in cross country running, Roxy broke her wrist and had to wear a sling for two whole weeks, and Cheryl has started going to Spanish classes at the local college. She tries some out on me but I’m not much of a linguist and we don’t get very far, collapsing into giggles over Cheryl’s hilariously bad attempts to ask for 500 grams of minced beef.
‘Your turn, Frankie,’ Cheryl says. ‘How has life been treating you?’
‘Yeah, fine. Same old, really.’
‘Still acting?’
‘Yep.’
I tell them a little about the production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream our school put on in the spring (I’d played Helena opposite Jojo’s Hermia) and my nine in drama.
‘I always said you had star quality,’ Cheryl says with a grin. 54
I glance at the clock. As much as I’m loving being back in the Jandus’ cosy house, it’s already gone eight and I’m still no closer to Swindon and Jojo.
I finish my drink and make my excuses.
‘Do you want me to tell Ram you were here?’ Cheryl asks, standing up.
‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘I might just go down to the rink and see if I can catch him there.’
‘Will you come back again soon?’ Roxy asks, her eyes big and full of hope.
I glance at Cheryl. She nods encouragingly.
‘Sure,’ I say.
‘Yay!’ Roxy cries.
Cheryl walks me to the door. ‘It really was good to see you, Frankie,’ she says.
‘Same.’
‘I hope everything works out. For your friend.’
‘My friend?’
‘The mutual friend. Of yours and Ram’s?’
‘Oh! Oh. Yes. Me too. Thank you.’
She envelops me in a tight, floral-scented hug. ‘Don’t be a stranger now,’ she says.
‘I won’t,’ I promise.