I swallow. ‘Right. Grandma, this man, did you send him a bank transfer?’
‘A cheque. Why are you asking all this, Leena? Did you – why does this matter, did you not hear what I said? Marian’s not coping again, she’s gone, or she’s hiding, she won’t let me in, she—’
‘I know. But I have twenty minutes in which I can do nothing about that. And I can use that time to stop you from getting scammed. You concentrate on Mum, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘What do you mean “scammed”?’
‘I’ll explain later,’ I say shortly, and hang up. Grandma’s bank’s phone number is up on my laptop screen.
‘Hello, there,’ I say, when someone answers. ‘My name is Eileen Cotton, account number 4599871. I’d like to cancel a cheque.’
‘That’s fine. I just need to go through a few security questions first before we can authorise that. What’s your date of birth, please?’
‘Eighteenth of October, 1939,’ I say, with as much confidence as I can muster.
‘Now that is definitely identity fraud,’ Fitz says.
*
I am travelling north, at last. Across the aisle of the train a young family is playing Scrabble – I feel a bitter pang of nostalgia for the time when my family looked like that, happy in the ignorance of everything to come.
My legs jitter; I’m itching to run, but I’m trapped here on this train, crawling my way up to Yorkshire a hundred times more slowly than I want to be.
Breathe in, slow. Out, slow. OK. Yes, I’m stuck on this train, but that means I have two hours to get my head around this. Let’s aim to reach calmness by Grantham. Mum is OK. Mum is OK. Mum is OK.
A new email appears in my inbox; my laptop is open in front of me, more out of habit than the need to do anything with it. Rebecca wants me to come in for a coffee on Friday to talk about my return to work. Ceci is copied in on the email, and I flinch when I see her name, even though I don’t believe Grandma, of course I don’t.
Shit, hang on. Ethan. I haven’t told him I’ve left London.
I send him a quick message.
I’ve left – back to Hamleigh again – I’ll tell you everything later xx
His reply comes almost instantly.
Leena? What’s going on? Are you back on this phone?
And then, a moment later:
Can’t we talk?
I respond straight away.
I can’t talk now, I’m on the train, I have to go back to Hamleigh, I’m sorry. I can’t go into it now – it’s about my mum. xx
He replies.
Why did you text Ceci like that? I thought you said you believed me.
I go cold.
I didn’t tex …
I delete the words and pause. My heart suddenly feels very high in my chest, as though it’s sitting at the bottom of my throat and the air can’t get past; my breathing is shallow.
I open my message thread to Grandma. We haven’t texted much at all these last few weeks. I hadn’t even realised how little we’d spoken.
Grandma, did you text Ceci from my phone?
I wait. The train pulls in to Wakefield; the family next to me gets off and is replaced by an elderly couple who read their newspapers in amicable silence. Everyone moves perfectly normally, turning sideways to pass down the aisle, lifting their arms to take their suitcases from the overhead rack, but I feel as if I’m on a film set. All these people are extras, and someone is about to yell Cut.
A reply from Grandma.
I’m sorry, Leena. I wanted you to see proof. I know it will hurt, but it will hurt more later, if you don’t find out now.
I gulp in air, a rasping ragged noise that makes everyone in the carriage stare my way. I stumble out from behind the table and into the vestibule, then look down at my phone again through blurry eyes, and type as best I can.
Send me what she said to you – I need to see.
The reply takes for ever to come. I can imagine Grandma trying to work out how to forward a text on my phone, and I’m seconds away from sending her instructions before she finally responds with Ceci’s message typed out.
Leena, I’m so sorry. I never planned for this to happen. All I can say is that it’s been like a kind of madness. I can’t stop myself when it comes to Ethan.