– I’m sorry I was a cock. We were drunk, I shouldn’t have said that stuff to you, and everything else, that night. Let’s just forget about it.’

And everything else. I am blindsided. ‘Right, then.’

‘Glad you like the photos. See you soon.’

He closes the door gently behind him once again, raising his hand as a farewel . I watch the closed door. I want to run after him, put him right, but what would I say? Yes, I slept with Oli, yes, we were drunk, no, I’ve no idea what’s going on in my life, yes, I like you, I’ve always real y liked you.

But you shouldn’t trust my opinion about anything. I don’t.

I get my sketchpad out, tugging my hair and staring intently at the photos of the necklace. I cal Charlotte at Emilia’s Sister, to say how pleased I am about the order. I try Guy again: ‘Hi, Guy. Look, I read the diary – Mum’s gone away, she said she’d told you, just wondering if we could chat? Give me a cal .’

In the afternoon, guests start arriving for Lily’s open studio. I can hear sounds of chatter and laughter floating through the open window, down the corridor. I don’t hear Ben leave; perhaps he’s there too. When the charms arrive by messenger from Rolfie’s, I thread them onto what I’ve already assembled, making up two, three, different versions of the necklace, trying each out with Cecily’s ring. I make notes, I change bits around. I prop the photos up next to my stool and sketch on, waiting for someone to cal me back, but the phone is silent.

Chapter Forty-One

The days pass by easily at Jay’s. I fal into a rhythm there almost immediately. We know each other wel , we can happily watch TV together or separately. Cathy can come round and hang out with both of us, just like the old days. Jay is laid-back about everything, to the point of being comatose sometimes, and I feel like Louisa, picking up his cereal bowls and dirty socks after he’s left for work in the morning. I love it. I’m sleeping like a log. It isn’t so cold, it’s April now, and the days are warmer, the nights fresh and it’s quiet around our side of De Beauvoir Square, but a contented quiet, not the silence of an empty flat. We stay up late into the night watching films, taking it in turns to pick. Last night I chose Tootsie.

The night before Jay made me watch The Bourne Identity, which I’ve never seen. I could have done without him making exploding noises at the exact moment onscreen that someone gets shot or blown up, but otherwise it was great.

I used to wish I could live alone. Now, I am relishing living with my cousin. It’s great to know someone wil be there when you get back home.

And even if they’re not, that they’l be back eventual y. With Oli, it got to a stage where even though he was there, he wasn’t real y present. There were so many things we couldn’t discuss, didn’t discuss: Should we move to a bigger place? When should we have children? Why are you never around any more?

Anyway, it is with surprise one Saturday that I look round and realise it’s April, and I’m going back to Cornwal the fol owing week, for the launch of the foundation.

Yesterday, I had a cal from Emilia’s Sister. Charlotte, the owner, said she had to cal , because they’d sold eight necklaces that Friday alone –

that doesn’t sound like much, but it’s a classic Columbia Road shop, one that does most of its business on Saturday and Sunday, so that’s pretty good news, amazing in fact. Earlier in the week, I found out I had a place at that business seminar I signed up for. It’s in a couple of weeks. It’s free, and as far as I’m concerned, I need al the help that I can get.

It’s funny, but once you admit you’ve screwed up and don’t know what comes next, it’s easier to accept help. I have had my own business for a couple of years, and it’s only now I realise how much I have to learn, look it square in the face. It’s scary. But scary in a good way. I’ve been used, these past months, to scary in a bad way. A swirling mist of uncertainty, of misery and sadness that hung on my shoulders like a heavy cloak and which I could never seem to shake off. Every day it seems to get lighter.

Jay and I have lunch at a Vietnamese café round the corner from his flat. I’m meeting Cathy later, we’re going to see a film and then for a bite to eat afterwards so I can hear about Jonathan, who has suggested they go away on a Strictly Come Dancing weekend featuring the stars of the show in a country manor house. He says it’l be good networking for him. (Cathy is torn between being total y convinced he must be gay and secretly desperately wanting to go, as Strictly is her and her mum’s favourite TV programme.) I want an early night, it’s my first day back on the market stal tomorrow and I need to get there in good time, make sure I’ve got my act together.

