The cathedral café is pretty much like any cathedral café in England. People around us queue for overpriced coffees, pastries and postcards while I dial Harry’s number for the fifth time, squeezing my eyes shut and willing him to answer. The insistent ringing sound echoes in my ear and drains away the last of my hope. No one has spoken since we sat down except for Dad ordering me a cup of sweet tea and a large slice of chocolate cake, and Dorice haughtily offering me her mobile phone. My own phone, of course, was in the handbag.
I press ‘dial’ again in growing desperation. My legs have stopped shaking now and the mark on my shoulder has faded to a dull throb. I just need Harry to pick up the bloody phone. He’ll know what to do. He’ll ask Liza or Roberto to come and get us, or call Ray, or at least go online and cancel my phone and credit cards. Harry, PLEASE, I will him silently. With every unanswered ring I can feel myself sweating under the heat of Dorice’s scrutiny and obvious anger. I wonder absently how long she’ll be able to maintain the crimson facial tone without actually exploding messily all over the other people in the café.
‘It’s no good,’ I sigh, dropping the phone back on the table. ‘He’s not answering.’
‘Yes, we can see that,’ remarks Dorice, turning her eyes heavenwards. ‘So what now? Don’t we need to cancel our passports urgently? I mean, every moment we spend sitting here they could be being used on the black market…’
‘Oh, give it a rest,’ Dad snaps irritably back at her.
Without even realising I’ve done it, my hand drops to my pocket where Sebastian North’s business card is still safely tucked. I pull the card out and stare at it for a moment. He did say to call him if I needed anything. And we have had our passports stolen… would it be such an unreasonable thing to call the British Consul?
On a Saturday afternoon?
On his mobile?
Swallowing, I reach for Dorice’s phone again.
‘Give me one more call… I’ve got an idea.’
He answers on the second ring, sounding slightly out of breath.
‘Sebastian… er, hi. It’s Kirsty.’ I just manage to stop myself saying ‘from the prison’ again. ‘Look, I’m really sorry to bother you on a weekend. But… we’ve had a bit of a problem and I was wondering if you could help.’
‘Kirsty! No problem.’ He sounds like he’s shouting to me from down the end of a tunnel. ‘Hang on a minute – don’t go anywhere…’ I hear a rustling sound, a whistle, Sebastian’s voice shouting something, then the slam of a car door before he is back on the line sounding clearer.
‘Sorry about that – what’s happened, are you all right?’
I briefly explain the events of the last twenty minutes, skimming over the part where I actually got knocked to the ground by a speeding bag-snatcher.
‘Oh, you poor thing – awful bad luck for that to happen on your dad’s first day out here, too. I’m so sorry.’ I realise, with relief, he really sounds like he means it. ‘Look, I’ll be there in ten minutes. You need to do a police report to get new passports – I’ll help with that. And I’ll bring all the forms. Just sit tight where you are and I’ll be there right away. You’re at the cathedral, right?’
Dizzy with relief I nod, then realise he can’t see me nodding and say ‘yes’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘sorry’ about a hundred times before hanging up the phone. I can barely believe it – he’s coming all the way here to help us. I remember Naomi saying something like ‘not all consuls are as accommodating as ours’. She was right – this man really is dedicated to his job.
I barely have time to explain to a sceptical-looking Dad and Dorice before Sebastian himself bursts in, panting slightly, his eyes skimming the café for me. It takes me a moment to realise it’s actually him, as he could not look more different to the smartly suited man I encountered at the prison and embassy. His hair is messily sticking out in some places and flattened down in others, as if he’s just recently removed a baseball cap. He’s wearing what I can only describe as Serious Running Clothes, shorts and a T-shirt clinging slightly to his broad chest, and there’s a spread of dark stubble across his jaw.
I am suddenly rooted to the spot by a wave a self-consciousness, and only manage to raise an arm stiffly to get his attention, completely incapable of using my voice. Sebastian catches sight of me and breaks into a huge, relieved smile.
‘There you are! Thank goodness.’ He shakes my father’s and Dorice’s hands heartily, then leans over the table to kiss me on the cheek. ‘I’m so glad you weren’t hurt.’ It takes all my self-control to defy the hot flush of colour creeping up my cheeks. ‘Kirsty, I’m sorry, but we’ll have to go outside as they won’t let me stay in here with him…’ He gestures behind him and suddenly I spot the large, floppy-eared black dog, panting happily on the end of a lead and staring up in adoration at his owner. Even as Sebastian says this, I notice the more grumpy-looking of the waitresses already making her way through the tables towards us, frowning and gesturing.
