‘I am,’ she said. ‘I barely sleep.’
‘Have you tried lavender?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve tried everything from hypnosis to sleeping tablets. Nothing works.’
‘Then take a break? Come home for a bit.’
‘I can’t, Rose. They’ve got so much lined up for me over the next few months. Anyway, I love it. I love everything about it.’ Her words didn’t match her lifeless tone. ‘Let’s order, shall we?’
She barely ate that day, and it was a couple of weeks later she disappeared. It was all over the tabloids. We were in such a state.
She was found a week later in a motel in Scotland. A wreck. A mess. Addicted to prescription drugs. Suicidal. The whole experience had been too much.
I cried so hard when we got her back, holding her tightly, never wanting to let her go. Blaming myself that I hadn’t done something when I’d seen her last. That despite spotting how dreadful she looked, I’d done nothing.
She gave up modelling and came home, and seemed her usual upbeat self far too quickly, but there was something different I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Then she took off again, refusing to tell anyone where she was – saying she needed to escape, needed time out. It was the first of many escapes. Something we’ve got used to over time. It’s what Willow does.
Even now I sometimes Google her name and they are still there – thousands of images of Willow Winter. I want to rip them all down. Stop people ogling. Tell them to leave her alone. Leave her in peace.
*
Once we have showered and dressed, Becky and I load our holdalls into the boot of the car, and climb in.
Becky plugs her earphones into her ears, and her thumbs tap her phone screen. I start the engine, but before I pull away, I notice a voicemail on my phone from Willow. She must have called when I was getting ready.
I listen to her strangled voice. ‘Rose. Rose. Pick up, please.’ A pause. ‘I know who killed her. I know who killed my real mum. I’ve worked it all out.’ The message ends, and despite the warm day, my body goes cold.
I try to call back, but it goes straight to voicemail. ‘Willow, I got your message. Is everything OK? We’re on our way now but call me when you get this. Please.’
‘What’s up, Mum?’ Becky says, pulling free one of her earbuds.
‘Nothing,’ I say. Deciding not to worry her, I put the car into gear with a shaky hand and pull away.
*
We are halfway to Cornwall, when I pull into a service station. My head is throbbing and although I’d rather keep driving, I know I have to take a break, have something to eat to up my sugar level. Becky’s feet are up on the seat and she’s cradling her knees, listening to music. I find a space and kill the engine.
I take off my sunglasses and put them in the well between us. The sun has disappeared behind fluffy white clouds, after streaming through the window for most of the journey. The tell-tale zigzags and blurs of a migraine niggle. I’ve no doubt it has partly been brought on by the stress of Willow’s call.
‘Shall we have some coffee?’ I say, nudging Becky, who removes her other earbud, and looks up at me.
‘What?’
‘I said, shall we get a drink or a cake or something?’
Becky straightens up in the seat and lowers her feet to the floor. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘But no cake for me, I’ll have some fruit or something.’
Once we’ve collected a cup of coffee and a chocolate muffin for me, an apple and a bottle of mineral water for Becky, we find a table in the corner. Once seated, I give it a quick clean with a wet wipe, and take a couple of migraine tablets.
‘Are you going to be OK to drive, Mum?’ she asks, as I massage my temples. ‘You’re, like, really white.’
‘Once the tablets kick in, I’ll be fine,’ I say, leaning over the table to twirl a straying curl over her ear. She bats me away with her hand and I laugh. ‘Are you looking forward to seeing Willow?’ I ask.
‘Yep. You?’
‘Of course.’ It’s true, but I feel jittery about the photos, and her message is playing in a loop in my head.
Becky smiles, and a dimple forms in her cheek, disappearing as quickly as it came. ‘You know I still can’t get my head round Willow sending you those photos,’ she says.
‘Nor me. I’m hoping she’ll explain more when we get there.’
She pushes sugar granules across the table with the tip of her finger, her earphone back in, and hums a tune I don’t recognise. I realise how glad I am that she’s with me, and watch her, trancelike, for several moments, before saying, ‘Are you OK, sweetheart?’
She looks up. ‘Mega worried about Willow, is all. You don’t think she’s in danger, do you?’
‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ I say, trying not to think about her last voicemail. ‘It’s Willow, don’t forget, we know what she’s like. And we’ll see her in a couple of hours, won’t we? She can tell us everything.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’ Her phone buzzes, and she pulls it from her pocket. Her face lights up. ‘It’s Dad,’ she says, answering it. ‘Hey, Dad.’
Her eyes sparkle, and I know already what he’s telling her. He called me a few days ago to let me know he was getting married. That he wanted to tell Becky himself and would ring her soon.
‘Oh my God!’ Becky squeals into the phone. ‘That’s fantastic.’
Her dad has been serious about his latest partner Jack, a lawyer from Florida, for a while now, and I smile. They are good together. I’m happy for them – but my head is spinning.
‘Do you think he’ll let me be their bridesmaid?’ Becky says, once the call has ended, her face lit up by a wide smile.
‘Of course,’ I say.
‘Will he let me wear my DMs, do you think?’
‘Probably.’ Becky could wear a sack and he would let her get away with it.
‘We should get going.’ I glance at my watch, a sense of urgency bringing me to my feet.
She rises too, and links arms with me. As we head across the café I glance back at her uneaten apple.
2001
From the moment Gail and Rory pulled up outside Ocean View Cottage in his red Ferrari, tension had crawled across Ava’s shoulders.
Although Gail had finally moved out, it was as though she was still there. Constantly visiting to discuss the wedding with their mum, over and over and over. And now they were having a family gathering to welcome Peter – the prodigal son – back from Australia.
Gail sat on the two-seater sofa next to her brother, scooping her blonde curls behind her ears as she turned the pages of her bridal book. Peter swigged beer from a bottle, his eyes closing briefly each time he swallowed.
‘We’re having the reception at the Jester Hotel in Newquay. It’s five-star with Jacuzzis in every room and everything. But we can afford it, can’t we Rory?’ She sounded like a spoilt child.
‘Of course,’ he said, looking up from shuffling through a pile of CDs.
‘And I’ll be expecting you to get a new