The sensible thing to do was to call her on her mobile. But, as I suspected even before I’d found her number in my own phone, her phone didn’t answer. It simply rang and rang. So there was nothing to do but carry on with my packing and await her return.
Four o’clock came and went. I was angry now. She hadn’t thought to let me know what she was up to – and at the very least she should consider that I had work to get done and couldn’t sit with her dog forever. I was just bumping my suitcase down the steps to my car when hers pulled up outside.
She smiled as she saw me, but there was something else in her expression. Something I recognised from when we’d both been teenagers and she’d ‘borrowed’ one of my tops for the night.
She got out of the car, colouring a little.
‘I’m so sorry, Sis,’ she said. ‘You must have been wondering where on earth I’ve been. There was an accident on the M4. I’ve been stuck for hours.’
I stood my case by the front garden gate and looked squarely at her.
‘No, there wasn’t,’ I said. ‘You’ve been back here.’
She blinked at me. ‘No, I –’
‘Look, Ffion, if you don’t want to tell me what it’s all about, fine, but at least stop all this cloak-and-dagger stuff.’
She held my gaze for a second, then dropped her eyes and seemed to crumple inside her clothes. She shut the car door and headed up the pavement towards me, looking as vulnerable, suddenly, as she’d done all those years ago.
‘Megan, look, I’m sorry, OK. Yo u ’ r e absolutely right.’
‘And?’
She glanced up at the clouds. ‘Let’s get inside.’
CHAPTER SIX
I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT I expected my sister to tell me, but the look on her face was already telling me a great deal. Yes, she had been back, yes she had got hold of Jack, but, no, she couldn’t tell me any more than that.
‘But why can’t you?’ I insisted. ‘What’s it all about?’ She looked, by this time, close to tears. ‘Is it something to do with Scott?’
She perched herself on one of the two stools in the kitchen. A single tear tracked down her cheek.
‘It’s nothing to do with Scott,’ she said, brushing it away and sniffing. Her hands were shaking. ‘Well, it is, in a way, but, look, Megan, you must understand that it’s really nothing to do with you.’ She said this gently, as if to reassure me that she didn’t mean for me to be offended. I wasn’t sure where to go next. Years ago I had sat with her in much the same way, Ffion dulled by anti-depressants and resolutely not speaking, me wondering how on earth to get her to talk to me. It suddenly felt like only yesterday.
‘So you’re telling me everything’s all right, then. Is that it?’
‘As far as you’re concerned, yes. I’m sorry, but this isn’t something I can share with you, Megan. I really don’t want you to become involved, OK? There’s nothing you can do about it. There’s nothing to do. Jack was – is – someone I once knew, that’s all. And I’ve heard from him. And I’ve been in touch with him. And it’s…well…’ She seemed to be choosing her words very carefully. ‘It’s brought back some painful memories, that’s all.’
I took her hand and squeezed it.
‘I just wish you’d tell me what. I hate going off and leaving you in such a state.’
She composed herself and stood up. ‘Megan, you can’t sort this one out for me. I know you worry, but I’m an adult and I will sort it out myself. I’ll be fine.’
I had to be satisfied with that. Ffion was my s i s t e r, after all, not my daughter, however much it might have felt that way after our mum died. She’d made it perfectly plain that I wasn’t to be involved, and that things were going to stay that way. Nevertheless, it was with an entirely put-on smile on my face that I left the flat an hour later. Old habits, I thought as I drove, died hard.
Being physically removed from Ffion’s problems was always helpful. Back in west Wales I would have heaps of work to do – a meeting to attend in the morning, and all that new term’s planning that I should have been doing all week. She wasn’t my responsibility. I would just have to put it out of my mind.
At home, I unpacked and decided to get myself organised. I was hungry, for one thing. Though Ben had left the place pretty tidy (only a smallish hillock in the wash basket) there was nothing but a jar of pickled chillies in the fridge. I would pop to the shops, then get down to some work. When I’d called Ffion to let her know I’d got home safely, she sounded much more like her usual breezy self. Quite jolly, in fact, so much so that I was almost convinced it was genuine. I began to wonder, yet again, if I hadn’t blown things up out of all proportion.