‘I’m so sorry, we’re just leaving.’ Sebastian flashes her his most charming smile and indicates for us to follow him.
***
It takes less than ten minutes to get to the nearest police station in Sebastian’s dusty Land Rover, which, I noticed as we left the café, he had parked illegally across the cathedral lawn at a haphazard angle, carving muddy skid marks into the grass.
‘You caught me off duty, I’m afraid!’ He smiles at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘We like to go out for long runs in the park on Saturday mornings. Luckily we were really nearby when you called… Oh dear, sorry about Lewis – just push him off, honestly, don’t let him…’
‘It’s fine,’ I laugh, as the dog tries to climb over on to the back seat and into my lap, his tongue swiping at my ear. ‘I love animals, it’s no problem.’ I feel Dorice stiffen in her seat beside me and notice she has edged as far away from me as possible to press herself up against the window. ‘Er, I think you’d better sit – that’s it, good dog.’ I resist the temptation to let him climb across me and do his worst to Dorice’s silk pashmina. ‘Lewis… that’s really his name?’
‘I know, I know. Silly name, really. Not my idea… the name came as part of the deal, I’m afraid.’
I feel the atmosphere gradually thawing as Sebastian chats to my father in the front about his job, Quito, and the state of the UK economy. Although he turns round to Dorice and me to involve us or ask a question as often as driving will allow, it’s hard to hear much with the noises of the traffic around us and Lewis constantly scrabbling against the leather seats to press himself as close up against my side as possible. But my father seems to be chatting back, and nodding, and in response to something Sebastian says about the Prime Minister, I even see him throw his head back and laugh.
The police station is a tiny building wedged between an internet café and a laundrette, with a crooked sign above the door saying ‘Tourist Security Police’. Inside, three policemen are sitting in an impossibly hot, windowless room, all typing avidly away at their computers. Sebastian hangs back at the car, having what looks like a very serious conversation with Lewis through the open window, before locking the doors and turning to follow us inside.
‘He absolutely hates being left in the car,’ he mutters to me in the doorway. ‘I should probably be stricter with him, but…’ He turns to look up at my father, Dorice, and the three policemen, with an apologetic wince. ‘All I can say is, I’m sorry.’
I soon understand why as an ear-shattering howl wracks the air. It’s so loud and mournful that it reverberates in my skull for several moments afterwards. Just as the last echo of the terrible noise dies away, Lewis begins another one.
‘Seriously? This is just because you’ve left him in the car?’
Sebastian nods, looking mortified. ‘He wasn’t always like this… but he’s a bit… he’s been through a lot lately.’ He turns to the nearest police officer, who is cowering behind his computer with his hands over his ears. ‘Right, three stolen passports. Can we get this over with as quickly as possible please?’
It takes eight attempts to get my name right in the system, but finally we are each presented with a freshly typed report detailing the theft of our passports, stamped with an elaborate royal blue ‘Tourist Security Police’ seal at the bottom. Dorice hardly speaks, despite closing her eyes with a long-suffering expression every time Lewis howls. While we’re waiting for the reports to be printed Sebastian sits with my father in the corner, working his way through a pile of papers. Just as I go over to see what they’re doing, he scrapes his chair back, gathering the papers together and smiling.
‘That’s the forms filled in for your emergency passports… I should have them ready for you early next week.’
Oh God – the passports! I hadn’t even thought of that.
‘Then perhaps, Kirsty, you could… drop in and pick them up?’ I’m about to respond when the police officer who seems to be in charge marches over, hands us photocopies of everything, then physically begins to steer us all towards the door. ‘That’ll be all. Now please can you remove that infernal animal from anywhere near our property?’
As soon as Lewis catches sight of Sebastian, he stops trying to destroy the rear car seats and instantly drops to the floor, his head resting on his paws and wide eyes staring up at us quietly.
‘Crazy animal – you’re going to have to get over it at some point, you know,’ I hear Sebastian mutter to him before opening the door for me. ‘So, let me just give you the passport application forms to fill in. Then I can drop you back at the hotel, or wherever you like?’
