17. Now

I rush over, cup my hands round my eyes and peer through a slit in the curtains. Beige carpet, yellow sofa, mid-century coffee table, an archway through to a small dining room, a rubber plant in a big white pot.

No one.

Is this really how Lydia lives? Her parents have a solarium with a sea view. But it looks nice actually. Calm and cosy. No squirrel excrement in sight.

More liveable, in a way, than our extension, with its bodged cupboards and gappy floorboards and hand-me-down furniture.

I peer in for a whole minute. Behind me a car slows as it goes past. I look like a burglar. I straighten, still watching the curtain, then call through the letterbox again. The house smells of wood polish.

Maybe I imagined it.

I retreat to my car, but I can't drive away.

I call Rose again.

My phone pings. It's Boat Taxi Boy's mother. He hasn't heard from Jenna.

And it's like her message has dislodged something. Three more messages arrive from other parents saying the same thing. I wish Sylvie's mother, or Devon and Dinae's, would get back to me.

I lean my forehead on the steering wheel. Why am I alone? Shouldn't everyone be dropping everything to come help me?

But it's only Tristan and Theo who have picked up for me.

Is this how Jenna felt? Slicing off her hair and me saying ‘I think it looks lovely'?

Come on, Frances, pull it together. What would your father say?

She's gone for a walk. You're reading too much into things. A haircut is a haircut. Step away from the fruitcake.

I close my eyes and bite the inside of my cheek a little, then a little harder, till I can taste blood, and wait for the pain to erase my thoughts.

Jenna is quiet. She's music-obsessed and a bit shy and there's nothing wrong with that. Live and let live. What do they say these days? You do you.

The house remains still. A bird lands on the gutter, pecks out some leaves then flies away.

I look at my phone. My father still hasn't read the message. I call Dan again, but he doesn't pick up.

The phone pings. It's Mr Whitlow.

No news, I'm afraid. A full sweep of the school grounds has been completed. Security had some technical difficulties and another issue to handle, but the footage is being reviewed now. Will be in touch ASAP.

I reply, telling him I've checked Rose's house. Then my phone pings again and my heart lifts – it's Lydia.

Sorry – I've just seen the alert. Stuck at work. I spoke to Rose and she's at home. She hasn't seen Jenna since lunch. Hope all okay.

Rose is at home? It doesn't seem like it. Rose has her phone, knows Jenna is missing, and she's not picking up for me? Rose is either hiding from me in her house or lying to her mother.

I try to call Lydia but she cuts me off and texts again.

Can't pick up.

I smack the steering wheel. My daughter is missing but she's too busy.

I'm at your house now. Rose isn't here.

Rose is always in and out. She's probably gone to the chippy.

Please ask Rose to call me, and let me know if you hear anything.

I'm sure she's fine. Sorry. GTG.

Rose told Georgia Smith that Jenna was unwell and went home early. Do you know why she said that? What did Jenna say to her before she left? Did you know Georgia was back?

I wait and wait, but my message goes unread.

Is that it? My daughter is missing. Doesn't she think Rose might be lying? Isn't Lydia worried about where Rose is? Isn't she in the exact same situation as me?

I shake the steering wheel. What if the problem is Rose? What if Rose did something to my baby and lied to Georgia to cover for herself and is now lying to her mother?

The air in here is stifling. Outside, a woman walks past with some kids and I can feel her eyes on me.

Why won't Lydia help me? Does she think I'm just overreacting – that Jenna is bound to turn up – or is she relishing this?

I think in rage of yesterday, Lydia's parting shot in the café.

Don't you ever feel guilty, Frances?

How dare she?

Guilty? Me? For what?

Georgia and her family were to blame for everything that happened back then. They were a sordid, evil bunch. They pretended to be our friends, drew us in and then turned on us.

We tried to escape, tried to get some distance, but they didn't like that.

Tristan is lucky to be alive. He still has that scar like a flower on his cheek.

My brother – my poor brother.

Never have I seen someone so full of hate as Georgia that last time I saw her, as if we had been the ones in the wrong. As if we had attacked them.

I feel as though pressure is building up inside of me and I struggle to breathe. I'm a shaken bottle of Coke, ready to pop. Or a volcano.

And really, there's only one thing I know of that will help relieve me. But I don't have what I need. I scrabble in the glovebox and then find in my handbag a pair of nail clippers which aren't ideal but I'm desperate. I slip it up my dress, jam it against my thigh, press hard and squeeze them.

It's only a small, sharp spike of pain, but I close my eyes and let it spread out and fill me, let it lift me up above the storm, and when I open my eyes I'm calm again.