without ever noticing it. It was called Mr Sandwich.
The woman called Jean was sitting at the first table he passed. He knew she was the woman called Jean because she was eating porridge. And because she had no teeth.
‘Adrian?’ she said, rising to her feet. She was extraordinarily thin, wrapped up in an Aztec-knit cardigan that fell to her knees. Her hair was dyed henna red and tied back in a ponytail.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Jean?’
‘That’s me. Take a seat. I didn’t order for you, but I would strongly recommend the porridge.’
Adrian pulled out a torn vinyl-topped chair and sat down. ‘I’ve had my breakfast. Thank you.’ Instead he ordered a cappuccino and an egg salad sandwich.
‘So,’ said Jean, noisily scraping the last layer of porridge off the sides of the bowl. ‘You’ve ended up with my daughter’s phone?’
Adrian nodded. ‘It appears so.’
‘And do I really want to know how?’
Adrian sighed. ‘Well, there’s no story really. Your daughter came to my flat to see a cat I was trying to get adopted.’
‘What, Tiff? A cat? Are you sure? Doesn’t sound like her kind of thing.’ She pushed the emptied bowl away from her and sat back in her chair, her chin tucked into her chest, hands deep in the pockets of her cardigan, scrutinising him with tired brown eyes.
‘Tiff?’
‘Yeah. Her name’s Tiffy.’
‘Tiffy?’
‘Short for Tiffany.’
‘Tiffany.’ He absorbed this. The woman who’d come to his flat did not look like a Tiff or a Tiffy or a Tiffany.
‘Tiffany Melanie Martin. To be precise. Though I think she might have changed her name when she got married.’
‘Changed it to …?’
She shrugged. ‘No idea. Wasn’t invited.’
‘Right.’
‘Why? What did she tell you she was called?’
‘Jane.’
‘Jane! Well, that’s exactly the name you’d say you were called if you were lying, isn’t it? What the hell is she up to?’ She groaned and leaned forward again. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘there’s a lot of shit under the bridge between Tiff and me. I wasn’t the best mum in the world. I wasn’t a mum at all, truth be told. She was brought up in care. I didn’t see her from when she was eight until she was twenty-six.’ She sniffed and leaned back again. ‘So, there you go. We’re more like strangers than mum and daughter.’
Adrian sat back to allow the delivery of his sandwich to the table, slices of radioactive yellow egg on thick white bread, fat discs of cucumber and tomato and lots of salad cream. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘About a year ago. Roughly. She came for her brother’s fourth birthday. Would have been around July time.’
Adrian tried not to let his shock at the fact that Jean was young enough to have a four-year-old child shine too clearly from him. He’d subconsciously placed Jean at mid to late fifties.
‘And have you been in touch since? Recently?’
‘No.’ She shook her head and laughed drily as though the idea were preposterous. ‘It’s not like that with me and her. I only sent her that text last night because I was feeling guilty. You know. Coming up for a year since I’d seen her.’
‘So, what was she up to, last time you saw her? She was married?’
Jean broke off from the conversation to order herself a cup of tea. ‘Yeah, that’s right. Newlywed she was. Looked like she might have done all right for herself. Brought Harry a lovely present, a computer thing, must have cost a bit. And was all tanned, from her honeymoon. Where’d she been? Maldives? Malta? Something like that. Yeah …’ She sighed and stared into the middle distance.
He paused, wondering if what he was about to say was entirely appropriate. ‘She didn’t seem to me to be what you’d call
married
. I mean, no ring. Well, not that I was looking, but I certainly didn’t notice one. And the third time I met her she was …’ He paused again. ‘She was on a date.’
Jean laughed out loud, and then began spluttering; she held her
The woman called Jean was sitting at the first table he passed. He knew she was the woman called Jean because she was eating porridge. And because she had no teeth.
‘Adrian?’ she said, rising to her feet. She was extraordinarily thin, wrapped up in an Aztec-knit cardigan that fell to her knees. Her hair was dyed henna red and tied back in a ponytail.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Jean?’
‘That’s me. Take a seat. I didn’t order for you, but I would strongly recommend the porridge.’
Adrian pulled out a torn vinyl-topped chair and sat down. ‘I’ve had my breakfast. Thank you.’ Instead he ordered a cappuccino and an egg salad sandwich.
‘So,’ said Jean, noisily scraping the last layer of porridge off the sides of the bowl. ‘You’ve ended up with my daughter’s phone?’
Adrian nodded. ‘It appears so.’
‘And do I really want to know how?’
Adrian sighed. ‘Well, there’s no story really. Your daughter came to my flat to see a cat I was trying to get adopted.’
‘What, Tiff? A cat? Are you sure? Doesn’t sound like her kind of thing.’ She pushed the emptied bowl away from her and sat back in her chair, her chin tucked into her chest, hands deep in the pockets of her cardigan, scrutinising him with tired brown eyes.
‘Tiff?’
‘Yeah. Her name’s Tiffy.’
‘Tiffy?’
‘Short for Tiffany.’
‘Tiffany.’ He absorbed this. The woman who’d come to his flat did not look like a Tiff or a Tiffy or a Tiffany.
‘Tiffany Melanie Martin. To be precise. Though I think she might have changed her name when she got married.’
‘Changed it to …?’
She shrugged. ‘No idea. Wasn’t invited.’
‘Right.’
‘Why? What did she tell you she was called?’
‘Jane.’
‘Jane! Well, that’s exactly the name you’d say you were called if you were lying, isn’t it? What the hell is she up to?’ She groaned and leaned forward again. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘there’s a lot of shit under the bridge between Tiff and me. I wasn’t the best mum in the world. I wasn’t a mum at all, truth be told. She was brought up in care. I didn’t see her from when she was eight until she was twenty-six.’ She sniffed and leaned back again. ‘So, there you go. We’re more like strangers than mum and daughter.’
Adrian sat back to allow the delivery of his sandwich to the table, slices of radioactive yellow egg on thick white bread, fat discs of cucumber and tomato and lots of salad cream. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘About a year ago. Roughly. She came for her brother’s fourth birthday. Would have been around July time.’
Adrian tried not to let his shock at the fact that Jean was young enough to have a four-year-old child shine too clearly from him. He’d subconsciously placed Jean at mid to late fifties.
‘And have you been in touch since? Recently?’
‘No.’ She shook her head and laughed drily as though the idea were preposterous. ‘It’s not like that with me and her. I only sent her that text last night because I was feeling guilty. You know. Coming up for a year since I’d seen her.’
‘So, what was she up to, last time you saw her? She was married?’
Jean broke off from the conversation to order herself a cup of tea. ‘Yeah, that’s right. Newlywed she was. Looked like she might have done all right for herself. Brought Harry a lovely present, a computer thing, must have cost a bit. And was all tanned, from her honeymoon. Where’d she been? Maldives? Malta? Something like that. Yeah …’ She sighed and stared into the middle distance.
He paused, wondering if what he was about to say was entirely appropriate. ‘She didn’t seem to me to be what you’d call
married
. I mean, no ring. Well, not that I was looking, but I certainly didn’t notice one. And the third time I met her she was …’ He paused again. ‘She was on a date.’
Jean laughed out loud, and then began spluttering; she held her
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