Wharf Alley is busy this morning. Saturday is a popular day for tourists who disembark from the tour boats to explore the art and craft centres. Last week I met Chloe Laker, the curator of the Wharf Alley Art Gallery. She’s planning an exhibition for later in the year and has invited me to submit four of my paintings. I showed her my newer work. They’re more experimental – we’re encouraged at Bonnard to think conceptually – but she picked the four Sea Aster paintings I’d been working on in my spare time. I explained that they are personal and self-indulgent. The portrayal of a life I’ve left behind. Chloe is adamant. They will fit the theme of emotional alienation the exhibition intends to explore.

At the Wharf Diner, many of the customers are also eating outside. Not Seeing is Believing is doing a brisk trade. Aurora said she gave Jake an angel. I can imagine his expression. He doesn’t believe in psychics who see metaphysical spirits in blank spaces.

A taxi pulls up beside the complex and I’m amused, as I always am, when I watch the amazed reaction of strangers, who survey the brightly painted containers. But this young man is not a stranger. My amusement turns to surprise when I recognise Peter Brennan.

‘I tried ringing but your phone was off,’ he says when he’s made his way along the walkway to my balcony. ‘When Ali said you were living in a shipping container I thought she was joking. But this place is fantastic.’

I switch on my mobile. Three missed calls, all from Peter. I’m flattered but surprised that he should visit me.

‘I’m just about to have my lunch.’ I gesture towards the table. ‘Would you like some pasta?’

‘If it’s not any trouble.’

‘No trouble at all.’ I set an extra place and we eat together, easy as old friends with a history to share.

‘How’s Madge?’ I ask. His mother was known on Oakdale Terrace as a force of nature, always knee-deep in community activities.

‘Busy as ever organising everyone,’ Peter replies and smiles ruefully.

‘And Luke?’

‘Dad’s retiring soon and looking forward to it.’

‘Were they surprised to hear Jake and I had split up?’

‘A bit,’ he admits.

‘Madge used to call us children playing adult games when we first moved in.’

He nodded. ‘You and Jake were so young compared to the other parents.’

‘That’s because we were.’

‘All the lads thought you were hot.’

‘I find that very flattering, Peter, and quite enlightening. I was under the impression you all wanted to marry Ali.’

‘That was before puberty hit. Once the hormones got a grip we had you in our sights.’ He laughs then clears his throat. ‘I’d planned to spend today with her.’ At last he’s got to the point of his visit.

‘But I can’t contact her,’ he says. ‘She’s not answering her phone.’

‘She’s probably sleeping late after last night’s performance.’

‘Here’s the thing.’ Peter walks to the railing and stares across the river. ‘I booked a ticket to see The Arboretum Affair. I was hoping to surprise her but she wasn’t performing.’

‘It must have been her night off?’

‘I spoke to one of the sylphs afterwards.’ He shook his head, his eyes glazing slightly. ‘There’re something else, those sylphs.’

‘And?’ I prompt him.

‘Christine is her name. She shares with Ali. Anyway, she said Ali left the cast a fortnight ago.’

‘That can’t be right.’ I’m unable to hide my shock as I join him at the railing. ‘She would have told me. I’ll give her a ring now. See what’s going on.’

‘You’ll need better luck than me. She’s not picking up.’

He’s right. Ali’s phone rings out, even her message machine is inactive.

‘I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted trip, Peter. I’ve no idea what’s going on.’

‘Do you have an address for her? I can call around and see what’s up.’

I write down her address. ‘She may not be there,’ I warn him. ‘But ring me and let me know if you make contact… or if you don’t.’

I fight back my uneasiness and clear away the lunch dishes. It’s a month since I’ve seen Ali. She’s cancelled on three occasions when we were supposed to meet. I could understand her cancelling a coffee date but not Stuart’s posthumous photography exhibition. We had planned to eat beforehand but she rang just as I was leaving Wharf Alley and said she was coming down with a cold. She sounded croaky and kept blowing her nose, as if to reaffirm how wretched she felt. I was more upset than annoyed. I needed her with me. Seeing Stuart’s photographs was going to be an emotional experience and I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t battle her germs with a packet of Lemsip for one night.

The exhibition was wonderful. I rang Daveth afterwards, unable any longer to put off hearing his voice. He’s in Glacier Park at the moment with a group of environmentalists. When the season is over he’s coming to Cornwall for his grandmother’s hundredth birthday celebration. That’s where his roots are. He’d like to spend some time in London, talk about us, our future, if such a possibility exists. He hesitated when he said that and waited for my reaction.

‘Yes,’ I replied. Yes, oh, yes. Knowing that I would see him again allowed me to admit how much I missed him. His brawny arms, the relaxed slant of his eyelids, his smile, intimate and knowing. I saw us… and the space where we once lay together. Small and closed off from an immeasurable vastness. The smell of oil and brine and, faintly underneath, the scent of the cedar wood soap he always uses. But I can’t think of him now. Ali is to the forefront of my mind.

Her emails are breezy and funny, filled with anecdotes about Mark and Christine and other members of Barnstormers. Not once has she hinted that she’s unhappy or considering leaving the play. But she’s an actress. We paid a fortune to train her to pretend.

Peter rings. He spoke to Christine. Ali is spending the weekend with friends. I know this is untrue and Peter probably knows it too. He’s hurt, disappointed that she should treat him so casually. Their arrangement to spend the day together was made some months ago.

Jake is in Germany, the first leg of the German tour, but he answers immediately.

‘I rang her before I left for Germany.’ He sounds as surprised as I am. ‘She never mentioned leaving the play. Not that I’m objecting. I’m relieved she’s got sense at last. It was a piece of exploitative – ’

‘Jake, stop thinking like an outraged father. Being in that play was a big deal for Ali. She wouldn’t have left without a good reason. I’ll ring you as soon as I get in touch with her. How’s the tour going? Any sign…you know?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Okay. I’ll be in touch.’

We’re incapable of a normal conversation. Just brief exchanges that break under the burden of an unspoken name.

Chapter 59

On Monday morning I travel by tube to Islington. I’m not sure if it’s my anxiety that makes Ali’s flat look even more dilapidated than on my previous visit. I ring the bell three times before the front door is opened by a man who looks as if I’ve dragged him away from tinfoil and a syringe. He stares blankly at me and shakes his head. He’s never heard of Ali or Christine. I suspect he may have forgotten his own name. My anxiety since Peter’s visit has turned from nagging to acute.

I edge past him and mount the stairs to the flat. At first, there’s no reply. I hear movement inside, the scraping of a chair, faint voices. This time I knock more persistently. The peephole in the door bulges like a suspicious eye. I’ve a feeling I’m being observed before Christine opens the door.

‘How nice to see you, Nadine.’ Her English is perfect, just enough of an accent to suggest it’s not her first language.

‘You too, Christine. I’m looking for Ali. Is she in?’

‘Alysia is not here.’ She steps into the corridor and closes the door behind her. ‘I will let her know you called.’