Free I Found You by Lisa Jewell Page B

needed to follow him but I couldn’t because . . . I don’t really know why . . .’ He massages his right wrist with his left hand. ‘I just couldn’t.’
    He looks up at Alice and blinks and she thinks of that young man she’d seen a few years ago walking out into the sea. ‘I saw that, too,’ she said. ‘Three years ago. I saw a man walk into the sea. He took his clothes off and folded them up in a neat pile and then just walked until his head went under. I wonder if . . .’
    ‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘No. This man was clothed. He was wearing jeans. And a shirt. And he had . . . he had something with him. Something big, in his arms. And he didn’t walk in. He jumped. Like he was trying to get away from someone.’
    ‘From who?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ he says, ‘but it felt like it might have been me.’

Twelve
     
    1993
    Mark’s aunt’s house was, by any measure, the grandest privately owned house that Gray had ever set foot in. It was decorated in a style that his mum referred to as ‘chichi’, which seemed to consist of lots of gilt-framed mirrors and towering vases of stargazer lilies. A trio of terriers of some description greeted them at the door, followed by Mark in a white shirt with upturned collar and neat blue jeans. As they filed through the enormous front door, he greeted them all effusively like friends of old and led them, barefoot, across a circular hallway and into a palm-filled conservatory, which he referred to as ‘the orangery’, where a very attractive middle-aged woman with severely coiffed blonde hair sat behind a low table laden with cake and teacups.
    She rose to her feet and smiled and said, ‘Hello! You came! I wasn’t sure if Mark had made you all up or not! Honestly. Funny boy. Came back two hours ago with a bag full of flour and eggs and said we had to make cakes because we had guests coming!’
    She had a soft, well-spoken accent, like her nephew, but there was, Gray couldn’t help but notice, a slight ring of hysteria about her manner. He wondered if it was part of her normal persona or a response to having a strange, somewhat sunburned family suddenly appear in her immaculate house.
    ‘But anyway,’ she continued, cementing Gray’s impression, ‘you’re here and you’re welcome. And please, please sit down.’
    She smoothed the seat of her pleated skirt and sat back down. ‘My name’s Kitty, by the way.’ She shook their hands and they introduced themselves and Gray noticed her gaze linger a little longer on Kirsty than on the others. She sliced a Victoria sandwich with tremulous, manicured fingers and asked about Rabbit Cottage and their plans for the rest of their stay, and Gray fidgeted in his rattan chair and stared through the windows at the immaculate gardens beyond and wondered why they were here.
    ‘Mark is a very good boy,’ Kitty was saying. ‘Woe is me, I had no children of my own’ – she pressed her hand to her porcelain collarbone – ‘so I used to borrow Mark and his sister all the time. They feel like my ownchildren and Mark certainly knows how to look after me.’ She patted his hand and he smiled indulgently at her and then the first of a few awkward silences fell across the group.
    ‘Well,’ said Tony, breaking it. ‘I must say, this house is every bit as stunning inside as it is from the outside.’
    ‘Thank you, Tony,’ she said. ‘The venue for many, many happy times over the years.’ She looked sad, no doubt thinking of her recently deceased husband.
    ‘How long have you owned it?’ asked Pam.
    ‘Oh’ – her fingers felt their way to her golden necklace – ‘twenty years or so now, I suppose. We bought it from a romantic novelist. In fact, if you pop into the library on your way out, you’ll see we kept a shelf just for her books. As a kind of memorial. Not that I’ve read any of them. Not really my kind of thing. Bodice-rippers, I believe they’re called.’ She looked vaguely appalled by the concept.