He lifted the purple notebook out first and placed it on the bed, not ready – yet – to face what was inside: Jess’s handwriting, and her secrets. Beneath the book was a small black drawstring pouch, the type that jewellery came in. It felt soft to the touch. He loosened the ties and eased open the mouth of the bag, then shook it. A handful of silver coins fell out onto the duvet. They were smooth, with words engraved on them. Not real coins, more like tokens. He picked one up. It was cool to the touch. ‘A kiss in the moonlight’. The second said, ‘A back scratch’. The third, ‘A massage’. The fourth, ‘A roll in the hay’. Tokens five and six were more of the same. A cheap gift, with tacky sentiments, that had meant something to his daughter. He put the tokens back into the bag and pulled tight the string, wondering how many – if any – she had redeemed. He felt confused as to whether he wanted the answer to be none, or all of them.
In the same drawer there was a bulldog clip, holding together a wodge of papers. He chose to look at that next. It was a stack of receipts and tickets: Nando’s orders, bus tickets, e-tickets from the festival they’d all gone to as a group the previous summer; there was even a scraggy end of till roll from Sainsbury’s for the purchase of two meal deals. The story the receipts told was indecipherable, at least by Marcus.
There were sounds downstairs. The click of the lights in the kitchen being turned on. Fran was on the move.
He returned the token bag and receipts to the drawer. Alone, they formed an incomplete story. He pushed the drawer shut, stood up and slid the notebook into his back pocket. His eyes swept the room, looking for clues. A sea of faces stared back at him from the myriad of pictures pinned to Jess’s noticeboard. Marcus didn’t know, yet, which of them had been special, which had mattered more than the rest.
He turned off the light and pulled shut the door, Jess’s secret safe with him – for the time being.
Chapter 46
MO TEXTED to say that he couldn’t make it; apologised, twice; said he’d message her later; sent an emoji. He was blowing it out of proportion. It was only a poxy dog walk, after all. Like it was going to bother Tish that he couldn’t find the time, in between college and his job, and his obviously demanding family, to fit her in – as he had been doing so loyally for the past few weeks. But her day seemed to drag more than normal without the thought of Mo rocking up on her doorstep at 7 p.m., give or take two minutes, and dragging her out to walk and talk. Sal was at work, so it was down to Harley to keep her company. He did his best, but he wasn’t much of a conversationalist.
When Mo called at lunchtime, Tish deliberately didn’t pick up. She looked at his name on the screen, waited while her messaging service kicked in, saw the voicemail alert, but even then – on principle – she didn’t click on it straight away. Tish had her standards, and relying on a lad, any lad, was not one of them, not any more. She had enough of her mojo back not to be that much of a doormat. A minute later a text arrived from him. After five minutes she relented and listened to his message. He sounded dorky on the phone, the hesitancy more obvious. It suddenly struck her that his ‘phone voice’ fitted her old impression of Mo – nice, cute, but nothing more.
‘Hey there. I didn’t get a chance before. To call, I mean. I had a thought. You might not fancy it. But you know I said I can’t come round tonight? Well, I wondered…do you want to come round to mine? Just for a change. Mum and Dad will be out. Not that that makes any difference. Anyway, I’ll text you the address. In case you can’t remember it. Any time after half six is fine. Bye.’
The text was his address, as promised. Tish was ashamed to admit to Harley that she wouldn’t have remembered it, without his prompting. Not that there was any way she was going round to his.
She stood outside his front door and messed with her hair. It was 6.32 p.m. She thought about going for a walk round the block before knocking, but before she had a chance to run away, the door opened. Shazia smiled and covered her surprise, badly.
‘Tish, how lovely. How are you doing? Well. Obviously.’
Tish blushed and nodded, as Nihal appeared at Shazia’s shoulder.
‘We’re just on our way out. Go on through. They’re in the back.’
They? Mo’s parents edged past and made their way to their car, leaving the door wide open for her. Tish didn’t step inside. It seemed rude. She waited, waved them off. Only after the sound of their car had faded did she walk into the house. She crossed the hall following the noise, feeling like she was trespassing.
‘No!’ a child shrieked. ‘Me. Me. Me.’
‘Hi!’ she shouted. There was no answer.
They were in the sitting room at the back of the house. Mo was crawling round the room on his hands and knees, a small boy clamped onto his back like a limpet. On the floor next to him stood a stocky little girl, who was yanking at the boy’s T-shirt.
‘Hi,’ Tish said, louder this time.
Mo finally registered her presence. He pushed himself up onto his knees, unsteadily. The boy clung on, throwing Mo’s balance off. The little girl eyed Tish for second, an appraising stare, then threw her arms around his torso – a clear indication that Mo was hers and that Tish had best ‘back off’! Mo swayed, encased in his child sandwich, and grinned. ‘Hi. You came.’
She nodded at this obvious statement of the truth. ‘I can see you’re a bit busy.’
Both of the kids were competing for his attention. ‘Again. Again!’ the boy shouted, obviously worried that Tish’s appearance was going to put an end to their game.
‘It’s my go. You promised,’ the little girl wailed.
‘This is Fatima and her brother, Fahad. My cousins,’ Mo said apologetically. Tish shrugged, indicating that it was fine with her for Mo to continue with his babysitting duties. She perched on the sofa. Mo peeled the boy off him and resumed the correct ‘horsey’ position for the little girl. Fahad, disgusted at being ousted, stomped off into the corner, where he sat cross-legged, his back to the room, muttering to himself.
The little girl was shorter than her brother, and this made it more of a challenge for her to get up onto ‘the horse’, added to which Mo kept deliberately dipping and arching his back. Her frowning frustration was funny, but Tish could see that she was beginning to get genuinely upset. Though she didn’t like kids, and had little desire to touch this small, sweaty, ferocious square of a child, she went over and hauled the little girl up onto Mo’s back. Once there, Fatima grabbed fistfuls of his T-shirt, trying to steady herself. When she was settled, she slapped her chubby thighs hard against his torso. In response, Mo snorted like a thoroughbred and set off around the room.
The child immediately slipped sideways. Her face froze in panic – which forced Tish to spend the next twenty minutes walking alongside her, holding her safe in her imaginary saddle.
Half an hour later the kids finally let Mo bribe them into submission with biscuits, juice and cartoons – though they refused to sit on the same sofa together, sibling rivalry extending as far as the seating arrangements. Mo and Tish stood in the kitchen, keeping an eye on them through the open door.
Tish sipped her juice. They were all on the blackcurrant squash. How much her evenings had changed! ‘You’re good with them.’