My manager, Owen, sent me home the next day. He’d been out all morning so hadn’t seen me until I met him for a meeting that afternoon about a large Steiff collection we’d been bequeathed. He took one look at my pale face and the bags under my eyes and said, ‘Right, that’s it! The meeting can wait until next week. You look like death warmed up. You need to get home and under your duvet right now.’
I protested that I wasn’t ill; just worried about mum and a few other things. I couldn’t bring myself to say I might have been ghosted, especially since I’d been bouncing off the walls with excitement on Monday as I flashed my engagement ring to everyone.
‘Worry can make us ill and we sometimes just need to rest,’ Owen said. ‘So off you go and I don’t want to see you back until Monday. Go home and see your family again. Maybe accompany your mum to her doctor’s appointment. And I don’t expect you to take it as holiday. You’ve put in more than enough extra hours since you started here so let’s call it a day and a bit in lieu.’
Walking through the door to the flat a little after half three, I found my list on the coffee table with a note from Drew:
Jemma
Sorry I missed you this morning. Hope you’re OK.
Got called into work to cover sickness but managed to call 1st x 8 companies before I left. Lots of bitchy receptionists playing ‘gatekeeper’ but I charmed the pants off them of course! None of them have a Scott Hastings working there. The numbers don’t work for the 2 companies I’ve put a cross next to.
Sorry I couldn’t do more, but I can probably call some more tomorrow after work.
Drew xx
I stood in the lounge with Drew’s note in my hand. I liked the idea of going home again, but it would be peak commuting time by the time I got packed and over to King’s Cross. If I tried some more numbers then packed, I could get a less crowded train.
Retrieving my laptop, a notepad, and a pen from my bedroom, I sat at the dining table and loaded up the first website whilst trying to psyche myself up to making the call. What would I say if I found the right company? Hello, my name’s Jemma Browne and the Scott Hastings who you’ve just said works for you asked me to marry him on Friday but seems to have deleted me from his life since then. Is there a way you can put me through to him so I find out what the hell’s going on? Thank you so much for your help.
Hmmm.
Sod it! I’d cross that bridge if it came to it. And it would never come to it if I didn’t dial.
‘Good afternoon, you’re through to Energest Ltd, how may I help?’ said a female in a sing-song tone when the first call connected.
‘Hi, erm, yes, I wondered if you can help me. I’m trying to get hold of someone … erm, someone I know… erm… Does a Scott Hastings work for you?’
‘I’m sorry, but it’s company policy that we don’t give out the names of any staff members.’
‘I’m not asking you to give out any names. I know his name. I just want to know if he works there.’
I could hear the sickly sweet smile in her tone and picture her rolling her eyes at a colleague or a visitor standing by the reception desk. ‘I’m sorry, caller, but that’s the same thing. I can’t confirm or deny anyone works here.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘There are many very sensible reasons why we have this policy to safeguard our staff. Can I help you with anything else?’
‘Yes. What would you have done if I’d asked straight out to be put through to Scott Hastings.’
‘I’d have put you straight through if there was a Scott Hastings working here.’
‘Then can you put me through to Scott Hastings please?’
‘I’m sorry, we don’t appear to have a Scott Hastings working here.’
‘So why didn’t you just say that in the first place?’
‘Because I’m not permitted to give out staff names and you–’
I hung up. What a stupid, pointless conversation. But I’d learned a lesson. I brought up the next website and dialled the number.
‘Hello, you’re through to Atkinson and Associates, how may I direct your call?’ It was a man this time.
‘Hi, yes, erm… please can you put me through to Scott Hastings?’
‘Scott Hastings?’
My stomach lurched. Was that a hint of recognition in his voice? ‘Yes. Scott Hastings.’
‘How are you spelling that?’
‘Is there more than one way to spell it?’
‘I don’t think so, but I thought I’d better check. We’ve got a Scott Harris. He works out of our Dubai office. Is that who you’re looking for?’
