“She is. And we certainly have a lot to look forward to,” Jamie said, beaming in my direction. “I’m thinking maybe a little romantic getaway to Paris, then there’s Christmas. And, fingers crossed, we should be in our own place by the spring.”

“Paris, eh?” My father reached out, shook Jamie’s hand and then held it firmly in his grip. “You and I should take some rounds of golf together. Ping me some dates. I’ll introduce you at my club.”

“Fantastic,” Jamie said. “I’ll do that.” His face was a hearty mix of sincerity and appreciation. He gave the hallway a last look, taking in my father’s collection of china and jade, the oriental rugs, the round mahogany table and silk flowers, the mounted stag’s head on the wall. He shook my father’s hand, and then turned away, rolling his eyes at me behind his back. I had to stop myself from laughing.

I kissed them both goodbye. My mother said, “He’s lovely, darling,” loud enough for everyone to hear. Then she hugged me close, and, with her mouth right next to my ear said, “Don’t rush into anything.”

***

A couple of months later we had a long weekend in Paris, our first trip together overseas. We stayed in a hotel near the Musée d’Orsay and walked everywhere, stopping in tiny cafés for coffee and to pore over guidebooks. We visited the Louvre and Sainte-Chapelle, took a river cruise and had cartoons of our faces drawn by an artist at Montmartre—me all eyes, Jamie all teeth.

We were on the Pont des Arts when I saw my sister walking in the distance, on the pavement below the bridge. I recognized her instantly—her dark hair, the shape of her back, the fast gait of her walk. One person, in a crowd of thousands, and it was her. She had an orange backpack flung over one shoulder, and she was moving at a good pace through the crowd. I watched her for a second, then dropped Jamie’s hand and plummeted down the flights of stone steps to the bank below. I didn’t have direct sight of her anymore, but I knew the direction in which she was going. Above me, I could hear Jamie shouting my name from the bridge. There were people, so many people, too many. I shouted, “Laika.”

I hurtled along the bank, pushing through or darting around tourists grouped like slow-moving ships. But she was gone. I couldn’t spot the orange backpack anywhere. It was like she’d vanished into thin air.

I stopped and turned, spinning on the spot, looking in every direction, back into the mass of bodies I’d just passed, into the crowds up ahead, at the upper embankment, at the strangers sitting at the tables dotted along the pavement. My heart was thudding, my vision blurred with tears.

By the time Jamie caught up with me, he was panting heavily. He took my arm and turned me toward him. I could see myself reflected in his sunglasses, my eyes wild. He pulled me close and wrapped his arms around my shoulders.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was low and soft.

“It was Laika,” I said, breathless. “I saw Laika. She was on the embankment. She—” I pointed in the direction in which I had seen her walking, “She was going that way. We’ve got to find her.” I took a step down the pavement. Jamie pulled me back.

“Sweetheart,” he said, wrapping his arms around me. “It’s not Laika.”

“It was,” I said into his chest. “It was Laika. It was her.”

“How many years has it been? Twenty? More? Darling, think about it, you wouldn’t just spot her on the street. You wouldn’t recognize her—you’ve told me that yourself. She’d be changed beyond all recognition. You’re carrying around some vision of her as a young, healthy girl, a thirteen-year-old, but the truth is, even if she’s still alive, she’s probably living rough or holed up in an institution. She wouldn’t look the same. She could be missing teeth for all you know. It was somebody who looked a little like her, perhaps, somebody who reminded you of her, as she used to be.” He pulled me close. I put my head against his chest and I knew in some clumsy way he was trying to be kind, so I closed my eyes and breathed until I no longer felt the urge to punch him on the jaw.

“Darling,” he said, his voice gentle but firm, “your dad warned me this might happen. You’re not going to see Laika on a street in Paris. You’re not going to see her in London, or anywhere. Whatever awful thing happened to your sister, she’s not coming home.”

Jamie asked me to marry him that night and I said yes. We hatched plans together and, as soon as we got back from Paris, I moved into the little flat he shared with Sam.

***

Three weeks later, Jamie went to South Africa for work. On the morning of his departure, he stood in Sam’s hallway with his bags packed, cupping my face with his hands.

“I’ll take you with me another time, promise.”

He gave me a flash of that wide smile, perfect white teeth in two perfect white rows, then, from the window, I watched him bound down the outside steps to the waiting taxi, the morning light catching his golden head as he folded himself in through its door. I watched the black cab disappear down the street until it turned the corner and was finally out of sight.

Then I ran to the bathroom and threw up.

***

I knew I was pregnant straight off, even before I could take an accurate test. My entire body felt fundamentally different: powerful, elemental, complete. With Jamie still away, I went about my days in a blur of happiness and exhaustion. In the bathroom I stood in front of the mirror, running my hands over the flat of my belly, dazzled by the magic going on inside. I was going to be a mother.

No, I already was.

15 Satellite Willa

Jamie’s reaction to the news was a mixture of incredulity and pure joy. Given my age, I don’t think either of us had really expected things to happen quite so fast. As soon as he returned from South Africa, and on weekends when he wasn’t summoned by my dad to play golf, we started house hunting in earnest. We began our search first in the nicer parts of Central London, a dream that was almost instantly moderated to the outskirts. I’d been putting money away since I left school, but I’d never earned a lot. Even combined with Jamie’s savings, our little nest egg didn’t stretch to much. We looked at grotty basement flats that stunk of damp or in which the windows rattled with each passing train. At one place the so-called second bedroom was a cupboard.

Three months into my pregnancy, I started to feel desperate. Sam’s flat was nice enough, but obviously we couldn’t stay there, not with a baby on the way, and, while Sam was lovely, he was Jamie’s friend, not mine. Jamie himself was only living there as a favor, so I tried to make my own presence as unobtrusive as possible, arriving home after the others whenever possible. But I was tired, and still prone to bouts of sickness, and occasionally, very occasionally, I’d get home first.

Which is how I came to speak to Melissa.

The landline was ringing as I opened the front door. I dumped my bag and snatched it up, thinking it might be Jamie.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” a woman’s voice said. “Why aren’t you picking up your cell?” A South African accent.

I paused. “Are you calling for Jamie?”

“Who is this?”

“Willa.”

“What are you doing in Jamie’s flat?”

Oh, no, you don’t, I thought. “He’s my partner,” I said. I put a protective hand on the small swell of my belly. “We’re engaged.”

There was a moment of near silence, then a quick humorless laugh.

“Is that right?” the voice said slowly. “Unbelievable. Good luck with that.”

It was Melissa, of course it was, but Jamie arrived home at the same time as Sam, so I had to wait until we were in bed to tell him about the strange call.

“Ah,” he said. “Okay. Sorry about that.”

“But why was she calling you? What did she want?”

“God knows,” he said. “Perhaps she’s heard you’re on the scene.”

I let that sink in. “What was she like?”

“Melissa? Messy.”

“That’s it? She was messy?”

“I mean it. She was brought up by servants. It used to drive me mad. I’m a neat freak—like you.”

“Come on,” I said, half laughing. “This is your ex-wife. You can come up with a bit more than that.”

Jamie glanced at me. “Okay, then, feisty. How about that? A dynamo. Very single-minded about pursuing her goals. Not to mention combative: took no prisoners, shot from the hip. Melissa loved a good fight. She was forever arguing, running out of rooms, yelling at the staff.”

“The who?”