After the Ferry

by C. A. Larmer

  SARISI

  You would never have known the two Australians had ever met or that she had scuttled away at the sight of him on the rocks below the castle. The Aussie woman’s stare was now blank, her tone perfectly neutral as she asked, “Is Effie around?”

  Nicholas had given up on his rock fishing after their strange encounter and returned to the hotel where he was scaling his catch in the kitchen sink when a voice sang out from inside the restaurant.

  “Hello! Anyone here?”

  He expected Effie to answer, so he ignored it for a bit, but when the voice called again, more persistent, he groaned and popped his head around the kitchen door.

  “Can I help you?” he said before he realised who it was.

  The woman, the Australian, stared at him again for a long, hard minute instead of paling and fleeing as she’d done last time, or apologising for that behaviour. She seemed to relax a little and said, “Is Effie around?”

  He blinked at her and then down at his scaling knife, which was still in his right hand. Now this she should be scared of, not some dead fish.

  “Haven’t seen her,” he replied.

  She seemed breathless, but he could already tell why. Her jumper was wrapped around her waist, her feet sandy, sneakers in her hands. She must have walked the scenic route from the castle, a good thirty-minute trek along the beach. Would’ve been faster to stick to the road like he had, but then you could never tell tourists that.

  “We open for dinner in an hour,” he said. “Can I help you with something?”

  “No. No, it’s okay.”

  She was already turning away, so he quickly called out, “Can I get your name at least?” And to her blossoming frown he added, “So I can tell Effie you’re looking for her.”

  “Oh, of course.” She hesitated as though trying to remember her name, then smiled and said, “Just tell her it’s Millie.”

  And before he could say his own name, she was already striding away. He followed her to the door and watched as she walked back in the direction of the castle. When he turned around, he almost slammed into Effie.

  “Bloody hell! You gave me a fright! And I’m the one holding the knife.” He chuckled. “Where d’you disappear to?”

  “I didn’t disappear.”

  “There was a woman here asking for you. An Australian woman called Millie.”

  She pushed her lips south. “I don’t know this Millie.”

  “Okay, well, she’s obviously the one staying up with Kos. She’s probably headed back there now. If you hurry you can catch—”

  “I haven’t got time for chasing tourists! You know I’m getting the sea jet to Athens in ten minutes, right?”

  “Really? I thought it was next week.”

  She rounded on him. “You never listen!”

  “Sorry!” He held fishy hands up protectively. “Bloody hell, Effie, chillax.”

  “Well, you boys, you only think with your lower bits! Use your brain, man! It is this week! I am picking up the orders. The pantry does not fill itself!”

  “All right! So what do I tell this woman if she comes back?”

  Effie stormed off to the kitchen and he followed, making a beeline to the sink.

  “I don’t care what you say,” she said, then added more gently, “Just tell her I am not here. I am in Athens all week.”

  “So, hang on, how long are you gone for?”

  “Arrgh, I have no time for your questions, Nicholas! Like always! A few days.”

  “Okay, so, I’m stepping in for you from tonight?”

  “Why? You can’t?”

  “No, it’s fine. I’ll do it. It’s just that Kos and I were getting together to watch the soccer tonight.”

  “Football.” Kostas corrected him, appearing at the kitchen door as though he’d been waiting in the wings for this exact cue.

  “Whatever you call it, you’re on your own tonight. I’m working.”

  “No way! Is good match! Athens versus Piraeus!” he looked at Effie. “Why he work? Why you do this to me?”

  Effie snarled and rattled off a series of expletives in Greek, then grabbed a notepad and started hunting around for a pencil.

  The two men exchanged a look—they’d exchanged these looks many times before—then Nicholas returned to scaling the fish and Kostas loped out again, a stolen pita wrap in one hand, while Effie exhaled louder than she meant to and buried herself in the pantry.

  EVE

  Wednesday morning drifted into afternoon at Eve magazine. Amelia never showed. And Monty’s third call to Gerry’s office was equally as disappointing.