‘Thank you, that would be lovely,’ I say, at the same time as I hear my father ask, ‘Have you had lunch?’
Oh no.
‘Because – I don’t know about you – but we’re starving.’ Dad indicates Dorice, who is busily reapplying lipstick in the wing mirror. ‘And we’d love to buy you lunch, it’s the least we can do after how much you’ve helped us.’
‘Um, Dad? We’ve already taken up enough of Sebastian’s time. I’m sure he wants to get home and back to his fam—’
‘I’d love to.’ Sebastian is beaming. ‘That’s very kind of you. In fact, we’re not far from La Ronda – a great part of the old town here, very traditional, if you fancy some Ecuadorian cuisine?’
La Ronda… it takes me a few moments to realise why the name seems familiar. Then I remember my late-night reading sessions of Harry’s old guidebook, and its description of this part of the historic town centre. It had been an Inca road, I recall, used to carry water from its source to the heart of the city, which after the Conquest was preserved as one of the oldest parts of Quito. Now it’s a popular tourist area filled with cafés, restaurants and art shops. With a pang I think of my travel folder, still barely opened on the bedside table in the apartment, and the scribbled wish list I had made, including the traditional café I had wanted to visit so much… what had it even been called?
I’m suddenly filled with irritation at Harry for his reluctance to go out and try new things. Filled with a sudden determination, I turn to Sebastian.
‘That would be lovely, thank you. In fact… I’ve read about a restaurant in La Ronda. With its own recipe for those corn cakes… what are they called… humitas?’ Suddenly the name of the place comes back to me. ‘I think it was called Café Pichincha.’
Ten minutes later we’re sitting round a wooden table in the restaurant’s outdoor courtyard, perusing an elaborate seven-page menu of traditional Quiteño dishes. As we strolled down La Ronda’s main street, peering in the windows at brightly coloured woollen shawls and glinting copper and turquoise jewellery, I felt myself starting to enjoy it. Just then, for a moment, walking through Quito’s old town in the sunshine beside my father, my discovery of Harry’s secret phone calls this morning had seemed to lose importance. And so what if I’d just had my bag ripped from my shoulder in the middle of the day? It could be replaced. At least I’m out, seeing the city, doing what I came here to do and experiencing Ecuador.
Gentle classical guitar music floats to our ears from the live band playing in the street outside, and I recline comfortably in my chair waiting for Dorice to finalise her decision from the menu. Dad and Sebastian are deep in conversation again, but I’m watching with interest as Dorice struggles heroically to maintain the neutral expression on her face as she scans the menu listing grilled guinea pig, baked plantains, fried pork and corn empanadas.
‘I’ll just have a caesar salad, please,’ she says at last, with martyred sigh. ‘With no dressing. Or croutons.’
I’ve ordered ‘Llanpingachos’ – which, after three attempts, Sebastian had to pronounce for me – cheesy potato cakes topped with fried egg, served with fresh avocado and spicy sausage. And, of course, a side order of the cheesy corn cakes the restaurant is famous for. Dad, to my surprise, requested the ‘Ecuadorian King’ sharing platter, with a mini sample of every traditional dish available on the menu, all to himself.
‘This whole part of town comes alive at night.’ Sebastian gestures around him to the other open-air cafés and restaurants around us, now populated with only a few other families enjoying late lunches. ‘If you like, we can come back here one evening.’ He turns to me. ‘Of course, bring your partner – sorry, what was his…?’
‘Harry,’ I mutter, thinking I should probably try to call him again to let him know what happened. But as the incredible platters of colourful food are laid out before us, I realise I don’t really want to. Not yet. And, judging by earlier, he probably wouldn’t answer anyway.
‘So, dare I ask how you’re getting on with those translations?’ Sebastian asks me, dropping a piece of his fried pork on the floor for Lewis, who is now sitting meekly under the table at our feet.
‘Is this the work you’re doing for the prisoners?’ my father asks, leaning forward and putting down his glass of mango juice.
‘Er, yes,’ I reply tentatively, sending up a silent prayer that he won’t say anything critical in front of Sebastian.
