He sighs and runs his fingers across the bunch of keys. ‘But yes. Let’s do it. Let’s find out what happened to all those people. Let’s find out what happened to you.’
He holds his hand out to hers to shake. ‘Are we on, Serenity Lamb?’
‘Yes,’ says Libby, putting her hand in his. ‘We’re on.’
Libby goes straight to the showroom from her breakfast with Miller Roe. It’s only half past nine and Dido barely registers her lateness. When she does, she does a double take and says, in an urgent whisper, ‘Oh God! The journalist! How did it go!’
‘Amazing,’ Libby replies. ‘We’re going to meet at the house this evening. Start our investigation.’
‘Just you,’ says Dido, her nose wrinkling slightly, ‘and him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm. Are you sure that’s a good idea?’
‘What? Why?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s not what he seems.’ Dido narrows her eyes at her. ‘I think I should come too.’
Libby blinks slowly and then smiles. ‘You could have just asked.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Dido turns back to her laptop. ‘I just want to look out for you.’
‘Fine,’ says Libby, still smiling. ‘You can “look out” for me. I’m meeting him at seven. We’ll need to be on the six eleven. OK?’
‘Yes,’ says Dido, her gaze resolutely on her computer screen. ‘OK. And by the way’ – she looks up suddenly – ‘I’ve read every single Agatha Christie novel ever published. Twice. So I might even be quite useful.’
19
Lucy leaves the children sleeping with a note on the bedside table for Marco that says: ‘I’ve gone to sort out passports. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Give your sister something to eat. The dog’s with Giuseppe.’
She leaves the house at 8 a.m. and takes the long route across town to the Gare de Nice. She stops for a while and sits on a bench, letting the soft morning sun warm up her skin. At eight forty-five, she boards the train to Antibes.
Just after 9 a.m. she is in front of Michael’s house. A metal jacket of bluebottles sits on Fitz’s shit from the morning before. She smiles a tight smile. Then, very slowly, bile burning in the pit of her stomach, she rings on Michael’s doorbell.
The maid answers. She smiles when she recognises Lucy and she says, ‘Good morning to you! You are the wife of Michael! From before! The mother of Michael’s son. I did not know before that Michael, he had a son!’ She has her hand clasped to her chest and she looks genuinely joyful. ‘Such beautiful boy. Come, come in.’
The house is silent. Lucy says, ‘Is Michael available?’
‘Yes, yes. He is having a shower. You wait for him on terrace. Is OK?’
Joy leads her on to the terrace and tells her to sit, insisting on bringing coffee with amaretti on the side, even when Lucy says water will be fine. Michael does not deserve such a woman, she thinks. Michael does not deserve anything.
She puts her hand into her shoulder bag and pulls out her old passport, and the tiny wallet with the photos of Stella and Marco tucked inside. She drinks her coffee but leaves the amaretti which she cannot stomach. A colourful bee-eater sits in a tree overhead surveying the garden for snacks. She breaks up the amaretti and drops it on the floor for him. He doesn’t notice, and flies away. Lucy’s stomach rolls and reels. It’s half past nine.
Then finally he is there, immaculate in a white T-shirt and pea-green shorts, his thinning hair still wet from the shower and his feet bare.
‘Well, my goodness me,’ he says, brushing her cheek with his on both sides. ‘Twice in two days. It must be my birthday. No kids?’