On Monday morning, however, when I was sorting through my handbag, I realised I’d come home with all her house keys. In the tense half hour following her return, I’d completely forgotten to give them back. She had another front door key, of course, but the keyring in my hand held all the rest. She’d no doubt realise I had them, but it would be a good excuse to get in touch. I tried her mobile, but it didn’t answer, and then I remembered she’d said she was driving to Manchester, so before I set off for my meeting at school, I rang her office instead.
I dialled the main switchboard, and was soon connected to Marie in the publicity office. I’d spoken to Marie before and she greeted me w a r m l y, chattily asking about my week at Ffion’s, before asking what she could help me with.
‘I was wondering if you had a number for Ffion at the hotel.’ I explained about the keys.
‘Hotel?’
‘In Manchester,’ I said. ‘Only I didn’t want her to worry –’
‘Manchester? She’s not in Manchester. Well, not as far as I know. She’s had to take a couple of days leave. She’s not back in till…let me see…’ I could hear the sound of pages being flicked. ‘Thursday. Yes. She’ll be back on Thursday. We’ve got a cover meeting for Scott’s next title, as it happens, and I know she wanted to be back for that. But if she calls in, I’ll certainly let her know.’
‘Oh,’ I said, my worries returning like a swarm of angry wasps. ‘I didn’t realise. She never said.’
‘Well, she only just let me know. She called me at home last night…’ A pause. ‘You don’t think something’s wrong, do you?’
I wondered if I should confide in Marie. No, I decided. No sense in making a drama out of a crisis. Or a crisis out of drama, even. Ffion had always been good at dramas.
‘Oh, I’m sure there isn’t,’ I said, trying to believe it myself. ‘I’m sure I’ll catch up with her on her mobile later. But if you do speak to her, let her know I called, won’t you?’
I was due in school in less than thirty minutes, but after I put the phone down, I couldn’t seem to galvanise myself to get out of the door. What on earth was going on? Where had she gone? My sister had been many things over the years. Depressed, unhappy, difficult. But a liar? Never. Yet she’d now lied to me twice in as many days.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I TRIED THE FLAT. No answer. I tried Ffion’s mobile again. Ditto. Vaguely, I wondered what was happening with the dog. What on earth was she doing? Should I ring Scott? No. That might be the last thing she wanted. I picked up my school bag and tried hard to keep calm. Keep your nose out, I told myself. Don’t worry. Don’t get involved. On the other hand…I wondered. Yes. On the other hand, I could ring Tom.
It didn’t take more than a couple of minutes to get Petersons’ number from directory enquiries, and thirty seconds later I was calling his office, and scribbling his mobile number on the pad by the phone.
He was on site. The steady thump of heavy machines almost drowned out his voice.
‘Hang on,’ he said, once I’d told him who it was. ‘I’ll find somewhere quieter.’
The din began to ease up.
‘Hi, Megan,’ he said. He didn’t sound remotely surprised to be hearing from me. Just resigned. Which was telling. He sighed. ‘What is it?’
I told him about Ffion’s sudden disapp
earance.
‘I’m sorry to be bothering you with this,’ I finished. ‘Only I’m…well…’ Well what? She could just be out shopping, couldn’t she? No. I knew my sister too well. And Tom. I took a breath. ‘Only I’m not sure you were being completely honest with me on Saturday evening, Tom. You do know something about this Jack guy, don’t you?’
The silence that greeted this statement told me I’d been right. He had lied. Nothing new there, then.
‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘Well, yes and no. I do know of a Jack.’ He paused again.
‘And?’
‘But he’s dead, Megan. He’s been dead twelve years.’ I heard this statement along with a clamour of bell-ringing. A ghost. She said she’d seen a ghost. What on earth was all this about? ‘So it can’t be him, can it?’ he finished.