  Yes, Amelia and Gerry had a 2:00 p.m. meeting last Friday.

  No, Lizzie would not be telling Monty all about it.

  “But I can fit you in to see him at midday tomorrow, on the dot!”

  Monty silently groaned, thanked her and hung up. She couldn’t believe everyone’s apathy towards the missing editor. Amelia’s parents seemed to think she’d swanned off on some glamorous holiday. Her boss couldn’t spare five minutes to discuss the matter. And Alex was acting like all her Christmases had come at once.

  Monty stood up. It was time to take matters into her own hands again. Or Brianna’s at least. She looked around, then followed the laughter trickling in from the tearoom and found Brianna by the urn, coffee mug in hand, chuckling at something Mel was saying. They both snapped to attention when she approached, almost as scared of Monty as they were of Amelia.

  They were thick as thieves, those two, their dual ascendancy legendary.

  “Got a minute?” Monty asked Brianna and before she could answer said, “I need you to swing by her house again.”

  “Whose? Amelia’s?”

  No. Lady Gaga’s. Dimwit. She smiled patiently. “Yes.”

  Brianna looked annoyed by the request. Monty might scare her, but it was nothing compared to her fear of hard work.

  Monty quickly added, “I want you to do a bit of sleuthing for me.”

  This piqued her interest, and she dumped her cup in the sink and followed her out. Only when they reached Monty’s desk did she speak again, aware of flapping ears and loose tongues.

  “Amelia’s parents were at her place this morning, and there’s no sign of her,” she explained, “but it looks like she’s packed a bag and gone somewhere. So, that’s good news; it’d just be helpful if we knew where.”

  “So where do I come in?”

  “I’m thinking she must have mentioned something to someone, a friendly neighbour, the postman perhaps? There’s a café down from her place. You know, the one on the corner? She often gets an early coffee there. Maybe she mentioned something to them. I mean, you don’t just take off without telling someone.”

  Brianna was nodding. She liked this plan. Not only did it get her out of the office and away from those buzzing phones, she was already plotting a late-afternoon latté while she was interrogating the barista. Maybe he’d take pity on her and throw in a complimentary chocolate brownie.

  ***

  Words not working? Nobody coming to save your soul?

  *SOS Step 4: In case of emergency, just break glass!

  Monty dropped back in her chair, staring at her screen.

  What the hell does that mean? She’d been working on the story for hours and was no closer to nailing it.

  “Monty?”

  She turned to find Hank standing behind her, a stunning redhead by his side. They both looked crestfallen.

  “Is it true what everyone’s saying?” he asked. “Amelia’s not coming back.”

  Monty pushed away from her desk and faced them. “Don’t be ridiculous, guys, of course she’s coming back.”

  “So where is she?”

  That was Fleur, the redhead, Eve’s fashion editor, a failed model with the long legs and feline eyes. The catwalk’s loss was Eve’s gain. Fleur was as natural at fashion as Amelia was at editing, could pair an orange belt with a purple skirt and make it seem perfect. Hell, she’d start a fashion tre
nd. In fact, since she’d accepted the job the year before, half the girls in the building were now donning cherry-red locks a la Fleur.

  “Her parents say she went away on holidays,” Monty said, trying to sound like that wasn’t the craziest idea she’d ever heard, and they looked at her like she hadn’t succeeded. “Don’t worry! If they’re not panicking, neither should we. I’m sure Amelia will be back before the issue even goes to bed.”

  That gave her until Monday. After that, all bets were off.

  “I’m baaaaaaaack!”

  Brianna was poking her head around the art department petition, looking pleased with herself, so Monty waved the others back to work, then turned to her expectantly.

  “How d’you go? Tell me you found something.”

  “I think I might have!”

  Brianna dropped her handbag to the carpet and leaned against Monty’s desk, feeling a little powerful again and liking it.

