He gets to his feet. I guess this means our meeting is over, so I stand up, too. We shake hands again.
‘Give me your email address and I’ll message you in an hour or so,’ he says, scratching at his beard.
‘Okay. Thanks.’ I rummage in my bag for a pen, and scribble my email on an old receipt.
He takes the address from me, nods and turns, fallen leaves crunching under his boots as he walks away.
I’m not going to worry and dwell on things like I normally would. I’m just going to do it. I close Beth’s front door and stride through the hallway, shedding my shoes, coat, hat, scarf and gloves on my way through to the bedroom.
I sit on the bed and take my phone out of my bag. I search out the number for my credit-card company, then I call them, waiting interminably for a real person to speak to. When I’m finally put through to someone, I tell them I’d like to increase my spending limit for home improvements and a family holiday. To my surprise, they agree a further four thousand pounds on my limit without a fuss. Madness if you ask me, seeing as I have no job and we’re absolutely skint. Now I’m just two grand short of the eight thousand pounds we need.
Next, I call my bank and manage to extend my overdraft limit by two thousand pounds. My heart is pounding at the thought of borrowing such vast sums of money. But I can’t dwell on it. It’s worth it to get Darcy off my back, to expose her for who she really is. To get Jared to believe me. To reclaim my life.
Max’s email already came through, so I open up the website and add all the gear he’s listed to my basket, checking and double-checking that I’ve got it right. I pay extra fornext-day deliverylike he suggested, so I should receive the order tomorrow. Finally, I press thecheckout and paybutton, swallowing down my fear at spending such a vast sum of borrowed money. I text Max to let him know it’s done.
Only moments ago, my account was showing a whole heap of zeros. Now, I barely have enough money left over for a weekly grocery shop. Jared and I have no savings, and my credit card is completely maxed out. I should’ve asked the bank to extend my overdraft by a bit more, so I at least had a little cushion to tide me over. I can’t panic about it now. Just take one day at a time. Money is the least of my worries.
I leave the bedroom and pad down the hall into the kitchen. Maybe a spot of lunch will stop my head from swimming and my stomach from rolling. My gait is unsteady like I’m walking across the deck of a heaving ship. I put my hands out onto the walls to steady myself for a moment. I take a breath and continue on. I need to stay strong for my son. Whatever else is going on, I still have Joe to think about.
Dusk softens the edges of the day as I walk down the hill towards school, excited to see my son, at last. It’s only been two days, but it feels like forever since I last saw his sweet face. Even though I’m skint, I’ve decided to take him out for a pizza. We could both do with a treat after all the upset of the past few days. There’s a new trattoria at Penn Hill. I’ve heard good things about it. The alternative is to go back to Beth’s and brood about everything.
I walk through the school gates, flexing my fingers in a futile attempt to warm my hands. It’s bone-chillingly cold, the tang of snow and wood smoke in the air. As I enter the playground, my gaze remains firmly on the ground, I’m wary of catching anyone’s eye after what happened here on Friday. And if Darcy approaches me, I’ve decided I’m not even going to engage with her. I’ll simply back away and ignore anything she says. Luckily, the dark evenings mean I can stay relatively hidden, my hair tied back in a ponytail, a thick woollen hat wedged down low over my forehead.
I’m right on time. Mrs Landry is standing outside with her line of pupils. She’s stamping her feet and blowing on her hands as she releases each child into the care of their parents. I don’t see Joe in the line, but it’s quite a jumble of children, and it’s almost dark so I’m sure he’s there somewhere. Either that, or he’s forgotten something and has run back in to get it. I’m loath to step forward and draw any attention to myself, so I wait until the crowd of parents has thinned.
Joe is definitely not in the line of children. I hope Jared hasn’t gone against our agreement and picked him up without telling me. I pull my phone out of my bag, tug one of my gloves off with my teeth, and check to see he hasn’t called me. No. There are no missed calls or texts. I ring my voicemail, just in case. My phone has an annoying habit of being selective about which alerts it chooses to show me. But there’s nothing there either.
There are just two children standing with Mrs Landry now, neither of whom is Joe. I skirt around the edge of the playground, trying to make myself as invisible as possible.
‘Hello.’ I smile at Joe’s teacher.
‘Mrs Sullivan,’ she says without smiling back.
‘Just wondering where Joe is. Is he still inside?’
Mrs Landry holds her hand up to halt our conversation for a moment. She turns away to relinquish another child. ‘Yes, goodbye, Eva.’ They shake hands and the girl runs over to her dad who’s just come into the playground.
‘Joe?’ I enquire again.
She frowns. ‘He had a playdate with Tyler today. Did you forget?’ She gives a brief wave to another parent who collects the last remaining child from her.
My pulse begins to race, partly in anger, partly in fear. ‘Joe certainly did not have a playdate with Tyler,’ I say. ‘Aren’t you supposed to have a note from the parents if someone else picks up your child from school?’
Mrs Landry’s mouth drops open, and then she purses her lips. She reaches into her pocket and fumbles around for a moment, bringing out a crumpled tissue and a square of blue paper. She hands me the paper. ‘Your note,’ she says crisply.
I take it from her and hold it out so it’s illuminated by the exterior wall light. It’s handwritten in what looks to be almost exactly like my handwriting. The date at the top is today’s date. The note itself says:
Hi Mrs Landry
Just to let you know, Joe is going back to Tyler Lane’s house today after school.
Thanks so much
Louisa Sullivan
My signature is on the note. It’s exactly the kind of brief letter I would write if Joe was going on a playdate. Only, I didn’t write this one, and I don’t even have any notepaper like that.
‘Where did you get this?’ I say.