‘No. Thank you anyway.’
I’d only called two companies and I was losing the will to live. I owed Drew big time for getting through eight. I logged onto the next company website.
‘Good morning… sorry… afternoon,’ giggled a young female with a Welsh accent. ‘It’s been a long day! The Kelshaw Group. Chloe speaking.’
‘Hi. Can you put me through to Scott Hastings please.’
‘One moment.’ Some hideously tinny hold music started and so did the racing of my heart. Did that mean Chloe was about to put me through? Was I about to speak to Scott? What if he refused to take the call? What if he cut me off?
The music stopped. ‘Sorry, what was that name again?’ Chloe said.
My heart sank. ‘Scott Hastings.’
‘Bear with me.’ I shook my head as the hold music started again. It always seemed strange when anyone said that expression with it being the name of Mum’s shop. It felt like they’d stolen her phrase.
I stared at my laptop as various photos scrolled on the company’s website: buildings, pylons, waves, machines, tools, engineering drawings. Yawn!
The music stopped again. ‘I’m sorry to keep you,’ Chloe said. ‘I’m having a bit of a trouble finding a Scott Hastings, but I’m temping. It’s my first day. Does he definitely work here?’
I hesitated then crossed my fingers. It was easier not to explain. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m looking down the list and he’s not on it, but my colleague did say that it’s a bit out of date. Has he worked here for long?’
‘Quite a few years.’
‘Oh. Then he should be on this list. Let me try one more place.’ She didn’t bother putting me on hold this time. I could hear her riffling through some papers and muttering under her breath. I continued to stare at the photos on the website. More pylons… lightning bolt (quite pretty that one)… some sort of power station… Oh. My. God!
‘That’s him!’ I squealed.
‘What’s him?’ Chloe said.
‘On your website. Can you get your website up? There’s a photo of two men at an exhibition. Scott’s the one on the left. I’ve found him! He definitely works for you.’ I clicked on the photo to stop it scrolling.
‘Just a second. Let me get onto the right photo. One moment. Erm… Hilary? I’ve got a caller who wants to speak to Scott Hastings but I can’t find him. She says he’s in this picture.’
‘What picture?’ said a muffled voice. ‘Give me the phone a minute.’ There were some scrabbling sounds as the phone was passed over. ‘Hello, you’re through to Hilary on reception. Can I help you?’
‘Yes. I’m trying to get through to Scott Hastings but Chloe can’t find him. He’s in the picture on your website, though. The one at the exhibition.’
‘I’m looking at it now. The one on the left or the right?’
‘The one on the left as you look at it. The younger one.’
‘That’s Adam. Adam Hannigan.’
‘No. Adam’s Scott’s colleague. Who’s the other one?’
‘That’s Ian Pilsner. He left the company last year. Gosh, we must get this photo updated.’
‘No. That can’t be right. Are you looking at a photo of two men holding cli
pboards in front of a banner that says, “Into the Future”?’
‘Yes.’
‘The younger one with the dark hair and jacket is…?
‘Adam Hannigan,’ Hilary said.
‘And the one with blond hair and no jacket is…?’
‘Ian Pilsner.’
‘You’re absolutely sure the dark-haired one in the jacket isn’t Scott Hastings?’
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know a Scott Hastings. That’s definitely Adam Hannigan. Did you want to speak to Adam?’
I felt sick. My mouth kept opening and closing but I couldn’t form any words.
‘Hello? Are you still there?’
‘Yes,’ I whispered.
‘Did you want to speak to Adam…?’
I shook my head, which I knew was pointless over the phone, but I couldn’t speak. Several phones were now ringing in the background.
‘…because if you do, you’re best leaving it a couple of weeks. You might find it easier to drop him an email. It’s [email protected]. Is there anything else I can help you with?’ The phones were still ringing and I could hear the urgency in Hilary’s voice to get me off the phone.
‘No. That’s all.’
