I look out of the window once more. The tall buildings of London surround me, and The Gherkin feels so close. I’m tempted to open the window and lean out – try to touch it. I would fall, of course. Tumble to my death, and possibly make headlines in The Metro. But then nobody would care. Not a single soul would miss me – except perhaps my dad, and possibly my brother Thomas.
I roll my chair back over the plush carpet, put the photo of William in the bin, and my Thor figure, that Thomas bought me a few years back because I told him I love Chris Hemsworth, in my bag. I grab my jacket, rise, and head for the door, throwing one look over my shoulder at the rabbit warren of desks. Nobody looks my way. I’m right. Nobody will miss me.
Outside, I dash towards London Bridge Underground, pushing through the crowds. I won’t cry, I tell myself. I’m all cried out.
*
‘William, it’s me. Pick up, please.’ I’m pissed, sobbing into my phone, my cat curled on my knee, her purr giving me comfort. Drunk-me is far too needy, and I seem to turn to her too often lately. ‘Call me, please. I need you right now.’ It’s the tenth time I’ve called and it’s only seven o’clock. Ten times he’s ignored me.
I throw my phone across the room. It hits a photo of us in Rhodes. It clatters on the dresser. The glass cracks. Were we even happy then? I know it was difficult when Mum got cancer, and everything that followed was impossible – William struggled with me struggling, which made me struggle even more.
I look at the empty wine bottle, before burying my head in my hands until the tears stop. And then it hits me. I need my dad, to feel the comfort of his arms around me. But I can’t take off to Berwick-upon-Tweed and leave my cat – who now looks up at me as though she knows what I’m thinking. ‘But if I stay here, sweetie, I’ll go crazy,’ I say, tickling her soft ears.
Later, after crying on my neighbour’s doorstep – a kindly twenty-something with pink hair – she gives me a much-needed hug. ‘You’ve been through hell, Amelia,’ she says. ‘Of course I’ll look after your cat. Take as long as you need.’
‘Thanks so much,’ I say, wishing I knew her name – but it’s far too late to ask her what it is; we’ve been chatting for months.
I return to my flat and call Malcolm, realising, after apologising profusely for letting him down at such short notice, that he sounds relieved I’m taking time off.
‘Great. Super,’ he says. ‘Brilliant!’
‘I’ll be taking an early train to Berwick-upon-Tweed and probably won’t be back for a while. Is that OK?’
‘Of course, Amelia. Please, please don’t hurry back.’
I end the call, flop down on my bed, and close my eyes.
Chapter 2
Present Day
Amelia
I caught the early train from London and it’s now 10 a.m. I’m relieved to be here, standing on the doorstep of the house I grew up in, waiting for Dad to answer the front door.
‘Surprise!’ I cry, as he opens the door. I dive in for a hug, breathing in his familiar aftershave, almost knocking him over, despite him being six foot.
‘Amelia!’ he says as I release him and step back, noticing he’s dyed his hair black and seems to have sprouted a moustache – moustaches are clearly invading my world. I’m close to telling him it does nothing for him, and the black hair makes him look as though he’s fallen headfirst into a barrel of tar, when he adds, ‘What are you doing here, love?’
He seems happy to see me, but there’s something else. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.
‘Well I’m pretty much waiting for you to invite me in.’ I rub my gloved hands together as a blustery wind catches my hair and blows it across my face like flames. ‘It’s bloody cold out here – snowed all the way from the station.’
‘Yes, sorry.’ He opens the door wider.
My throat closes as I look down the narrow hallway, and memories of Lark and Mum flood in. This is the house where I spent my childhood and teens. A four-bed modern detached that looks out over a huge expanse of grass leading to the River Tweed. A once crazy, noisy, happy house, that now feels far too quiet. Only Dad and Thomas live here now, and I’m guessing my brother is in his bedroom – once the dining room where we all shared happy meals, now extended to accommodate my brother’s needs.
Dad’s stepped to one side. ‘Come on, love, you’re letting the cold in,’ he says rubbing his hands together, bringing me back to the moment. I will myself to move, heave my rucksack off my back, and edge past him. He closes the door behind us.
‘So what brings you all this way?’ he says, following me into the kitchen. He picks up the kettle and gives it a little shake before flicking it on. ‘Nothing wrong, is there?’
Yep, just about everything.
I shake my head and sit down at the round kitchen table. It still has the pretty embroidered tablecloth draped over it that I remember Mum buying over ten years ago.
‘How’s work?’ I ask. Dad loves his job as curator at the local museum, and last time I spoke to him he was working on an exhibition about ancient crimes in the area. It fills his mind, leaving no space to dwell.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘Keeps me busy.’ I rest my case.
I ponder his earlier question, as he heads towards
