‘I’d prefer a woman.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’s the best.’
‘And I’d prefer not to have a strange man poking around near my snatch.’
‘You’re being sexist. And it’s called a vagina.’
‘Actually, it’s a vulva.’ I kick off my slippers. ‘I need to lie down.’ I put my feet up on the bed, close my eyes and pray that Miriam will disappear.
I have a sudden memory of a young girl in the bookshop. A face I can’t quite name. I want to call Roddy, but my new phone isn’t arriving until this afternoon.
‘It would have been much better toplanthis pregnancy, Lottie. You could have found someone highly intelligent to breed with and given this child a head start.’
‘Hugo has an excellent brain,’ I say, miffed, even though I don’t especially want his child. Or any child. ‘What’s wrong with his brain?’
‘It can’t be all that sparkling if he’s ended up as a barista.’
I close my eyes and envision the tiny life inside me. A tear slides down my cheek and into my ear. I rub it away. ‘I need to sleep. Could you please go away?’
Although my eyes are closed, I sense Miriam hovering.
‘I know you’re sad about Phyllida,’ she says hesitantly. ‘But you mustn’t fall apart. There’s been a lot happening in the last few days, but you have a baby to think about now. Phyllida is in her eighties and if she doesn’t recover … well, it’s her time to go.’
I keep my eyes closed.
‘Pregnancy can do odd things to you, Charlotte. Especially after stress, as you’re experiencing now. I became pregnant around the time my mother died … then when David died, I went a little off the rails. It wasn’t helpful to feel like that with a baby coming.’
‘What sort ofoff the rails?’ Miriam rarely speaks of her mother. I open my eyes.
She shrugs. ‘I won’t go into it. But stress is a funny thing. It can creep up on you, so just be aware. Now, I’m late for tennis and then I’ll do the groceries. Text me through your laptop if you need me. Or if you want anything at the shops.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
She heads to the door, then stops, giving me a puzzled look. ‘By the way,’ she says, as if it’s only just occurred to her, ‘Roddy dropped a letter in for you. He said he didn’t want to disturb you, but Sienna—whomever she might be—persuaded him to go to London in your place, so apparently,it’sall under control.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Whatever “it” is.’ She pulls a letter from her bag and hands it to me.
Sienna! The girl in the bookshop!
‘Why on earth would he be going to London in your stead?’ she asks.
I close my eyes as memories begin to return in glassy fragments.China Eastern.That’s what I told Sienna to look at.Flights to London.And something about Phyllida. I have a very clear memory now of using a bolt-cutter to access the locked cellar in the bookshop and finding old letters.
‘Francis,’ I murmur, as the word appears in my mind.
My mother scowls. ‘Who the hell is Francis?’
52
DOROTHEA
1975, CAMBRIDGESHIRE, ENGLAND
‘Come with me, Francis.’
Dorothea’s head shot up. Edward loomed in the schoolroom doorway.
She closed the book they had just brought back from their weekly visit to the bookshop.The Theatre of the World.Francis was currently fascinated with theatre history and the evolution of stage design.
‘Where to?’ asked Francis, standing next to Louis, who made a cooing sound from his basket beneath a string of paper cranes.
