calling to their children, starting their cars, walking their dogs, ratchets up the feeling of aloneness, and there is no call from Floyd, no text and she is too old, far too old for all this, and by Saturday night she has talked herself out of it. It was a mad idea. Nonsensical. She is a damaged woman with a ton of ugly baggage and Floyd was clearly just using his effortless charm to secure a night out with a woman, something he could probably manage every night of the week if he so chose. And he was probably sitting in a café somewhere right now, sharing a slice of carrot cake with someone else.
On Sunday Laurel decides to visit her mother. She usually visits her mother on a Thursday; having it as a weekly slot makes it less likely that she’ll find an excuse not to go. But she cannot spend another day at home alone. She just can’t.
Her mother’s care home in Enfield, a twenty-minute drive away, is a new-build, redbrick thing with smoked-glass windows so that no one can peer in and see their own devastating futures. Ruby, her mum, has had three strokes, has limited vocabulary, is half-blind, and has very patchy recall. She is also very unhappy and can usually be counted upon to find the words to express her wish to die.
Her mother is in a chair when she arrives at half eleven. By her side is a plate of oaty-looking biscuits and a cup of milk as though she was four years old. Laurel takes her mother’s hand and strokes the parchment skin. She looks into her dark eyes and tries, as she always does, to see the other person, the person who would pick her up by one arm and one leg and throw her in swimming pools when she was small, who chased her across beaches and plaited her hair and made her eggs over easy when she requested them after she’d seen them on an American TV show. Her mother’s energy had been boundless, her curly black hair always coming loose from grips and bands, her heels always low so that she was free to run for buses and jump over walls and pursue muggers.
Her first stroke had hit her four months after Ellie’s disappearance and she’d never been the same since.
“I went on a date last week,” Laurel tells her mother. Her mother nods and pinches her mouth into a tight smile. She tries to say something but can’t find the words.
“F-F-F-F . . . F-F-F . . .”
“Don’t worry, Mum. I know you’re pleased.”
“Fantastic!” she suddenly manages.
“Yes,” says Laurel, smiling broadly, “it is. Except now of course I’m really nervous, behaving like a teenager; I keep staring at my phone, willing him to call. It’s pathetic . . .”
Her mum smiles again, or the facsimile of a smile that her damaged brain will allow. “N . . . Name?”
“His name is Floyd. Floyd Dunn. He’s American. He’s my age, ludicrously clever, nice-looking, funny. He’s got two daughters; one of them lives with him, the other is grown up.”
Her mother nods, still smiling. “You . . . you . . . you . . . you . . .”
Laurel runs her thumb across the top of her mother’s hand and smiles encouragingly.
“You . . . you . . . you call him!”
Laurel laughs. “I can’t!”
Her mum shakes her head crossly and tuts.
“No. Honestly. I called him the first time. I already made the first move. It’s his turn now.”
Her mum tuts again.
“I suppose,” Laurel ponders, “I could maybe send him a text, just to say thank-you? Leave the ball in his court?”
Her mum nods and clasps Laurel’s hand inside hers, squeezing it softly.
Her mother adored Paul. From day one she’d said, “Well done, my darling, you found a good man. Now please be kind to him. Please don’t let him go.” And Laurel had smiled wryly and said, “We’ll see.” Because Laurel had never believed in happy ever afters. And her mum had been sanguine about Paul and Laurel splitting up; she’d understood, because she was both a romantic and a realist. Which in many ways was the perfect combination.
Her mother puts out a hand to feel for Laurel’s handbag. She puts her hand into it and she pulls out Laurel’s phone and hands it to her.
“What?” says Laurel. “Now?”
She nods.
Laurel sighs heavily and then types in the words.
“I will hold you fully responsible,” she says, mock-sternly, “if this