‘Just – want to talk to him,’ I say. ‘I think he might help with some stuff.’
‘Like what?’
‘He – it’s just stuff about Granny’s foundation,’ I amend lamely. ‘We’re on the committee. Thought I’d do it while I’m in the area.’
‘He stil hasn’t cal ed you back? Haven’t you been trying him al week?’
I nod. ‘I won’t be long. See you laters.’
Jay already has his phone out, texting. ‘Sure. Laters, yeah?’ I love Jay when he’s gearing up to be an East London wide boy with his brothers out on a night on the town. I keep expecting him to click his fingers together and shout, ‘Wicked, innit!’ It’s funny how he’s so organised, sorted even, but stil such a little boy in so many ways, and I find it endearing, whereas with Oli I came to find it disturbing. Perhaps it’s because he real y doesn’t know he’s doing it. Whereas I felt Oli had read too many lads’ mags articles about how to behave like a child and get away with it.
I feel a curious lightening of my mood as I get off the bus on Upper Street a few minutes later. It’s a nice late afternoon, the clocks have gone back and people are stil out shopping. I head down Cross Street, walking with purpose.
When I get to Guy Leighton Antiques I stop. The blinds are down and there’s a ‘CLOSED’ sign hanging on the door. I peer through the glass; the shop is in darkness, but there’s a light shining in the back room. I rap firmly on the door, rattling it slightly so the old bel jangles faintly.
After a few seconds, Guy appears, blinking. I watch him as he shuffles casual y towards the door, trying to picture the young, charming, kind man Cecily fel in love with, the one so vividly alive in the diary. He’s fiddling with his glasses, on the chain round his neck. He doesn’t look up as he unbolts the door, and then he opens it.
‘I’m afraid we’re closed today –’ he begins. ‘Oh.’
He stares at me. His face is paler than ever. ‘Sorry to drop by unannounced,’ I begin. ‘It’s just I’ve been trying to get hold of you—’
His hands are stil on the half-shut door. He opens it a little wider. ‘Natasha,’ he says. His eyes do not leave my face and I remember him saying I looked like Cecily. I feel uncomfortable.
‘I wondered if we could talk,’ I say.
Guy is clenching the door and his knuckles are white. ‘Yes – yes . . .’ He looks flustered. Um – so what do you want?’
The Guy I know (admittedly, not wel ) is normal y calm, wryly amused, in control. This man is like a stranger to me.
‘I don’t want to disturb you,’ I say, thinking perhaps he was in the middle of something, or he’s just woken up and is confused after a nap. ‘It’s just – I read Cecily’s diary, you said to cal you when I had.’ I try to keep the desperation out of my voice. How could he have forgotten? ‘I’ve been trying to cal you – and Mum – she’s gone away.’
‘I know. She came to see me before she went.’
‘She came to see you?’ I try to ignore the fact that my mother seems to be quite happy to contact Guy al the time over me. Here, take the diary.
Here, I’m going away. I shift on my feet. ‘I didn’t know what was in it—’
‘I know,’ Guy says. ‘I know. It’s terrible.’ But he doesn’t move. His jaw is tight; his eyes are cold.
I swal ow, because I think I am about to cry again, and I don’t know why. Why’s he being so . . . strange? ‘Can – can I come in? The thing is . . . I can’t real y talk to anyone else about it, you see—’
Then Guy holds up his hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘No, I can’t. I can’t do this.’
‘Do what?’
‘This.’ He points at me. ‘It’s – I’m so sorry. It’s just too much. I should have realised. This family . . . It’s – I’m not ready. I’m sorry. Go away, Natasha. I’m sorry.’
And as I am standing in the doorway staring at him in astonishment, he gently closes the door in my face.
Chapter Forty-Two
On this occasion, I leave time for the train. I am there so early, in fact, that I can walk the length of the magnificent interior of Paddington station, admiring the soaring Victorian poles of steel, the war memorial, the endless hustle and bustle on this beautiful spring morning. A brisk April shower has cleared and it is warm, sunshine flooding the station with yel ow morning light. I even have time to get a bacon rol from the Cornish Pasty Company, which I used to go to religiously when I was younger, convinced that a pasty from there would bring me closer to Summercove. I eat it, hovering nervously in front of the ticket barrier, not wanting to spoil my smart new dress, and too scared to get on the train. Carriage G, seat 18.
Louisa sent the tickets to me last Friday with a note.
She sent it to Jay’s address too, she knew somehow, with her organised ways, that I’d moved there. That’s Louisa al over: always serving others, efficient, brisk, but stil affectionate. I think back to the Louisa in the diary, the leggy blonde knockout stil in thral to her good-looking boyfriend. I sigh and bal my paper bag into my fist. Ten minutes til the train goes, and no sign of anyone. Perhaps they’re al already there, waiting for me. I square my shoulders and open the carriage door.
I’m the first. The carriage is warm like the station and I’m hot in my coat, I can feel myself perspiring. I’m tired stil from the previous night, and I just want to close my eyes and sleep. I put my overnight bag on the rack above and sit down in my seat at the table, looking around me. Both tables are al booked, the little tickets sticking out of
