by Cassie Hamer
A child.
Relief and confusion soaked through Lisa’s veins and she rushed towards them. Now, they were all within her grasp—Jemima, Ava and Ellie—and she thought her heart would explode with relief.
‘I thought I’d lost you,’ she cried, kissing Ava on the head.
‘I was playing with Ellie in the sandpit, and then we started playing with—’ She screwed up her face and looked at the third child. ‘What’s your name again.’
‘I’m Isla and I’m six years old,’ said the little girl softly.
‘Pleased to meet you, Isla. Now where’s your mummy, sweetie? She might be worried about you too.’
‘She’s not here,’ Isla whispered.
Lisa leant down. ‘Who are you here with, darling?’
‘That lady over there.’ Isla pointed to a grey-haired woman sitting on a park bench, so engrossed in a book she was oblivious to the commotion happening less than twenty feet away.
‘Is she your grandmother?’
‘No,’ said Isla. ‘She’s my carer and I don’t like her. Her house smells of potatoes.’
Lisa felt an ache starting to rise behind her eyes. ‘Let’s go and introduce ourselves, shall we?’ A couple of feet from the bench, she cleared her throat. The woman didn’t look up. Isla looked at Lisa as if to say See what I mean. Lisa squeezed Isla’s hand.
‘Excuse me.’ She touched the woman gently on the arm and the woman jumped as if she’d received an electric shock.
‘Oh dear lord Jesus, you nearly gave me a heart attack.’ The woman recoiled and flung her hand to her chest. ‘I was just getting to the good part.’ She held up the book. ‘I never go anywhere without my Stephen King.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Lisa took a step back. ‘But I lost my two girls, momentarily and then found them playing with Isla here. I wasn’t sure if you knew where she was, so I thought I’d just check. I understand you’re looking after her.’
‘Correct, I’m the emergency foster carer.’ She stressed the word as if announcing herself as a member of the royal peerage and Lisa took in the woman’s tightly cropped hair, pleated navy slacks, white blouse and sturdy black shoes. It was an outfit that screamed ‘former nurse’. A matron, most likely.
‘Someone needs to give that one a good talking to.’ The woman clutched her arm and Lisa smelt mothballs. ‘Demanded we come to this park, even though it’s miles from where I live. Demanded it, or she said she’d run away. I tell you, children these days,’ she huffed.
‘Yes, well, they can be challenging,’ Lisa muttered.
The woman checked her watch and beckoned to Isla. ‘Nearly teatime. Say your goodbyes, my little miss.’
Lisa checked her phone. ‘But it’s only four o’clock.’
‘Dinner at 4.30. Bath at 5.30. Bed at six.’ The words came out of the woman’s mouth like rounds of rapid gunfire. Not to be argued with, unless you valued your life.
Lisa decided to be brave. ‘But it’s still broad daylight at six.’
‘The room has lovely heavy curtains. Black as pitch once they’re closed.’
‘You surely don’t expect them to sleep from six?’
‘Sleep. Don’t sleep. I don’t mind what they do in that room. I just know that the door shuts at six and reopens at seven in the morning.’
Lisa could barely spit out the words. ‘You don’t lock them in, do you?’
‘Of course not,’ the woman scoffed. ‘The children are free to use the bathroom.’ She raised her finger. ‘But that’s all. Or it’s plain toast for breakfast. No butter. No jam, and certainly no vegemite.’ She stretched her lips into a thin, mean smile. ‘I make no apology for running a tight ship. Some good old-fashioned discipline is precisely what these sorts of children need.’ She inclined her head. ‘Time to go, Missy. Say goodbye to your friends.’
The name pinged in Lisa’s mind. How odd, that this woman would use that name—the very same as Ellie’s mum.
‘No,’ came the small but defiant voice. Lisa felt Isla cowering into her. ‘You can’t make me.’
‘See what I mean.’ The woman clicked her tongue. ‘Come now, Missy.’
Lisa flinched again.
‘I’ve had just about enough trouble from you.’ The old woman outstretched a scrawny, blue-veined hand. ‘Time to go.’
Reluctantly, Isla let go of Lisa’s hand and slipped her small fingers into the carer’s vice-like grip.
You can’t let her go with that woman.
