‘Shit,’ I say, realising my jacket pocket’s empty. I give myself another pat down. ‘I don’t have my phone. I must have dropped it down the settee.’
‘Did you do it deliberately, Juniper Jones?’ asks Nick.
And, in spite of everything, I laugh. Juniper Jones is the name of a spy I once played; there was a scene where I left my phone – a Motorola – beneath my target’s bed, just for the excuse to return and find it. I can’t believe Nick’s remembered it. I haven’t thought about it for years.
‘I did not do it deliberately,’ I say.
‘No?’ He raises a cynical brow.
‘No.’
‘A likely story.’
‘It’s the truth.’ I turn on my heel, heading back inside. ‘Warm the car up for me, please.’
‘Or I can go and find your phone?’ proffers Felix.
‘Or I will,’ says Nick.
‘No, I’ll do it,’ I say, and although I really didn’t drop it on purpose, I’ll admit I’m pretty happy to be heading back in to see Tim.
At the very least, I’d like a chance to say a proper goodbye.
But he’s still sleeping when I reach his room.
I’ve come alone. Roger – busy talking with another resident when I returned to the lobby – told me I should.
‘A nurse will be along to help Tim to bed in a minute,’ he said.
‘I’ll only be a second,’ I told him.
‘Was that Marian Maudsley?’ the resident asked him as I went.
‘It was, Gwen,’ he said. ‘But mum’s the word, ok? We don’t want it getting out.’
It doesn’t take me much more than a second to locate my phone; it’s lying on the carpet directly beneath where I was sitting, half-hidden under the settee’s skirt. Scooping it up, I scan my messages – there’s one from Phil,just checking in, and Mum too, doing the same,xxx– then I turn to Tim. He doesn’t look comfortable, sleeping with his head against the side of his armchair, and I almost go to move him, but stop myself, remembering that we’re practically strangers, and it’s not my place.
His eyelids flicker in a dream.
I wonder what he’s dreaming about.
The war?
My eyes move to the side table, and the framed original of the novel’s cover photograph that I’ve been stealing glances at ever since I spotted it earlier. It’s different in real life. Larger. More authentic, somehow.
Sadder.
Going to it, I pick it up, touching my finger to the side of Robbie’s face. I stare at him, with a focus that makes my eyes blur, and in yet another dizzying, lunatic moment, my vision flickers, and it’s as though I can see him, trulyseehim, alive and breathing; wind blowing his hair, his smile growing, his lips moving in the formation of a word …
‘Look after that boy, won’t you?’ says Tim, startling me by being suddenly awake.
Very nearly dropping the photo, I spin around to face him.
He hasn’t moved his head from its position against the armchair, and still looks half asleep: his eyes, heavy; his blinks, slow.
‘Which boy?’ I ask, shaky to my own ears.
Anxiously, I look back down at Robbie, and he smiles up at me, entirely static. Frozen by the camera.
