I don’t know whether to hug her. Truth is, I barely know the woman, and although I’ve forgiven her for deserting my mum – some people can’t deal with other people’s grief and sadness – I can’t say she’s somebody I wanted to see again.
She bends to take off her boots, and stands them against the wall. ‘I have this horrible fear that it was Finn who left the mask on my step,’ she says.
‘Finn?’
‘Yes. Apparently he’s just come out of hospital, which seems more than a coincidence, don’t you think?’
I lead the way into the kitchen, saying nothing until I reach the fridge. I turn. ‘But why would he?’
‘I’m convinced he killed Ruth and Maddie, took Elise, and Lark,’ she says. ‘I mean he lived up there on that lonely estate with an overprotective, strange mother. He’s textbook psychopath.’
‘The police don’t seem to think so.’ I sound defensive.
‘I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before they catch him out. Apparently he’s staying with Julia in Eyemouth. It makes me uneasy that he’s so close.’
I shudder. Have I got it wrong? Had he tried to kill me that night after all? ‘I just don’t think it was him,’ I say.
She touches my arm again. ‘Well let’s agree to disagree, shall we?’
I nod, deciding not to enter into a debate. ‘Listen, I was about to have a glass of wine.’ I open the fridge, and grab a bottle of sauvignon blanc. ‘Oh God, sorry,’ I say, remembering she’s pregnant.
She smiles, and lifts her hand, as though to say, don’t worry. ‘I’d love a cup of coffee, though.’
I reach for the kettle, and shove it under the streaming tap. ‘You’ve got over your hatred for the demon coffee beans then?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You went off coffee.’ I turn and tilt my head. ‘Didn’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s right.’ Her cheeks flush, and she squeezes her hands into fists. ‘Well, that’s all passed now thank goodness.’
We stand. Waiting for the kettle to boil. Awkward. And I find myself making small talk. ‘I’m having a makeover tomorrow.’
‘Makeover?’
I laugh. ‘Well, I’m getting my hair cut in town – that’s as adventurous as it gets for me.’
Another awkward silence follows, and I feel I have to fill it. ‘Does it help you get through this awful nightmare, knowing you have to stay strong for your baby?’ Her face crumples, and I instantly wish I’d kept my mouth shut. But I remember that warm feeling inside me when I was carrying my own baby. It was as though I had permission to be happy.
‘I can’t imagine life without Elise, if that’s what you mean,’ she says. ‘I know she’s not my daughter, and we’ve had our differences in the past, but when I fell pregnant we bonded. Though I think I know what you’re trying to say.’ She pulls her phone from her bag, and taps the screen. ‘Here,’ she says, thrusting it towards me. ‘It’s the latest scan of baby Green. It was taken yesterday.’
I gulp back tears as I take in the tiny image.
‘If you look closely,’ she says. ‘You can make out his toes.’
I make a weird noise, as I force back invading tears.
‘Are you OK?’ she says, pressing her hand on my arm. ‘I’m so sorry if I’ve upset you.’
‘No, no you haven’t. I’m fine.’ I hand the phone back, and turn away from her, fumble a spoonful of coffee into a mug. I pour on boiling water. Add a splash of milk. ‘Sugar?’ I say, glancing over my shoulder.
She shakes her head.
I take a breath and hand her the mug, before splashing wine into a large glass.
And then it hits me.
The scan she just showed me. The one she said was taken yesterday. It was dated 10th October. ‘Did you say you had the scan yesterday?’ I ask, to be sure.
‘Yes, why?’
Is she lying? Or perhaps she showed me the wrong photo. But I recall her reaction when I mentioned the coffee – it was as though she’d been caught out. And now a memory invades of her at Drummondale House, tears rolling down her cheeks as she looked at a photograph of a scan of her baby.
I stare at her. It’s as though I can see into her soul, sense a terrible loss, feel her suffering as though it’s mine. She’s lost her baby.
But that can’t be right. Her body tells me otherwise.
‘Do you want to talk?’ I say. It’s a gamble. If, and only if, she’s lost her baby, she’s pretending she hasn’t – going as far as wearing a fake pregnancy bump – a good one too. She doesn’t want to be found out. ‘I understand.’
She shoots me a startled look, and I take a deep breath.
‘I lost my baby too,’ I say, my voice cracking. ‘I know how painful it is to lose your unborn child.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She’s flushed, and tears fill her eyes.
Mentioning my baby has left me vulnerable – exposed. Rosamund is the first person I’ve told, and I hadn’t factored in my own need for comfort.
And what if I’m wrong about Rosamund?
No. I’m right. I’m sure I’m right.
I move towards her, but she steps away from me, banging her back on the worktop, spilling her coffee, wincing in pain. Her tears come faster now.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, my voice cracking, as I realise I’m crying too.
She takes a tissue from her pocket, and dabs her cheeks. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘You’ve got me, governor,’ she adds in a silly cockney accent that’s at odds with how distressed she is. She raises the white tissue in surrender.
We make our way into the lounge, and sit silently at opposite ends of the sofa. I’ve unearthed something I’m now struggling to deal with.
‘How did you know?’ she says finally.
‘The coffee, the scan dated October, but most of all it was when I thought back to you crying at Drummondale House, when you were looking at the scan of your baby. At the time I thought you