After we’ve ordered, Jay says, ‘I spoke to Dad while you were getting the paper.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ I say. ‘He says Miranda went, like, last Monday. Ten, twelve days ago.’

‘I know, that was the day I moved in with you.’ I love how precise Archie is, he has al the information.

‘Wel , she’s not coming back til Tuesday.’ He puts his elbows on the table. ‘Did you know that?’

‘No,’ I say. I cross my arms. That’s two weeks she’s been away, why on earth? ‘Jay, I told you, I tried and tried to get hold of her before she went off to Fez, or wherever it is. I’ve cal ed her, OK? I’l see her next week, when we go back to Summercove.’ I bite my lip.

‘Al right!’ He holds up his hands. ‘Calm down. It’s going to be weird,’ he says.

‘I know. And kind of awful. Are you sure you won’t come?’ I ask, begging with my hands outstretched. He shakes his head.

‘Nah. Don’t mean to be funny, and I’l come if you real y want me to, but I’m not invited. We should go down in May, you know? Before it’s sold.

Have one more weekend there. I don’t want to be there with al those art people, al of that. Dad’s dreading it.’

He’s right. I’m not much looking forward to it. Since I moved to Jay’s, everything seems to be on a more even keel. Going to Cornwal is going to bring it al back again. I’m being a coward, I have to face up to it, real y, have to ask the questions I don’t have answers to. And it’l be good in many ways. I’l see Louisa. I’l see Arvind. I’l see the house, perhaps for the last time? Perhaps not. And I’l see my mum – although God knows if she’l turn up or not, even if she is supposed to be making a speech.

As for Guy, I haven’t heard back from him, so I’l see him there too. I don’t know what to say to him, either. I suppose I just have to wait til he wants to talk to me. I don’t understand why he’s gone silent.

‘Is your mum going?’ I ask hopeful y. ‘No, she’l be in Mumbai, won’t she?’ Sameena’s sister is not wel again, so she’s going over to look after her family. ‘Like I say, Nat,’ Jay says again. ‘If you need me to be there, I’l be there. It’s just hard with work and everything. I’d rather go when I can spend some proper time with Arvind, remember the house the way I want to, not with a load of posh people asking me stupid questions about Granny.’ The waitress puts two beers down on the table and Jay takes a big gulp. ‘I wouldn’t know what to say to them, anyway, would you?’ I shake my head. ‘It’s private. Her being our grandmother hasn’t got anything to do with whether she was a good painter or any of that.’

Perhaps I’l never be able to tel him what our grandmother was real y like. But as I watch him I think, what would be gained by tel ing him, anyway? How would it help him, to know the truth? It wouldn’t. His father hasn’t ever told him, and I’m not going to. He doesn’t need to know. Jay has a family of his own, parents who love him, his own secure set-up. And yet again, I wish Mum was here, so I could say to her, I know you shielded us from the truth because it would have hurt us, and how much it must have cost you, and I am grateful. We al should be.

After lunch, we walk to the Central line Tube together. Jay is going into Soho to pick something up from his office before meeting his friends, and I feel like a wander, so I say I’l come with him. The daffodils are out in the square and the sky is blue. Final y, it feels as if spring might be on the way.

The winter has been too long.

We walk to Liverpool Street. Jay is texting his buddies, arranging some complicated plan for this evening involving a club somewhere in Hackney, with drinks at some speakeasy beforehand. When we get to King’s Cross, Jay shakes his phone, waiting to get reception as we walk through the cavernous station to change lines. The big, echoing corridors are ful of people racing for trains, hurrying onwards, going back home.

The strip lighting is harsh; I blink to try and see straight, thoughts crowding my head.

