Nadia Knows Best (5 page)

The letter had arrived this morning. Alone in her bedroom, sitting at her dressing table, Miriam carefully unfolded it and read it for the third time.

This was the trouble with the world today. Too much information technology. Everyone had access to computers and the computers knew too damn much about everything.

It had all been so simple fifty-odd years ago. If you wanted to disappear, you could. You just did it, moved to another part of the country and put the past firmly behind you where it belonged. The world carried on exactly as it had before, and you made a new life for yourself. A happy life.

And it
had
been a happy life, she'd made sure of that.

What was the point of dragging all this old stuff up now?

Raising her head, Miriam gazed impatiently at her reflection in the beveled mirror. It was the eyes, of course. They were what had given her away. She was seventy years old and the rest of her body was showing all the normal signs of wear and tear. But her eyes had remained the same.

Bloody Edward, this was all his fault. Him and his illustrious career in neuro-sodding-psychiatry. When he had been invited to perform the official opening of a new research institute in Berkshire it hadn't occurred to Miriam for a moment that accompanying him to the ceremony would have such far-reaching consequences. When a press photographer had taken their picture together and asked for her name she had given it to him without a second thought.

Who could have imagined that someone might spot her face in the newspaper, put two and two together (as, of course, they had), and actually manage to track her down through some voting register on the Internet?

Miriam heaved a sigh of irritation mingled with fear. Didn't privacy count for anything these days? Did the people who set up these sites ever stop to think how much trouble they could be stirring up?

It had all happened fifty-two years ago, for heaven's sake. One little blip, that was all. After fifty-two years you'd think you were safe from the consequences of a blip.

Tempting though it was to simply rip the letter up and throw it in the bin, Miriam knew she couldn't do that. Carefully she picked up her fountain pen, copied the sender's home address onto the front of the envelope, and crossed out her own. In big capitals she wrote “RETURN TO SENDER. NOT KNOWN AT THIS ADDRESS.” Then she slid the letter back into the torn-open envelope and taped it shut.

Better not stick it in the postbox across the road; when their local postman came to collect the letter he might think she'd gone barking mad and insist on giving it back to her. Pleased with herself for having thought of this, Miriam put the letter in her shirt pocket—she'd post it later, somewhere suitably anonymous—and picked up her red lipstick, ready to give her mouth another coat.

The door flew open.

“Can you see a mark on my face?” shouted Clare. “Fingerprints?”

“No, darling.”

“
There
,” Clare insisted, moving closer and pointing frantically to her left cheek.

There was a very faint mark, a smidgen of redness.

Miriam patted her hand. “You poor, brave child. Let's take you to the ER this minute and demand only the finest plastic surgeon.”

“Don't make fun. It hurts.” Peering into the mirror, Clare prodded her cheek, encouraging the redness. “Nadia slapped me.”

“Did she? Never mind, darling, I expect you deserved it.”

“I did
not
deserve it. Honestly,” Clare raged, “I came up here for some sympathy and you're taking her side. I should have ripped all her hair out.” Her eyes narrowed. “Who was that bloke she brought back anyway?”

“Hmm?” Leaning closer to the mirror, Miriam applied her lipstick then pressed her lips together. “The rather nice looking one?”

“I didn't notice,” lied Clare.

“Well, Nadia mentioned something about a new job. He seemed charming, I must say.”

“He was going to buy one of my paintings at the Harrington and bloody Nadia persuaded him not to.” Clare was still incensed.

“Oh well, I'm sure she had her reasons. Maybe you did something to upset her.”

“But I didn't!”

“Like wittering on about Laurie,” Miriam said.

“Oh please. All I did was mention that he was at the Oscars.”

“You know she doesn't like it.”

Clare snorted in disgust. “Not my fault she's touchy.”

“You're twenty-three years old, Nadia's twenty-six.” Miriam paused to squish L'Heure Bleue on her wrists and throat. “And you still fight like a couple of eight-year-olds. Next time I'll chuck a bucket of water over the pair of you.”