‘Frankly, Kirsty has come to the rescue,’ Sebastian jumps in, ignoring my squirm of embarrassment. ‘It’s so hard to find a reliable translator who will meet our deadlines here. And we’re talking long, tedious legal documents. The fact she’s spending time doing that during her holiday, well, I think it’s amazing.’ He turns to smile at me, and I only just resist the urge to climb under the table with Lewis.
My father has put down his cheese empanada and is looking at me, chewing thoughtfully.
‘Yes… Kirsty has always put helping other people before her own wishes,’ he says finally, in a tone that implies this is not necessarily a positive thing. ‘So, is that what drew you to this line of work?’ He turns to Sebastian. ‘An altruistic inclination?’
If Sebastian picks up on my father’s tone, he chooses to ignore it. ‘Truthfully speaking, no. I started working at the embassy straight out of university – over ten years ago now, actually.’ He stops and frowns a little, as if wondering whether that could be right. ‘It was one of those jobs that seems to happen by accident… I’d been working there as an intern, then they offered me a permanent vacancy… and as a graduate, I was desperate for a job anywhere, really. After studying international relations, a job at the British Embassy seemed like a dream come true. Even if I did spend the first two years doing admin and photocopying.’ He pauses, and slips a piece of empanada to Lewis. ‘But, as the years went by and I moved up to Consul, I did grow to appreciate the altruistic side, yes. It’s a wonderful thing to feel you’re making a difference to the world as part of your day job. The prisoners are what I feel most strongly about, I suppose. Although we can’t do much to change their situation, sometimes we’re the only ones there to look out for their basic rights.’
As Sebastian talks, I find myself sneaking little glances at him… the way his hands move for emphasis, how his eyes widen when he begins talking about the prisoners. His eyes.
‘And you get to know them, over the years,’ he continues. ‘You watch them go through their ups and downs and family dramas, and stop seeing them in the context of whatever they did wrong – you just see them as people.’
My father is nodding, looking closely at Sebastian, his extravagant Ecuadorian platter going cold in front of him. ‘And what about the future? What’s the next step for you… Ambassador, United Nations envoy…?’
Sebastian is laughing and blushing. ‘Ambassador would be a bit far, I think.’ He fiddles with his knife and fork, suddenly serious. ‘I have had job offers. But you get into a routine…’ He pauses for a long time, lost in thought. ‘What I’d really like to do, actually, is go back to study. Specialise in human rights, but not just in the context of this country – it would be great to study in Europe, particularly in the UK, and get a real global perspective. I actually got a place at a university in Spain last year, and nearly went. But, you know… things happen in life to get in the way.’ He frowns to himself, then looks up at Dorice, who has been completely silent throughout this whole exchange, with varying expressions of distaste passing over her face at the sight of each item on my father’s plate. ‘I’m so sorry, that’s quite enough about me… do tell me more about your plans for this trip. I understand you’re a wildlife photographer…’
The sudden animation on Dorice’s face at this newly presented opportunity to talk about herself somehow reminds me of an electronic device being powered back on after a long period of inactivity.
‘Well, I have been working as a freelance photographer, yes, since my retirement from the visual arts industry…’ As she regales Sebastian with stories of trips to Africa and New Zealand and her photographic conquests of lizards and albatrosses, I allow my mind to drift from the conversation and think about everything Sebastian said. It’s so easy to look at another person doing a great job, seeming to live life in their element, and think they have everything they could ever want. It would never have occurred to me that Sebastian would want to do anything other than be the British Consul. And what could have happened in his life to interrupt those plans?
I don’t get the chance to ask as our lunch is cut short by another sudden, violent rainstorm. We hastily pay and run back to the car, Lewis splashing delightedly in the puddles already forming among the cobblestones.
‘I don’t know how to thank you for today,’ my father says warmly, pumping Sebastian’s hand, as we pull up outside the hotel.
‘It was a pleasure,’ Sebastian beams. ‘Kirsty has may card… any time you need anything.’
Dorice shakes his hand politely, then laboriously pulls her raincoat up and over her head, completely obliterating her face, before sprinting the short distance from the car to the hotel entrance. Dad and I follow behind, leaving Sebastian to wait in the car with Lewis.
‘I’ll see you in the room, David – this weather will make my hair go terribly frizzy.’ Dorice sighs, then turns to me. ‘See you later, Kirsty.’