But Lisa stood still, muscles quivering, watching. At the car, the old lady opened the door and ushered the girl inside, leaning across to make sure she was carefully strapped into the seat. Then she handed Isla a small packet of biscuits. Lisa felt her anxiety ebbing. Maybe the woman was a dragon, but she would at least feed and clothe the little girl, and keep her safe. From what she’d learnt at the group home, foster carers could be worse. Far, far worse.
You can’t save all the children.
She felt a tug on her hand. Ava. ‘Mummy, can we have an ice-cream. Pleeease!’
She looked down at three little faces, filled with hope.
‘Yes. Yes. Let’s have an ice-cream.’
Ava and Jemima bolted ahead, while Ellie slipped in beside Lisa and trod carefully over the grass.
‘Who was that woman? The old lady with Isla?’
Lisa put her arm around Ellie’s shoulders. ‘Don’t worry about her. She’s no one, darling. At least, no one you need to worry about. I promise.’
As they walked towards the gate, Lisa felt her resolve building with each step. She would go back to the beginning. Back to the school. Tomorrow was the athletics carnival. It had to be an opportunity to scope out more of the parents and teachers. But she needed help. Someone who knew the school intimately. Someone unafraid to dig. Someone who liked meddling.
She knew exactly who that person could be.
Lisa pulled out her phone and started dialling.
‘Heather, it’s Lisa Wheeldon.’
A slight pause. ‘Lisa. So glad you rang. I was just thinking about you.’
‘You were?’
‘Yes. Now don’t worry about Kimberly. The woman is a certified b-i-t-c-h.’ Lisa heard her covering the phone. ‘No, Savannah, I did not just spell out the B word. How about you go and find the iPad. Mummy’s on the phone.’ The sound became clear again and Lisa visualised Heather uncapping the speaker. ‘Sorry, Lisa. Those children—never listen when you’re speaking to them, and suddenly develop the hearing of an owl when you use inappropriate language. Anyway, as I was saying, after you left today, the other mothers and I had a chat.’ She paused. ‘We want to help you find Ellie’s mother.’
Silently, Lisa did an inner squeal. ‘That’s amazing. That’s exactly why I was ringing you.’
‘Savannah-Rose Bingley-Peters,’ roared Heather, causing Lisa to hold the phone away from her ear. ‘I did NOT say you could go onto YouTube. You have ten seconds to get onto the Reading Eggs. OR ELSE! One, two, three … Good.’
Lisa brought the phone back to her ear. ‘Is this a bad time? Maybe we could talk later? Are you going to the carnival?’
‘Of course I am. All the parents are.’
‘Excellent. How about we get together and come up with a bit of a plan?’
‘Leave it to me, Lisa Wheeldon. You leave it to me.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was only 8 am and Jamie felt like she’d died and gone to tulle-heaven. Sitting on the velvet banquette in the middle of the bridal shop was like sitting on a cloud, surrounded by textures and shades of white, ranging from the softest of soft pinks to the most delicate hues of grey, the colours accentuated by the golden light starting to filter into the shop. The tulle was everywhere—veils, overskirts, underskirts and general swathes of it, coating everything like a fine, gossamer web.
Jamie took a sip of her takeaway coffee to stop herself from sighing out loud. The boutique was a childhood dream come true.
As an eight-year-old, Jamie had hankered
to do ballet for the sole reason of wanting to float ethereally about the stage in the end-of-year concert as a snowflake perhaps, or a winter fairy, or whatever involved the wearing of a frothy white tutu. But when the roles were assigned, Jamie thought she’d misheard. Mouse? They wanted her to be a mouse? But mice didn’t wear fluffy white tutus! There had to be some mistake?
There wasn’t. For the production of Cinderella, the seven-and eight-year-olds were to play the mice that were magically transformed by the fairy godmother into footmen for Cinderella’s coach. Jamie had cried but her mother was firm. If she wouldn’t wear the brown leotard with matching furry tail, they would have to tell Santa, and Santa may decide she didn’t deserve any presents.