“That's because we're dysfunctional. We had a disturbed childhood.”

“What rubbish, you were spoiled rotten. And you could make a start on those potatoes—your father and Tilly will be home by six.”

Clare gave up. She wasn't going to get any sympathy. And as for peeling potatoes, yuk.

“Want me to post that for you?” Expertly changing the subject, she pointed to the half inch of envelope protruding from Miriam's shirt pocket.

Miriam pressed her hand protectively over the envelope, pushed back her seat, and stood up. At least the return address on it was Edinburgh, a nice safe distance away.

“No thanks.”

***

Twice a week, instead of catching the bus home at four o'clock, Tilly had after-school activities. On Tuesdays she had French club and on Fridays it was netball. Following these, she would walk the quarter mile from school to the offices where James worked as an accountant and get a lift home with him when he finished at around five thirty.

At first when this arrangement had begun, Tilly had waited in the reception area on the ground floor of the office building, where the sofas were leather and squashy and the receptionists coolly professional in their chignons and high heels. The reading matter, immaculately arranged on the glass coffee tables, was a scintillating choice of the
Financial
Times
, the
Telegraph
or the latest edition of
Accountancy
Today.

Oh yes, all her favorites.

Nowadays, Tilly much preferred to spend her time loitering in the newsagents on the corner, a hundred yards down from the offices. She always bought something small, chewing gum or Tic Tacs, to give herself authorized customer status. Then, settling down by the rows of magazines she would flip through them, always very careful not to crease any papers or bend any spines.

It was a lovely place to wait, cluttered and friendly, cozy and welcoming. Having decided that Tilly wasn't yet another shoplifting adolescent, the woman who worked in the shop had soon relaxed and allowed her to browse in peace until James appeared fifteen or so minutes later to buy his copy of the evening paper and take her home.

The advice columns were what Tilly liked best. It was always comforting to read about other people's less than perfect lives. Compared to some, she'd actually got off quite lightly.

The other items she was drawn to were the true-life stories in the women's magazines, the ones where mothers revealed how they had risked their lives in some way or another in order to save their children. Masochistically, Tilly devoured these tales of high drama and maternal devotion. On one level she envied them so much she could almost feel the jealousy rising like bile in her tightly closed throat. On another, she was unable to stop herself fantasizing that maybe one day the same thing might happen to her. That if she and her mother were trapped in a smashed-up car and there was only time for the fire brigade to cut one of them free before the engine burst into flames, Leonie would scream, “Just save my daughter, don't worry about me!”

Or, slightly less drastically, say she needed a kidney transplant or something, and her mother was the only match, but because Leonie had some allergy to anesthetics, there was a real danger she wouldn't make it through the operation. But still she'd insist on going through with it, because, “Darling Tilly, you're the most important thing in the world to me, all I care about is getting you well again!” And in this fantasy, Leonie's life could hang in the balance for a bit, but eventually (of course) she'd pull through and they'd live happily ever after, just like the brave, loving families in the true-life magazines.

Well, everyone was allowed to have fantasies, weren't they? Even if all the other girls in her school seemed to center theirs around Robbie Williams.

Tilly carried on carefully turning the pages of
Take-A-Break
, while other customers came and went. She knew that the woman who worked there was called Annie because a lot of the customers were regulars, dropping in to pick up their newspapers, magazines, scratchcards, and cigarettes. A fair number of them greeted her by name and stopped to chat for a minute or two, usually about the weather, the latest scandal to hit the headlines or the fact that the lottery ticket Annie had sold them last week had been a dud; it hadn't won them a thing.

“Try a bit harder this time, Annie,” they'd urge when she'd laughingly apologized, and with unfailing good humor Annie would go along with the joke.

