‘That’s right.’
She didn’t need him to ask her to do the maths. She was finding it hard to swallow, hard to breathe as the full horrific implication sank in.
‘Oh God,’ she whispered, a shaking hand covering her mouth. ‘So you’re saying that David . . .’ She looked at Pog, and he nodded.
‘Maybe David is Josie’s father.’
Chapter 33
The station looked the same as it ever did; it smelled the same too. As she stepped down onto Platform B, Amy felt the same feelings wash over her. Dread. Disappointment. That deflated feeling when you realised the party was over. The other platform always carried the opposite sentiments. Standing there, only a few yards across the tracks, she’d always felt happy, upbeat, excited. Because being on Platform A meant she was on her way east, heading out of town towards Bristol or London, heading to possibility and adventure.
She looked down at the chewing-gum-pocked asphalt under her £400 shoes. Even now, decades later, with a career and a husband and a house in the capital – for now, at least – she still felt herself cloaked in a feeling of dread that there was nothing to look forward to except chip fat and dirt and shops that seemed to close half an hour before you got there.
Sighing, she left the station, tearing her ticket in half, and walked along Sunderland Street, a ragged retail backwater of kebabs, phone shops and the lone bright beacon of Luv Me Do, Westmead’s one and only wedding outfitter. She flipped up her coat collar as she felt a spatter of rain. One thing you could say about the old neighbourhood: you never needed to look at a weather forecast. It was always shitty.
She didn’t need to look at a map either, that was another plus. She knew exactly where the florists was. Past the bakery where Jenny from school had worked, across into Church Street, then past McDonald’s – they’d been so proud when that had finally opened – and the Red Lion on the left. She wasn’t at all surprised that the florists was still going after all these years: it was perfectly placed near the pub, the funeral home and the little Tesco car park. Guilt, grief and convenience. What did surprise her was the fact that Karen still worked there; that her best friend hadn’t moved far away.
Amy paused on the other side of the road, letting the wind ripple her skirt. It had been a rash decision to head to Paddington after her lunch with Pog; rasher still to jump on a train to Bristol. But after leaving Pog, she hadn’t wanted to go home, unable to face seeing David, not after they had clawed their marriage back from the brink once already that week. It had taken over two hours to get to the florists at Westmead, and now, at a little after five o’clock, she wasn’t even sure if Karen would still be at work.
But as she looked into the window, past the display of cut flowers, she could see her, standing at the counter, a telephone clamped between ear and shoulder, presumably taking an order or arranging a delivery, just normal everyday things, what people did to get through the day. This was Karen’s life now: she lived here, worked here; did it really matter what had happened twenty years ago? Some drunken fumble in a doorway, just a bit of fun to pass the time. Why bring all that up now?
Because sometimes sleeping dogs wake up, thought Amy. And sometimes they turn around and bite you.
She crossed the road, hearing the tinkle as she pushed through the door, watching Karen look up, for a moment still lost in her conversation, not recognising her. When she did, there was surprise, yes, but no delight; no ‘Wow, my old friend is here, how nice!’ No, Karen looked scared, and that was all Amy needed to know.
‘Amy,’ she said, hanging up the phone. ‘What are you doing here?’
It was cold in the shop and Amy pulled her jacket a little tighter around her to stop of sliver of icy freeze slip down her back.
‘I’ve come to talk,’ she said simply.
Micro-expressions. She had seen something on the TV about it once. How the emotions work faster than the rational brain and how, caught off guard, people can’t help showing their true feelings. Fear, disgust, anger. And sadness. Amy saw them all pass across Karen’s face.
‘Talk? What about?’
She inclined her head towards the door. ‘Shall we go to the Lion?’
There was a tiny pause, then Karen nodded, her expression resigned now. ‘Just give me five minutes to close up. It’s time anyway.’
Amy was surprised to find the pub so quiet. Just one old guy hunched over the fruit machine and a couple with shopping bags pooled around their feet. Only the barman, barely old enough to drink himself, looked up as she walked in. She resisted the urge to order a pint of cider and black – the great-grandmother of the alcopop, she supposed – and took two glasses of warm white wine to a table at the back.
So many memories rushed in. The New Year’s piss-ups, when it was standing room only and it took a good five minutes to thread your way to the bar. Bryn’s birthday, when Mad Kev had let off a fire extinguisher, covering ev
eryone in foam, like some low-rent Ibiza rave. The endless powwows with Karen about who fancied who and who was shagging who and what to wear to which party. Carefree times, but it had never felt that way at the time; it was all so life-and-death.
Maybe everything feels important at the time, thought Amy. It certainly did right now.
She looked up and gave a half-wave as Karen walked in. Her old friend looked grave; no, she looked old. As though all those worries, all those struggles had been etched into her face. Do I look like that? wondered Amy as Karen sat down.
‘So what’s this all about?’ she said, taking a sip of her wine. ‘Josie, I guess.’
Amy’s surprise must have shown, because Karen snorted.
‘I knew she’d do something stupid in the end. You’re going to fire her, right?’
Amy frowned. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘Why else would you come all the way out here?’