Left alone in the hotel lobby with my father, we turn to face each other, the old awkwardness between us suddenly present again.
‘So, um…’ Dad gazes after Dorice, clipping her way determinedly across the room towards the lifts. ‘As you know, we’re leaving for the Galápagos tomorrow, for three days. Dorice has a special avian photography tour booked.’
‘Oh… that’s nice.’
‘Then we’ll have a weekend in the cloud forest, before returning to Quito next week.’
I nod, suddenly feeling an acute, plummeting sense of disappointment… their trip is flying by. Once they’re back in Quito we’ll only have a few more days together… and so far a significant proportion of the time I’ve spent with Dad has been inside a police station!
‘Dad…’ I swallow, realising now is my last chance to try and do something about that. ‘I know that was your whole reason for coming here – for Dorice do her photography stuff. And that’s fine. But, the thing is… I really want to spend some time with you.’
There it is, I said it. I’ve put my feelings out there to my father for the first time in… how long? Ever?
Dad is staring back at me, his expression grave. ‘I want that, too, Kirsty,’ he says quietly, and my heart leaps. ‘Which is why I was about to ask you…do you want to come with us?’
My head snaps up to look at Dad.
‘What?’
‘Come with us – to the Galápagos. And the cloud forest, too, if you want. I’ve already told Dorice… I mean, discussed it with her… we’d both love to have you along.’
That, I very much doubt. I think, but remain diplomatically silent.
‘We’ve already booked the hotels, and it wouldn’t be a problem to add another room on… Harry can come, too, of course, if you want, if he’s not busy. If money’s a problem, you don’t need to worry—’
‘It’s not that, Dad.’ I stop him, holding up my hand. ‘It’s not money, or time, or Harry, or anything else… Actually… the fact is, Dad, I’ve got important things to do right here in Quito.’ The words are out of my mouth before I’ve fully realised this for myself. ‘Thank you for the invitation and everything, really… but I have to stay.’ Even as I allow myself to be tempted by Dad’s offer, by the thought of finally seeing the Galápagos Islands, and above all the possibility of having three more uninterrupted days to spend with him, to start over again trying to break the ice between us, to really reach out to him… I realise I can’t do it. Naomi’s father only has weeks left to live, maybe less. If I put the translation of her sentence on hold to go off to the Galápagos, that could delay her final hearing, and ultimately her possible return home. As much as I want this time with my father… I want to help Naomi even more.
‘I made a promise to someone, Dad,’ I tell him firmly. ‘Thank you so much, you have no idea how much I would love to go with you… but I need to stay here and finish my work for Naomi.’
Please understand.
Dad is looking at me strangely, half frowning, and for a moment I think he might even be angry. But then he steps forward, and pulls me towards him in a hug.
For a moment I just stand there, not quite sure what to do, allowing him to press my face into the damp, nylon pocket of his raincoat. Then, slowly, I lift my arms up and hug him back.
‘In that case,’ he mutters into the top of my head, ‘I’ll speak to Dorice. See if we can’t come back to Quito a bit sooner, have another day out together. How does that sound?’
I pull away from him, grinning.
‘That sounds great, Dad… really great.’
Ten minutes later I’m alone with Sebastian, driving through the rain back to Liza and Roberto’s.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, after we’ve been going along in silence for several minutes. I’ve suddenly realised how drained I feel after the day’s events. A whirlwind of emotions churns through me. Inevitable disappointment at having to turn down Dad’s offer, but at the same time a firm conviction I am doing the right thing. Elation at his parting hug, and a spark of hope that, despite today’s setbacks, it’s not too late for us. And in the background, the memory of the bag thief running away from me keeps replaying in my head, filling me with the unexpected and unfamiliar urge to talk to my mum.
‘Yeah… I’m fine.’ I turn to Sebastian and smile. ‘Just looking forward to getting in and having one of Liza’s hot chocolates.’ I pause, feeling suddenly shy. ‘Thank you so much for all you did today.’
‘It’s really no problem. All part of the service.’ He makes a jokey saluting gesture with his right hand.
As we pull up outside the house, Lewis pushes his nose through the gap between the passenger seat and the car door to nuzzle my ear. I reach up a hand and stroke his head.
