Zoe had been banished to the kitchen by the builders, who had finally reached the back bedroom she’d repurposed as a temporary lounge, the very last room that needed their attention, which would become her studio.
She had raced through a draft and rough illustrations of the first instalment of The Highgate Woods Mysteries starring the irrepressible (according to Mademoiselle Marsaud, her governess) Miss Elizabeth Edwards and her dog Florence as they foiled a petnapping ring. Zoe was scheduled to do two readings at the nephews’ primary school, because it was the best way to get both constructive and utterly crushing criticism, then she’d start on a second draft.
In the meantime, in response to a nagging email from Hardeep, her new illustration agent, using all shouty caps, she was updating her online portfolio.
Being busy again, in work mode, was yet another indication that Zoe was fast becoming the woman she used to be. Although, truthfully, Zoe knew one of the reasons she was happy to throw herself back into the loving embrace of her work ethic was because she certainly wasn’t able to throw herself back into the loving embrace of her husband.
What Zoe had thought was the happy resumption of their sex life had turned out to be a one-off. A mercy hump. Win throwing her a bone. The next evening when Zoe had cosied up to Win in bed, freshly showered, with loving on her mind, he’d held her back with one arm and a copy of Record Collector.
‘I wasn’t sure if you’d want to and I haven’t had a chance to get any condoms,’ he’d said in an offhand manner, as if he’d much rather be reading about how much a test pressing of David Bowie’s Life On Mars was worth than having Zoe kiss his neck.
Zoe wasn’t to be swayed. ‘We can do other things,’ she’d said, her hand delving downwards. ‘You did some pretty amazing other things last night.’
Win had intercepted her hand before it reached its target. ‘Let’s not until after we’ve seen the consultant. Otherwise, it’s only going to muddy the waters.’
‘Muddy the waters? Is that really how you want to describe us having sex?’ Zoe had demanded, her voice rising along with the flush that swept over every inch of her skin, so different from how pink she’d been the night before when Win hadn’t stopped with his hands and his mouth until she was limp and giddy.
‘You know I didn’t mean it like that,’ Win had said, his own voice getting tight, his lips thinning. ‘You’re being ridiculous.’
‘I’m being ridiculous? I’m being ridiculous?’
The argument that followed culminated in Win taking himself off to the spare room to sleep on the air mattress, Florence opting to go with him, which was another dagger in Zoe’s side.
So, she was relieved to immerse herself in work, to use parts of her brain that had lain dormant for months. Even the fiddly job of updating her online portfolio, which involved a lot of scanning illustrations then tarting them up on the computer, was a welcome respite from replaying the fight with Win and thinking of all the snappy retorts that had eluded her at the time. But when Zoe realised that she’d spent the last twenty minutes filling out increasingly inane personality quizzes on Facebook, she remembered now that the woman she used to be was also a champion procrastinator and it was time to step away from her screen.
Florence was always ready for a walk and the woods beckoned, the trees providing shade from the August heat as Zoe slowly ambled downhill.
She was almost at the gate that led on to Muswell Hill when Florence’s ears pricked up and she bounded over to a man sitting on a bench.
‘Florence! Come back!’ Florence seemed to think that people sitting on benches were simply waiting for her to arrive so they could lavish attention on her. ‘We’ve talked about this before!’
Florence had already sat down in front of the man, front right paw held aloft in greeting because she really was the most appalling flirt, but as Zoe got nearer she realised that Florence was among friends.
‘Hello, Clive!’ she said in surprise, because last time she’d seen Clive out and about he had a walking frame and wouldn’t have dared try to navigate the uneven paths of Highgate Woods.
‘Hello, lovely girl,’ Clive replied as Zoe sat down next to him. ‘Before you nag me, this is about as far as I go under my own steam. Just taking the air.’
‘Glad to hear it. You look much more like your old self,’ Zoe said. Clive was wearing socks and sandals, baggy knee-length khaki shorts, a white T-shirt that proclaimed YOLO, which Cath had brought him as a gag gift for his eightieth birthday, and a New York Yankees baseball cap. It was quite the look but Zoe was of the firm belief that by the time you got to eighty-odd, you should be able to wear what the hell you wanted. ‘I like your cane.’
Clive’s walking frame had been replaced by a sturdy stick with a flame motif on it.
‘I was about to say the same thing about you,’ Clive said, peering at Zoe’s face. ‘Lost that peakiness you had a few months back.’
‘I feel so much better.’ It was good to be able to say that and have it be the truth, rather than a means to stop people asking questions.
They talked about Clive’s recovery. How he was swimming again and how he loved his new stairlift and the independence it had given him so much that he was now having a walk-in bath installed.
‘I don’t want carers in and I certainly don’t want to be a nuisance to Cath and Theo,’ he said. ‘They’re making noises about moving back to their flat. Apparently they have to give their tenants notice quite soon.’ He sighed. ‘Getting better seems a bit like a double-edged sword.’
Zoe patted Clive’s hand. ‘If you don’t want Cath and Theo to move out, then perhaps you should tell them that,’ she suggested gently because she’d had a similar conversation with Cath a couple of days before about how living with Clive gave her peace of mind and a garden but that she didn’t want to make him feel that he’d become a burden.
