I wonder if your auntie Bridget is on her way. I wonder if she’s called the police yet.

No. No, she wouldn’t do that. Not without talking to me.

She should be here soon. There was no room for her in the ambulance so she said she’d grab a change of clothes, some food and a flask of coffee, and come up in the van. But surely she’d be here by now? Oh my God, what if she’s driven off? Really, what if she’s run away, before it all comes out? I wouldn’t blame her. But please God, I hope she hasn’t. I need her. I can’t do this without her.

I can’t get hold of Emily either. I’ve sent a text, but nothing yet. When she gets it, she’ll be here as soon as she can, I’m sure.

I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop wondering if anyone’s been to the house. If they have, they will have discovered the body by now. It’s too soon for anything to be on the news, so I suppose there’s no way of knowing. I suppose it might be days before it’s discovered. Weeks, even.

I can’t think about it. I can’t.

---

Do you know what? I’m going to think about when you called me to tell me you’d got the part of Little Red instead. It’s a nice memory, a battery charger for my soul. It was last December, wasn’t it? We were coming up for the Christmas holidays. You’d turned fifteen in the summer and it was a Saturday afternoon; you’d remember it as clearly as me, I’m sure, if you were awake. You’d auditioned in November and you had to go up to the Cherry Orchard to hear the results.

‘No matter which role you get,’ I said when I dropped you off, ‘your auntie Bridge and I will be super proud of you just for trying. It’s being a part of something that counts, isn’t it, love? And don’t run, by the way, it’s icy.’

You kissed my cheek and, as if I hadn’t even spoken, ran into the theatre. I watched you open the door and disappear inside, your red hair flashing behind you like a fox’s tail.

A couple of hours later, my mobile rang. You were supposed to be doing a workshop – you weren’t due to finish until six, so when I saw it was an unknown number, my heart leapt into my mouth.

‘Mummy?’

‘Rosie?’ I said, trying but failing to keep the panic out of my voice. ‘Are you OK, baby girl? Is everything OK?’

‘Mum, I’m fine. I just forgot my phone.’

‘Again? What have I said about going out without your phone?’

‘Oh my God, stop stressing.’ Your teenage irritation was palpable. ‘I’m just borrowing Abed’s, it’s fine. They let us out early, that’s all.’

‘Oh, thank God.’ I pressed the phone to my chest a moment and sighed before I put it back to my ear. ‘Sorry, baby. As long as you’re OK. I’m on my way, all right? I’ll be there in ten minutes. Well, twenty.’

‘It’s not that, Mum. Just listen a sec, will you? I had to call because… well, because guess who got the lead?’ You giggled, and I knew instantly, of course.

‘Erm, let’s see,’ I said, stalling. ‘Toby Marsh?’

You giggled again. ‘No-o.’

‘Sarah Peters? Maggie whatsherface? No, I’m joking.’ I paused. ‘It was Stella Prince, wasn’t it?’

You knew I was teasing but you had to say it anyway – you were like a shaken-up bottle of lemonade. ‘I did!’ Cap off, out it fizzed. ‘Me! I got it! I’m going to be Little Red Riding Hood!’

‘You’re joking?’

‘I’m not!’

‘Does that mean I have to make you a cape now? Couldn’t you have got something easier, like a tree or something?’

You laughed then, a big loud hahaha! – pure, delicious, unguarded. ‘You won’t! They have proper wardrobe and everything. There’s a lady at the theatre that does it; it’s, like, her job. They said to not have a haircut between now and Easter, but that’s about it.’

Your lovely russet hair. Hair to make people turn in the street. Your father’s colouring. My God, how ecstatic he would have been, I thought. How filled up, how proud. ‘My little red fox,’ he would have said, and fifteen or not, he would have picked you up and spun you around for joy.

‘I still think Toby Marsh should have got it,’ I said.

We were both helpless with laughter now, caught up in the wonder of the moment and all it meant, all that lay behind it: the accident and its terrible aftermath. We both knew, I think, that we were at the top of some kind of hill, looking down on what had been the most arduous of climbs. We couldn’t believe that we were there, at the summit. We had only to raise our eyes to see the view clear and blue before us. We had only to step into it and it would be ours.

I found myself blinking back tears.

‘Mum?’ you said. ‘Are you still there?’

‘It’s amazing, baby girl,’ I managed to say. ‘Seriously. Wait till I tell your auntie Bridget. She’ll be over the moon. I’m so very proud of you.’ I bit my lip, wiped my wet cheek with my free hand. ‘What I mean is, I’m proud of you for fighting those nerves. That took guts.’

‘Thanks. I did the exercises like Auntie Bridge said and I… I just went for it.’

‘That’s brilliant. And you’re still at the Cherry Orchard?’

‘I’m just at the entrance. The others are going for the bus. There’s, like, five of us. The 33 goes right to the end of our road.’

‘No, no. I’ve literally already got my bum in the car. Wait there, OK?’

‘But, Mum, I can get the bus!’

‘No, baby girl. Stay there, I’m coming for you.’

You sighed. ‘OK.’

‘Don’t go off anywhere, will you?’

‘I won’t.’

I rang off, unable to wipe the smile from my face. You, who had been so quiet for so long, you were blossoming once again like… like cherry blossom – why not? Beautiful and white and bold on the tree. I felt your confidence, my love. I’d felt it grow those last few years since you’d joined that theatre. I had allowed myself to believe, or start to believe at least, that the feisty six-year-old you had been, with her dressing-up clothes and her little picnic-tabletop stage, the little Rosie who had been ours before the accident, was back.

And then, months later, when we came to watch you perform, all dressed up and lost in the part and giving it your all, and Emily approached us in the theatre bar afterwards, I was so proud of you that I felt if someone tapped me on the shoulder or whispered something too kind or cruel, I would shatter into pieces on the floor. Your auntie Bridget was proud of you too, of course, but not like me. I’m your mother. There is no one, no one who loves you more than I do. No one ever will. No one could.

Blossoms fall, though, don’t they? I didn’t think about that.