‘I’m glad you’re staying here. Liza and Roberto are great, aren’t they?’ He pulls on the handbrake and turns to look at me. ‘Do you want me to phone up and check they’re home? Or… your boyfriend? You probably shouldn’t be alone after what happened.’
‘I’m fine, honestly. Liza and Roberto will definitely be home, anyway. It’s time for The Colour of Sin.’
Sebastian laughs. ‘Oh, they haven’t changed then.’
I reach to unbuckle my seatbelt, then something stops me. ‘You’ve known them a long time, right? Liza and Roberto?’
‘Since I started in the Consular Section eight years ago, yes… they’ve always been there behind the scenes, helping to sell the prisoner handicrafts and often sending donations for the girls. Why?’
‘Do you know what happened to their daughter?’ The words are out of my mouth before I can consider the consequences.
Sebastian’s face stiffens and he drops his gaze to the steering wheel.
‘I mean, I know she died, they told me, but…’
‘Not how?’
‘No. And she must have been only, what… twenty or so?’
‘Eighteen.’ Sebastian’s voice drops to a near whisper. ‘She died inside the prison.’ He lets those words hang in the air for a moment, as he seems to be deciding how to go on. ‘She’d been there under a year, wasn’t even sentenced yet… it was before I started this job. I never met her.’ He takes a deep breath and I realise how different he looks without his usual easy smile. More tired, somehow. ‘I’m not sure of the details of her offence, except that it was drugs. Got in with the wrong crowd or something. Liza and Roberto are hardly from the kind of family who… anyway, it seems irrelevant, all that, now.’
I’m nodding and shaking my head at the same time, the lump in my throat making it impossible to speak.
‘From what I understand she was getting bullied in there. By a group of women. They knew she was from a good family and I think they were extorting money from her. She didn’t tell her family much. They only found it all out afterwards, at the inquest.’ He pauses, visibly gathering himself together. ‘Then one of the other girls found her, in her cell. An overdose of prescription painkillers.’ He flicks a glance at me, as if wondering whether to continue. ‘The official investigation concluded it was suicide. But Liza and Roberto and a few women from the prison – Abigail’s friends – never fully believed that.’
After a long, horrified silence, Sebastian clears his throat roughly. ‘Things have changed since then,’ he continues more gently. ‘Liza and Roberto had a lot to do with that. They campaigned, went to the press, and eventually started up Alma Libre, with the help of a few other women, volunteers from abroad, like Marion. But… she was their only daughter. And I think they had her quite late in life. It completely devastated the family.’
My mind is filled with images of Liza and Roberto – bickering in the kitchen, huddled together over their telenovelas, passing empanadas and hot chocolate to me across the table. Then Liza somehow becomes my mother, standing in the doorway ordering me to tell her where I was going and who with, sitting up in her dressing gown as I get home after a night out, arms folded, the same pained expression on her face, all through my teenage years and long after. She was always there, worrying away in the background and I had only ever seen it as an irritation, a hindrance to my growing independence. All she was doing, I realise now with a sudden, calm clarity, was trying to protect Chloe and me from the horrors of the world, the horrors Liza and Roberto and their daughter were exposed to in full sickening detail.
Chloe! A chill runs down my back at the thought of my little sister, only a few years older than Abigail had been, her silly grin and ever-changing hair colour and big, generous personality right now living in the centre of London with two girls she hardly knows… how many times could she have been offered drugs? What would she do if she were promised, tomorrow, a sum of money that would take her out of the constraints of her daily life and open the door to her wildest dreams, at the simple price of just one journey… one small package?
‘Kirsty?’ Sebastian whispers, looking up and taking in the tears streaming silently down my face.
He doesn’t ask if I’m okay this time. He just places his hand ever so gently over mine, warm and reassuring against my ice-cold fingers.
A thousand nerve endings tingle to life in my hand and I sit back very carefully in my seat, hardly daring to breathe, even as my tears continue flowing.
Then Lewis sneezes loudly in my ear, and Sebastian and I both jump and burst into nervous, emotional laughter.
‘Crazy mutt.’ Sebastian removes his hand and pushes his hair back from his face. ‘Look, do you want to go and get a… drink… I mean, non-alcoholic, of course, it could be a coffee or something, just until you’re…’
‘I’m fine, thank you, honestly… in fact there’s something I really have to do.’ Even as I’m saying it and wiping away the tears, I am fumbling impatiently for my handbag and phone. ‘I’ve got to ring my mum. Right now.’
