Leo, I think, suddenly. Leo’s been into my Facebook messages, looking for answers to the clues I’ve left.
But why would he block Charlie? Does he know about him?
I look up. ‘Can I ask what you said in your messages?’
‘I just gave you my number and asked you to get in touch.’ Charlie, my son, starts fiddling needlessly with his shoelace. （He wears his laces perma-tied, with the tongues of the trainers sliding off to the sides. He doesn’t appear to be wearing socks underneath. He doesn’t appear to be someone who irons his clothes, yet he’s not scruffy, exactly, more just . . . eighteen.）
He sits up, suddenly. ‘My name on Facebook is Charlie Rod. Dad said it was best not to use my proper name, because of him and Mum and whatnot. I did wonder if it’d be better if I used my full name to message you.’
Carefully, I tell him that I think he was probably blocked by mistake. ‘I presented a TV series a few years ago,’ I say. ‘It was repeated recently, so I’ve had a bunch of strange people getting in touch, and my husband blocked them. He must have assumed you were one of them.’
He nods, knowingly, but I have no idea if he’s just being polite or if he’s actually looked up – maybe even watched? – an episode of This Land.
A silence opens up, but it’s not painful. I sense he’s coming round to the reason for his presence; the reason why now is the time he felt ready to meet me.
In the bathroom I can hear Jill’s phone ringing. I’m pretty sure I hear a muttered ‘Please, just go away,’ but she doesn’t answer the call.
‘When I couldn’t get hold of you, I tracked down Jill,’ Charlie says. ‘She comments on your Facebook posts quite a lot and I could tell by the things she said that you two are good friends. She’s very nice,’ he adds, and the admiration I feel for this young man soars. How many eighteen-year-old boys have the presence of mind to say something kind about a middle-aged woman they don’t even know?
‘Anyway, I said I was keen to talk to you and asked Jill to pass on my number. But Jill was like, why don’t I get you and Emma together . . .’
‘I hope you didn’t feel pressured,’ I say, because I know how Jill can be when she’s got an idea in her head.
‘Not at all. I just really wanted to ask you about Mum.’ His voice is suddenly firm. ‘That’s why I needed to talk to you.’
I fix my smile. He mustn’t see how disappointed I am.
‘I know Dad’s asked you,’ he’s saying, ‘but have you really not heard from her? No emails, no messages?’
‘She wrote me a letter,’ I say, carefully. ‘As you know. Your dad gave it to me. But beyond that, nothing. Or at least, nothing I’ve seen. We definitely haven’t spoken, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
Charlie studies my face, then slumps back into his armchair. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Fair enough. Well – I had to ask.’
He thinks for a while.
‘I really wouldn’t expect to hear from her,’ I add. ‘If that helps. The letter was surprising enough.’
I stop there, because I have no idea what Charlie knows about the relationship between me and Janice.
‘I just had a suspicion Mum tried to reach you recently,’ he says. ‘Aside from the letter, I mean.’
I watch him, wary of saying the wrong thing. ‘Why? You know we haven’t been in touch for many years, don’t you . . . ?’
There’s a tiny shift. Charlie gets his phone out of his pocket （silicone cover, tatty at the edges） and checks it. The screen is blank. ‘I do. But there must be a reason why she chose now, of all times, to write to you about crabs. It feels significant. I just wondered if she’d tried to reach you some other way. In case we’d refused to give you the letter.’