That evening, as Izzy was tucking the list away with the others （the one underneath said simply Baked beans （lo salt）， ice cream, sausages, sausages veggie, cat food）， she glimpsed a title that stirred something: Rebecca. Her dad had had a Reader’s Digest copy bound in red leather with gold lettering that he’d inherited from his own mother – he read it every year because it was his mother’s favourite book.
‘This book reminds me of her, Izzy,’ he’d said to her, when she asked him why he was reading the same story again and again. ‘You like to re-read your books, and I do too.’
It was beautiful, the book – and she’d loved seeing her dad pick it up so often. He turned each page so carefully. He never opened it wide enough to bend the spine. It was precious to him. The day he’d finally given it to her, she knew that she was old enough and trusted enough to read it; she’d felt like a grown-up that day. But, for fear of damaging it, of getting her sticky fingerprints on it, of ruining her father’s precious copy, she’d never passed the first page.
She wandered to her kitchen, where her only bookshelf was kept （she’d never asked her landlord why the shelf was screwed to the wall, here of all places）， and began to rummage through the books. This time, she couldn’t quite picture the list writer, and it niggled at her, this unknowing … But perhaps reading the books themselves – some again, some for the first time – would help her to get a clearer picture of who they might be?
She was sure she, or her flatmate Sage, had another paperback copy of Rebecca somewhere. She’d seen it. A black cover, with gold writing, all curly, and a rose. Red and bright, luxurious. But she couldn’t find it anywhere. She turned the list over, about to give up, when she spotted Harrow Road Library emblazoned on the back. The books had been scrawled on the back of a renewals slip: ‘Return date 11/03/2016’。 The pixelated text had almost faded to nothing. Aha, she thought to herself, as though she was an evil villain or successful detective from a TV show. She knew that library, and she knew one university student who used it quite a lot. She pulled out her phone, dropped a WhatsApp to Sage, Hey, can you get me Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier from your library plz?
Sage’s reply was almost instantaneous, Get it yourself lazy bones. Come see the banging library vibes your missing out on.
Izzy read each title on the list once more and took in that line: Just in case you need it. Unlike every other list she’d found, this felt as though it was intended to be discovered. This list was a letter from a stranger – and Izzy wanted to find out what it meant.
Chapter 12
MUKESH
BEEP. ‘DAD, GOOD LUCK today! You’ll be good, and remember to stretch properly. I hope those fitness DVDs arrived in the post for you – I didn’t hear back from you. Sorry we didn’t drop them round, we’ve just been so busy; the twins are on the go all the time and it’s hard to find a spare moment. Twins, say good luck to your dada.’ ‘Good luck, Dada! Don’t fall over!’ the twins chorused in the background.
BEEP. ‘Hi Papa, it’s Rohini, remember to eat properly before you go and keep your blood sugar up. Have one of those packet chais or something, yeah? And enjoy it – the walk, not just the chai. Remember to wear a vest too, it will help with the sweat patches.’
BEEP. ‘Hi Papa, it’s Vritti. Good luck today. Sending you loads of love. Hopefully see you soon, yeah? Anyway … I’m really proud of you. For doing this. Seriously.’
Today was the day he’d been dreading: the day of the sponsored walk. Mukesh stared at his book, the voicemails from his daughters ringing in his ears. His heart was pounding. He couldn’t be sure it was because of his own nerves, or whether he’d become jittery because of Rebecca. He’d been lost in its pages late last night and it was haunting … scary. It was about a woman, in love with a wonderful man, just married. The start of a happy story, Mukesh had thought at first, until it became clear that the ex-wife, the dead wife, Rebecca … she would never be forgotten, and this new lady would forever live with the ghost of the past. It was terrifying.
Mukesh gulped loudly – swallowing his fears. He was clutching his canvas bag with his Canderel, a spare sachet of chai just in case and a water bottle. Mukesh, Naina’s voice filtered through the air. You can do this, okay? It is good, it is for charity. Just imagine I’m there walking beside you. He clutched his book to his side; Naina used to carry a book with her wherever she went, in case she got stuck in a lift on her own, or if there was a queue at a supermarket with no one to chat to. For Mukesh, having the book with him today was both a method of avoiding chatty conversations with mandir volunteers, and it felt like Naina, a small part of her, was with him. A lucky talisman.