I don’t know. I can see someone who’s been through that suddenly just losing it and killing someone. Oh, and you’ll have noticed that those Gardenia pages are in a different font. I’m wondering if maybe Sally Lambert wrote them before, at some point in the past, and whoever wrote the book (maybe Sally herself, maybe someone else) stuck that bit in so that they didn’t have to explain all over again.
And now for the third and final section that I didn’t want to leave out. As you’ll see, it’s a discussion about resemblances that takes place among the Lamberts. It clearly happens at some point while they’re on the run with Champ. They’re watching a movie together, which they might have done several times during that period when they were away from Swaffham Tilney. There’s nothing about what follows that indicates their precise whereabouts or what stage of their escape they were at, but it doesn’t really matter. And in a way, this conversation has nothing to do with anything but, to be honest, Large, I’m mainly including it because I’m curious to see if reading it helps you to guess anything once you meet Sarah and Bonnie Sergeant in a later chapter, or at any point before Ree Lambert sayswhat she’s going to say (she said it ages ago, obviously, but she hasn’t yet said it in the book), prompting Sally Lambert to say whatshesays in response. I’ll admit: It didn’t occur to me, and wouldn’t have in a million years. But you’re cleverer than I am.
I did a bit of research, trying to work out what the film was that they were watching, but I’m afraid I failed to identify it.
Again, as with the Gardenia pages, this bit has to be Sally but it’s in the first person. Present tense this time, though, not past. Was Sally experimenting with different styles, maybe, before writing the final version of the book?
The Resemblances Conversation
“No,” says Mark.
“No,” says Ree.
For a second, I’m not sure what they’re objecting to. I haven’t asked them to do any homework or household chores, have I? No. We’re not at home. There are no chores here; keeping Champ safe and beyond the reach of the Gaveys is our only task.
Then I remember that I asked a question only a few seconds ago, about the scientist in the movie we’re watching, and I’m shocked by how deep into the tunnel of my own thoughts I retreated between asking and them answering. It’s as if I have to keep going into myself and hiding every now and then before coming out and facing the family again.
“What about you, Tobes?” I say.
“No, Mum. Shh.” He puts his finger to his lips and frowns. “I’m trying to watch.”
Ree also frowns at me, but with just her eyes. She learned how to do this soon after watching a video on YouTube about avoiding wrinkle lines in middle age.
“Come on, one of you must be able to see it,” I say. “She’s the image of someone we all know and see often.”
“I know who you’re thinking of,” says Tobes. “Vinie Skinner.”
“Right!” Champ, draped over my shins, makes a “Buh!” sound in protest. He thinks it’s far too late for anyone to speak so energetically. “Sorry, Champles,” I whisper. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who sees the resemblance.”
“You are,” says Tobes. “She looks nothing like Vinie, apart from they’re both women with dark hair.”
I can’t believe this. “You’re winding me up, right?”
“No.” He seems to mean it. “I don’t think there’s a resemblance. I just knew she was who you meant, that’s all.”
Ree says, “If you want to talk about strong likenesses, how about the one between Tess Gavey’s wound and Tess Gavey’s soul.” She smiles. “That’s good. Let me ju-ust”—she picks up her phone—“comment that under her latest post.”
“Ree, don’t,” I say, alarmed. Would she really write that? Is she joking?
“Don’t dare,” says Mark. “We don’t sink to their level. No matter what.”
“Oh, Dad!” Ree laughs. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew—” She breaks off, looks away.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing.”
“Ree, what?”
“Tess named Champ earlier today. In her Snapchat story.”
I cover my mouth with my hand. My insides feel as if they’ve been yanked out of me and chucked down a deep lift shaft.
“Well, she didn’t actually name him,” says Ree. “But she said he was a Welshie belonging to a neighbor, so you know…people are putting two and two together.”
“Don’t tell me,” I say shakily. “And…don’t reply to her, Ree. Don’t comment or…do anything. Promise me. We have to just ignore it, pretend it’s not happening. Block her. Can’t you block people on these social media places?”
Toby and Ree exchange a long, complicated look: deeper and more multilayered than the usual “God, isn’t Mum old and out of touch?” I know my children well enough to know they’ve just had a whole conversation using only their eyes.
