Traces of Her. Amanda Brittany

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СКАЧАТЬ his feet and took my glass. ‘Let me get you another one of those,’ he said. ‘You’ll need it when you hear more of my life story.’

      Once back at the table, he told me how his father died when he was young. That he was close with his mum. That he hadn’t had any serious relationships ‘because of my job’. That his favourite film was, and still is It’s a Wonderful Life. ‘Oh, and I can’t get enough of Frank Sinatra, and enjoy a bit of classical if the mood is right,’ he concluded.

      Now he closes down his laptop, rises and takes me in his arms.

      ‘I’m glad I got to see you before you take off again,’ I say, laying my head against his chest.

      ‘Me too.’ He lifts my chin and kisses me tenderly, before releasing his grip. ‘This is so bloody hard,’ he says, not for the first time.

      ‘Well, I knew what I was getting into when I met you. I don’t know what your excuse is.’ I laugh, and he laughs too.

      ‘I just wish … well … you know what I wish.’

      I head for the kettle. ‘Coffee?’ I ask, picking it up and filling it, but when I glance over my shoulder he’s shoving his laptop into his bag.

      ‘I haven’t got time,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’

      My heart sinks. ‘You’re going already?’ It’s a daft question. I know his schedule. Planes don’t fly themselves.

      ‘Sorry,’ he says, putting on his jacket. He’s always sorry. ‘I’ll call you when I get there, like always,’ he continues, approaching, and his lips brush against mine once more. ‘I hope all goes well with Willow.’

      He moves towards the door, grabbing the handle of his pull-along case.

      ‘I’ll give her your love, shall I?’ I call after him.

      ‘Yes, please do.’ His tone is upbeat, as he looks back again before leaving. ‘Bye, Becky,’ he yells up the stairs to no answer.

      As he closes the front door behind him, a sudden sadness creeps in. I head for the window and wave until his car disappears around the corner. Am I kidding myself that I’m used to this life?

      Once I’ve made some coffee, I sit down at the kitchen table, and blow on the steaming mug before taking a sip. I need a caffeine jolt before I finish packing. I’m unsure how long we will stay with Willow, but I need to be prepared for a week, just in case. I look beyond the windowpane into the back garden, where washing blows in a light breeze.

      I walk to the bottom of the stairs. It’s silent above me, no music blaring out. Perhaps Becky is out. I grab my laptop and head back into the kitchen to print off a map of the area. I’ll use my satnav to get to Cornwall, but I want to get an idea where Willow’s staying.

      I key the address into Google maps. It’s about twenty miles north of Newquay, near the sea, and one of a handful of cottages just outside the village of Bostagel.

      ‘Hey, Mum.’ I jump, not hearing Becky’s approach. She sits down, opens a bottle of black nail varnish, and begins painting her nails. It hardly seems worth it. Her nails are almost bitten away. ‘I’ve been packing a few things,’ she says. ‘Will I need stuff for America too?’

      ‘No, we’ll be back before then. Take enough for about a week, and we’ll see how things go. We may only stay overnight.’ I close Google maps, and nod towards the garden. ‘Thanks for hanging out the washing.’

      ‘Wasn’t me. Must have been Aaron.’

      ‘Ah!’

      ‘He’d done it before I got home, Mum. I would have hung it out.’

      ‘I know, love.’ I pat her arm, unsure if she would have. She’s going through a lazy stage. But I know she could be a lot worse, so I’m rolling with it.

      ‘Have you seen the parcel?’ she says, screwing the lid back on the bottle of varnish, and blowing on her nails.

      ‘What parcel?’ I glance around the kitchen, which Aaron has cleaned until it sparkles. Sometimes I think he’s the one with OCD.

      Becky races into the lounge, and I follow. ‘I opened it, sorry,’ she says. ‘It was addressed to Ms R Lawson. I thought it was the Blu-ray I ordered, but it isn’t. It must be for you.’ She picks up a cardboard box from the coffee table – the kind Blu-rays come in – and hands it to me. ‘I glanced inside,’ she says. ‘It’s photos.’

      ‘Photos?’

      ‘Mmm. Did you order any?’

      I shake my head and, sitting down on the edge of the sofa, I look inside the box. She’s right. It’s photographs. I pull them out one at a time, and lay them in a row on the coffee table. There are four – all of men I’ve never seen before.

      ‘Who are they?’ Becky says, sitting down by my side. ‘Do you know them?’ She tucks her wayward curls behind her ears as she stares down at them.

      I shake my head again. ‘I’ve no idea.’

      ‘So who sent them?’ I hear a twang of apprehension in Becky’s voice. ‘Why have you been sent them, Mum?’

      ‘I’m sure there’s an explanation, sweetheart,’ I say, although I don’t know what it is. I turn the photos over one at a time, looking on the backs, hoping to find names.

      There’s a colour photograph of a boy of about seventeen, with white-blonde hair styled back from his face with gel, and blue eyes that seem a little too close together. I take in his baggy pale blue jeans, the way his hands are stuffed in the pockets of a black bomber jacket. I turn it over. ‘It says Justin, 1999.’

      ‘No surname?’ Becky asks, and I shake my head. ‘He looks a bit spaced out to me,’ she goes on, taking the photo. ‘A bit like Foggy Marsden in my class when he’s high on coke.’

      ‘Please tell me you’re talking about the brown fizzy stuff.’

      She rolls her eyes.

      ‘You mean cocaine?’ My heart, already thudding at the sight of the curious photographs, picks up speed.

      ‘It’s OK, Mother. I would never touch the stuff. My body is a temple.’ She puts the photo down.

      I pick up another photograph. This man looks like a throwback from the Sixties. He’s nice looking enough, but too pale with dark shadows under eyes framed with Harry Potter style glasses. He’s in his late twenties, I would think, with dishevelled hair to his shoulders. ‘Peter Millar,’ I read from the back of the photo.

      The next picture is of a man with dark brown hair. He’s good-looking, and kitted out in an expensive suit. I move the photo closer to my face, before flicking the photo over. ‘Rory Thompson.’

      The final picture isn’t as clear as the others. It’s taken from a distance, possibly without the man’s knowledge. He’s wearing a yellow baseball cap pulled low over what looks like brown hair, and a white hooded sweatshirt over black jeans. There’s no name on the back.

      ‘Why СКАЧАТЬ