on the one emotion that could herd all the others into order. I stroked the cover of the poetry book. And Still I Rise. The memory of Ginny reciting that poem strutting around our sitting room – the very image of sassiness – was so vivid I could feel her energy around me.
I studied the envelope from her dad, trying to marry up the fierce patriarch to whom Ginny had introduced me on several occasions when we lived together in London with the shaky, uncertain writing before me. I hesitated to open it, picking at the flap, frightened to read unmerited words of gratitude. With a sigh, I pulled out the flimsy bit of paper.
Dear Jo – Ginika wanted me to give you this ‘when the time was right’. It was one of the last things she said to me. She repeated over and over again, when the time was right, when I knew about Victor. She didn’t seem to be able to answer when that would be. I was afraid I would die before I understood. I understand now, but I don’t know why this book. I hope it means something to you. I wish I’d been able to give it to you in person, but please do come and see me if you want to. Bring Victor. God bless you for looking after my grandson in these unusual circumstances. She was very lucky to have a friend like you. Yours sincerely, Tayo Yaro.
I stared at the letter, then at the book. He wasn’t joking about the ‘unusual circumstances’. Was the poetry supposed to comfort me? To let me know that she was still ‘around’ in some way? To remind me of the happy times in our flat? All I could think of now was whether she’d secretly been in love with Patrick the whole time. And if he’d been in love with her.
I flopped back on to the bed, my brain aching. A wave of nausea threatened and I wished again that I’d gone to bed with a mint tea. I opened the front cover of the book, wondering if there was an inscription. Nothing. If there was some kind of message here, I was way too hungover to figure it out. I got ready and went downstairs, pausing before I walked into the kitchen. I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be able to live like this, feeling as though I was entering enemy territory every time I went into a room.
Georgia was sitting with Phoebe and Victor, looking thin, pale and vulnerable. And ill. Not at all like the robust fresh-faced girl considered an automatic shoe-in for Oxford.
‘Have you been in touch with your mum this morning? She’ll be worried about you.’
Georgia mumbled, ‘No.’
I glanced over to Patrick, who was making tea, looking strained and old. I didn’t think Ginny had envisaged an atmosphere leaden with accusation when she’d begged me to take in her boy. She’d be disappointed. But I was disappointed in her. Lose-lose.
I forced my attention back to Georgia. I said, ‘You don’t look well, love.’ Even though I was a fine one to talk as just leaning forward made my head feel like it was going to cleave in two.
She burst into tears.
I ran over to her. ‘Oh what’s the matter, my lovely? Are you worried about going home? All mums get cross sometimes, but I’m sure she’ll get over it.’
Patrick wandered out, muttering, ‘I don’t think I’m going to be much use here.’ I was glad, because I didn’t want him weighing every word, judging whether or not I was handling a situation well.
Phoebe beckoned me into the hallway. I left Georgia crying on Victor and followed her out.
‘Georgia’s addicted to drugs, Mum.’
‘What? What sort of drugs? That MDMA stuff?’ It was a sign of how quickly the goalposts shifted with teenagers that I hoped it was MDMA and that she wasn’t shooting up with something far more frightening.
‘Adderall.’
I stared at her, combing through my drug knowledge, which appeared to fit perfectly on a drawing pin. ‘Adderall? I don’t think I know what that is?’
‘You know, they use it to treat ADHD.’
‘Georgia hasn’t been diagnosed with that, has she?’
I knew it was serious because Phoebe didn’t flounce off shouting, ‘It doesn’t matter!’ when I failed to grasp what she was saying straight away.
‘No, it’s so she can study for long periods and really really concentrate.’ She paused. ‘You know, so she can get into Oxford.’
‘Who is she getting that from?’
Phoebe’s confidence