Jamie was stuck. She had to go on stage, so she did and was the sourest mouse ever seen. The home movie of her performance was family folklore. It never failed to make Jamie cry with laughter, but a part of her also winced. She was still in love with the romance of white tulle. Always would be. Such a different aesthetic to her normal chic and sharp attire. In fact, her penchant for white netting frightened her a little. Tulle was very nineties. And, in the hands of the wrong designer, so naïve. She needed someone to save her from herself. Someone with impeccable taste. Someone who understood the difference between romantic and schmaltzy, chic and too-sharp, sexy and slutty. Normally, that someone would have been Ben. But after their kiss at the party, she had thought better of it. Yes, she’d been a little drunk and perhaps they had become too close, but that’s all it was. Jamie had mistaken familiarity for intimacy, nothing more. What they needed was a little distance.
In the end she’d asked Lisa to attend the early appointment. Admittedly, her sister had an entirely different aesthetic to hers, if you could even classify denim skirts and T-shirts as an aesthetic. As a corporate accountant, Lisa had displayed a style that Jamie would have categorised as ‘classic with a twist’. Smart, slightly dull clothes brought into the realm of ‘interesting’ thanks to bold accessories—chunky beaded necklaces, dangly earrings, hand-painted scarves, and the like. Her streak of style was discernible, if modest. But since having Ava and Jemima, which necessitated the move into self-employment and ‘mumpreneuring’ her sister’s sense of fashion had taken a decided step backwards. It was as if the sudden leap into true maturity (the care of another human being) must necessarily be countered by a corresponding sartorial reversion back to the clothing of childhood. Shorts and T-shirts. Flat shoes. Socks! And not just with sneakers! Jamie understood the practicalities that dictated Lisa’s wardrobe; one could not crawl about the floor in Manolos. But she had hoped for at least a little resistance to the inevitable pull of practicality and comfort. If Jamie ever had children, she would find a way to pull it off fashionably. That was non-negotiable. But before children, there was a small matter of a wedding to organise.
In a little over forty-eight hours, Jamie had booked the reception venue (a private waterfront home with stunning views of the harbour that few people knew was available for hire) and a caterer. Because the date was so close, she didn’t have the option of endless choices and had settled for a Saturday morning ceremony and lunchtime reception. She’d barely bothered to check anything with Jared. The transfer to Dubai was now official, which meant Jared had to finalise his own projects, organise the handover and also get a feel for what would be needed over there. Jamie hadn’t told him about Angel’s business offer and she wasn’t quite sure why. She didn’t want him to doubt her, perhaps? Still, no harm in covering all bases. No reason she couldn’t start secretly working on the Spin business plan, as well as the Dubai one. In between the flurry of wedding calls and business plans, she’d also made a little time to dig further into the mystery of Missy Jones—PR professionals were nothing if not exceptional at multi-tasking. So far, she’d checked the official police Missing Persons’ website and plenty of unofficial sites established by relatives and friends to spread the word about missing loved ones. But with only a name to go on, and no photo, the search was virtually pointless. And it was also very depressing—all those people, simply vanishing off the face of the earth and leaving their loved ones bereft.
Sitting in the dress shop alongside her sister, Jamie felt the exhaustion of the previous two days, and everything that lay ahead, catching up with her as she took another large sip of her coffee.
‘You don’t know the week I’ve had, and it’s only Wednesday,’ Lisa sighed.
‘Actually, I have a feeling I probably do,’ said Jamie.
‘Oh look at us. Two tired sad-sacks. This is crazy.’ Lisa turned to Jamie. ‘This should be fun. It’s your wedding dress!’ She patted her arm and beamed. ‘Let’s forget our difficult days and enjoy it, okay?’
‘Okay,’ Jamie agreed as a petite woman in black started to buzz about them with a kind of nervy, scatty elegance.
Cici: Design Consultant, read her name badge. Shop assistant, Jamie mentally corrected as Cici stood before them with hands clasped and heels together in a way Jamie recognised. She knew a frustrated ballerina when she saw one.
‘Are we thinking modern or traditional?’ asked Cici.
‘Modern,’ said Jamie and Lisa together.
‘Fitted or floaty?’
‘Fitted.’ Again Lisa chimed in, beaming, as Jamie gave her a look.
‘Your sister knows you well.’ Cici nodded approvingly. ‘Always helpful to have a matron of honour who’s on the same page. Sleeves or no sleeves?’
‘Sleeves,’ they said together. Lisa giggled.
