The Hidden Women. Kerry Barrett
‘But he’s easy on the eye.’
I smiled again. My sisters were nothing if not predictable.
‘Has anyone heard from Andy?’ Another message pinged through from Miranda. ‘I can’t see if he’s getting these. Immy manages to reply all the way from Africa and he can’t be bothered to keep in touch from Scotland.’
I made a face at my phone. I adored my big sister Miranda but she could be a bit of a mother hen. Not surprising, I supposed, when you thought about what she’d had to take on when we were kids, and I’d never forget how she’d been there when I needed her when Dora was born.
‘He’s probably not on Wi-Fi,’ I typed. Andy was on an archaeological dig somewhere on a windswept island in the North Sea – hardly hanging out in a coffee bar in Glasgow as Miranda obviously thought. ‘He’ll check in when he can.’
I threw my phone into my bag and pulled out my make-up. If Elly was dolling up to meet Jack Jones, then perhaps I should do the same.
Jack Jones was nothing like I’d expected. For a start he arrived by himself. No entourage, no publicist, not even a driver. He just got off the tube and sauntered into the office, scruffy bag thrown over his shoulder and hair unwashed. Elly was not impressed by his distinctly un-starry appearance. She went down to reception to meet him, giddy with excitement, while I went into the meeting room, laid out some biscuits on a plate and made sure the coffee machine was working.
I put my folders of research on to the table and waited for them to arrive, nervously tapping my fingers on my knee. What if he messed up my notes? What if he questioned my methods? I wasn’t comfortable about this at all.
‘This is your researcher, Helena Miles,’ Elly said, standing at the door of the room and ushering Jack Jones inside. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
I stood up.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ I lied, holding out my hand for Jack Jones to shake. Wait. Elly was leaving us to it? What? I caught her eye over Jack Jones’s shoulder. She wrinkled her nose up at his back and flicked her newly blow-dried hair in a disdainful shrug. Jack Jones obviously didn’t live up to her expectations. Horrified at the idea of entertaining a bona-fide celebrity by myself, I widened my eyes pleading with her to stay, but she spun round and headed back to her desk.
‘Is everything okay?’
I dragged my eyes from Elly’s retreating back and looked at Jack Jones, who was still holding my outstretched hand.
‘Oh,’ I said, awkwardly, dropping his hand like it was hot. ‘Sorry, Mr Jones. Sorry.’
Jack Jones smiled at me. ‘Call me Jack,’ he said. ‘Is it okay if I call you Helena?’
I liked the way he said my name in his clipped, period-drama accent.
‘Of course,’ I said.
He smiled at me again, a sort of wonky, half-smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He looked straight at me and I looked back and my stomach flipped over. He was gorgeous. At least his face was. For the first time I took in what he was wearing – scruffy jeans, battered trainers and a scuffed leather jacket. His brown canvas bag was slung across his body and his hair was a mop of dirty curls, very different from the hair that artfully fell across his forehead in the picture at the front of his file.
Unable to help myself, I glanced down at the photo on the folder. Jack saw me looking and grinned again.
‘Photo shoot Jack,’ he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. ‘Not my real self.’
Embarrassed that he’d caught me looking and still feeling weak at the knees thanks to his smile, I collapsed into the chair next to him and moved it ever so slightly further away.
‘So,’ I said, all business. ‘I understand it’s your dad’s family you’re interested in?’
He nodded. ‘I didn’t really know them,’ he said. ‘My dad was around a bit when I was little, and apparently I did meet my grandparents a couple of times, though I don’t remember. But they’ve passed away now, and then Dad died last year – though I’d not seen him since I was ten.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said. His story sounded painfully familiar to me, making me think of Greg and how he’d not seen Dora more than a handful of times.
Jack shrugged. ‘He was like a stranger to me,’ he said. ‘It was just me and Mum when I was growing up.’
‘No brothers or sisters?’ I asked. Again I was struck by how similar his story sounded to Dora’s – and how different it was from my own chaotic, busy childhood home.
He shook his head. ‘Just me.’
I looked at his impish face, and felt so sad for the little boy he’d once been that I almost threw my arms round him and hugged him. My sister Imogen would have done. But thankfully, I remembered I was Helena Miles who did not do things spontaneously, unless you counted walking out on my boyfriend when I was pregnant.
Instead I opened the folder and showed Jack his rough family tree.
‘So, this is your dad’s family,’ I said, tracing the line with my forefinger. ‘Your grandfather was a pilot in World War Two, and your great-grandfather fought at the Somme.’
Jack was looking at me in wonder. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Tell me more.’
Putting all thoughts of Sarah Sanderson’s maternal line out of my head, I sat with Jack all afternoon and explained what I’d found out so far. I always did the initial research, then passed my findings on to specialists – in Jack’s case we’d send him off to speak to an expert on World War One about his great-grandfather. And I was in the process of tracking down someone to speak to about his grandad too, who’d been too short-sighted to join the regular air force but who’d flown for the Air Transport Auxiliary, transporting planes from factories to airfields all over Britain. It was a great family story all round.
Jack was thrilled. He asked all the right questions and wrote endless notes in his scrawling handwriting, on a notepad he pulled from his tatty bag. At one point, he got so excited talking about the trenches that he threw out his arm and knocked over his cup of coffee. I leapt for the folder he had been reading and got it out of harm’s way just in time.
He was very sweet and enthusiastic and every time he smiled he made my hands tremble. But oh my goodness, he was the clumsiest, scruffiest, bulldozer of a man I’d ever met. My carefully ordered notes were pulled out of the folders and spread across the table as the edges of the papers folded over and curled. There was the coffee incident, as well as biscuit crumbs scattered everywhere, and a similar hairy moment when Jack’s biro leaked all over his hand and he left sticky blue fingerprints on a photocopy of his great-grandfather’s service record.
Eventually, to my absolute relief, Jack looked at his watch – which appeared to have Mickey Mouse on it – and stood up.
‘I’m late,’ he said. ‘I have to dash.’
‘Okay,’ I said, possibly a bit too eagerly. ‘I’ll show you out.’
Jack pulled on his leather jacket and surveyed the table, which was covered in notes and screwed-up tissues where he’d wiped the biro off his fingers, and biscuit crumbs.
‘God what a mess,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you clear up.’
‘No need,’ I said, desperately wanting him gone. ‘I’ll do it.’
But I was too late. He was already scooping up all my notes – no longer in any sort of order – and stuffing them back into a folder.
‘Really,’ I said, gritting my teeth. ‘I can do it.’
I went