No, I decide, I probably won’t. I gaze at this montage, this pieced-together Joe, and know that part of me will always be with him, with Gracie. Everything that is left will just be scraps. But that is OK too – not all satisfaction comes from your love life. There are other ways to be happy.
I hear the front door slam, and Michael screeching my name. I hear him running around the floor below looking for me, and then his Converse banging up the stairs.
‘Jess!’ he shouts, bursting through the door, looking red and sweaty and out of puff.
‘What?’ I say, looking up at him. ‘Did you see something really exciting at the Sherlock Holmes Museum?’
‘No! Well, yes, there was some really cool stuff, and I bought a deerstalker, but … that’s not what I need to tell you!’
‘OK,’ I reply, gathering up my photos and tidying them away into the Dora backpack, ‘what did you need to tell me?’
‘Belinda called. You weren’t answering your phone. She got to the address, the one Liam found, and she says we need to go and meet her there. She says it’s important.’
‘I don’t think so, Michael,’ I reply, shaking my head. ‘I’ve made my mind up.’
‘She said you’d say that. And she said that when you did, I had to tell you to stop being a ninny, and move your arse. She says things aren’t what we thought, and that there is more work to be done.’
I stare at him, and see the excitement in his eyes.
‘You really wanted to say “the game is still afoot” then, didn’t you?’
‘Oh gosh yes! But I say that a lot, and now I’m annoyed I wasted it before now, when it really is! Come on – let’s go, please! I know you were going home for all the right reasons – but if you give up now, it’ll be for all the wrong reasons. Belinda wouldn’t tell you to come if it wasn’t the right thing to do. She’s annoyingly righteous. So … well, don’t be a ninny!’
His energy is an almost tangible whirl around him, his gangly body shimmying in the doorway, his voice getting higher and more pronounced with every word. I feel momentarily rigid, caught between two destinies, before that energy reaches out and infects me.
I nod, and follow him down the stairs and out of the house. He virtually throws himself in front of a black cab, and within minutes we are winding our way further north, skirting the verdant fringe of Regent’s Park and battling through Euston, winding past the bustle of Camden Market.
We are deposited outside a large Victorian villa that is grand, but has clearly seen better days. There are the telltale signs of communal living; multiple bins in the forecourt, a list of names and buzzers next to the door, too many cars crammed into too small a space.
It’s an intriguing neighbourhood, a mix of conversions like this, and some smaller houses that look like one-family units, an old-fashioned pub called The Strawberry standing proud on the corner.
Michael is a whirlwind of purpose and intent, dragging me physically by the arm up the worn-down steps at the front of the house. I think he is afraid I will change my mind.
He prods one of the bells with his fingertip, and we are immediately buzzed through. The hallway is brightly lit, painted white, lined with letterboxes and a couple of bikes and a random binbag full of tattered children’s soft toys. A once-fluffy bunny ear hangs forlornly from the pile, and makes me sad.
Michael leads me up a flight of stairs, and we arrive at the first floor, and Belinda. She grins at me, and winks as we walk inside the flat.
The living room is not large, but it has high ceilings and a view out to the mews houses at the back. It’s lavishly decorated in faded shades of fuchsia and purple, with red velvet curtains and an outlandish zebra-print chaise longue.
The walls are dominated by framed photos, all gilt edged, showing a petite, dark-haired woman in various adventurous places. There’s one of her in what seems to be the 1930s, wearing aviator glasses and a leather jacket, standing next to the propeller of a small aircraft like Amelia Earhart. There’s one of her sitting on a camel in a desert. One of her skiing amid a glorious mountain backdrop. Another shows her at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, wearing a ball gown and holding a glass of champagne.
I glance at the zebra-print chaise longue, and the diminutive figure draped upon it. She must be a hundred years old, and has the desiccated skin of a life lived outdoors. Her hair is pure silver, cropped in an Audrey Hepburn pixie cut, and she’s wearing a green Adidas tracksuit and bright pink trainers. She grins at me, and the smile – still vivid, still matched by lively brown eyes – confirms that this is the woman in the photos.
I don’t know whether to feel happy that her life was lived so well, or sad that it seems to be ending here, alone, in a badly converted flat in London.
‘This,’ Belinda says, gesturing grandly at the wizened creature before us, ‘is Miss Ada Wilbraham. Former archaeologist, world traveller, and all-round bon viveur. She also knows Joe. Miss Wilbraham, this is Jess.’
She stares at me with a level of intensity that leaves me in no doubt that her mental faculties are fully intact, and waves for me to sit down by her side.
‘How lovely to meet you,’ she says, her voice cultured. ‘I heard so much about you, back in the day.’
She offers her tiny, wrinkled hand, the skin taut over her knuckles like translucent baking parchment, and I’m unsure whether to shake it or kiss the vast diamond ring she wears.
I reach out, and she clasps my fingers tightly, saying: ‘You poor girl. Life hasn’t been kind to you, has it?’
For some reason, this random gesture of sympathy makes me giddy with emotion.
I shake my head, lips wobbling. I don’t feel I need to be brave for Miss Wilbraham – she’s undoubtedly seen a lot more than I have, and I suspect nothing would shock her.
‘How did you know Joe?’ I ask, leaving my hand in hers.
‘Well, we first met because of the loud music, and the complaint.’
‘Joe was playing his music too loud?’ I ask, frowning. It would be unlike him to be so inconsiderate.
‘No, dear, that was me – it was Joe who was complaining. Very sweetly, of course. Would you like to hear the whole story? Do you have time for an old lady’s reminiscences?’
I nod, and she replies: ‘Very good. Belinda here tells me that you’re all on a Joe hunt. I wish you well with it, and would ask one favour – if you find him, please send him all my love, and tell him I still miss him. He’ll be shocked I’m still alive!’
She giggles as she says the last part, then adds: ‘In all honesty, I’m sometimes shocked I’m still alive … anyway. Let me tell you my story. It all began on New Year’s Eve, at the very end of 2008 …’
Chapter 32
Ada enjoyed nothing more than being at the heart of things. She’d always been the same, even as a child – organising tea parties and picnics, inviting friends to her home in Devon to join in with mock summer balls for their dolls and teddies.
After school and college, the Second World War broke out, and she partied her way through that – juggling exhilarating but difficult work as an ambulance driver in bomb-blasted London with delicious soirées that involved spam and cheap booze and dazzlingly handsome US airmen.