Page 48 of The Pieces of Us

‘I’m sorry I’ve dragged you away from the Titanic museum.’

‘Ah, it’s not going anywhere.’ Asim smiles at me, over egg sandwiches and coffee in the tiny cafe next to the car hire place.

My original plan to get the bus to Donegal, and then another bus to Bundoran, has changed.

Asim suggested we hire a car and offered to drive, and it took all my effort not to say the first thing that came into my mind: I can’t let you do that or I don’t need you to do that or I can do it myself .

Because I do everything on my own all the time and I don’t want to do that any more.

‘Thank you. I appreciate it,’ I said instead.

As soon as we’re in the hire car, I punch the postcode of the Bundoran B & B into the satnav.

‘I’d better email the owner and see if she has two rooms available,’ I say casually as we head off.

‘Yes, you’d better. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea.’

I keep my eyes on my phone, feeling the heat on my cheeks.

Despite the coffee, and the nervous anticipation, and my proximity to a man who’s making me feel things I haven’t felt for the longest time, I’m asleep by the time we reach the outskirts of Belfast and I don’t wake up until we’re outside a quaint cottage with a hardwood door and colourful window boxes.

‘Welcome to Bundoran,’ Asim says. ‘We’ve been here a wee while, but I didn’t want to wake you. You’re cute when you sleep. Even though your mouth was wide open the entire time.’

‘Stop,’ I tell him, rubbing my eyes. ‘You should have woken me. I’d have done some of the driving.’

‘Ah, so you’re grouchy when you wake up,’ he says. ‘I can see this trip is going to be quite the eye-opener.’

‘Don’t make me send you back to the Titanic museum.’ I grab my suitcase and get out of the car.

‘Definitely more grouchy than cute,’ he says before I close the door behind me.

By the time he joins me at the door of the cottage, I’m feeling guilty. ‘I’m a fucking nightmare,’ I say. ‘I know that. I’m so happy that you’re here. I’m just not used to … this.’

‘I know.’ He smiles. ‘And I have a good feeling about this charming little place. Seems like somewhere someone called Beth would choose to live.’

‘I admire your positivity.’

‘And I admire your ability to sleep anywhere at the drop of a hat.’

I laugh. ‘It’s an important life skill.’

The door opens and we’re faced with a tall woman in a denim jumpsuit and white trainers, her blonde hair piled messily on the top of her head.

‘Hello. I’m Myrna Warren. Are you Cat?’ She stands back to let us in.

‘I am. And this is Asim. He, um … followed me here.’

Her jaw drops.

‘I’m kidding,’ I say quickly. I look at Asim and he rolls his eyes in mock despair.

‘Leave the jokes to me, kid,’ he says with a grin.

‘Cat. I got your email, but I have a slight problem.’ Myrna closes the front door and ushers us into the cottage, past a one-eyed black cat. ‘Oh, that’s Jasper. He got into a fight when he was a kitten. He’s as sweet as pie.’

I reach down to rub the back of Jasper’s neck and he stretches his front paws out in front of him, purring loudly.

‘I’m fully booked this weekend and I don’t have another room available. You’re in a twin room, Cat, so there are two separate beds. I can ring around locally, see if anyone else has a spare room?’

‘The twin room is fine,’ I say quickly, not looking at Asim. ‘No problem at all.’

‘Oh, thank goodness.’ Myrna smiles. ‘Well, it’s all ready for you. Let me show you the way.’

Asim pulls me back. ‘Cat … are you cool with this? I promise this was not a master plan to get you into bed, not in the slightest.’

‘It’s fine,’ I whisper.

The room is beautiful, with a huge wardrobe that’s either an antique or a very impressive copy, two basins in the spacious en suite bathroom, a view of a surprisingly large back garden, and two single beds with plump pillows and duvet covers sprinkled with grey hearts.

I flop on to one of them after Myrna leaves and stare at the ceiling. ‘What now?’

‘It’s after five p.m. Are you hungry? I’m hungry.’

‘Yes, I’m hungry,’ I reply, and I am – although I hadn’t realized it until now. ‘But … we’ve come all this way …’

Asim understands. ‘Let’s go to forty-four Bayview Cottages before we do anything else.’

‘I’ll freshen up first.’ I go into the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

The enormity of the task ahead is overwhelming, and I feel a deep, unexpected longing to be back in my flat in Glasgow, tidying up after Ruby and Minnie, complaining about having no time to myself.

In my familiar place, no matter how stressful and tiring it is.

I take my phone out of my pocket and text Ruby and Lena, then run the cold tap and go through the motions of cleaning my teeth, biting down on the brush to stop the release of tears.

Asim’s not there when I go back into the bedroom. I find him downstairs with Myrna, deep in conversation. He looks up, catches my eye. ‘Hey. Myrna has been giving me lots of background on the local area.’