‘Thanks for calling The Kelshaw Group. Goodbye.’
Adam Hannigan? ADAM HANNIGAN? What the hell was going on? There was only one way to find out.
To: Adam Hannigan
From: Jemma Browne
Subject: Important Question
Hi Scott … or should it be Adam?
I’m sorry to contact you at work but, given that you seem to have cut contact through any other method, I don’t think you’ve left me much choice.
I just have one question for you: WHY?
My mum has been diagnosed with Parkinson’s. I needed you and you weren’t there. I’ve got the message loud and clear that you don’t want to be, but I think you owe it to me to explain why, including why you lied about your name. Don’t you?
A reply came back instantly.
To: Jemma Browne
From: Adam Hannigan
Subject: Out of Office Response RE: Important Question
I’m on paternity leave for two weeks. Back on 11th July. Please contact John Eccles in my absence.
Oh! I guess that answered my question.
Chapter 10
Jemma
‘Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?’ Mum flashed me a sideways concerned look as she drove us to her appointment with the consultant the following afternoon. ‘You don’t seem yourself. Whilst I’m thrilled to have you home for two weekends in a row, I can’t help thinking it’s because something’s wrong.’
I was going to tell her – no secrets – but I wanted to focus on the appointment. If she knew about Scott, she’d suggest cancelling or, if it went ahead, she’d be distracted. We had the rest of Friday and the whole weekend ahead of us. I’d tell her when the timing was better.
Trying to smile when my world had fallen apart wasn’t easy. ‘I’m tired. Still recovering from last weekend. I don’t think I can party as hard as I used to.’
Mum laughed. ‘Lightweight. Wait till you hit my age. Then you’ll really have something to complain about.’
She knew, of course. She knew I was lying, but she also knew me well enough to accept that I’d tell her when I was ready. I stared out of the window while she sang along to Never Gonna Give You Up by Rick Astley playing on Bay Radio. A huge fan of 80s music, the cheesier the better, Scott regularly sang it to me. Then he’d turn to me and say: “Never gonna give you up, Jemma, because I love you only.” We’d laugh at the cheesiness of the statement but I loved it really. What a joke! Loved me only? Far from it. What about the woman who’d given birth to his baby? Or babies perhaps? The more I thought about the last text he’d sent me before he ghosted me – Adam’s wife had twins yesterday. Boy and girl. 8 weeks early and not doing so well. Feel a bit helpless – the more convinced I was that he’d been talking about himself. Maybe Scott loved me only, but Scott only existed in the imagination of some bloke called Adam who I didn’t know from… er… Adam!
At the flat, I’d stared at the out of office email, my stomach doing somersaults. In a frenzy, I clicked onto LinkedIn, just in case Hilary on reception had made a mistake. There he was: Scott Hastings staring back at me under the profile of Adam Hannigan. Dashing to the bathroom, I’d slumped over the toilet bowl, gasping for breath, but nothing came up. Somehow I found the strength to haul myself to my feet. I brushed my teeth, splashed some water over my face and, in auto-pilot, packed a bag for the weekend. I’d half expected to find mismatched outfits and no knickers when I’d arrived at Mum’s but somehow I’d managed to throw in enough clothes to avoid clashing colours or a patterns and patterns disaster.
Catching the tube to Kings Cross, I’d felt like I was in a dream. Faces seemed fuzzy, colours blended into each other, and noises were muffled as though I was underwater. The train to York had been heaving thanks to the previous one being cancelled. I’d stood by a window in the lobby for two hours staring at the blurred fields and hedgerows, replaying every single conversation I could remember having with Scott, trying to make sense of the lie I’d lived for the past 18 months. I wanted to disbelieve it. I wanted that so badly but the photographic and written evidence had been there.
