‘Huh?’
‘Who called for me?’
He shrugs. ‘I dunno. Alex someone?’
‘Alice?’
‘Could have been.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Will you shut up?’ Dad barks, shaking his head and leaning forward to hear the TV better.
I lower my voice. ‘Did she leave a message?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where is it?’
‘What?’
‘The message.’
‘Don’t remember.’
I grit my teeth. ‘You didn’t write it down?’
‘Didn’t have a pen, and I was on my way out, weren’t I?’
I try to calm my voice. ‘Do you remember anything she said?’
‘Asked for you to call her back.’
‘What’s her number?’
He shrugs.
‘Carl. What. Is. Her. Number.’
‘Can’t remember. Thought you’d have it anyway.’
Fuck’s sake.
I stand and take my plate into the kitchen, washing it up in cold water. I leave it on the drying rack and go over to the poststacked under the Quality Street tin, leafing through it until my eyes rest on the white envelope sticking out amongst the brown. My name is typed neatly on the heavy paper. Heart hammering, I glance over my shoulder to check they’re all still in the lounge. A communal wave of laughter from the sofa reassures me.
I unfold the letter, scanning the contents.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
17
ALICE
My hands are shaking as I run my finger beneath the seam, unfolding the page, but this time something falls from the envelope. I can tell before my fingers touch it that it’s an old Polaroid. Holding my breath, I turn it over, a smile forming.
It’s him.
I hold the photo tightly in one hand as I open the shutters, letting daylight brighten the room. The hue of the image is warm, like it has a filter. He’s mid-height, jet-black hair, short at the sides, scruffy on top, caught in a gust of air long gone. His eyebrows are thick, his face is angular, a heart-shape with high cheekbones. I lean forwards. Brown eyes, serious, but there is a hint of a smile there, like he’s comfortable with the person behind the camera. He’s good-looking, but almost apologetically. Behind him are a set of garages.
