He really did seem uncomfortable about me having to come to Cornwall for the summer. I wonder how his initial conversation with Sara actually went – maybe she made the suggestion to appease him, without his actually requesting it. Who knows? There’s no point dwelling on it. I’m here now, anyway.
‘Find anything good?’ I ask Charlie on our way back to Padstow.
‘A few bits and pieces,’ he replies.
‘Can I have a look?’
He seems nonplussed. ‘If you like.’
I stretch backwards and grab the plastic bag resting on the seat beside April. She’s playing with some toys suspended on a cord stretched over her car seat and doesn’t so much as look at me as I settle back into position.
‘What will you use these for?’ I ask Charlie, peering into the bag to see a whole bunch of small twigs and sticks.
‘Something for April,’ he replies.
I think of the seahorse on the wall in her bedroom, formed out of tiny, smooth pieces of wood. ‘Did you make her the seahorse?’ I ask.
‘Er, yeah.’
‘Aah, it’s really pretty.’ It suddenly occurs to me that he may wonder why I’ve been into her bedroom.
‘I heard her wake up from her nap yesterday,’ I explain, trying to keep my voice sounding casual as I dig myself out of a hole.
‘Oh, right,’ he replies.
His eyes are focused on the road, so I’m looking at his side profile. He has a very straight nose.
‘What will you make for her this time?’ I ask.
‘A heart. I was mak—’
‘Sorry?’ I ask when his words cut abruptly short.
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. ‘I was making it for Nicki,’ he says, his expression stark.
‘Oh.’
We fall silent. I wish I were better at this sort of thing. I’m not expecting him to carry on talking.
‘Figured I should finish it,’ he adds quietly. ‘That’s if I can find it. I only remembered it the other day. It’s probably in her wardrobe somewhere.’
So hehaskept all of her things...
‘How’s the writing going?’ he asks after a while.
‘I’m still researching,’ I tell him. ‘It’s going to take me ages to get through everything. I’ve read through the contents of Nicki’s computer and now I’m onto her notebooks.’
I don’t say ‘diaries’ because the word feels too intimate.
‘Find anything helpful?’ he asks.
I wriggle in my seat. ‘I guess I’m just trying to get to know her. I want to make sure I’m able to write the story that she would have wanted. It helps if I can, I don’t know, get inside her head.’
‘That makes sense,’ he says.
‘Does it? Good.’
‘So you’re reading her diaries, too?’
