she asks as they wait at a crossroads for the lights to change.
“No,” she says. “I feel all weird.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Just remembering things I haven’t remembered before. Thinking about my mum when I haven’t thought about her for so long. Meeting cousins I didn’t know I had. It’s been a bit overwhelming.”
“Yes,” says Laurel, cupping the crown of Poppy’s head with her hand. “Yes. I bet it has.”
Laurel swallows away the lump in her throat. She needs to stay focused. She cannot jump to fantastical conclusions. In the scheme of things it is far more likely that the monster in Noelle’s basement was actually twenty dead hamsters, not Ellie. She needs to assume that this was the case and then find the evidence that it was not. She needs to stay sane.
Floyd is there when they get back. Poppy starts to babble immediately about cake and tea and then disappears very quickly to her room before, she assumes, Floyd can ask her anything else.
Laurel watches Floyd unpacking carrier bags of shopping. For a moment, as he reaches for a tall cupboard to slide in a box of teabags, his shirt slips from the moorings of his waistband, flashing a slice of pale flesh, and she feels herself sliding back through time again, as she’d felt in Nando’s the week before last with Poppy. She’s back in her own kitchen in Stroud Green. In front of her is Paul. He’s wearing the same shirt, it tugs itself briefly from his waistband, he slides the teabags into the cupboard, he turns to face her. He smiles. For a second the two moments blend in her mind, the two men merge into one.
“Are you OK?” Floyd asks.
She shakes her head once, to dislodge the glitch. “Yes,” she says. “I am. I am fine.”
“You looked like you were miles away.”
She smiles as widely as she can, but she suspects it is not wide at all. She knows she should say something about her visit to Noelle’s house with Poppy but she can’t. And she can’t ask him any of the questions she wants to ask him—Did you know that Sara-Jade claims to have seen Noelle at eight months pregnant without a bump? Do you never want to find out what happened to Noelle? Would you not like to find her? Do you never ask yourself questions about the strangeness of everything?—because then everything about them, about Floyd and Laurel, all of it would be squashed and remade, like a clay pot on a wheel. And it’s such a lovely pot and she’s worked so hard on it and so much depends on it staying exactly as it is.
“Tell me,” she says, turning the conversation round 180 degrees, back to a place that nurtures intimacy and growth. “Tell me about your first marriage. How was it? How did you and Kate meet?”
He smiles as she’d known he would and tells her a story about a beautiful young girl at a bus stop, totally out of his league in every way, a charmingly gauche conversation and an invitation to a party that turned out to be a rave in an abandoned car park, a lost night of neon lights and recreational drugs, a full moon, a fur coat. And at some point Laurel zones out of the detail and fixates instead on the feeling of jealousy that seeps out from deep inside her, the dark, bleak stab of pain that for a short while at least overpowers her creeping sense of unease, that stops her asking questions.
Laurel leaves the next morning. Floyd tries to persuade her to stay, tempts her with suggestions of gastro-pub Sunday lunches and riverside walks, but her mind is elsewhere; she can no longer force herself to stay focused on their romance; she needs to be alone.
She’d parked her car in the next road down the day before because there was no space on Floyd’s street. To get to it she has to loop back onto the high street and then left again. Her eye is caught by a man standing outside the small branch of Tesco on the corner. He has a little black dog on a lead. He’s tall; in his midtwenties, Laurel guesses. He’s wearing a huge parka with a fur-trimmed hood and dark jeans with trainers. He’s extremely good-looking, rangy and eye-catching. But as she glances at him Laurel realizes that it’s not his good looks that have caught her