my mind again as I step into the cloakroom and reach for my coat. I should ring first. Or maybe I should text. That way I won’t disturb his family. But I don’t have a mobile number for him, just a landline.
Charlotte would though.
I fly up the stairs and head for her room, then pause in the doorway. Where’s her mobile? I haven’t seen it since before her accident.
I didn’t touch Charlotte’s room for two weeks after she was hospitalised, not one thing – not the mascara-stained makeup removal pads strewn across the dressing table, the dirty bras and knickers kicked under the bed or the magazines scattered across the floor – nothing. I thought that if I tidied up I’d regret wiping all traces of her personality from her room if she never woke up. It sounds ridiculous but I was in shock. How else could I have failed to notice that her phone wasn’t in the clear plastic bag of her things that the nurse handed me? It contained all the normal things she’d take out with her – purse, keys, makeup and hairbrush – but no phone. Why? Like most teenagers she was umbilically attached to her mobile.
Three weeks after her accident, my shock finally dissipated and with it my insistence that Charlotte’s room remain untouched. Instead of seeing the mess as a sign of normality it became a morbid shrine. My daughter wasn’t dead – she was just ill – so I tidied up, ready for her return. And that’s when I found the diary.
I throw open the wardrobe doors and root around in the pockets of some of her clothes. There are several items I’ve never seen before – a jacket that looks like it’s Vivienne Westwood and an expensively cut dress with a VB label. I stare at it for several seconds. What’s Charlotte doing with a Victoria Beckham dress? I push it along the rack and turn my attention to the pockets of a pair of Diesel jeans instead. I’ll have to have a word with Oli the next time I see him.
I close the wardrobe door. The bus driver didn’t mention anything about a mobile phone and neither did any of the other eye witnesses and the police immediately cordoned off the area so if it was lying crushed or broken nearby they’d have found it. So it must be in the house somewhere.
Charlotte must have deliberately hidden it. And if she did that then maybe she had something to hide.
I yank open Charlotte’s sock drawer and root around at the back. Nothing. I tip up the box of folders and school work under her desk and sift through the papers. No phone. It’s not hidden in any of her shoes or boots or secreted behind the novels on her bookshelf. I return to the sock drawer, squeezing each bundle but still find nothing. I search the room for fifteen, twenty minutes, going through every drawer, bag and shoebox but there’s no sign of her mobile.
Where is it?
I reach under the pillow for her diary and flick through the pages. I must have read it ten, twenty times but whatever secret she was keeping, she didn’t share it with her diary. She shared other worries – anxieties about her weight, nervousness about sleeping with Liam for the first time, concern about exam results and indecisiveness about the career she wanted but nothing huge, nothing so terrible she’d consider taking her own life.
I close the book and tuck it back under her pillow. There are no answers here, maybe Liam will have some.
White Street is completely deserted apart from a bad-tempered ginger tom who hisses at us as we walk past. I’ve been to Liam’s house dozens of times but I rarely go in. I normally sit in the car, engine running, as Charlotte rushes in to grab him so I can take them bowling or to the cinema. She never stayed overnight with him and he never stayed at ours but I told her that, if she was still with Liam when she turned sixteen, I’d accompany her to the doctor so she could go on the pill. Then, once it was safe, her father and I would go out for the evening and she and Liam could have the house to themselves.
Charlotte would though.
I fly up the stairs and head for her room, then pause in the doorway. Where’s her mobile? I haven’t seen it since before her accident.
I didn’t touch Charlotte’s room for two weeks after she was hospitalised, not one thing – not the mascara-stained makeup removal pads strewn across the dressing table, the dirty bras and knickers kicked under the bed or the magazines scattered across the floor – nothing. I thought that if I tidied up I’d regret wiping all traces of her personality from her room if she never woke up. It sounds ridiculous but I was in shock. How else could I have failed to notice that her phone wasn’t in the clear plastic bag of her things that the nurse handed me? It contained all the normal things she’d take out with her – purse, keys, makeup and hairbrush – but no phone. Why? Like most teenagers she was umbilically attached to her mobile.
Three weeks after her accident, my shock finally dissipated and with it my insistence that Charlotte’s room remain untouched. Instead of seeing the mess as a sign of normality it became a morbid shrine. My daughter wasn’t dead – she was just ill – so I tidied up, ready for her return. And that’s when I found the diary.
I throw open the wardrobe doors and root around in the pockets of some of her clothes. There are several items I’ve never seen before – a jacket that looks like it’s Vivienne Westwood and an expensively cut dress with a VB label. I stare at it for several seconds. What’s Charlotte doing with a Victoria Beckham dress? I push it along the rack and turn my attention to the pockets of a pair of Diesel jeans instead. I’ll have to have a word with Oli the next time I see him.
I close the wardrobe door. The bus driver didn’t mention anything about a mobile phone and neither did any of the other eye witnesses and the police immediately cordoned off the area so if it was lying crushed or broken nearby they’d have found it. So it must be in the house somewhere.
Charlotte must have deliberately hidden it. And if she did that then maybe she had something to hide.
I yank open Charlotte’s sock drawer and root around at the back. Nothing. I tip up the box of folders and school work under her desk and sift through the papers. No phone. It’s not hidden in any of her shoes or boots or secreted behind the novels on her bookshelf. I return to the sock drawer, squeezing each bundle but still find nothing. I search the room for fifteen, twenty minutes, going through every drawer, bag and shoebox but there’s no sign of her mobile.
Where is it?
I reach under the pillow for her diary and flick through the pages. I must have read it ten, twenty times but whatever secret she was keeping, she didn’t share it with her diary. She shared other worries – anxieties about her weight, nervousness about sleeping with Liam for the first time, concern about exam results and indecisiveness about the career she wanted but nothing huge, nothing so terrible she’d consider taking her own life.
I close the book and tuck it back under her pillow. There are no answers here, maybe Liam will have some.
White Street is completely deserted apart from a bad-tempered ginger tom who hisses at us as we walk past. I’ve been to Liam’s house dozens of times but I rarely go in. I normally sit in the car, engine running, as Charlotte rushes in to grab him so I can take them bowling or to the cinema. She never stayed overnight with him and he never stayed at ours but I told her that, if she was still with Liam when she turned sixteen, I’d accompany her to the doctor so she could go on the pill. Then, once it was safe, her father and I would go out for the evening and she and Liam could have the house to themselves.
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