‘Sorry,’ she says to Clemency, picking up her phone. ‘Can I just?’
There’s a photo attached. The caption says, We’re waiting here for you! Come back!
Libby recognises the location of the photo. It’s the house in Cheyne Walk. And there, sitting on the floor, holding up her hands to the camera is a woman: slender, dark-haired, very tanned. She’s wearing a sleeveless vest and has some tattoos encircling her sinewy arms. To her left is a beautiful young boy, also tanned and dark-haired, and a gorgeous little girl with gold-tinged curls, olive skin and green, green eyes. On the floor by their feet is a little brown, black and white dog, panting in the heat.
And in the foreground of the photograph, holding the camera at arm’s length and beaming into the lens with very white teeth is the man who calls himself Phin. She turns the screen to face Clemency.
‘Is that …？’
‘Oh my God.’ Clemency brings a fingertip closer to the screen and points at the woman. ‘That’s her! That’s Lucy.’
Libby uses her fingertips on the screen to stretch out the woman’s face. Lucy looks like Martina, the woman she’d briefly thought was her mother. She has the dark skin and the glossy black hair, but hers is singed rusty brown at the tips. Her forehead is lightly lined. Her eyes are dark brown, like Martina’s. Like her son’s. She looks weathered; she looks tired. She looks absolutely beautiful.
They get to Cheyne Walk five hours later.
At the door, Libby feels for the house keys in the pocket of her handbag. She could just let herself in; it’s her house after all. And then she gulps as it hits her. It’s not her house. It’s not her house at all. The house was for Martina and Henry’s baby. A baby that was never born.
She puts the keys back into her bag and she calls the number attached to the WhatsApp message.
‘Hello?’
It’s a woman. Her voice is soft and melodic.
‘Is that … Lucy?’
‘Yes,’ says the woman. ‘Who’s this?’
‘This is … this is Serenity.’
61
Lucy puts the phone down and stares at Henry.
‘She’s here.’
They go to the front door together.
The dog starts to bark at the sound of people outside and Henry picks him up and tells him to shush.
Lucy’s heart races as her hand goes to the door handle. She touches her hair, smooths it down. She makes herself smile.
And there she is. The daughter that she had to leave behind. The daughter that she has killed to come back for.
Her daughter is average height, average build, nothing like the huge roly-poly baby she’d left behind in the Harrods cot. She has soft blond hair, but no curls. She has blue eyes, but not the pale aqua blue of the baby she’d had to abandon. She’s wearing cotton shorts, a short-sleeved blouse, pink canvas plimsolls. She’s clutching a grass-green handbag to her stomach. She’s wearing small gold sleepers with crystal drops hanging from them, just one in each ear lobe. She’s not wearing any make-up.
‘Serenity …？’
She nods. ‘Or Libby. For my day job.’ She laughs lightly.
Lucy laughs too. ‘Libby. Of course. You’re Libby. Come in. Come in.’
She has to resist the urge to put her arms around her. Instead she guides her into the hallway with just a hand against her shoulder.
Following behind Serenity is a big, handsome man with a beard. She introduces him as Miller Roe. She says, ‘He’s my friend.’