The Lost Ticket, page 21
Libby’s head was spinning. There was no way Dylan would have left, not the night before Frank’s assessment.
“It turns out he’s just like his mother, after all.” The man gave a leering smile, revealing yellow smoke-stained teeth. “That bitch did a runner too when he was a little ’un; did he tell you that? Couldn’t cope with being a mum, so she pissed off in the middle of the night and left me to deal with him.”
My god, poor Dylan. Libby couldn’t imagine what that must have been like, to be abandoned by his own mother and left with this . . . this brute.
“Have you registered him as missing with the police?” she asked.
The man let out a sharp laugh, which quickly dissolved into a fit of violent coughs. Libby watched as he hacked and choked for a solid minute. When he stopped he was wheezing heavily. “Of course I haven’t registered him missing, because he ain’t. He’s probably gone off with that other bird.”
“What other bird?”
“Oh, I don’t know her bloody name, but they’ve been on and off for years. She’s some waster punk like him.” The man gave another harsh cough. “I thought they were off again but it was her who called him yesterday. He’s probably moved in with her, so you can’t chase him down for money. He’s always been a tight bastard.”
Libby opened her mouth to defend Dylan, but no words came out. Dylan’s father was watching her with that horrible smile.
“I’ve got to go,” she said, suddenly desperate to get away. “If you see Dylan, please will you tell him to call Libby?”
“I won’t waste my breath,” the man said, and Libby turned and hurried away, his cruel laughter chasing her down the walkway.
CHAPTER
38
Libby spent the bus ride home in a daze. Had Dylan gone? She couldn’t imagine him deserting Frank with no warning; it seemed so unlike him. But what if Dylan had turned up at the house yesterday, seen Simon there, and assumed the worst? And then there was this whole girlfriend thing. Surely Dylan would never have kissed Libby and said what he’d said if he had a girlfriend? He’d always struck Libby as honest and trustworthy. But then again, she’d always thought Simon was honest and trustworthy too, and look what had happened there. Libby shuddered and the baby gave a restless kick.
Libby got off the bus on Kentish Town Road and walked back toward Rebecca’s house. As usual, the baby settled once she was on the move, and as Libby walked, she composed a message to Esme telling her what Dylan’s father had said. She left out the bit about the girlfriend, the words too unreal to type. Libby was pressing send as she turned through Rebecca’s front gate, and then she stopped dead. The front door to the house was hanging wide open.
Libby felt the blood draining from her face. Had she shut the front door when she left this morning? She was always so careful, but she’d been distracted about meeting Dylan and might have forgotten. Her legs were shaking as she crept up the front steps. Were the burglars still in the house, or had they gone already, taking all of Rebecca and Tom’s valuables with them? Libby still had her phone in her hand, and as she reached the front door, she dialed 999. She was about to press call when she saw a flash of movement at the end of the hallway and then heard a familiar voice.
“There you are, Elizabeth.”
“Mum?”
“Well, don’t stand there like a lemon. Come on in.”
“I thought you guys weren’t back until Friday?”
“Change of plan—we flew home early.” She came forward and gave Libby a dry peck on the cheek. “Happy birthday, darling.”
“Is everyone okay?”
Her mum looked up and down the corridor to check no one was in earshot, then lowered her voice. “Rebecca took a pregnancy test in France and . . .” She tapped the side of her nose.
“Oh, wow, that’s amazing!”
“Shh, you did not hear it from me!” Pauline hissed. “Of course, the second Rebecca found out, she wanted to rush back to London. I mean, the Dordogne is lovely but you can’t trust the French not to sneak blue cheese or raw meat into your food.”
“Where is she now?”
“Upstairs having a lie-down. Your father and Tom have taken Hector across to the park. Now, come on, I’m gasping for an Earl Grey. Tea is another thing the French manage to completely mess up.” Her mother led her through to the kitchen, where every surface was covered with bags and holiday detritus.
“So, how was your birthday?” she said as she turned on the kettle. “I can’t imagine you got up to much in your condition.”
“Actually, it was lovely. I had friends round for dinner.”
“Really? And what else have you been up to?”
“Oh, not much.” It was possibly the biggest lie she’d ever told, what with the bus search and Simon’s invitation, so Libby kept her back turned so her mum couldn’t see her face.
“No other news, then? Nothing to report?”
Libby paused, mug in hand. Her mum’s tone was casual, too casual. “When did he tell you?”
“When did who tell me what?”
“You know what I’m talking about, Mum. When did Simon tell you he asked me to move back in?”
A grin spread across Pauline’s face. “He called me yesterday evening. Oh, darling, I am so relieved for you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I mean, a marriage proposal would have been even better, but one step at a time, hey? Have you started packing yet? I’d say we’d give you a lift back today, but we’ve got all our luggage to fit in the car.”
“No, I haven’t started packing.”
“Have you thought about nursery furniture? John Lewis does some fabulous sets; we could pop to Bluewater next week and take a look if you like?”
“Mum—”
“Simon’s mother will be delighted. Of course, she’ll want to hold the baby shower at her place but as your mother I get—”
“Mum, stop.”
