Don’t go anywhere I wouldn’t go x

Very funny xxx

‘Did you try the hospitals?’ My sister called from college, in her fifteen-minute break between HMRC: the Changing Face of Revenue Collection, and VAT: A European Perspective.

‘Sam says there’s nobody with her name has been admitted to any of the teaching hospitals. He’s got people everywhere looking out for her.’ I glanced behind me as I spoke, as if even then I half expected to see Lily walking out of the crowds towards me.

‘How long have you been looking?’

‘A few days.’ I didn’t tell her I’d barely slept. ‘I – er – took time off work.’

‘I knew it! I knew she was going to be trouble. Did your boss mind you taking time off? What happened about that other job, by the way? The one in New York? Did you do the interview? Please don’t say you forgot.’

It took me a minute to work out what she was referring to. ‘Oh. That. Yeah – I got it.’

‘You what?’

‘Nathan said they’re going to offer it to me.’

Westminster was filling with tourists, lingering at gaudy stalls of Union Jack tat, their mobile phones and expensive cameras held aloft to capture the looming Houses of Parliament. I watched a traffic warden walking towards me and wondered if some anti-terrorism legislation prevented me parking where I’d stopped. I held up a hand, indicating that I was about to leave.

There was a short silence at the other end of the phone.

‘Hang on – you’re not saying you –’

‘I can’t even think about it right now, Treen. Lily’s missing. I need to find her.’

‘Louisa? You listen a minute. You have to take this job.’

‘What?’

‘This is the opportunity of a lifetime. If you had the faintest clue what I would give for a chance to move to New York … with guaranteed employment? A place to live? And you “can’t think about it right now”?’

‘It’s not as simple as that.’

The traffic warden was definitely walking towards me.

‘Oh, my God. This is it. This is the thing I was trying to talk to you about. Every time you get a chance to move forward, you just hijack your own future. It’s like – it’s like you don’t actually want to.’

‘Lily is missing, Treen.’

‘A sixteen-year-old girl you barely know, with two parents and at least two grandparents, has buggered off for a few days like she’s done before. Like teenagers sometimes do. And you’re going to use this to throw away the greatest opportunity you’re ever likely to be given? Jeez. You don’t even really want to go, do you?’

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘Far easier for you to just stick with that depressing little job and complain about it. Far easier for you to sit tight and not take a risk and make out that everything that happens to you is something you couldn’t help.’

‘I can’t just up and leave while this is going on.’

‘You’re in charge of your own life, Lou. And yet you act like you’re permanently buffeted by events outside your control. What is this – guilt? Is it that you feel you owe Will something? Is it some kind of penance? Giving up your life because you couldn’t save his?’

‘You don’t understand.’

‘No. I understand perfectly. I understand you better than you understand yourself. His daughter is not your responsibility. Do you hear me? None of this is your responsibility. And if you don’t go to New York – an opportunity I can’t even talk about because it makes me want to actually kill you – I’ll never talk to you again. Ever.’

The traffic warden was at my window. I wound it down, pulling the universal face you make when your sister is going off on one at the other end of your phone and you’re really sorry but you can’t cut her short. He tapped his watch and I nodded, reassuringly.

‘That’s it, Lou. Think about it. Lily is not your daughter.’

I was left staring at my phone. I thanked the traffic warden, then wound up my window. And a phrase popped into my head: I’m not his daughter.

I drove around the corner, pulled up beside a petrol station and rifled through the battered old A–Z that lived in the footwell of my car, trying to remember the name of the road Lily had mentioned. Pyemore, Pyecrust, Pyecroft. I traced the distance to St John’s Wood with my finger – would that take fifteen minutes to walk? It had to be the same place.

I used my phone and looked up his surname along with the street name, and there it was. Number fifty-six. My gut tightened with excitement. I started the ignition, wrenched the car into gear and headed out onto the road again.

Although separated by less than a mile, the difference between Lily’s mother’s house and her former stepfather’s could not have been more pronounced. Where the Houghton-Millers’ street was uniformly grand white stucco or red-brick houses, punctuated by yew topiary and large cars that seemingly never got dirty, Martin Steele’s road appeared resolutely un-gentrified, a two-storey corner of London where house prices were spiralling but the exteriors resolutely refused to reflect it.

I drove slowly, past cars under canvas and an overturned wheelie-bin, and finally found a parking space near a small Victorian terraced house of the kind that existed in identikit lines all over London. I gazed at it, noting the peeling paintwork on the front door, the child’s watering-can on the front step. Please let her be here, I prayed. Safe within those walls.