  “So, I went straight to the café you suggested and spoke to a guy called Hilton.” She grinned. He made a killer coffee. “He was sweet. Seemed to adore Amelia too.” Her tone told Monty how inconceivable she thought that was. “Anyhoo, Hilton was even more worried than we are! Says he hasn’t seen her in there all week, which is so not like her, and he nearly fell over when I said she hadn’t shown up for work either. He reckons that’s all she ever talks about! Eve this and Eve that. Like, duh! What else has she got in her life?”

  “So they didn’t have any idea where she might be? She told them nothing?”

  “Not a thing. Hilton said she showed up for her usual macchiato last Friday morning, seemed perfectly fine, whatever that means, and he hasn’t seen her since.”

  “Damn it. What about her neighbours?”

  She waggled a hand in the air. “One side was deathly quiet, must be out, the other was an old biddy who’s, frankly, not the sharpest tool in the shed. But she had something really interesting to report.”

  “Really?” Monty livened up.

  “Again she thought Amelia was just lovely. Looks in on her from time to time, apparently, even stops for tea.” Her top lip curled up again. More incredulity. “She also hasn’t seen Amelia in ages, but she did say something a little curious.”

  “Yes?” For the love of God, spit it out!

  “She said the last time she saw Amelia was… and this is where it gets a bit cloudy. Might have been last Friday, might have been Saturday. She doesn’t have to work so I guess the days all blend together… Anyway, she said Amelia had a visitor. It was some, and I quote, ‘handsome young chap in a white van and a high-viz vest’.”

  She stopped and looked at Monty like she’d just solved the riddle.

  Monty blinked. “High-viz whatie?”

  “You know, those fluorescent orange shirts all the tradesmen wear. My brother’s a builder; he has one.”

  “Oh, I see.” She felt her shoulders droop. “So someone came to repair a window or dig a ditch out the back or something, big deal.”

  “That’s what I said, right? But she seemed to think Amelia knew him. Said Amelia was coming out of her house when the guy called out her name, caught her by surprise and they had a few stern words—her words again—before Amelia shuffled him quickly inside the house like she was embarrassed or something.”

  “Okay, that’s interesting…”

  “I told you, right?”

  “And this was last Friday or Saturday. Morning? Did she give a time?”

  “She couldn’t really remember so, like I said, not the brightest cookie. I’d take it all with a grain of soap.”

  “Salt.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Never mind.

  “What’s this about?”

  They both swung around to find Alex by the cubicle wall, hand on her hips, frown on her face. Monty quickly explained, telling her of Brianna’s expedition. It did not erase the frown.

  “Sorry, but aren’t we losing a bit of focus here, Monty?” Alex said. “I mean, sure, it is concerning that Amelia’s gone AWOL, but to tell you the truth, what I find even more concerning—and I’m frankly surprised that you don’t—is that she’s left us with twenty pages to finish, and the deadline, last time I looked, was in two freaking days. So, can we officially give up the case of the missing editor and focus on getting the magazine done? Maybe after that we can worry about a woman who clearly couldn’t give a toss about any of us.”

  “That’s a bit unfair, Alex,” Monty began, but Alex was waving her index finger about.

  “You know as well as I do, Monty, that if any one of us had dared not to show up any week, let alone deadline week and left Queen Amelia in the lurch, she wouldn’t be out searching for us, she’d be writing us a termination letter. We’d be officially unemployed by the end of that first day. She’s now been missing for three days. She hasn’t phoned in. She’s left no word, nothing, not even a half-written editor’s letter we can use. So, sorry Monty, I know I sound like a cold cow but I’m actually being a lot kinder than she would be under the same circumstances. Amelia’s gone and as far as I’m concerned, the who, what, where and why are irrelevant. We have a magazine to get out.”

  Monty sat back stunned while Brianna stood there smirking.

  “So, if it’s all right with everybody, can we get back to work, please? Brianna, the phones are going berserk, and it’s not Mel’s job to answer the bloody things.”

  “Sorry!” she said, but the look she gave Alex as she swished past was one of renewed respect. Who knew the deputy had balls?

  Alex turned her glare to Monty. “And I really need that SOS story back, ASAP. The production department is screaming for it.”

