JEN
I was expecting the call. It’s Mr Da Silva. I answer and raise the phone to my ear, preparing myself for a mouthful of abuse. But instead there’s a quiet, broken voice, full of grief.
‘We … we told you in confidence,’ he says.
‘I’m so, so sorry, Mr Da Silva, but you’ve got to believe me when I tell you that it wasn’t me.’
He carries on as if he hasn’t heard me. ‘My wife, she trusted you. She said that you had a kind face. That you wouldn’t betray us. And now the papers are full of …’
His voice trails off and I picture him crying, standing in the grand hallway of his opulent, expensive home.
‘I know it may be hard to believe, but it wasn’t me who leaked the news,’ I say.
‘How can I believe a word you say? You’re a journalist. I was a fool to trust you in the first place.’
‘Look – I know nothing I say will convince you. All I can do is give you my word – for what it’s worth.’
The line goes quiet before I hear the sound of him sniffing. ‘If you didn’t tell them … then who did? I’m not sure who else knew.’
I blush as I think about Penelope. ‘What about the friend you mentioned, Caro? Caro Elliott?’
‘Caro would never betray us like that,’ he says. ‘Anyway, I just wanted you to know that you and your colleagues have taken whatever dignity we had from us. Goodbye, and good luck in your career, Miss Hunter. I hope you feel satisfied with what you’ve done.’
‘But Mr Da Silva—’
The line goes dead, the words leaving a nasty sting. They remind me of what Laurence said to me the night we broke up: ‘You must be very proud of yourself.’
I consider ringing Mr Da Silva back, pleading with him to understand that I hadn’t betrayed his confidence, but what’s the point? I have to take responsibility. It was me who told Penelope about Victoria’s pregnancy. I feel another surge of anger rising up, directed towards her. How could she have done it? However, I have to acknowledge that I knew what she was like. She lives for news, for the thrill of the chase. What a fool I had been to ever trust Penelope. I had left without a note or forwarding address. I hoped I would never see her again.
I find Caro Elliott’s details online and write an email to her, explaining that I was a witness to the attack and that I’d like to speak to her. I don’t say anything about the fact that I’m a journalist. I just hope that Mr Da Silva hasn’t already warned her that I might try to contact her.
I go into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea. Bex is out at the shops, getting in some food – and drink – for later. Although this flat is small, and hasn’t any of the fancy furniture or aesthetic flourishes of Penelope’s, I realise how much more at home I feel here. I can relax in this cramped attic flat in a way I never could at Penelope’s. I take a couple of deep breaths. But I know that, for all of Bex’s kindness and protestations that I can stay here for as long as I like, that this is my permanent home, I still have to forge a future for myself.
As I sip the tea and look out over the rooftops of Kentish Town I feel a sense of purpose. Despite the attack on me and the unpleasant phone call from Mr Da Silva, I tell myself that I am going to do something with my life. Perhaps getting to the bottom of what really happened between Victoria Da Silva and Daniel Oliver is the first step.
I can do this.
Now that I have Bex’s support I don’t need to rely on Penelope. I’ve got someone who believes in me – my oldest friend, someone I know will never let me down.
I take my tea over to my laptop and write to Julia Jones again. I send another email to the junior doctor, Ayesha Ahmed, asking for her to get in touch, and begin to do an internet search for Steven Walker. I work quickly and efficiently, buoyed along by a wave of adrenaline. Just then an email pings into my inbox. It’s from Caro Elliott. I scan it quickly, reading it for words such as ‘sorry’, ‘I’m afraid’, and ‘impossible’, but instead she talks about how awful it must have been for me and what a shock I must have suffered. Of course, she will agree to see me. Just name a day and a time and she’ll be there.