“You’ve got to tell Willa,” I tell her. “They stayed at the flat last night. Let’s go.”

***

“Well, they’re in,” I say, as we draw up outside the block in Brook Green. “The lights are on,” and we run up the stone steps as a woman on her way out holds open the door.

“Thanks,” I say. We’re in.

The two of us climb the wide stairs to the top floor. I knock and a voice shouts, “Hang on. That was quick.”

Wearing only boxer shorts and a crumpled shirt, Jamie opens the door. “Oh,” he says. He glances between the two of us, looking somewhat rattled. Embarrassed, I suspect.

“Surprise,” I say. “Expecting someone else?”

A beat. “Delivery,” he mutters. We are not invited in.

“Any chance of a quick word with Willa?”

Jamie glances down the stairs, then clears his throat. “Willa’s not here, actually. She went home this morning. To her parents, I mean. The coast.”

“Shit,” I say, “we really need to talk to her.”

For a moment there’s a beat when we all just stand there, Jamie blocking the flat’s entrance with his bulk. “Is this about last night?” he says.

“No,” Claudette says, her voice flat. She adds, “It’s about Laika.”

“Jesus, Robyn,” Jamie says, “don’t get Willa all fired up about her sister again, okay? Bryce really doesn’t want that. According to him, she was trouble.”

“And you believed that?”

My voice is needled through with such bright threads of anger that for an instant Jamie looks like he’s been slapped. “Hey,” he says, holding up both hands, “don’t shoot the messenger.”

We’re just wasting time. “Any chance I could use your loo?” I say, and, when he doesn’t move, I add, “Jamie? Then we’ll be off.”

“I’m just a bit—” He stops, glances behind us, then runs a hand through disheveled hair. “Yeah, I mean. Of course.”

Still he stands there. We wait, and after another long moment he shuffles aside. The three of us go in and, as he closes the door, Jamie says to Claudette, “So, uh—I should probably apologize for last night. Obviously we didn’t get off to the best start.” I hear her say, “You think.”

For such a newly decorated apartment, the bathroom is a mess. The basin needs cleaning, a tap is dripping and there are damp towels discarded on the floor. God, I think. I had no idea Jamie was so slovenly. That must drive Willa mad—she and I shared a bedroom for almost two years and she’s just about the tidiest person I’ve ever met. It’s all I can do to stop myself from cleaning up.

“Thanks,” I say as I step back into the living room. “Jamie, I hate to say it, but you look terrible. Maybe drink some water. Get some rest.”

He really does looks ill. I give him a grim look. Jamie returns a wooden smile and in that moment of silence I hear a quiet scrape, followed by a rattle. Now all three of us turn our heads toward the source of the noise, listening. It is the unmistakable sound of a key in the door.

Moments later a woman steps over the threshold. I recognize her instantly. She’s the woman we passed on her way out, the one who held open the downstairs door. She’s carrying the keys and a bottle of champagne in one hand, and a couple of plastic flutes in the other. She stops.

“I see we have company,” she says to Jamie, a distinct snip in her voice. With some emphasis she adds, “You should have let me know.”

Little switches flick on and off in my brain. “Who are you?”

She turns her head to look at me, a quick up and down. “Melissa. I’m Jamie’s wife.”

“Err, ex-wife,” Jamie says, looking uncomfortable.

“What are you doing in Willa’s flat? Does Willa know you’re here?”

She examines me coolly with flat brown eyes. “What’s it to you?”

“I’m her best friend.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Well, then,” she says icily, “I think we can be fairly certain she will now.” She purses pink lips, a long-suffering look on her face. Then, as if deciding to share a confidence, she takes a step toward me and says in a slightly lower voice, “Obviously she had to know sometime. To be absolutely honest I’d told Jamie that if he didn’t get on with it, I’d tell her myself, woman to woman, you know.”

“Stop right there,” I say, holding up both my palms. “Don’t you dare invoke the sisterhood.”

Claudette says, “You conniving bitch.”

Melissa turns her head, slow-blinking. “I’m sorry,” she says in a slow voice riddled with condescension, “and you are—”

“Laika.”

***

—

I throw the car into reverse. “I’m taking you to Laburnum House, but do me a favor, will you?” I toss her my mobile. “Can you call ahead and let them know we’re on our way? Leave a message if you have to.”

“Sure,” Laika says. “I’ll stick it on speaker so you can hear what she says.”

The phone connects, then rings.

“Robyn.”

“No, it’s me”—a beat—“Robyn’s driving.”

I hear a soft breathy sound, a taking in of air, then the sound of Willa’s voice fills the car. “Oh my God,” she says, a sob in her voice, “Laika.”

“We’re coming down to see you. Right now.”

“I don’t believe this is actually happening. I thought I’d lost you all over again.”

“We’re on our way. But, listen, Willa, there’s something you need to know, now, before I get there.” I meet Laika’s eyes and in that instant I catch a flash of something crossing her face, a look of bright, savage illumination. “Dad knew I was in France. He’s always known. He met me at the ferry terminal at Dover. He gave me my passport.”

There is a moment of silence. Then the howl that rises from the telephone is so animal, and full of such extraordinary pain and fury, that, even reduced to the scale of a handset, the noise flies through me like electric-hot wires.

The line goes dead.

25 Fragments Robyn

By the time we reach the South Downs the winter sun is already sinking fast.