‘Um, well, I’m just visiting a friend in Marlborough. But I definitely will if I’m visiting again. My muscles already feel more relaxed.’
‘Okay, great. I would suggest a couple more visits to an osteopath. It’s very tight through your back.’
‘Okay.’ I hand her my card and try not to blanch at the fifty-five pounds I can’t afford coming out of my bank account.
‘And don’t worry about your son,’ she says kindly. ‘It will all be fine when he’s at uni. He’ll be back before youknow it, dragging with him a sackful of washing. That’s what Artie did, anyway.’
‘Artie?’
‘Yes. Arthur. It was my paternal grandfather’s name. Thanks again for coming. It was lovely to meet you.’ She’s already turning to her next client, a young woman with tattoos down both arms who is sitting waiting for her, but as I walk down the stairs all I can think about are the times I’ve seen Marielle pushing a baby in the pram. A grandson she said was called Arthur.
There never was a grandson. Or a daughter-in-law called Heidi who works in a library. Or a son called Peter who’s a lawyer. It’s all made up. All of it. The image of that grotesque fake baby flashes through my mind and repulsion rips through me.
Why did Marielle lie?
As I drive home my horror at the extent of Marielle’s lies twists and moulds like Play-doh so it resembles something else. Pity. There must be a reason why she’s pretending to have a grandson. Yes, it’s warped and weird, but I can’t help feeling some strange affinity with her. Maybe she wanted children and couldn’t have them. Perhaps this silicone baby makes her feel happy. Wanted. Loved. Who am I to judge her? Isn’t that what we all want at the end of the day? To feel loved. To feel like we belong.
What must Henry make of it?
I remember their conversation:
‘… I don’t know, Mari …’
‘You promised me you’d take her. I’ve got everything ready. The room …’
‘I know … but … after what happened before … should we really try again?’
The thought re-enters my head that they could be planning to kidnap a baby. Why? To pass off as their grandchild? But why would they plan to kidnap a baby girl when Marielle has told me she has a grandson?
And none of this explains Henry’s behaviour and his threats to me that day outside my house.
When I get home I log on to Facebook and click on Oliver’s profile page again. I can’t get over the fact that a keyring almost identical to his ended up in the Morgans’ garden. I don’t understand it, but it must be linked to the newspaper article I found in the Morgans’ house. The receptionist at the electrical company said no Simone Harvey had ever worked there, but now, having seen that keyring, I’m wondering if Simone changed her name. The keyring Phoenix found is too similar to Oliver’s to be a coincidence. The bear is knitted. Perhaps home-made. I’ve never seen one like it in the shops. The only way I’ll be able to get answers is through her brother. My ex-boyfriend. We were so close, once, although we didn’t exactly finish on amicable terms. But it’s been twenty-five years and he’s married now, with kids.
I type out a quick message.
Hi Oliver,
I know it’s been a long time, and I hope you’re well. I was wondering if you know how I could get in touch with Simone? I would love to catch up with her.
Lena
I deliberate over whether to put a kiss, decide against it and press send before I lose my nerve.
I go to the kitchen drawer where I’d put the key with the pink bear as well as Joan’s spare. I find the pink bear straight away. But Joan’s key, the metal poppy, isn’t there. I rake through the detritus frantically. I definitely put it in here after I last went to the Morgans’ house. It would be useless now the locks have been changed, but even so, where has it gone?
41
HENRY
June 1990 London
They’d been married for two years when Marielle mentioned children again.
He’d thought,hoped, that she’d forgotten all about it. Or, like him, realized that parenthood wasn’t for them. But then she appeared before him, bright-eyed and excitable, telling him they needed ‘to talk about something’ and his heart had thudded to his feet.
By now they were living in a townhouse at ‘the wrong end’ of Islington, according to Marielle’s father, who’d said sniffily, ‘It’s practically the East End,’ when they told him they’d made an offer. But Henry had stood his ground, insisting to Marielle in private that he wasn’t happy to live off her father and, to his surprise, Marielle had agreed with him. Although the area had already been gentrified, it was still a far cry from the manicured parks and white stucco-fronted houses that Marielle was used to.
Henry had recently had a great promotion at the private hospital where he worked, helped, he suspected – although the thought didn’t sit well with him – by the fact he’d married into such a prominent family. Marielle was brilliant at entertaining his bosses: she made up for his awkwardness. People liked him a lot more when she was at his side. He was earning more than he had ever thought possible, and even though he had relented and let Marielle use some of her trust fund to renovate the house, he felt a sense of pride that he could meet the mortgage payments with his salary and bonuses alone.