‘Man, what’s up with Samir and Joey tonight?’ he says in exasperation, staring at his phone. ‘No one’s around, this is shit.’

‘Hey, Jay,’ I say suddenly. ‘I’m going to get off here, OK?’

‘What?’ he says. ‘I’m going to go and see Guy.’

‘Who? Oh, the Bowler Hat’s Guy. Why?’

‘Just – want to talk to him,’ I say. ‘I think he might help with some stuff.’

‘Like what?’

‘He – it’s just stuff about Granny’s foundation,’ I amend lamely. ‘We’re on the committee. Thought I’d do it while I’m in the area.’

‘He stil hasn’t cal ed you back? Haven’t you been trying him al week?’

I nod. ‘I won’t be long. See you laters.’

Jay already has his phone out, texting. ‘Sure. Laters, yeah?’ I love Jay when he’s gearing up to be an East London wide boy with his brothers out on a night on the town. I keep expecting him to click his fingers together and shout, ‘Wicked, innit!’ It’s funny how he’s so organised, sorted even, but stil such a little boy in so many ways, and I find it endearing, whereas with Oli I came to find it disturbing. Perhaps it’s because he real y doesn’t know he’s doing it. Whereas I felt Oli had read too many lads’ mags articles about how to behave like a child and get away with it.

I feel a curious lightening of my mood as I get off the bus on Upper Street a few minutes later. It’s a nice late afternoon, the clocks have gone back and people are stil out shopping. I head down Cross Street, walking with purpose.

When I get to Guy Leighton Antiques I stop. The blinds are down and there’s a ‘CLOSED’ sign hanging on the door. I peer through the glass; the shop is in darkness, but there’s a light shining in the back room. I rap firmly on the door, rattling it slightly so the old bel jangles faintly.

After a few seconds, Guy appears, blinking. I watch him as he shuffles casual y towards the door, trying to picture the young, charming, kind man Cecily fel in love with, the one so vividly alive in the diary. He’s fiddling with his glasses, on the chain round his neck. He doesn’t look up as he unbolts the door, and then he opens it.

‘I’m afraid we’re closed today –’ he begins. ‘Oh.’

He stares at me. His face is paler than ever. ‘Sorry to drop by unannounced,’ I begin. ‘It’s just I’ve been trying to get hold of you—’

His hands are stil on the half-shut door. He opens it a little wider. ‘Natasha,’ he says. His eyes do not leave my face and I remember him saying I looked like Cecily. I feel uncomfortable.

‘I wondered if we could talk,’ I say.

Guy is clenching the door and his knuckles are white. ‘Yes – yes . . .’ He looks flustered. Um – so what do you want?’

The Guy I know (admittedly, not wel ) is normal y calm, wryly amused, in control. This man is like a stranger to me.

‘I don’t want to disturb you,’ I say, thinking perhaps he was in the middle of something, or he’s just woken up and is confused after a nap. ‘It’s just – I read Cecily’s diary, you said to cal you when I had.’ I try to keep the desperation out of my voice. How could he have forgotten? ‘I’ve been trying to cal you – and Mum – she’s gone away.’

‘I know. She came to see me before she went.’

‘She came to see you?’ I try to ignore the fact that my mother seems to be quite happy to contact Guy al the time over me. Here, take the diary.

Here, I’m going away. I shift on my feet. ‘I didn’t know what was in it—’

‘I know,’ Guy says. ‘I know. It’s terrible.’ But he doesn’t move. His jaw is tight; his eyes are cold.

I swal ow, because I think I am about to cry again, and I don’t know why. Why’s he being so . . . strange? ‘Can – can I come in? The thing is . . . I can’t real y talk to anyone else about it, you see—’

Then Guy holds up his hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘No, I can’t. I can’t do this.’

‘Do what?’

‘This.’ He points at me. ‘It’s – I’m so sorry. It’s just too much. I should have realised. This family . . . It’s – I’m not ready. I’m sorry. Go away, Natasha. I’m sorry.’