‘Sorry.’ She covered her mouth, but her cheeks were still stretched wide so Jamie knew she was smiling.
‘I’ll be back in a jiffy.’ Cici held up a finger and scurried out of the room, presumably to another room where there was a stack of fitted, sleeved, modern gowns.
‘What is wrong with you?’ Jamie hissed, clutching her sister’s forearm.
‘I’m just trying to make this fun!’
‘Well, it’s annoying.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Lisa looked wounded. ‘I’m not myself at the moment. I just can’t stop thinking about Ellie.’
Jamie nodded. ‘I’ve been thinking about her too but trying to find Missy Jones is like looking for a needle in a haystack.’
Lisa looked pensive. ‘Yesterday at the playground, I had a run-in with an old woman, a foster carer I think. Anyway, she was being a bit horrible to this sweet little girl and she kept referring to her as Missy.’
‘And?’
‘It just took me back to our time at the group home, and it made me wonder if maybe Ellie’s mum knew us from there?’ Lisa sat up on the velvet banquette.
‘You think? I mean, it’s a bit of a stretch. That was such a long time ago …’
‘We did meet a fair few kids. I’m not even sure I remember them all now. It was such an awful time.’
Jamie looked into the bright lights of the chandelier. ‘Hang on, I think Ellie told me something on that first night. She didn’t know her mother’s exact birthday but she did know she was twenty-six—a fair bit younger than us.’
‘And all the others at the group home were about our age,’ sighed Lisa. ‘So it can’t be from that.’
A disappointed silence settled over the pair. ‘I’ve still got the school mums to look into.’ Lisa shifted her knees. ‘Some of them have offered to help actually. You remember Heather from the party?’
‘The drunk one?’
‘We’re going to chat at the girls’ carnival today.’
‘I don’t think I’d be pinning all my hopes on her. She seems slightly unstable.’
‘At least she’s willing to try,’ Lisa said defensively, then stopped and clutched her sister’s arm. ‘Look.’
Jamie followed Lisa’s gaze to Cici, who was back in the room and holding aloft the most exquisite gown Jamie had ever seen. White and shimmery, long and lean, it was the kind of gown a mermaid would wear, albeit if mermaids had legs and wore dresses with sleeves. It was magical. Ethereal. Jamie couldn’t speak.
‘Oh my gosh,’ breathed Lisa. ‘It’s gorgeous.’
‘Would you like to try it on?’ asked Cici.
Jamie nodded. For a minute, thoughts of Ellie receded into the back of her mind. The beauty of the gown had rendered her mute. And now she got to actually try it on. It was too much!
In the dressing room, Cici kept up an endless prattle about the designer, the hand-beading, the flattering way the gown fitted to the knee and then flared, and the fact that several Sydney A-list celebrities had worn similar designs to their nuptials.
Jamie heard none of it. She was too busy holding her breath, feeling the liquid touch of satin against her skin and the slight scratch of the lace-tulle sleeves as they passed over her knuckles. Tulle sleeves! The dress was her dream come true, albeit two sizes too large.
‘This is a twelve,’ Cici explained as she inspected the hundred or so fabric-covered buttons that trailed down the back of the gown. ‘You’re an eight on top, ten in the hips, yes?’
The question was more of a statement and in any case, Jamie was too stunned by the dress to respond.
Using bulldog clips Cici cinched in the waist so that the gown now clung to every inch of the body that Jamie had worked so hard in the gym to create.
‘There.’ Cici stood back—the coryphée looking enviously at the prima ballerina. ‘You’re so lucky.’
The words were so quiet that Jamie wasn’t sure she heard them at all. She spun around to face Cici. ‘I’m sorry, did you say something?’
The shop assistant was flustered and wrung her—ringless, Jamie now noticed—fingers together. ‘I meant that your fiancé is so lucky. You look beautiful.’
Jamie turned back to her reflection. She’d been in this position so many times, critiquing and surveying herself in the mirror, and usually she was marginally displeased by what she saw. But for the first time—possibly in her life—Jamie actually believed the words Cici had uttered. She believed them of herself. She felt beautiful and she knew for once that objectively, she also looked beautiful. Not just that the dress was gorgeous, which it obviously was, but that she was gorgeous in it.