Sebastian watches me without judgement or comment as the realisation slowly spreads across my face that I no longer have a handbag, or phone. It takes me a few seconds to realise why he’s holding out his hand towards mine.
‘Are you sure?’ I look down at the mobile phone in the palm of his hand, feeling guilty. ‘You’ve done so much for me today already…’
‘Use it.’ Sebastian pushes the phone into my hand. ‘It has local rate calls to the UK anyway. You should talk to your mum… don’t leave for tomorrow something that you want to say today.’ His words remind me of something Naomi said only this morning, and I take the phone, suddenly yearning to hear my mother’s voice. I beam my thanks at Sebastian and jump out of the car, punching in her number impatiently.
Mum answers on the first ring, and I feel a pang of guilt at the relief immediately evident in her voice.
‘Kirsty! Thank goodness. It’s been over a week since your last message, you know…’
I recall her flustered voicemail and the guilt intensifies for not having called her more frequently since we got here.
‘…and I just haven’t been sleeping well, what with your sister back at university now, too, getting up to God knows wha—’
‘Mum…’ I interrupt her gently but firmly. Something in my tone brings her flow of anxiety to a stop.
‘Mum, I’m sorry. Sorry for not calling you back the other day. Sorry for not being in touch more often.’ I take a deep breath and search for the words I’ve felt swelling inside me for days now. ‘I know you’ve been worried and I want to say…’ I cast my eyes up to the clear blue Quiteño sky behind Liza and Roberto’s house and blink back a further outburst of tears. ‘I want to say how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. For me and Chloe. I think I probably haven’t told you this for a long time, if ever, but… it means so much to me. God knows where I’d be if it wasn’t for you.’ I shudder, thinking of Abigail, so young and alone inside the prison. So filled with desperation that she felt there was no way to go on. ‘I love you, Mum. I know I’m impatient with you sometimes and I want to apologise for that, too. It’s taken being away from you, really, in such a new and strange place, to realise how much I appreciate everything, and…’ My voice wobbles pathetically, and I struggle to force out the last part. ‘To realise how much I miss you.’
There’s a stunned silence on the line, then I hear a muffled sob.
‘Mum, please don’t…’
‘No, it’s okay,’ Mum insists, her voice unsteady, too. ‘I just didn’t expect you to… I didn’t expect this.’ I hear her sniff and audibly pull herself together. ‘I nearly missed the phone… I was just getting ready for bed. Steve’s downstairs watching the end of The Great British Bake Off.’
I can’t help but laugh at this piece of irrelevant information, even as fresh tears fill my eyes at the thought of their cosy little house, Mum fussing about upstairs in her dressing gown, and Steve with his feet up and a cup of tea in front of the TV. My longing to be there with them almost overwhelms me.
‘It wasn’t easy, you know,’ Mum says, her voice more sober. ‘Bringing you up by myself. I loved you desperately all the way through, of course, but it wasn’t bloody easy.’
I hold my breath, waiting for to her to say more, feeling strangely like this is the first time my mother has been really honest with me for a long time… perhaps ever.
‘I know I fuss,’ she continues. ‘And I know it drives you girls mad. But all I ask is for you to understand a little where I’m coming from. After your father… left, it was a real struggle for me, in those years before I met Steve. Making ends meet, bringing you up and trying to put on a strong front for you… all I wanted was for you to grow up without it spoiling your childhood. But it affected my nerves, I can’t pretend it didn’t, love.’
‘I know, Mum,’ I say, my voice barely a whisper.
‘Anxiety is an actual condition, you know,’ she adds, her tone a little defensive now.
‘I know, Mum,’ I repeat, actually realising it properly for the first time.
‘I take pills for it, you know, love.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum.’
‘Don’t apologise, darling. I don’t mean to make you feel guilty. Just… please look after yourself. Live your life. Be happy. There’s nothing I want more in the world than to know you’re happy.’
‘I will, Mum… I am. I promise.’ Even as the words leave my mouth I feel a massive sense of relief, of liberation, a knowledge that something has shifted both inside me and in my relationship with my mother.
Then I’m brought back to reality by a brisk knocking sound above my head and Liza leaning out of the window summoning me upstairs for a hot chocolate.