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FORTY-NINE

The day after Boxing Day, Ash heads to Cambridge.

She has to do something. The past twenty-four hours have been intense and too much: the claustrophobia of having Nick here on Boxing Day when it was meant to be just the three of them, and seeing Arlo behave as if Nick was his new best friend, saying things like “He’s good for Mum, that’s the most important thing,” even as he put his Christmas gifts into carrier bags ready to take “home” to Bournemouth the following day, after which he won’t have to think about any of his family again for months.

Ash can see the twinkle of Christmas tree lights through the window of the house on Kingston Gardens, and she breathes a sigh of relief. A Christmas tree means that someone is actively living here. She inhales to calm her nerves, and then rings the doorbell.

A youngish man answers. He has close-cropped hair and round-framed glasses, wears a trendy sweatshirt and jeans, and his feet are bare. “Hello?” He has an American accent.

“Oh,” says Ash, “hi! I’m looking for someone called Laura? I’m not sure of her surname. Possibly Warshaw? But she used to live here about ten years ago?”

The man turns his head and calls out behind him. “Honey. Can you come here a sec?”

A woman appears a minute later. She wears a similar pair of round-framed glasses, and a similar sweatshirt and jeans.

“Was there a woman called Laura here before we moved in?”

“Laura?” says the woman. “Yes. That rings a bell. She had two little girls. Kind of fortyish?”

Ash nods feverishly. “Yes!” she says. “Yes, that’s the one. How long ago did she move out?”

“Well, we’ve been here for ten years,” says the woman, and the man nods along in agreement.

“And do you—do you have any idea where she went? What happened to her?”

The couple look at each other. “Not sure, really,” says the woman. “I think she moved for schools? For her children? Something like that. Is there something wrong?”

Ash shakes her head. “No. Just… she was a friend of my father’s. And my father just passed away. And I just wanted to let her know. That’s all.”

The couple exchange another look and then the woman says, “You could try asking our landlady?”

“Oh. Yes! Wow, that would be great, if that’s OK?”

“Yes. Sure. She’s called Petula. She runs the salon on the high road.”

“Oh! Great! What’s it called?”

“Petula’s.”

Ash gives them both a double thumbs-up and a stupid grin. “Great. Thank you. Do you think it’ll be open now?”

“No idea. But I can’t see why not.”

Ash thanks the couple and puts the salon into her Maps app. It’s a four-minute walk away.

Petula is an older woman with bright blond hair and a nice way about her. She hands her client over to a junior to have the dye washed from her hair and then takes Ash to the sofa in the window, where a small white dog slumbers on a fleecy rug.

“Laura,” she says sighing heavily. “Ah, yes, poor Laura. She got well and truly done over. In my opinion.”

“What do you mean—done over?”

“I mean that guy, her husband, Justin. He scammed her.”

Ash feels a jolt of energy pass through her. “Really?” she says.

“Well,” says Petula, “like I say. In my opinion. She maintained that he was a good guy, but she put up with all sorts of nonsense.”

“Were you friends?”

“Well, sort of. We were neighbors for a while. I own the house next door as well and I was living there when she moved in. I lived there for about a year and we kind of rubbed along a bit during that time. I could hear things through the wall, get an idea of the dynamic, and oof.” She blows out her cheeks.

“I did not like that man. Not at all. He had this way about him, so charming, perfect husband, perfect father…”

“So those were his children? The two girls?”

“Well, yes. Or I assumed so. He used to refer to them as his daughters.”

“And they were married?”

“Again, I assumed so. They both wore rings. He referred to Laura as his wife.”

Ash gets a slightly panicky feeling in the pit of her stomach and into her bowels.

Here it is. It’s coming. It’s like a tornado or a tsunami, it’s over there somewhere, she can’t see it yet, but it’s getting closer and once it arrives, all hell will break loose.

And she wants it to happen, but at the same time she really doesn’t, because this, on top of Dad’s death, not to mention Ash’s own mental health crisis not that long before—all of it might be too much for her mum, might tip her over, because she has been so strong, so brilliant during all of this, but can she take this too?

Is Ash going to blow her mother’s life into smithereens?

In the process of trying to save her from doing it to herself?

“So, what did you hear? What happened?”

“Psychopath.”

Ash cocks her head questioningly.

“Classic case,” Petula continues. “Gaslighting. Word salad–ing. Love-bombing. All of it.”

Ash nods but doesn’t really know what Petula is talking about.

“And then, one day, he just disappeared completely. Left her alone with two little girls and thousands of pounds of debt. I mean…” Petula blows out her breath and widens her eyes.

“You’d think she was a stupid woman, from me saying that.

But that was the thing. She really wasn’t a stupid woman.

She was a clever woman. Funny. Confident.

Great company. She had a proofreading business, used to do work for some really famous writers.

She was well-known in Cambridge, had a great reputation.

She was very well-liked. And this man, Justin, he somehow managed to persuade her that he had her best interests at heart when he really, absolutely did not. Or at least, not in my opinion.”

“Where did she go—Laura?”

“Well, she moved out about ten years ago. Couldn’t afford the rent as she was having to pay off all of Justin’s debts.

I don’t know where she went, but it certainly wasn’t around here.

I’d know if she was still in the area. And we weren’t quite close enough to stay in touch.

So that was that. She handed me back the keys, we had a bit of a hug, she left. Never saw her again.”

Petula sighs, then glances down at the photo on Ash’s phone screen of Nick Radcliffe’s LinkedIn profile.

She sniffs. “Slippery fuck,” she says. Then, “What is it with some women? I really don’t get it.

Why can’t they see through men like him?

What is it that he does? It’s like… black magic.

Like that character from that sketch show, you know, Look into the eyes, not around the eyes, look into the eyes.

You know the one? And everyone else can see what’s happening.

But the woman in the middle of it, the woman being love-bombed and bamboozled and lied to and manipulated…

” She shakes her head sadly. “Make sure your mum doesn’t let him at her money.

Make sure she stays in control. But better still, make sure she gets rid of him. ”

Laura Drummond is her name. Not Laura Warshaw.

She didn’t take his name when they married.

Her date of birth, according to the lease she signed for Petula’s house, is 28 June 1973.

Her daughters are called Lola and Evie. They would be teenagers by now.

It’s not much, but it’s enough. Ash heads back into the city center and finds a nice coffee shop where she eats a slice of cake and has a coffee and plugs in her phone to charge while she googles the hell out of the small amount of information she has to work with, and there it is—Laura Drummond, Proofreading Services, Peterborough PE2.

She finds the address on Maps and goes onto Street View.

It’s a small office block on a suburban-looking high road.

No doubt it will be closed today, nobody needs proofreading services over Christmas and the New Year, but she calls the number anyway and it goes to a voice message, a woman with a very soft voice telling the caller that she is away for the Christmas period and will be back on 2 January and please do leave a message.

“If it’s urgent,” she says, “please send me an email.”

Dear Laura

My name is Aisling Swann.

My mother is dating a man called Nick Radcliffe who once went under the name of Justin Warshaw, to whom I believe you were once married?

I’d love to talk to you about him if you feel comfortable doing so, as I have some concerns about him.

Please reply to me here, or call me on the number below.

Many thanks Yours Ash

She presses send and hurls the message toward an unknown next chapter.