I thought back to that final conversation I’d had with him at the races when he’d said he had something he wanted to say to me. What if it hadn’t been that he wanted to elope? What if he’d been planning to confess about his secret life as Adam Hannigan? What if he was going to tell me about the wife and twins but he’d chickened out? Because, let’s face it, how do you tell the woman you’ve just proposed to that you can’t actually get married to her because you’re already married to someone else? Oh, and she won’t become Mrs Hastings because that’s not your name? And when he’d said that he wasn’t perfect, had he been trying to tell me about his real identity then? Was it my fault? Had I not given him the opportunity to confess? No! I couldn’t blame myself. This was all Scott. When I’d met him that stormy January evening, I hadn’t said, “Hi, my name’s Jemma. What’s your name, but please give me a fake name rather than your real one?”
‘We’re here,’ Mum said, jolting me back to the present. ‘It’s party time!’
I knew she was worried despite the joviality. ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked as we walked across the car park towards the hospital entrance.
‘Great.’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘Nervous. I’ve had a couple of bad days this week. They’re getting more frequent. I’m worried he might tell me I can’t drive.’
At the start of the week, in between bombarding Scott with emails, texts and voicemails, I’d spent my evenings researching Parkinson’s and knew that the driving ban was a very real risk. ‘Have you had any stiffening whilst driving?’
‘Not yet, but I think it’s only a matter of time. When I’ve got up and known it’s a bad day, I’ve caught the bus to the shop. Generally it’s been either a good day or a bad day, but I’m anticipating more bad days.’
‘Today’s a good day?’ I was slightly apprehensive about the answer given that she’d said she’d already had a couple of bad days this week.
‘It’s an okay day.’
‘What’s a bad day like?’
Mum stopped walking. ‘You really want to know?’
I nodded. ‘I know you joked that climbing the stairs feels like climbing Everest which, funnily enough, I’ve never done. I’m guessing slow and painful?’
Mum linked my arm and pulled gently on it to indicate we should continue walking. ‘Remember that time you did cross country at school and you got cramp so badly when you were running across Moor View Farm that you couldn’t stay on your feet? You said you’ve never been in so much pain in your life.’
Despite it being 15 y
ears ago, I could still remember that day clearly, writhing around on the grass in agony, clutching onto my leg. ‘It’s like that?’ I whispered.
‘It can be. And, when it is, it’s not just in one calf. It’s like every muscle in my legs has tensed from my hips to my toes. It’s like my joints are on fire. It’s like my legs are about to explode which I hope they don’t because that wouldn’t be pretty.’
‘Oh Mum!’
‘Other days, I don’t have cramps, but I can barely move. It feels like my feet are encased in cement and I can’t budge, like that first time in my workshop. Then there’s the exhaustion. I get up and my whole body aches. You know that feeling you get if you’ve been decorating or gardening all day and your muscles feel tired and heavy? It’s like that. Then there’s the times when I get all fidgety and can’t sit still. There’s this feeling of restlessness throughout my body and I have to move. But when I move, it’s slow. What’s that all about? Do you want me to go on?’
A tear slipped down my cheek as I hugged her.
‘Sorry, Jem,’ she whispered into my hair, ‘but you asked and we don’t keep secrets in this family, so I hope you’re going to tell me yours after my appointment.’
‘I will. I promise. Let’s focus on you for now, though.’
We set off towards the hospital again. Poor Mum. She was putting on a brave face and she’d even tried to sound upbeat as she’d described her condition, but this had knocked her for six and I could tell she was struggling to cope with it. She’d always been a bundle of energy, balancing her valuing roles, bear-making, travel, the shop, and being a mum. If Parkinson’s was slowing her down, it followed that she was going to have to slow down her workload. And she wasn’t going to like that. At all. I suspected that things were about to get very difficult.
Chapter 11
Sam
‘Oh my God! I love Whitsborough Bay!’ Tania’s eyes shone with excitement from across the table in the pub. ‘My grandparents used to hire a static caravan there every summer and my brother and I would go and stay with them. You’re so lucky to have lived there.’
Bear With Me Page 8