  “Fine, it’s almost done.”

  “Good!”

  “Good!”

  Alex swept away, and Monty returned to stare at her screen, her fury at Alex’s attitude fading fast under the truth of what she had said. The deputy was absolutely right. Not only would their absence be unforgivable to Amelia, she would dismiss it as quickly as she dismissed them and return to her first priority, Eve.

  And so Monty must do the same.

  She jiggled in her seat and clicked the SOS story open again. She had to focus; she knew that. But it didn’t stop her wondering who the guy in the high-viz vest might be and what he was doing at Amelia’s house around the time she vanished.

  Did he have something to do with her departure? Were these seemingly inane SOS steps something Amelia might actually have benefited from? She shuddered just thinking about it.

  ***

  Heart beating wildly, legs wobbling slightly, Alex returned to Amelia’s office and closed the door carefully before heading straight to the desk. She sank into the chair and took a few calming breaths, closing her eyes and trying hard to think, then she opened them again and reached for her mobile phone.

  It took a few seconds, but eventually the message service picked up. She silently cursed then waited for the beep.

  “Don’t come in, whatever you do, do not enter this building.” Then, calmer, less wobbly: “I’ll see you later. I’ll explain it all then.”

  Then she dropped the phone to her desk and thought, No wonder you can’t look me in the eye, you silly, silly fool.

  TOM

  Phil was not speaking to his dad. That much was obvious. Theirs was a relationship of few words anyway, but now Phil could barely look Tom in the eye and hadn’t said so much as hello since he’d returned from next door two hours ago.

  Scarlett had pumped the lad full of food (her words, not Phil’s) and sent him home with a doggy bag for Tom, but he’d only dumped it on the kitchen bench and fled to his bedroom, slamming the door for good measure.

  Who was Phil really angry with? Tom wondered, staring at the closed door. Did he blame his dad for his mum’s disappearance? Or her?

  Either way, Tom wasn’t going to argue the point. He knew, more than anyone, that it was hard to disconnect the two in a kid’s head, and so far he was coping pretty well. Tom had expected t
ears, fury, even a little hysteria, so silence wasn’t unbearable, and he left him to his devices while he sat alone in the kitchen, picking at Scarlett’s vegetarian lasagne.

  When he’d had enough, he washed the plates and then made his way to the back shed, creaking open the door and stepping inside. He crossed to the workbench and looked at the handmade miniature tree, wondering why he’d bothered.

  “How long does it take?” came a soft voice behind Tom, and he turned to find Phil standing at the shed door, half in, half out, as though the answer to this question would determine what happened next.

  Except Tom wasn’t sure what he was referring to. The jewellery tree? His mother?

  Before he could answer, Phil said, “It happened to you, didn’t it? Your mum… Grandma… she took off too.” Tom’s eyebrows shot up. “Uncle Harry told me. Said you had to go through the same thing, around the same age.”

  Like it was a family tradition, a rite of passage. Was that why he was taking his mum’s vanishing so well? Had he been expecting this somehow?

  Then Phil repeated his earlier question. “So how long does it take? To get over it, I mean?”

  Tom felt his heart break into a million useless pieces, and he wanted to reach out and grab the boy, but he knew he’d only turn and run. Theirs was also a relationship of few hugs.

  “We’ll find her, Phil,” he began but could already see his son retreat, so he held a hand up to stall him. “You never get over it.”

  Phil stopped.

  “That’s the truth, son. It’s horrendous and it hurts, and you cry for a long while, but then you just learn to live with it. That’s all. You get on with living.”

  Phil thought about that for a moment, then stepped inside the shed.

  For the next five minutes he wandered around, stroking the tools and glancing about, and Tom wondered why he didn’t come to the shed more often, use the space a bit. Perhaps it was Tom’s fault. Perhaps he should have lured him in with projects they could work on together. He looked back at the tree and realised it was a lost opportunity.

  “For Mum?” Phil said, checking it over.

  “Yep.”