Don attempted to appear as if he was considering both cases impartially. But Mitchell could see, in the glances between him and Jasmine, that he’d already decided to back her. Her grandfather’s influence was too important to Foster and Hardman for Don not to take her ideas seriously.
After taking a vote, the decision of the team had been unanimous. Jasmine was going to work up her design for the bridge further and present it to the centenary committee as a priority. Her design fit the new council vision of Upchester being seen as a modern city, rather than one living on past glories.
The team would all reconvene the next day to work on an urgent plan of action.
Mitchell could barely muster the will to walk back to his office. His colleagues averted their eyes and flocked to congratulate Jasmine on her design. She wore a smug smile.
Mitchell closed his office door and banged his back angrily against it. The clock on his wall showed six o’clock. After letting Anita down, and the blow he’d had to his ego, he just wanted to hold her and beg for forgiveness.
He traced a finger around the edge of her present in his pocket.
I could still make it home, he thought. I want to be with my family.
If the traffic wasn’t too heavy, he might get there before eight thirty. He could say happy birthday to Anita and kiss Poppy before she went to sleep. If he set off at six the next morning, he could make it back to work for Saturday’s meeting.
When he took out his mobile and switched it back on, he saw three missed calls on his screen. All were from the same number, one he didn’t recognize. When he rang it back, it belonged to a hospital.
Anita had been involved in a car crash and could he get there quickly?
Mitchell knocked over his chair in his rush to flee out of the building. He left his wallet and laptop on his desk.
He dove into his car and slammed the door shut, beating his palms against the dashboard before he tried to compose himself.
Throughout his two-hour drive to be by Anita’s side, he yelled at the traffic lights, his knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel.
When he got to the hospital, Mitchell ran blindly through anonymous gray corridors to find her ward. Dread coursed through his veins.
Except he was too late.
When he and Poppy returned home, later that night, they were like two soldiers returning from war, defeated and devastated, never to be the same whole people ever again.
A lilac envelope had been waiting for Mitchell, propped up against a pepper pot on the dining room table.
He picked it up, clutched it to his heart and cried.
11
SHEET MUSIC
It took three and a half hours for Liza to eventually pull up outside a compact Victorian folly in the middle of the countryside. The small castle with turrets stood proudly at the edge of green fields. Several tents dotted around them, like a badly promoted music festival.
“I feel a bit sick, Dad.” Poppy tumbled out of the car, her face pale, and Mitchell gave her a mint. He was still smarting after reading Jasmine’s letter, and his heart pounded as he tried to blank out the fateful events that led him to losing Anita.
“Take some deep breaths,” he told Poppy, holding her tightly until his pain felt less raw. “You’ll be okay.”
A woman who could only be Jean stood on the front step of the property. She wore tight black jeans and an off-the-shoulder white T-shirt. Her feet were bare and a large silver crescent moon pendant sat on her chest. Her lips were overplump and Mitchell guessed she was in her mid-to-late sixties, though her bleached long hair made her look younger.
“Hey, why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” She threw open her arms and swooped on Liza, kissing her on alternate cheeks twice over. Her accent was a mishmash with hints of London, the US and Yorkshire mixed in.
Mitchell shrank back as he received a big hug, too. Poppy sidestepped out of Jean’s range.
“You refuse to use a phone, Auntie Jean. How anyone hears about this place, I don’t know,” Liza said with a laugh.
“Good news travels fast. My gang arranges all the humdrum stuff for me. Come on in.”
Mitchell followed Jean, Liza and Poppy into the house, and Sasha scampered after them. The spacious square room was light and airy, painted all white, with arched windows. A tiled floor, patterned rugs and cushions gave it a Moroccan riad feel, at odds with its Victorian exterior. Gold disks in frames hung on the walls, with the name Jean Jamieson featured over and over. A tall shelf displayed lots of dolls in national costumes from around the world, and a banjo lay on the sofa.
“It’s like a posh restaurant!” Poppy brightened up.
Mitchell gave her a small nudge. “Manners, young lady.”
Jean laughed. “The room’s got a cool vibe, hasn’t it? I don’t stay here much, prefer life on the open road.” She turned to Liza and winked. “Are you here to introduce me to your new beau?”
Mitchell felt like he’d been plunged into icy water. “Oh no, sorry, we’re just—”
Liza appeared to enjoy his discomfort. “Auntie Jean, you’ve always been a troublemaker. This is Mitchell, and we’re not together. The lovely Poppy is his daughter.”
“Darn it. I relish a good love story,” Jean laughed as she moved closer to him. She examined his face, as if he was an old master in an art gallery. “Nope.” She clicked her teeth. “Not your type of dude at all. Let me guess. Hmm, you’re an accountant like our Yvette?”
Mitchell felt strangely offended by this. “I work in maintenance for Upchester council. I cut padlocks off the bridges.”
“Hmm, interesting.” Her expression said the opposite. “So, what’s the groove between you and Liza?”
Liza’s smile slipped. “This isn’t about us. Not that there’s an us at all. We’re here to speak to you about Yvette.”
“Oh.” Jean’s face crumpled with sadness. “And here I am joshing and all. Is there any news?”
Liza rubbed the top of her aunt’s arm. “Can we sit down?” she asked.
Mitchell headed for a blue velvet armchair so Jean, Liza and Poppy could share a small sofa. Sasha lay down with her head on his foot.
When they had all settled, Liza spoke. “Mitchell saw Yvette on a bridge in Upchester.”
“When?” Jean gasped, her black winged eyeliner creasing.
“Four days ago,” Mitchell said.
“Are you sure it was her?” Jean said urgently. “Where is she?”
Liza’s and Mitchell’s eyes met. She nodded at him to tell his story.