“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Frank said, and he reached out and squeezed her hand. “You must be devastated.”
“I’m fi—” Libby stopped as she felt a knot in her throat.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” she said, although her voice wobbled as she said it. Libby could feel heat behind her eyes, and she pressed her hands against them. “I’m so sorry.”
“Please don’t apologize,” Frank said. “You’re allowed to cry, Libby.”
And that was it. With five simple words, the tears that Libby had been holding back for the past four weeks burst forth like a tsunami. Within seconds, she was sobbing, her whole body shaking with the effort. Frank didn’t say anything, just rested a hand on her back and gently rubbed it as she cried and cried and cried.
When she finally stopped, Frank passed her his clean handkerchief.
“I’m so sorry about that,” she sniffed.
“Don’t be silly.”
“I never normally cry. It’s just... I think you’re the first person who’s said that to me.”
“Said what?”
“That they’re sorry for me.”
“Oh, Libby.”
“I’m okay,” she said as she wiped her eyes. “My family just aren’t big on emotions or sympathy.”
“I’m a big crier, always have been,” Frank said. “Anything with animals or babies and I’m a goner. Dylan’s the same; you should see the two of us sobbing our eyes out over a David Attenborough documentary.”
Libby glanced at Frank to see if he was joking; Dylan did not strike her as the kind of man who’d cry in front of other people.
“Oh, Dylan’s a massive softie,” Frank said, chuckling. “Youknow, this morning he told me he’d watchedTitaniclast night and cried for most of the second half.”
For some reason, this fact gave Libby a flush of warmth, and she looked away so Frank wouldn’t see her reaction.
“So, how long do you think it will take the two of you to finish the route?” Frank said.
“Well, if we stick to my plan and carry on doing three trips a week, then I reckon we should be able to finish in a fortnight or so.”
“How exciting,” Frank said. “Just think. Right now, as we sit here chatting, my woman might be riding the 88 bus and see one of the posters. She might be composing a message to you as we speak!”
Libby remembered what Dylan had said to her on Wednesday about managing Frank’s expectations. “You know, she might never see the poster or find out about our search, Frank. You have to—”
“Oh, stop it, Clara. You sound like Dylan,” Frank said, cutting her off. Libby wondered if she should point out his mistake, but Frank was midflow. “Dylan is a wonderful carer, but he worries too much. I may be eighty-two, but I’m as tough as old boots.”
“I’m sure you are. I just don’t want you to be too disappointed if we don’t find her.”
“I’m not a child. I wish people would stop treating me like one.”
His tone was surprisingly sharp, and for a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Libby took in the view around them. It was busy up here at the top of the hill, dog walkers, joggers, and families with small children milling around. Libby looked behind them and saw several groups had set up picnics. Onefamily had brought a kite with them and it was high in the air now, a flash of crimson against the blue sky.
She turned back to Frank. “You know, I might start by sketching that boy with the kite. What do you think?”
Frank didn’t reply, still staring out at the panorama in front of them.
“Frank?”
He didn’t move at the sound of his name, and Libby reached across and put her hand on his arm.