“What?”
“I haven’t said yes to Simon.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Elizabeth Anne Nicholls, what do you mean, you haven’t said yes?”
Libby pulled her shoulders back. “I’m not sure I want to move in with Simon again.”
“Why on earth not? He’s the father of your child.”
“I know, but that doesn’t mean I have to live with him.”
“This is ridiculous,” Pauline said. “I know you’re still cross with Simon, but as he explained to me on the phone yesterday, he really regrets the way he handled the pregnancy news. The poor guy was taken by surprise, that’s all.”
“Don’t you think I was taken by surprise too? What would have happened if I’d reacted in the way he did? And why do you always have to side with Simon?”
“I do not.”
“Yes, you do. It’s always ‘poor Simon this’ and ‘poor Simon that.’ I wish, just for once, you’d say, ‘Poor Libby, how rubbish that your boyfriend of eight years dumped you, kicked you out, and wanted nothing to do with your baby.’ ”
“What has got into you, Elizabeth?” her mum said. “I’ve never heard you talk like this before.”
Libby sighed. Part of her wanted to give up and acquiesce, like she always did with her family. But what had Dylan said? You need to stop caring so much what your family think.
“Mum, I’m thirty years old and about to become a mother,” Libby said, trying to keep her voice steady. “You need to stop treating me like a disappointing child who messes everything up.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t be so ridiculous,” Pauline said, rolling her eyes.
“See, this is exactly what I mean,” Libby said. “You never listen to what I have to say or what I want. You think I’m incapable of making decisions on my own and treat me like an idiot. And I’m sick and tired of it.”
“I do not think you’re incapable of making decisions. I just worry about you. You threw away a promising medical career on a foolish whim, and I don’t want to see you make the same mistake with Simon.”
“It wasn’t a promising medical career. I hated every second of that degree! I only stuck it out so long because I knew how much it meant to you and Dad. And I’m not going to make the same mistake and move back in with Simon because it’s what you want.”
“Quite right.”
Libby spun round at the sound of another voice. Rebecca was standing in the kitchen doorway, watching them.
“Ah, Rebecca, maybe you can talk some sense into your sister,” Pauline said. “She’s saying she’s not going to move back in with Simon, which is utter madness.”
“It’s not madness, Mum,” Libby said. “If these last three months in London have taught me anything, it’s that I’m tougher than I realized. I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but maybe I’m strong enough to have this baby on my own.”
“See what I mean?” Pauline said to Rebecca, her eyebrows shooting up in dismay. “She hasn’t got a clue. Tell her, Rebecca. Tell her she doesn’t stand a hope in hell of raising a child on her own.”
The room was quiet as they waited for Rebecca to speak. She was looking at Pauline, her brow furrowed. “Actually, Mum, I think Libby’s right.”
“What?” Libby and Pauline said in unison.
“I think Libby’s right. Simon has treated her like shit, and I think she’s probably better off doing this alone.”
Pauline’s face had gone a strange shade of purple. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, Mum. And you need to let Libby make up her own mind and support her in whatever she decides.”
Libby was so shocked, she didn’t know what to say. She had never known her sister to stick up for her like this, even when they were kids.
“I see,” Pauline said stiffly. “This is how it’s going to be, is it? My own children ganging up on me.”
“We’re not ganging up on you,” Rebecca said. “But we’re both adults now. You need to let go of the reins a bit, let us live our own lives.”
“Of course, I let you live your own lives,” Pauline hissed.
“Mum, you just insisted I cut my precious family holiday short because I found out I’m pregnant and you didn’t think France was safe for me,” Rebecca said. “And I agreed because that’s what I always do. But Libby was right a moment ago: we’re capable of making our own decisions now.”
Pauline looked between her two daughters, her mouth open, apparently too stunned to speak. In the distance, Libby could hear sounds at the front door, the click of it opening and the thud of Hector’s footsteps as he ran in. The noise seemed to startle Pauline back to reality as she turned and reached for her handbag.
“Right. Well, I know when I’m not wanted.”
“Oh, Mum, don’t be like that,” Libby said, but Pauline was already striding out of the kitchen.
“Roger, get our bags. We’re leaving!” she shouted from the hallway.
Libby looked at Rebecca. “Thank you for your support there.”
Rebecca shrugged. “I should have said it a lot sooner.”
“And congratulations on the pregnancy news too. That’s amazing.”
“It’s still very early days, so we’re not celebrating yet,” Rebecca said brusquely. Then she gave Libby a small smile. “But thanks.”
CHAPTER
39
By the time Pauline finally left the house, still refusing to be calmed down by either her daughters or her baffled husband, it was gone two and Libby was ravenous. Rebecca and Tom still had all their luggage to unpack, so Libby decided to give them some space and headed out to her favorite café. As she was eating a sandwich, she checked her phone. Still no word from Dylan, and it didn’t look as if he’d checked his messages since last night either. Where the hell could he be? Had he made it to Frank’s assessment? At the thought of her friend, Libby flicked to his number and pressed call, but there was no answer. Perhaps he was still doing the assessment, although it should have been finished by now. How would Frank have got on without Dylan there? Libby wondered with a lurch. She ate the last two mouthfuls of her sandwich, ordered some cakes to go, and then set off toward Frank’s.
