His eye contact with me was unbreakable and I wondered if this was a technique they taught policemen when interrogating suspects.
‘Andersons Engineering in Euston. I work as a secretary for the sales department. I’ve been there over three and a half years. The telephone number is 020 7581 4387.’
If he was startled at the glibness and speed of my response, he hid it better than my father.
‘What the—’
Jimmy silenced my dad with a warning glance and immediately turned his full attention back to me. This was definitely policeman stuff.
‘And who can we contact there to confirm… or rather to tell them that you won’t be in for a little while?’
‘Mrs Jessica Scott in Human Resources. Her extension number is 203.’ I saw the flicker in his eyes at the immediacy of my response, but his voice was smooth and firm when he asked my dad:
‘Tony, do you mind if I use your phone and give them a call?’
By reply my father released the cordless phone from its mount and passed it to Jimmy. Before dialling the number he turned to me.
‘Would you prefer to speak to them yourself?’
I shook my head, they would probably both think I was lying. No, let him speak to Human Resources, that way everyone would see, once and for all, that I was telling the truth.
I repeated the number and he quickly keyed it in. It seemed an eternity before the switchboard picked up and he then asked for the required extension. Infuriatingly he had risen to his feet to make the call, so I could no longer hear even the vaguest of responses from the other end of the line. I had to content myself with piecing together the conversation from Jimmy’s side of things.
‘Could I speak with Mrs Jessica Scott?... Good morning, Mrs Scott. My name is Jimmy Boyd and I’m a friend of Rachel Wiltshire. I was just phoning to let you know that unfortunately she’s been involved in a small accident and won’t be in for at least the rest of this week, possibly longer.’
There was the longest pause.
‘In the Sales Department.’
‘…’
‘Yes.’
‘…’
‘Yes.’
‘…’
‘All right, yes. I see.’
‘…’
‘Thank you very much. Goodbye.’
He pressed the red button to disconnect the call and turned slowly back to face us both. I fidgeted in my chair like an impatient five-year-old.
‘Well? Well? What did she say?’
He hesitated, his face unreadable. I didn’t think I was going to like what was coming next. I was right.
‘Rachel, she said she’d never heard of you. You don’t work there.’
OK, so it probably wasn’t very mature of me to burst into tears but I just couldn’t help it. Every time some small glimmer of hope was dangled in front of me, it was suddenly seized from my grasp. I leapt up from the table in a cyclone of tears and dismay, this time succeeding in knocking over my chair, and thundered up the stairs to my room where I threw myself face down upon the bed.
And just like the angry teenager I appeared to have morphed back into, I ignored their entreaties to open the locked door, shouting at them both to ‘Go away’ until I was too hoarse to shout any more.
It was beginning to get dark by the time I eventually emerged from my room. I must have cried myself to sleep, for I’d woken up several hours later, the dampness of the pillow sticking to my cheek. My father was in the lounge, pretending to watch the early evening news on the TV.
I slid onto the settee beside him, ignored the cat who gave a muted hiss and swiftly vacated his lap, and laid my head against his shoulder.
‘Sorry, Dad.’ He squeezed my hand in response. ‘It’s just so difficult. Nothing makes sense. It’s all just topsy-turvy. Maybe you are all right. Maybe I am going crazy.’
He turned to me then, an unexpected anger in his eyes. ‘Don’t you go saying anything of the sort. No one has ever said you’re crazy! You’ve had a nasty blow on the head and a terrible shock. It’s no wonder you’re just a little… muddled… That’s all, yes muddled. It’s all going to come right soon, love, you’ll see.’
And this time I was too tired to argue.
He must have really been worried about me though, because several times during the night, in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness, I caught the distinctive bouquet of his aftershave and I knew he had crept silently into my room to check up on me. He never said a word, and I never let on I knew he was there.
The next day I rummaged purposefully through the box of clothes Matt had sent to find something to wear. I was hoping for jeans and a sweatshirt but it would appear my new lifestyle didn’t incorporate anything quite that casual. I had to settle instead on a pair of smart black trousers and an emerald green jumper. I checked out my reflection and couldn’t argue that the outfit suited me, and if the labels weren’t exactly designer, they were certainly from the top end of the high street. Either my new work paid incredibly well or Matt had been responsible for more than just the Gucci handbag. He always had been generous when we were teenagers. I guessed he still was.