Thirty-five years later the telephone rang in Andrea’s seaside bungalow. Expecting it to be her vagabond son calling from Asia, Africa, wherever, she answered with a cheery ‘So finally you’ve decided to call me.’
‘You what?’ The voice was not that of Jason but a stranger’s, tinged with a trace of Cockney.’ I didn’t know you’d been waiting this long.’
She met her puzzled face in the mirror. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Freddie Weston,’ the voice continued.
Andrea ‘s hand was poised to put the receiver back on its rest. ‘I think you have a wrong number.’
‘No,’ the voice persisted ‘I don’t think so. You are Andrea I take it. Andrea Caulfield as was?’
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