‘It’s just policy, love, don’t worry about it.’
Heather frowns and chews her lip. It’s a new thing, this frowning. Before, Heather was a smiley person. She never glowered. But today her eyebrows are so knotted together it looks as though she has a monobrow.
‘And why haven’t you brought Ethan with you? I need to see my baby.’
‘He’s at nursery today. It’s a Monday. Remember?’
‘He’s too young for nursery.’
Margot takes a deep breath and perches on the chair next to Heather’s bed. She deposits the glossy magazines and Maltesers on the table but Heather gives them only a cursory glance.
‘You put him in nursery a few months ago. Just one and a half days a week. Don’t you remember? You thought it would be good to socialize him and give you a bit of a break.’ Margot had been the one to suggest it. With the post-natal depression, Heather had needed some time to herself. She was such a good mother. Ethan always came first – sometimes, Margot felt privately, to the detriment of her daughter.
‘I don’t need a break from my son,’ says Heather, her voice rising.
Margot places a soothing hand on Heather’s leg. The blanket under her fingers feels coarse, as though it’s been washed too many times. ‘I can bring him in later, if you like. I can pick him up early from nursery.’
This seems to mollify Heather and she sits back against the pillows, the frown disappearing. The doctors said this might happen: that Heather will find it hard at first to keep a lid on her emotions.
‘I wanted to talk to you about something,’ begins Margot, gently.
‘What’s that?’
‘Do you remember your old friend, Jessica Fox?’
She looks surprised. ‘Yes. Of course. Why?’
‘She’s been in touch. She’s a journalist now. Working for the local paper. She’s been concerned about you.’
Heather examines her hands where they lie in her lap. ‘Right.’
‘I wasn’t sure about her, at first, but she’s been … well, a comfort to me in a way, I suppose.’
Heather lifts her head and her eyes lock with Margot’s. ‘A comfort?’
‘I’ve been out of my mind with worry.’
Heather averts her eyes.
‘And Jess has warded off the other journalists.’
Heather smiles. ‘She probably just wants the story, Mum.’
‘I thought that, too. At first. But I don’t know. There’s more to it than that. I think she is, well, fond of you. Still.’
Heather shakes her head. ‘It’s been eighteen years.’
‘I know. It’s a long time. But you were so close, once.’
‘We were children.’
‘I know … I know. But … would you like to see her? She’s asked if she can see you. Not straight away, of course.’
Heather fiddles with a loose thread on her blanket. ‘I suppose. It would be interesting to see her again. But …’
Margot inches forward in her chair. ‘But what?’
‘I don’t know. It’s all water under the bridge, now, I suppose, but she was weird with me after Flora disappeared. It really affected our friendship.’
