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long it took them to work out he was rather over-qualified for the job. They moved him into the office, into the publicity department at first, but within six months he was head of sales and marketing.’
    ‘Is he still there?’
    ‘No. When he took me to the Savoy, he told me he was being moved to another company within the group. He was to become a director and sales manager of a new hotel and casino complex that’s being readied for construction just outside Seville. A few days later, he called me to say he was in post, and to give me his new business address. After that I heard from him, or I got in touch with him, every couple of weeks or so. He told me he was very busy, and kept apologising for never coming to see me. I understood, of course: business has always been my priority too. He sent me flowers at Christmas and on my last birthday. Everything seemed to be going fine, until suddenly . . . it all stopped.’ Her voice faltered, and she did her best to bury her face in her wine glass for a few seconds.
    I waited for a moment. ‘When did you hear from him last?’ I asked, when I judged she was ready.
    ‘In the middle of May,’ she replied. ‘Around six weeks ago. He sent me an email saying he’d be in London on business, and that he’d stay with me for a few days, but he never arrived. I had his room ready, and the fridge stocked with all his favourites, but he didn’t show up. I called him and asked where he was, but his phone was on voicemail. I sent him a text, but got no reply. So I sulked.’
    ‘Weren’t you worried then?’
    ‘Not really. Frank’s never been all that reliable when it comes to keeping dates with his mum.’
    ‘How long did your moody last?’
    ‘About a month. I’d planned to sit it out until he got in touch with me to apologise, but it got too much for me. So I sent him an email, asking how he was, as if nothing had happened. Again, no reply. I texted him and called him, but it was the same. Finally I called the office number he’d given me, and asked to speak to the sales manager. I was put through to a woman. I told her I didn’t want to speak to her, but to Frank McGowan.’
    ‘And?’
    Adrienne’s carefully drawn eyebrows rose. ‘And she said, “Who?” I repeated myself. She said, “Who’s he?” in a dry way, and in a mid-European accent that I didn’t care for. I told her that he was her sales manager and my son, and advised her to mind her tone, to which she told me that she was the sales manager, that her name was Lidia Bromberg, and that she had never heard of any Frank McGowan.’
    ‘So it was bullshit: the big job in Switzerland, the promotion to Spain, it was all crap?’
    ‘No!’ my aunt protested. ‘It was real. I visited him in Davos. I had a week there, in the resort, as his guest. So was the casino; the number I called was on his business card, plus he sent me some literature on the place.’
    ‘Then he’s been fired, Auntie. He’s been up to something, he’s been caught and they’ve sacked him.’
    ‘If that’s so, why not tell me? Why would that woman deny his very existence?’
    I didn’t have a snappy answer for that one. ‘What have you done about it?’ I asked instead.
    ‘Nothing that’s worked. I contacted the embassy in Madrid, but they had no knowledge of him. The man I spoke to assured me that if he’d been arrested, or involved in a serious accident, they’d have been informed by the Spanish authorities. He checked with all nine consular offices, and he even contacted the Guardia Civil, to see if they had any unidentified . . .’ She paused. ‘But there was no one.’
    ‘How about his friends? Lady friends?’
    ‘There was a girl in Davos, Susannah. I met her when I was over there: she was head receptionist at the resort. I called her. She told me that they kept in touch after Frank moved to Spain, but there was nothing between them any more. She’d had a Christmas card from him, but nothing since. She did say she