I sat down by the phone, my mind spinning. Someone she used to know. Someone who brought back painful memories. But what memories? ‘I think perhaps it can,’ I said. ‘Are you absolutely sure he’s dead? Who was he?’
‘Megan, look,’ he answered. ‘I can’t talk to you right now. Someone’s waiting for me. Can I call you back?’
‘Tom, can’t you just tell me? How do you know this Jack? Who is he? Who was he?’ He sighed again. ‘Megan, give me your number, and I’ll get back to you once I’m finished here.’ There was no point trying to hassle him. I gave him my number. ‘But I’m off out now. School meeting. We’ll
finish around two. Can we talk then?’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you at two.’
The meeting seemed to go on forever. The weather was gearing itself up for a storm and the walls of the staff room pressed in on all sides. But we finished a little after one, and, reluctantly saying no to a trip to the local pub for some lunch, I headed straight home to take Tom’s call.
I got there a little after one-thirty. I let myself in and threw open half a dozen downstairs windows. I’d tried Ffion’s mobile again without success, and when the phone rang I thought it might be her. But it was her fiancé, Scott.
‘Sorry to trouble you,’ he said. ‘But Ffion isn’t with you, is she?’
‘No,’ I answered. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of her myself, as it happens.’
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘It’s just she just seemed a bit, I don’t know, odd last night. And she’s not in her office, and I can’t reach her on her mobile. I was wondering if she’d said anything to you.’
I wasn’t sure whether to tell him or not. I needed to speak to Tom.
‘Probably off at a signing or something,’ I said, trying to keep my voice light. ‘Or out on a secret wedding dress mission, perhaps.’
‘Hmm,’ he said again. ‘Oh, well. I dare say she’ll turn up later. No problem.’
I fervently hoped he was right.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS WELL PAST two by the time Tom called back.
‘So,’ he said, without preamble. ‘Have you tracked Ffion down?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘And her fiancé’s just been on the phone. He hasn’t seen anything of her either. Look, I know Ffion’s problems are really nothing to do with you any more, but whatever you know about this guy, I’d really appreciate knowing too. I have a huge pile of paperwork to get through and I could really do without all this angst.’
‘Just like old times, eh?’
‘Quite.’
‘OK.’ He sounded apologetic. ‘Look, I’ve racked my brains and I don’t see any way it can be him. Like I said, the only Jack I knew died a long time ago in a car crash.’
‘But who was he?’
His voice was short. ‘A guy she was in love with.’
An old boyfriend. I had guessed as much. ‘But how did you –’
‘Houston, you are a teensy bit slow on the uptake. Because she was married to me at the time. You get the drift?’
I got the drift. ‘You mean she was seeing this guy when –’
‘Yes,’ he said shortly.
I was stunned. Ffion? An affair? Ffion who’d sat and wept endlessly in my arms about her marriage? Ffion who’d been so hurt by Tom? Ffion, who’d spent at least a year of her life barely able to function, let alone go gadding around seeing other men?
‘I can’t believe it,’ I said finally. ‘When? For how long?’
‘Two and a half, three years. I don’t know exactly when it started, but I can tell you exactly when it finished.’
‘When?’
‘When he died, of course.’
I was thinking fast now. ‘Or didn’t. How did you find out?’
‘Ffion told me, of course.’
Another lie? No. She must have believed it herself. Why else react as she did when Jack had called? ‘Well, there can’t be two of them, surely? And it all makes sense. It must be him. Tom, believe me, when I said his name, it was as if she’d been hit by a truck.’
He sounded thoughtful. ‘And you think she’s gone somewhere to meet him?’
‘I don’t know what to think. She said she’d been in touch with him when she came back on Sunday. But would something – someone – from so long ago really have such a dramatic effect?’
‘This is Ffion we’re talking about,’ he said, echoing my own thoughts. ‘You don’t know the half of it, Megan. Really you don’t.’
But I was beginning to. It all suddenly seemed to fit. Her depression, her illness, Tom’s affair.