When she reached his house, Libby rang the doorbell and stood back to wait for him to answer. She knew he was usually slow to get to the door, but within seconds she heard the sound of footsteps, long, fast strides that couldn’t possibly have belonged to Frank. Was it Dylan? Libby felt a flush of relief as the door opened.
The person on the other side wasn’t Dylan, but a middle-aged woman with an exhausted expression. Libby tried to conceal her disappointment.
“Can I help you?” the woman said in a clipped tone with a faint Scottish accent. This must be Clara, Frank’s daughter.
“Hi, is Frank in? I brought him éclairs.” Libby thrust the cake box toward Clara, but the woman ignored it, running a hand through her graying hair.
“Sorry. Who are you?”
“I’m Libby, a friend of Frank’s.”
“Well, I’m afraid now’s not a good time. My dad’s had a long day and he’s tired.”
“Could I quickly pop in and say hi? I won’t be long, but I promised him I’d come round and see how today went.”
The woman scrunched up her nose. “Okay, but keep it quick.”
“Of course.” Libby followed her inside.
As they approached the living room, Clara turned to her again. “Please don’t upset him.”
“Of course not,” Libby whispered back. What an odd request.
“Dad, you’ve got a visitor,” Clara said in a loud voice as she stepped into the living room. Libby followed her through, then stopped in her tracks.
Frank was sitting in his usual armchair, staring at the muted TV screen. He was wearing a dressing gown that reached down to his knees, revealing knobbly, varicose-vein-lined legs underneath. His shoulders were hunched forward and his hair was even more unkempt than usual. He was resting his right arm in his lap in a strange way, and when Libby looked closer, she saw his hand was wrapped in a white bandage.
“Frank, what happened?” she said, hurrying toward him, but if Frank heard her, he didn’t respond. He was watching some nature documentary on TV, but his eyes were glassy, as if he was looking at but not seeing the images on the screen.
“Dad burned himself this morning,” Clara said, walking to stand behind him and rest her hands on his shoulders.
“Oh, no!” The bandage was thick, with only the tips of his fingers poking out. “How did it happen?”
“He was making himself breakfast and the toast caught on fire,” Clara said. “And rather than leave it, Dad decided to grab the toast with his bare hand and gave himself second-degree burns.”
Libby drew breath. “Is it going to be okay?”
“The doctor said it should heal all right, but his hand is going to be out of action for a while.”
Frank was still staring at the TV, apparently oblivious to their conversation.
“He says something distracted him halfway through making breakfast, which is why he forgot about the toast, but he can’t remember what it was,” Clara continued. “Between you and me, I think he had one of his funny spells, when he zones out. It’s a common symptom of his type of dementia.”
At the word “dementia,” Frank’s head snapped round. “There was smoke,” he said. “Smoke and a strange smell.”
“Yes, Dad, that was because the toast was burning,” Clara said, enunciating the words.
“Oh, shit!” Libby said as a thought dawned on her. “I’m so sorry, but I think it was me.”
“What was you?” Clara said.
“I think I was the one who distracted Frank. I phoned him this morning and he said there was a funny smell, but it didn’t occur to me he was burning something. My phone call must have been the thing that distracted him.”
“I see,” Clara said slowly. “Well, that clears that up, at least.”
Libby bent down next to Frank’s chair so her face was level with his. “I’m so sorry, Frank. You said something about a funny smell before you hung up, but I didn’t think anything of it. I should have come straight up here.”
Frank didn’t respond. His eyes had gone back to the silent TV screen, on which a lion was stalking a pack of gazelles.
“The doctor gave him some strong painkillers earlier and they’ve knocked him out a bit,” Clara said.
“I feel terrible,” Libby said. “I should have come up and checked on him when he said Dylan wasn’t here.”
“It’s not your fault. I blame that bloody carer. It’s gross negligence, what he did; if he’s ill, he’s supposed to call the agency so they can send a replacement.”
“I think something has happened to Dylan,” Libby said, but Clara ignored her.
“I should have trusted my instinct. The first time I saw him, I knew he’d be trouble.”
“That’s not fair. I’m sure Dylan will have a good explanation for this.”
Frank must have heard Dylan’s name, because his head jerked again. “Where’s Dylan? Is he here?”
“No, Dad, Dylan didn’t come,” Clara shouted, and Libby saw him wince. “The agency are sending a new carer for you tomorrow morning.”
“But I need Dylan.” Frank’s voice was weak, and he reminded Libby of a small child.
“What happened with the care assessment?” Libby asked.
“I had to cancel it because we spent the whole morning in A and E getting his hand seen to,” Clara said. “We only got home half an hour ago.”
“What does that mean? Will they reschedule?”
Clara shook her head. “There’s no point. I don’t need a care assessment to tell me that Dad’s not safe to live here alone, especially now he can’t use one hand. I’m going to start looking for a care home for him ASAP.”
