‘Oh, the school secretary. Right. Well, whoever the woman at Newnham House was, she and Kevin Cater, assuming that’s his real name—’
‘Yeah, they fed us a load of bullshit,’ I say. And you thanked them for it.
‘To our faces? While smiling and supposedly trying to help sort things out? I guess they must have, but … that’s pretty twisted, isn’t it?’
After more than forty years on this planet, Dominic has trouble believing that a civilised and solvent couple with an immaculate house could lie to him. He’s still keen to believe in a version of the world in which everyone has each other’s best interests at heart.
‘They flat out lied.’ He still can’t believe it.
‘Yes. Dom, I have to go. I’ll see you later tonight, okay? Bye.’ I press the end-call button before he can give me any more reasons why I should come home straight away.
11
Three hours later, we’re parked on Carisbrooke Road in Wokingham, outside a house that I hope still belongs to Flora’s parents. I only came here once with Flora while we were students, but I’m sure it’s the right place. I remember thinking it looked odd from the outside, and number 43 is the only one that fits that description. It’s a lone detached house on an otherwise terraced street, and so narrow that its detachedness looks like a mistake – as if it’s been cut off the row as an afterthought and shoved along a bit. It protrudes awkwardly from the low-walled private garden that’s been built around it like a little green island.
‘Would you mind waiting in the car?’ I ask Zannah.
‘Yes.’
‘I think they’ll tell me more if I’m alone. They know Flora and I were best friends for years. And confiding’s easier to do with an audience of only one, I think.’
‘All right. If you insist. But remember everything they say. Even better, record it.’
Recording a voice memo is one of the few things that my phone and I both know how to do. Dom showed me so that I could illicitly record Ben singing, with the most reluctance and embarrassment I’ve ever seen packed into one boy in a school hall, a song called ‘Piratical Style’ from the musical Pirates of the Curry Bean.
‘Wish me luck,’ I say to Zannah as I get out of the car. I’m not going to record Flora’s parents if I’m lucky enough to find them – I’d feel guilty and it would show on my face – but Dom gave me some wise advice about a year ago, one day when I was crying because, yet again, Zannah and I were at loggerheads. He said: ‘Try this: say a direct “No” as rarely as possible. If it’s possible to not give in but not actually say, “No, you can’t” or “No, I won’t” then do it. It works like magic.’ I thought it sounded like the worst advice I’d ever heard, but I tried it and it worked.
I ring number 43’s bell. The door is part glass, and through the leaded panes, I see a figure coming towards me along the hall. A tall man.
When he opens the door, I recognise him as Flora’s dad, Gerard Tillotson. Ged, his wife used to call him. His hair is white now and he’s thinner.
‘Mr Tillotson?’ I say with a tentative smile.
‘Hello? You’re not going to try and sell me anything, are you? Because I’m not buying – not today! Haha! I don’t need any more dishcloths or clothes pegs.’
I wonder if my two-tone hair has made him think I must be a gypsy. ‘It’s nothing like that,’ I say. ‘My name’s Beth Leeson. Perhaps you remember me?’
‘At my advanced age, I remember very little, my dear. Here’s my advice to you: don’t get old. There’s really not much to recommend it.’
‘I was at university with …’ I stop and clear my throat. ‘For a long time, I was best friends with Flora. Your daughter,’ I add unnecessarily. His memory might not be what it once was, but he’s likely to remember his only child.
‘Is Flora all right?’ he says quickly.
‘Um … yes, I … I’m not here with bad news or anything like that.’ As I say this, I wonder if it’s true. What if Gerard Tillotson thinks everything in Flora’s life is fine? Should I tell him that I don’t think it is? Would that be fair?
‘Ah. Well, that’s a relief.’ He looks down at his right shoulder, as