I hope my smile tells him all the things I can’t say. Thanks for knowing when I need a moment. I’m sorry for being a grouch. I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I’m genuinely glad you’re here with me . I’m terrified .

‘What brings you here?’ Myrna asks, and I tell her.

‘Well, not many of my guests are on such important missions,’ she says, her voice caring. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Do you know of anyone called Beth Muir? She might go by Elizabeth?’ I ask, for a split-second wondering if maybe it could be that easy.

She frowns. ‘I do know a couple of Beths, but different surnames. My teenage daughter has a friend called Beth. And there’s a hairdresser in the salon I go to … how old is your Beth?’

My Beth . I take a deep breath. ‘I’m actually not sure. But I’d say in her fifties. I’m pretty sure she was young when she had me.’

‘Ah. The hairdresser I know is late twenties, early thirties,’ Myrna says apologetically. ‘Listen, leave it with me. Let me think on it. I’ll ask my husband if he knows any Beths. I didn’t grow up here, but he did … and so did lots of our friends.’

‘Thank you,’ I tell her. ‘I appreciate it.’

More guests arrive, and Asim and I take it as our cue to leave. ‘Walk or drive?’ he asks.

‘I need some fresh air.’ I type the address into Google Maps and we start walking.

‘I don’t know what I’m expecting,’ I tell him nervously. ‘Not in a million years did I ever think I’d be walking through a town in Ireland with my mum’s estate agent, wondering if I’m going to find something that could lead me to my biological mother.’

We walk the rest of the way in silence, turning corners and crossing roads when directed by the app. And then, suddenly, the destination is on our right .

It’s a pretty cottage, not unlike Myrna’s. It’s also, undoubtedly, empty. The curtains are open and the exposed rooms are bare. There’s no car on the driveway, no sign of life at number 44.

I ring the doorbell anyway and peer through the long pane of glass at the side of the front door. ‘There’s a pretty big pile of mail on the floor,’ I tell Asim. ‘I’d say nobody’s been here for a while.’ My heart sinks.

‘Can you see any names on the envelopes?’

‘Good thinking,’ I tell him. I crane my neck. ‘But no.’

‘Let’s hit up the neighbours,’ he says.

There’s a car on the driveway of number 42, but nobody answers the door. On the other side, number 46 is a different story. A young couple open the front door before I’ve even pressed the bell.

‘Oh … I’m sorry. I was just going to ask you …’ My voice trails off. I don’t have anything prepared.

‘Hi,’ the woman says with a smile. She has long auburn hair, a smattering of freckles across her cheeks. She looks at the man, still smiling. ‘We were just heading down to the beach. Can we help you with something?’

I clear my throat. ‘I’m looking for someone that I think might have lived next door … number forty-four … possibly a long time ago, I’m not sure. Her name is Beth Muir. Or Elizabeth.’

‘Oh, we don’t live here,’ the woman says. ‘I’m sorry. We only arrived a few days ago.’ She looks at the man again. ‘We’re on our honeymoon.’ She moves closer to him and puts her arm round his waist.

‘Oh, congratulations.’

‘I’m sorry we can’t help.’

‘Have you seen anyone at number forty-four since you arrived?’

‘I haven’t, I’m sorry.’ The woman turns to her husband. ‘Ben?’

He shakes his head. ‘I’ve not seen anyone there at all.’

I thank them and we turn away from their sympathetic loved-up faces.

‘Don’t give up,’ Asim whispers. ‘We just need to work out what to do next.’

‘I know what I want to do next.’

‘You do?’

‘I want to eat,’ I tell him.

We stop at the first restaurant we see, a cosy Italian with a giant neon sign in the shape of a pizza in the window. A cheerful waitress shows us to a booth, right under the sign.

‘Shall we have some wine?’ Asim peers at me over the top of his menu. ‘Pizza is always better with wine.’

We order a large Pizza Margherita and two glasses of Montepulciano. ‘We’ll go back to the cottage tomorrow,’ he says. ‘See if anyone is home then.’

‘Asim, there’s not a single piece of furniture in the place. If someone is living there, they probably shouldn’t be.’

‘Then we’ll ask at every house on the street,’ he says.

I lean against the back of the booth. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’

‘How does it feel to be away from everything?’

‘Strange,’ I admit. ‘Like I’ve forgotten something important. But … it’s also quite liberating.’ I fidget with my napkin. ‘I feel a bit guilty admitting that.’

‘You shouldn’t,’ he says.

‘I know. But you telling me that won’t stop it.’ I smile to soften my words.

‘Touché.’

The wine arrives and I take a grateful sip.

‘However … I also think you need to hear it. So I probably won’t stop.’

His overtone hangs between us.

‘This wine is good,’ I say.

‘You change the subject a lot, Cat McAllister.’

I throw his own words back at him. ‘I probably won’t stop.’