Chapter 40
The clinic where Savannah works is on the second floor of a Victorian building and I’m out of breath by the time I reach the top.
There is no receptionist, just a tiny area with two chairs where, I assume, I’m expected to wait.
I can hear voices coming from behind the door with the word ‘Osteopath’ on it.
I take a seat and wait, my foot tapping impatiently and my blood pressure rising.
Am I doing the right thing? What the hell am I going to say?
Before I can change my mind the door opens and a woman in a clinical white smock top and trousers appears with a middle-aged man.
‘See you in a few weeks’ time,’ she’s saying to him.
‘And don’t forget to do your stretches.’ When he disappears down the stairs she turns to me with a wide smile.
She’s very attractive. The short hair in the photograph is now longer and swept up in a claw clip.
She looks a lot younger than Marielle and I can’t really see any family resemblance, apart from the eyes.
‘Elena Fletcher?’
I stand up. ‘Yes.’
‘Please come in.’ She ushers me into a small room that smells of incense, with ambient music tinkling away in the background.
I’m thankful it’s cool in here, and she guides me to a seat next to her desk while she busies herself removing the tissue paper from the white leather bed and spraying it, then comes over to me and sits down.
‘So,’ she says, in her soft, calming voice, ‘what can I do for you?’
I tell her my lower back has been playing up and she takes a few details from me and inputs them into her computer.
When I made the appointment I considered lying about my name but then decided to be honest. It’s not like she’s going to tell Marielle I’m a client.
Why would that even come up? Then she asks me to take off my dress and lie face down on the bed in my underwear.
She asks me questions while she manipulates my back and tells me my problem is actually between my shoulder-blades and neck.
‘You’re very tense,’ she says, and I want to laugh when I think about everything that’s happened.
Not surprised I’m tense. She asks me questions about my family and I find myself telling her about Rufus.
‘I wanted a big family,’ I admit. ‘That’s all I ever really wanted.
Lots of kids. A house full of them. It was only ever me and my mum, growing up.
But it hasn’t turned out that way. I know in reality it probably wouldn’t have been practical having loads of kids, as my husband is a musician so was always off gigging.
Now I’m separated from him and my son will be going off to university next year and I’m at that stage in my life when I’m not sure what happens next.
My son, Rufus, wants to do film studies at King’s …
He’s so into his films and the house is going to seem so quiet without him.
I wish I could just enjoy this time, you know, but I can’t because all I keep thinking about is that he’s going to leave …
’ I realize I’m over-sharing and stop talking, biting my lip so hard it draws blood.
I’m thankful I’m lying on my front, my face in the hole, looking down at her white trainers so she can’t see my flaming cheeks.
‘I understand,’ she says softly, her hands warm on my back.
‘It’s just me and my son too, although he’s twenty-four now and is living at home after finishing uni.
So don’t be too despondent. He’ll be back more often than you think.
’ She chuckles. Carefully, she guides me onto my side and I glance at the clock.
Fifteen minutes have gone by already and I haven’t even asked her about the Morgans.
‘Do you have family around you?’ she asks, in the same soothing tone.
I wonder if she talks that way out of the clinic.
‘Looking after my father took my mind off my son leaving home. He was an older father so needed a lot of care towards the end.’
‘No. My mum doesn’t live near me, but I have a very good friend,’ I say, thinking of Jo.
‘She’s got the perfect family. A husband who adores her, two amazingly gifted, sporty, clever, popular kids.
She’s got a proper career, unlike me. She’s like a sister to me.
The sister I never had.’ I pause, hoping this prompts her to mention siblings, but she doesn’t.
‘That’s lovely,’ she says instead. ‘Friends are really important.’
‘Do you have … any family near you?’
She moves on to my neck. ‘No. My mother died when I was in my teens. I have a half-sister, but she’s a lot older so we’re not particularly close.
’ I try to nod and then realize I can’t because she’s turned me onto my back and is clamping my head between her hands.
‘You’ve a lot of tension through your neck,’ she’s saying, and I try to think of ways to get the conversation back on track.
‘Your son has never been close to any of his cousins?’ I blurt out clumsily, cringing inside. She doesn’t notice my discomfort as she walks around the bed and clasps my ankles, asking me to bend my legs. Then she pushes my heels towards my bottom.
