morning. Luke, who barely had any family of his own – both his parents had died when he was in his late teens and early twenties – knew loss: he had loved Grandma too.
Head pounding, the edges of a migraine beginning, I squeezed my eyes closed and listened to the ringing. Someone picked up Luke’s work phone, the tail end of a throaty laughter choked down as a female voice said, ‘Blaze Designs, how can I help you?’
‘Oh, I . . . ’ My eyes flew open. The only female voice I’d been expecting was Sandra, the receptionist who came on the line if it went unanswered. In her early fifties with a mouse-like voice, she would always promise to tell Luke I’d called, and then she’d update me on the latest developments in the lives of any member of One Direction. She had a massive crush on Harry Styles, which she knew was unusual. This had come out unexpectedly at one of their Christmas parties and had really tickled me. We had got on ever since.
‘Is Luke there?’ I asked the stranger, wishing he had answered. His work landline was normally a reliable way to catch him.
‘Luke?’
‘Yes – Luke Winters.’
‘Oh, that Luke,’ the vaguely familiar voice tinkled with a small laugh. ‘And who shall I say is calling?’
‘It’s Lottie,’ I snapped, already losing patience. I just wanted him on the phone.
There was a long pause on the end of the line and I scraped the toe of my shoe along the bottom of the window, wiping a mark in the steam.
‘He left the office earlier, I’m afraid.’ I still couldn’t place the voice but then a picture floated into my head: long red hair, caramel eyes, smooth skin. In all the drama of the day I hadn’t thought about Storm. My hand clenched tighter on the phone, knuckles whitening. Why was she answering Luke’s work phone? Warming his desk while he was away from it?
‘Shall I get him to call you back when he’s around?’
‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ I said, hanging up with a stab of one finger. I flung the phone back in my handbag, not caring if I made the cracks any worse. I stayed brooding in the window of Starbucks, glaring at anyone who looked vaguely happy. One woman was holding a bag containing a new shoebox, a big smile splitting her pretty face. I hoped she got home, lost the left one, and when she found it had already bought a new pair and worn them.
Chapter 4
Love is something we don’t even know we are searching for
CLIVE, 82
‘I’ve got up to make her tea three times today, got down her mug, you know the one she likes, with the strange sheep that wears a tutu. I only remember after I’ve put the milk in. It just sits there. Such a waste,’ he said, wiping at one eye. He wasn’t really talking about tea.
We were at the kitchen table, Grandad in his usual wooden chair with the armrests, me opposite in the chair I always sat in when I came over. My eyes had darted to Grandma’s chair with the worn red cushion, indents on its surface.
‘I know I’ve had some time to get used to the idea but it’s still a shock, although you know your grandmother, organised to the end. She’s left me a list.’
I laughed in spite of myself, glad to see his mouth twitch into an almost-smile too.
Grandma had loved a list. She told me she used to write them out on the chalkboard for when Grandad would get home on a weekend, after he’d been working all week. ‘Paint front door, fix chest of drawers, take out bins.’ One time the list had been so long Grandad had simply added, ‘Build the Pyramids’, turned and left for the pub.
I realised I’d never been alone in the house with Grandad before. They had been such a duo, a pair. I stared round the kitchen, the tick of the clock on the wall louder, the buzz of the oven’s overhead fan, the gurgle of the boiler as the hot water kicked in. It seemed so much emptier. How could one missing person make this enormous difference?
I’d come over as soon as they’d let me out of court, still dressed in my sweaty work clothes, my briefcase jam-packed with the brief for the next day and my head crammed with everything I needed to do next. My best friend Amy had sent me a lovely