‘I’m stunned,’ I said. ‘God, Tom. How did I manage not to know about this? I can’t believe she never told me about him. And all the while I was thinking you were cheating on her.’
‘It wasn’t up to me to put you straight, Megan.’
‘I’m sorry. I know that. But how come I never sensed it? Had any idea, even?’
‘Why would you?’ he said wryly. ‘I didn’t.’
I couldn’t begin to imagine how much I’d got wrong. ‘So he’s alive, and now he’s found her again – but why should she be so secretive about it? I mean, you’ve been divorced eight years. Unless…I mean, what about Scott?’ I thought for a moment and answered my own question. ‘I suppose she wants to see him – I mean, if you thought someone you cared about had been dead for years and they suddenly showed up, then you would want to see them, wouldn’t you? And I suppose with Scott – well, she wouldn’t want him to know, would she? Not if she hadn’t told him.’
‘Oh, believe me, she wouldn’t have told Scott about Jack.’
‘So she’s probably gone off to meet him somewhere and hopefully that’ll be that.’ I was shocked, but relieved as well. If only she’d told me before. ‘And she’s right,’ I said. ‘It isn’t any of my business. Whatever he was to her, well, twelve years is a very long time, and –’
‘Megan,’ he interrupted. ‘It’s not as simple as that. If this Jack is the one I’m talking about…’ He paused for a long moment.
‘What?’ I said.
‘He’s Emily’s father.’
CHAPTER NINE
I WAS AT A loss for words. Not so much because I couldn’t find the words, but because there were so many of them, all fighting for space in my brain. I couldn’t believe it, yet it must be true. Who would joke about something like that?
‘I can’t believe you just told me that,’ I said to Tom.
‘It’s true, nevertheless,’ he said. His voice had changed, had become flat and toneless. No wonder he’d looked so upset on Saturday when I’d asked him if he knew who Jack was.
‘But how –’ I began. ‘I mean, have you always known? And what about Ffion? And what about Emily? Does she know?’
‘No.’ There was an edge to his voice now. ‘She knows nothing about it, and she isn’t about to. Megan, I…look. We need to talk. I need to talk. But I have to get back to work. Can I call you later? Or better still, can we meet up? Have you got anything on this evening?’
Anything I might have been doing would have seemed trivial in comparison. But it was Monday evening, and I had nothing more pressing to attend to than a basket of ir
oning.
‘Of course we need to talk,’ I said. ‘But you’re in Cardiff and I’m out here. Do you want to meet somewhere halfway?’
‘Where’s here?’ he asked. Of course. He’d no reason to know where I lived these days.
‘ I t ’s a village just outside Pembroke,’ I told him. I gave him the details. ‘So I guess we could meet up somewhere near the motorway –’
‘No, no,’ he interrupted. ‘I’ll come to you. Shouldn’t take me more than a couple of hours. I’ll finish up here and drive straight down. Say be there around seven?’
‘Don’t you have to get home?’
‘I’m sure the cat will cope,’ he said grimly.
The afternoon, now hijacked, stretched before me, but there was no question of getting any more work done today. Emily not Tom’s daughter? I still couldn’t believe it. More incredible still was that during all the years Ffion had confided in me she never let slip even the tiniest hint about all this. What had she done? How did it all happen? Why was Tom bringing up another man’s child?
But going over and over it was pointless. The answers I wanted would be coming with Tom, at seven.
He arrived at a quarter to. He’d called me for directions five minutes before. When he arrived, I was trying to revive the neglected tubs of flowers in the front garden. He slammed the door of the car and walked up the path, shoulders slightly drooped.
‘A lost cause, I think,’ he said, nodding towards the flowers.
I put down my watering can and led him inside.
‘Forgot to remind my son to water them,’ I said regretfully. ‘Are you hungry?’
He shook his head as he took off his jacket and yanked at the knot of his tie. I pulled out a chair for him at the kitchen table, feeling all at once self-conscious. And guilty, as well, that I’d spent so many years angry with him. ‘A drink, then?’
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