Page 23 of Cross Her Heart

I run to her, wrapping my arms around her, burying my face into her stinking hair. Oh God, she’s alive. She’s safe. My baby is safe.

‘It’s okay, Mum. I’m okay.’

She gives me a half-smile and I half-laugh in return, but it’s nearly a sob. And then suddenly her friends are there too and we’re a huddle of love around her, all their young voices high-pitched in my ears:What happened, I was just, oh my God I can’t believe, Jesus Ava, you saved him, this is mental …I cling to her, to all of them, not trusting myself to speak as relief makes my limbs tremble.

A woman’s arm breaks through, reaching for Ava, and we splinter outwards. I see my own fear and relief reflected in the young woman’s face. She can only be about twenty-five. Something has settled into her face today, I think. Something that wasn’t there before.

‘Thank you,’ she says, through her tears. ‘Thank you. I don’t know how he got over there. He was supposed to be with the others …’

She’s holding him tight. A little boy, wrapped, like my little girl, in a silver blanket. His big eyes peer out. He’s not crying. He’s too busy trying to process it in his young head. The danger. My heart stops for a moment. How old is he? Two or three? The same age as Daniel. As Danielwas.The world fractures around me again, my seeds of happiness blowing away through the cracks.This is what happens when you relax,my inner voice tells me.This is what happens when you let yourself be happy.

‘Look this way please!’ The voice is so commanding and I’m so lost in my relief for Ava, and the reminder of Daniel, that I do as I’m told. We all do.

I’m blinded by the flash.

21

Local teenager saves toddler from drowning in dramatic river rescue …

Tragedy was averted at Elleston town’s annual festival when plucky sixteen-year-old Ava Buckridge saved two-year-old Ben Starling from the River Stour. Ava, pictured below, was enjoying the sunshine when screams alerted her to the horror of two-year-old Ben struggling in the water. The quick-thinking teenager dived in without hesitation and pulled the boy to safety.

The toddler had been playing with his cousin and older children but wandered off, and, unknown to his young mother, found his way across the bridge where he slipped on the steep riverbank. Thankfully, Ava, who swims at county level with Larkrise Swimmers at Elleston pool, was on hand, and Ben was returned to his mother safe and well.

The pretty sixteen-year-old is humble as well as brave, commenting, ‘I saw the little boy in the water and a man was pulling his shoes off to jump in. I swim every day and knew I would have a better chance against the currents, so I just ran. Honestly, it wasn’t a big deal. But it was a bit cold!’

22

LISA

I tell myself I won’t look, but my eyes drift to it every time I have to pass the front desk. Marilyn had one newspaper article laminated to keep, but Penny had this one framed. She says it reflects well on the company. Marilyn has all the press reports cut out in an envelope. So does Ava. I don’t even want to touch the paper. I feel as if my face shines out from each picture, though in truth I’m half turned away in most.

The mug scalds my hand as I come back to my desk. It’s almost comforting, this pain that keeps me in the present.

‘You must be so proud,’ Marilyn says, for about the thousandth time this week, as I put her drink down. She’s got a new Internet page open. It’s the Larkrise Swimmers and Ava’s coach. He’s put a piece up about her and how all children should learn to swim. My jaw aches from tension. Why can’t they all shut up and go away?

‘Of course I am, how many times can I say it?’ I hold my mug tighter. ‘To be honest, I’m just happy the little boy is okay.’ Ben. His name is Ben, but when I see his face in the paper my breath catches as if he is Daniel. He’s not Daniel. Ben is alive. Daniel is dead. There are more pictures of Ava than there are of Ben and his mother. I’m not surprised. She looks like some American starlet in all of them. Denim cut-off shorts and her soaking T-shirt slick against her body. She loved the fuss too, as I cringed and tried to pull her away. I stood no chance. She and her friends were happy to pose. Too many pictures. Too many with me skulking in the background.

It’s only local news, I tell myself, over and over. No one pays it any attention. It will fade. They’re Alison’s words. I called her on Sunday, breathless and panicky and apologetic for disturbing her weekend. Her voice was soothing and reassuring. It dripped cool and professional into my ear. I would be fine, she said. It would blow over, she said. She told me to call again if I felt my anxiety getting too much. She told me to do my breathing exercises. I heard children in the background. It’s hard to imagine her with a life of her own. Funny how we put people in boxes. She’s always only professional with me.

My calmness lasted for about five minutes after putting the phone down and then the fear and worry crept back in, and I haven’t been able to expel it as I’ve crawled through each day. If anything, my tension has got worse. It hasn’t helped that some reporter from the largest of the local rags got hold of my mobile number yesterday and called wanting to do a mother-and-daughter interview. I turned it off after that and haven’t turned it on since.

My hand red raw from the hot mug, I try to focus on the mail-merge job contract letter I’m composing, but the musky smell of the Stargazer lilies in the vase on the table by my desk distracts me. Most days I would find it lovely, but Simon bought these, and when I think of Simon it’s a reminder of how stupid I was to think I could relax into happiness. He brought a bouquet of these for me, and a small, funkier one made of bright unusual flowers I couldn’t name for Ava. They’re in a vase in the office kitchen. I didn’t take them home. There’s enough going on without having to explain him to her as well. Penny didn’t send her flowers, after all, so why would a stranger? Ava would know there was something not entirely professional about it all.

I wanted to get her something myself to show that I am proud of her. I want to try to tell her she is my everything, and pride isn’t a big enough word for how she makes me feel when I see her being kind and sweet and selfless. But all of this is bound up so tightly with the truth of everything inside me, that even if Iwantedto tell her, I could never undo the knots.

‘Have either of you taken any money from the petty cash box?’

I’ve been so busy staring at my screen while my thoughts race I didn’t notice Penny coming out of her office. Her voice is low, her back to the rest of the room.

‘No,’ Marilyn says.

‘Not me,’ I add. My mouth is dry. Suddenly what I saw this morning is making more sense.

‘It’s twenty pounds short, I think,’ Penny says. ‘It’s happened a couple of times now.’

‘How many times do we have to tell you to lock the cash tin?’ Marilyn should have been a mother. She has the perfect tone for it. ‘The cleaners are probably having it.’

‘I lock my desk.’ Even as she says it, Penny’s face is half-admitting the lie. ‘Well, when I remember.’

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