‘They could have the run of the top floor, turn one of the bedrooms into a sitting room,’ Clive said, and he and Zoe talked a little more about home improvements, because there was very little Zoe didn’t know about improving a home, then Clive fixed her with a stern look. ‘Actually, I have a bone to pick with you, young lady.’
‘A bone?’ Zoe immediately felt guilty though she couldn’t have imagined what she might have done to offend Clive. ‘Me?’
‘Yes, you!’ Clive clarified. ‘Cath told me ages ago you’d found a mysterious suitcase in your house and that you wanted to pick my brains about local history. I sorted out some maps and things for you, but have you called? You have not!’
Zoe was suitably chastened, though she did point out that she had been rather busy. Clive wasn’t to be appeased until Zoe agreed to come to tea the next day with Libby’s diary and any other information that might be relevant.
The following afternoon, with Libby’s diary swathed in bubble wrap, Zoe took tea with Clive.
He’d been as good as his word and while he tried to read Libby’s diary with the aid of his varifocals and a magnifying glass, Zoe sifted through the items that Clive had set aside for her.
There was a 1935 Ordnance Survey map for Muswell Hill, which included Highgate Woods but stopped just shy of the Archway Road, which meant that any land further south, including what was to become Elysian Place, wasn’t on it either. There was also a Ward Lock Red Guide to London from 1937, which was full of all sorts of interesting facts. How much it cost to travel on the bus (thruppence) and where to find a vet or an after-hours chemist.
It was all very interesting. Clive even had some background on Southwood Hall where Libby and Hugo had met for their trysts. It had once been a grand mansion. The smart mansion blocks that had replaced it were built in 1932 and it was possible to sneak into the grounds and find statues in the gardens from the building’s illustrious past, but none of it got Zoe any closer to discovering what had happened to Libby after 1936. Or why her diary for that year and a suitcase full of her possessions had been left to moulder in Zoe’s house.
‘I can barely make out a word she’s written,’ Clive complained after an hour of squinting at Libby’s faint scribbles. ‘If we had a time machine, I’d quite like to travel back and present this Libby with either a pencil sharpener or a fountain pen and a bottle of black ink. I’m afraid I haven’t managed to glean any more information than what you already have.’ He gestured at the sheet of paper where Zoe had typed out all her salient Libby facts.
‘Oh.’ Zoe puffed out a frustrated breath. ‘That’s disappointing.’
‘Except, I’ve deciphered all that HW nonsense. One of the HWs is obviously Hugo Watkins as you suggested, the other HW must be Highgate Woods, which is why Hugo picked Southwood Hall as the venue for their affair.’ Clive took off his glasses to rub his eyes and smiled at Zoe’s dumbfounded expression.
‘Of course! Highgate Woods.’ She slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’
‘I’m guessing that you don’t do many cryptic crosswords,’ Clive noted.
‘More Win’s department,’ Zoe admitted. ‘My brain doesn’t work that way.’ She didn’t want to think about Win, for obvious reasons. Also, he wouldn’t be impressed that she’d got a third party involved in her search for Libby. ‘He thinks that all this is morbid,’ she added, as she took in the various papers and books arranged on the dining table in front of them. ‘That it will end in tears.’
‘It might.’ Clive shrugged. ‘At my age one tends to dwell on the past too much, whereas you have your whole future ahead of you to become too preoccupied chasing ghosts.’
‘Hardly my whole future,’ Zoe said, though at the mention of ghosts, a shiver trickled along her spine. ‘I’m thirty-two!’
‘You’re a child.’ Clive picked up the well-worn bulging diary in a hand that trembled slightly with the effort. ‘Have you read all of this?’
Zoe shook her head. ‘Not all of it. You’ve seen the problem I have with the handwriting, it’s not the kind of thing you can just flick through. But I’ve data-mined it,’ she added, picking up her Libby factsheet. ‘I’ve collated all the addresses and important dates I could find. Even had a look on the internet for census information and public records. Not that it was hugely successful. You can’t access very much unless you sign up for one of those find your ancestor sites.’
‘It’s very curious,’ Clive said. ‘You have all those addresses, except the one address you should have.’
It was all sounding terribly cryptic again. Zoe studied her list. ‘No, these are all the addresses that were in the diary, or on letters and cards. I’m sure I haven’t missed one out.’
‘You haven’t got your address on there though,’ Clive pointed out. ‘You have nothing that puts Libby in your house. You don’t even know what her connection to the house was. That’s what’s really baffling and I’m afraid I haven’t been much help.’
‘You’ve been lots of help,’ Zoe assured him. ‘Especially with the local history.’ But she hadn’t got much further in her search and it felt as if she might never have the answers she was looking for.
The thought niggled at her as she walked home. In her head was an image of Libby, on her own, no Hugo, no Freddy, taking the same path through Highgate Woods that Zoe was currently taking some eighty years later. But as they both slipped out of the gate to walk up to the Archway Road, Libby stopped. Froze on the spot, as if there was a sign blocking her way that said, Thou Shalt Not Pass, so she was unable to cross the road and head for Elysian Place.
To come home.