He says nothing, but the tears continue to fall.
‘What’s happened?’ I ask, gently. ‘Why has she left?’
Eventually, he blots at his eyes. ‘I wouldn’t be here if I knew the answer to that question,’ he says. ‘But I appreciate that you’ve been worrying too.’
‘Of course I have.’
He straightens up, smiling briefly at me, and I go back to my side of the coffee table. It’s not comfortable being this close to him.
‘She had been very anxious,’ he admits, eventually. ‘It had been getting worse since Charlie left for university last autumn. But I’m not convinced anxiety’s the reason.’
I wait for him to carry on.
‘Are you sure you’ve not been in touch with her?’ he asks.
‘Jeremy, we’ve been over this. I’d have everything to lose, calling your wife. Why are you still asking?’
He sighs. ‘I’m asking because she’s written to you.’
I stare at him. ‘Who? Janice?’
He nods.
‘So – so she’s alive?’
‘Yes. Or at least she was three days ago. She sent us a letter.’
‘Jeremy! I – oh, wow! Thank God!’
He nods, slowly. ‘It’s definitely from her, but she doesn’t sound good. Oddly conversational. But detached, you know? As if she’d taken too much medication.’
‘What did she say?’
He pauses. I’m surprised he’s told me even this much. He’s always kept Janice well out of my reach: the times we met after my cancer diagnosis four years ago, he wouldn’t even use her name.
‘She said she’s alive. Apologised for disappearing. Said she needs to be alone at the moment.’
I wait.
‘It was a relief, of course. A huge relief. But it’s very worrying. To just walk out on her life, then wait two weeks before writing to us – and even then, to sound like she’s just updating some distant relatives . . . That’s not her. She can’t be well.’
‘So will the police still help? If they know she’s alive?’
Jeremy picks up his tea again. ‘Yes, but it’s scaled right back now. We’ve told them she’s vulnerable but they’re less interested. Which, I suppose, is understandable, but it’s very hard to take.’
I nod. What a desperate situation. If Leo just disappeared – no warning, no note, nothing – I don’t know what I’d do.
I search for something to say. ‘Ah . . . So – where was the letter posted?’
‘No idea,’ Jeremy says. He looks at a criminally awful watercolour on the wall, one of many the rental cottage owner has painted.
‘No postmark?’
Jeremy shakes his head. ‘Letters tend not to get postmarked anymore.’
‘Really? I didn’t know that.’
‘Well, you do now. But as I said, there was also a letter for you in the envelope.’
There’s a caution in his eyes. ‘I’ve read it, obviously. Just in case there was anything that might help us trace her. So I can tell you now that it’s not what you’re hoping for.’
He leans forward to retrieve the letter from his back pocket, which I take, wordlessly. It does not sit well with me to hear him talk about my hopes, when he’s spent years battering them.