‘Maggie,’ Stephanie said. ‘I thought I’d better give you a call.’
‘Darling,’ Maggie drawled, her excitement obvious. ‘I’m so pleased to hear your dear voice. I left a voicemail when I heard the news. I couldn’t believe it. How absolutely awful for you. And that poor, dear boy. It’s all over Twitter, you know. Not to mention the rolling news. Do tell me they’ve found him safe and well.’
‘I wish I could. But there’s no trace of him yet.’ Stephanie looked as if she might burst into tears. ‘It’s really scary, Maggie. One minute he was there, the next he was gone.’
‘I simply don’t understand how this could happen. Was no one paying attention to Jimmy while you were off being searched?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘How simply frightful. But there’s no point in blame, not now. The important thing is getting Jimmy back safely. Do they want money? Or is it one of these mad political groups looking for publicity?’
‘We don’t know. We’ve heard nothing. I’m talking to the FBI, telling them everything I can about Jimmy’s history. And mine.’
‘You’ll be there all night, then, darling.’ Maggie said tartly. ‘I hope you’ve got a nice dishy profiler like William Petersen in Manhunter.’ The women’s eyes met and they both smiled. ‘Now, look, the papers are going to be all over this.’ Maggie’s tone turned businesslike. ‘I’m going to need copy from you whenever you can sit down and collect yourself. It’s too late for tomorrow’s papers, but I’m sure I can get you a nice show in the Mail or the Mirror. How soon can you let me have an “I” piece?’
‘I’ve no idea. It’s the last thing on my mind, to be honest.’
‘Sweetie, it’ll be good for you to order your thoughts rather than sitting brooding. Trust me, Maggie knows best. Call me in the morning, we’ll take it from there. And look after yourself, darling. Get some sleep, OK?’
‘I’ll try. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’
And that was that. There was no doubt that Maggie Silver saw Jimmy Higgins’ disappearance as a potential source of income. But it seemed as much of a shock to her as it had to Stephanie herself.
As if Stephanie were reading her mind, she said, ‘So now you’ve experienced the lovely Maggie. You have to admit, if I was planning this as a publicity stunt, she’s the agent you’d want to have in your corner. Let me set your mind at rest. I won’t be writing anything for the Daily Mail tomorrow. Or any other day, if it’s up to me. All I want is to have Jimmy back in my arms. Besides that, everything else pales into insignificance.’
Vivian nodded, believing her. ‘Sure. Now, can we get back to Pete Matthews? I need to ask you: Do you think he’s capable of nursing his grudge against you for all these years? Do you think he would abduct Jimmy simply to get back at you?’
Stephanie frowned. ‘That’s too much of a straight line. If Pete did this, his motive would be different. Somehow, he’d have convinced himself that this was the way not to get back at me but to get me back.’
28
Talking to my female friends about Pete, it was sometimes hard to get through to them how scary he’d become. When I talked about his constant messages and emails, the flowers he sent to Maggie’s office for me, the way he’d followed me in the street, one or two of them were incredulous. ‘And you keep knocking him back?’ one said. ‘I’d love to have a man that devoted to me.’
Because he never openly menaced me, it wasn’t easy to explain how threatening I found his behaviour. Scarlett totally got it, though. Because of her own experiences with the media, she understood my terror of being turned into what Leanne had jokingly called a ‘prisoner of love’. It made her shudder with horror, and it was one of the many reasons why living at the hacienda was a very easy option.
But I couldn’t stay there for ever. After a lot of thought, I’d decided to move to Brighton. I’d always liked the seaside, in spite of dispiriting childhood holidays in the teeth of easterly gales at Cleethorpes and Skegness. Parts of Brighton reminded me of the bits of Lincoln I’d liked – the narrow twisting streets of the Lanes, the less grand terraced streets, the green spaces at the heart of the town. There was a cultural life and easy access to London. But perhaps most importantly of all, I’d never mentioned Brighton to Pete. Not even casually, in passing. I’d never said, ‘I fancy a day out in Brighton,’ or ‘One of my favourite authors is doing the Brighton Festival, let’s go down and make a weekend of it.’ There was no reason on earth why he should come looking for me there.
I eventually found a sweet little Victorian terraced house ten minutes from the sea. There were local shops, a couple of bustling pubs where easy acquaintance seemed to be on offer, a neat little park where I could take the air when I needed to have a pause for thought. The house was tall and narrow, with a converted attic that served me well as an office. The master bedroom revealed a sliver of sea between the houses opposite, and the previous owners had installed a generous conservatory that caught the morning sun. It was perfect, tucked away in a quiet street with parking for residents only. I felt safe.
I didn’t see much of Scarlett while I was settling into the new house. I was painting walls and choosing curtain fabric, having sofas reupholstered and scouring the Lanes for bits and pieces to replace items that Pete had broken during his malicious spree. She came down a couple of times with Jimmy, who loved the beach. He could sit for ages sifting through the chunky pebbles, picking his favourites and building little piles around his chubby legs. But there was too much going on in her other life for Scarlett to have much free time.
Her reinvention was coming along apace. Her show focusing on reality TV stars had developed a cult following. It had become a favourite with the student audience, who apparently enjoyed it in a post-modern ironic way. It had also won an audience among the older viewers, the staple of daytime TV. Between the two groups, the show had earned significant ratings. Advertisers loved it and the punters loved Scarlett. Now she was in talks to front a late-night chat show on a popular digital channel. Every now and again I’d stumble on a piece in one of the broadsheets exploring her apparently inexorable rise with a slightly bemused air. But she hadn’t let go of her core fan base. There were still the features in Yes! magazine and the occasional Leanne appearance in the gossip columns. Scarlett even guest-presented a celebrity special of the reality makeover show Ladette to Lady. She was well on the way to becoming a cultural icon.
There was a downside to her success, however. I had a rare opportunity to see it at first hand when she persuaded me to come to a book signing in an Oxford Street department store. Of course, the person who’d actually written Jimmy’s Testament wouldn’t be the one doing the signing, but that was fine with me. I’ve never had a hankering for the limelight.
We were smuggled in via the delivery entrance to avoid the crowds I’d clocked as we’d crossed Oxford Street in the Mercedes with the tinted windows. The queue stretched out of the brass-bound double doors and round the corner. ‘Good turnout,’ I said as we swept past.