‘He has a cousin on my ex’s side, but she’s a lot younger. And it never worked out for my sister, sadly. What about your son?’
‘I … um, no.’ My mind is swimming. What did she mean about it never working out for Marielle? Was I right when I suspected Marielle of lying about a son and daughter-in-law? ‘Charlie has a brother, but he doesn’t have any children either.’
She straightens my legs gently. ‘Right, well, that’s all done.
You can put your clothes back on.’ She sits at her desk while I hop off the bed.
As I’m getting dressed she asks about my diet and whether I drink enough water.
I answer mechanically, but inwardly I’m reeling with confusion.
‘Do you want to make another appointment?’ she’s asking me, as I get out my purse and try to concentrate on what she’s saying.
‘Um, well, I’m just visiting a friend in Marlborough. But I definitely will if I’m visiting again. My muscles already feel more relaxed.’
‘Okay, great. I would suggest a couple more visits to an osteopath. It’s very tight through your back.’
‘Okay.’ I hand her my card and try not to blanch at the fifty-five pounds I can’t afford coming out of my bank account.
‘And don’t worry about your son,’ she says kindly. ‘It will all be fine when he’s at uni. He’ll be back before you know it, dragging with him a sackful of washing. That’s what Artie did, anyway.’
‘Artie?’
‘Yes. Arthur. It was my paternal grandfather’s name.
Thanks again for coming. It was lovely to meet you.
’ She’s already turning to her next client, a young woman with tattoos down both arms who is sitting waiting for her, but as I walk down the stairs all I can think about are the times I’ve seen Marielle pushing a baby in the pram. A grandson she said was called Arthur.
There never was a grandson. Or a daughter-in-law called Heidi who works in a library. Or a son called Peter who’s a lawyer. It’s all made up. All of it. The image of that grotesque fake baby flashes through my mind and repulsion rips through me.
Why did Marielle lie?
As I drive home my horror at the extent of Marielle’s lies twists and moulds like Play-doh so it resembles something else.
Pity. There must be a reason why she’s pretending to have a grandson.
Yes, it’s warped and weird, but I can’t help feeling some strange affinity with her.
Maybe she wanted children and couldn’t have them.
Perhaps this silicone baby makes her feel happy.
Wanted. Loved. Who am I to judge her? Isn’t that what we all want at the end of the day? To feel loved. To feel like we belong.
What must Henry make of it?
I remember their conversation:
‘… I don’t know, Mari …’
‘You promised me you’d take her. I’ve got everything ready. The room …’
‘I know … but … after what happened before … should we really try again?’
The thought re-enters my head that they could be planning to kidnap a baby. Why? To pass off as their grandchild? But why would they plan to kidnap a baby girl when Marielle has told me she has a grandson?
And none of this explains Henry’s behaviour and his threats to me that day outside my house.
When I get home I log on to Facebook and click on Oliver’s profile page again.
I can’t get over the fact that a keyring almost identical to his ended up in the Morgans’ garden.
I don’t understand it, but it must be linked to the newspaper article I found in the Morgans’ house.
The receptionist at the electrical company said no Simone Harvey had ever worked there, but now, having seen that keyring, I’m wondering if Simone changed her name.
The keyring Phoenix found is too similar to Oliver’s to be a coincidence.
The bear is knitted. Perhaps home-made. I’ve never seen one like it in the shops.
The only way I’ll be able to get answers is through her brother.
My ex-boyfriend. We were so close, once, although we didn’t exactly finish on amicable terms. But it’s been twenty-five years and he’s married now, with kids.
I type out a quick message.
Hi Oliver,
I know it’s been a long time, and I hope you’re well. I was wondering if you know how I could get in touch with Simone? I would love to catch up with her.
Lena
I deliberate over whether to put a kiss, decide against it and press send before I lose my nerve.
I go to the kitchen drawer where I’d put the key with the pink bear as well as Joan’s spare.
I find the pink bear straight away. But Joan’s key, the metal poppy, isn’t there.
I rake through the detritus frantically.
I definitely put it in here after I last went to the Morgans’ house.
It would be useless now the locks have been changed, but even so, where has it gone?