She was old, probably in her forties, Tilly guessed, but she had a kind face, a ready smile, and haphazardly tied-back blonde hair that couldn't appear to make up its mind whether to be curly or straight.

Tilly turned as the bell above the door went
ting
, expecting it to be James. But a really ancient woman enveloped in an ankle-length fur coat was shuffling in, peering anxiously across the shop at Annie.

“Hello, dear, I don't know if you can help me. I'm looking for my husband. Has he been in?”

She was carrying a large holdall and wearing frayed slippers. Annie, her expression changing, darted out from behind the counter and made her way over to the woman.

“I'm so sorry, Edna, he hasn't. I haven't seen him all day. Never mind, I'm sure he'll be home soon.” Sliding her arm through Edna's, she went on brightly, “Tell you what, why don't I see you across the road? When you get back, you can make yourself a nice cup of tea.”

Tilly watched them go, briefly wondering if this was a CCTV trick to see if she'd start shoveling bars of chocolate into her pockets the moment she thought she was alone in the shop. To prove her innocence, she put the copy of
Take-A-Break
carefully back on the rack, stayed rooted to the spot, and kept her hands in full view.

There didn't appear to be a CCTV camera in the shop, but Tilly was taking no chances. Last week there had been a documentary on television about someone in America who'd gone to the electric chair and been found three years later to have been innocent.

Annie was back in less than a minute, panting as she rushed through the door.

“Oh good, you're still here. My boss would have my guts for garters if I left the shop empty! And technically, I didn't.” She smiled and shook her head. “Poor old Edna, she breaks my heart. That's the fifth time this week she's been in.”

“Where does her husband go?” said Tilly.

“But that's just the thing, he doesn't go anywhere. He's dead.”

“
Dead?
” Taken aback, Tilly glanced at the door. “If he's dead, shouldn't you tell her?”

“I have,” sighed Annie. “Poor lamb, her memory's gone. But when I do tell her, she gets dreadfully upset. So it's easier not to mention it. Either way she'll have forgotten again by the time she gets home.”

How awful. Tilly wondered how the old woman felt, endlessly wandering the streets in search of her husband. She'd got lost in Debenhams once, when she was six, had wandered off while Nadia and Clare were busy trying on feather boas. She could still remember the awful sensation of icy escalating panic as she'd stumbled blindly through Hats and Headscarves, her heart beating faster and faster as she'd wondered if she'd ever see her sisters again. Until about thirty seconds later when, alerted by her shrill screams, Clare had cornered her by the glove rack, given her a swift clip round the ear, and told her to stop making that horrible racket.

Now another customer came into the shop, a jovial man in workman's clothes. Tilly watched him buy an angling magazine and a lottery ticket, and listened to him banter with Annie about last week's ticket being faulty.

“You must get fed up with people saying that,” Tilly ventured when the man had left.

“Tell me about it.” Annie rolled her eyes in a long-suffering manner. “And they always think they're being so witty and original. Like people bumping into that actor who did
One
Foot
In
The
Grave
and going: ‘I doooon't belieeeve it!' You just have to smile and play along, and act like you haven't heard it a zillion times before. But they're nice people,” she hastily amended. “It's just a bit of fun. Better than not bothering to talk at all.”

“I like it in here,” said Tilly. “It's friendly. I mean, as long as you don't mind me waiting here?”

“Don't be daft. Of course I don't mind. Better than hanging around outside, especially when it's raining. Here's your dad now,” said Annie, glancing up as James came through the door.

“OK, pigeon? Ready to go?”

Tilly loved it when James called her pigeon, almost as much as she loved the way he flung a fatherly arm around her shoulder. She waited at his side while he dug into his pocket for change and picked up a copy of the
Evening
Post
.

Innocently Tilly said, “Fancy buying a lottery ticket?”

“I don't buy lottery tickets. Waste of money.” James pulled a face. “Tried it once, didn't win.”

Tilly and Annie grinned at each other.

“What have I said now?” protested James.