‘Mm. I’m thinking somewhere warm and luxurious. I could use a bit of pampering.’
‘Wherever you want. You choose and we’ll get it booked up before next year’s diary gets too busy.’
‘Great. I’ll start looking tomorrow. I’m thinking maybe Italy again ... or perhaps Portugal. Then the flights wouldn’t be too long for Alex.’
He smiled. ‘Anywhere where you spend most of the day in a bikini is fine with me. Actually, I’ve just had a thought. Why don’t you and Alex book to go away somewhere while I’m in Australia? It would be a change of scene and give you a bit of a break. Perhaps Annie would go with you … or Jenna.’
Emily mulled the idea over in her head. Jenna would not want to leave the children and, as they were now in school, they would not be able to go away in January. Annie was a possibility though. Perhaps they could get a cottage somewhere. ‘Good idea,’ she said as the waiter headed their way bearing ornate plates of food. ‘I’ll think about that too. Thank you,’ she smiled at the waiter. ‘That looks delicious.’
The food was beautifully presented and tasty, the wine gave them a rosy glow and, after the short taxi ride home and coffee with Annie who reported no major disasters, the evening ended with fantastic sex. She was incredibly lucky, Emily thought, as she lay cuddled in her husband’s strong arms. She really did not need anything else.
◆◆◆
Later that week, Emily was curled up on the sofa with her iPad while Alex watched his favourite TV programme. Outside, it was a bright, clear November day and the grass was laced with frost glistening in the sunlight. It was the kind of day which made you want to be outside and Emily had already been out for a walk with Alex down to the local park. She had toyed with idea of driving to the beach for a bracing day at the coast but had decided against it. The last time she'd done that, she'd been disappointed to find the beach shrouded in sea mist. Still, thoughts of the coast reminded her of her plans to hire a cottage for maybe a week in January to break up the time Adam was away. Alex loved splashing in the shallows in his wellies and building sand castles so she had decided to concentrate her search around the North Norfolk coast.
Molly sat beside her on the sofa, watching her glumly, but Emily resolutely ignored her. She was disappointed that Molly was still appearing on a regular basis, even though her depression had dissipated. Of course, she still thought of her as Molly even though her name was probably Norah. That first time when Emily had looked through the album, it had not taken her long to realise, when she had looked closely, that the young woman in the photographs was the same person as the cheerful girl on the pony. It had been an incredible shock to see that her imaginary friend had actually existed. However, it had also been exciting to discover that she was also in some way inextricably linked with her past. If only Molly would talk; if only she could share her secrets. How many times had she wished for that? With every disappointment she encountered in her search for her birth parents, it seemed that the mystery of her relationship with Molly moved tantalisingly further from her grasp.
With a sigh, Emily turned away from her iPad and reached for Norah’s scrapbook, intending to put it out of sight and therefore, hopefully, out of mind. As her fingers brushed the leather cover and struggled to grasp it fully, she slipped and the book fell harmlessly onto the thick, beige carpet, open at a news clipping dated 1927. The report was about the appointment of Eva Greene as the first female mayor for Bury St Edmunds. Emily had always wondered if Eva Greene, like Lydia Turner, was perhaps a relative. If not, Norah must surely have known these women to wish to keep a record of their achievements. That link with the town of Bury St Edmunds was the main reason Emily had wanted to live there, although she'd never disclosed that fact to Adam.
She turned idly to the last page of photographs and frowned. These were the photographs which showed Molly/Norah standing outside a small cottage. In one she was smiling, holding a baby in her arms. In another, she was standing beside the same tall, young man in the picture of the stables. They had their arms around each other and were grinning broadly. Emily was certain that this man must be her husband, the father of her child. The final picture had been taken perhaps a couple of years later because the child was no longer a baby. He was now a young boy on his father’s shoulders, gripping dad’s curly hair in his tiny fists. Had Norah taken that last photograph? Why were there no more? What had happened to this young family and why did this pale, wraithlike woman now haunt her life with such persistence?
There was something else bothering Emily, though, as she examined the pictures yet again, something niggling the back of her mind like an unreachable itch. She looked up and was surprised to see Molly standing directly in front of her, staring at her with such painful intensity that she had to look away. It was something to do with the cottage. Where had she seen it recently? She turned back to the photograph. It was an unremarkable, small, single storey country cottage with a thatched roof. There was a narrow path leading up to the front door and the garden was planted with roses. The walls were covered in pale coloured plaster and
