‘I’m done in,’ announced Sam, standing up. ‘I’m going to bed. ʼNight, Mum.’ He came and kissed me on the cheek. ‘ʼNight, shitface,’ he said to his sister as he passed.
She stuck her leg out, cracking him on the shin. ‘G’night, you ugly git.’
He stuck two fingers up at her and then left the room. I heard his heavy footsteps thumping up the stairs. Grace looked across to me from her position on the sofa.
‘Do you think you’ll ever want to find someone to be with?’ she asked.
Not this again, I thought. I smiled to hide my frustration.
‘Your dad was everything to me. He was more than just my husband, he was my best friend. He was funny, he was clever, he was kind and he was also the best dad in the world.’
Grace nodded and wiped away a tear. ‘I still miss him. Every day.’
‘So do I.’
‘I just hate to think of you all alone in this house. Full of memories of Dad and of us.’
I got up and went to sit by her on the sofa. She leant her head on my shoulder and I tucked a stray hair behind her ear. ‘I’m fine, Grace, really I am. I’ll never get over losing your dad the way we did but it’s got easier. And I like this house. It’s my home.’
Grace sniffed and then sat up. ‘Fine. I’ll stop going on about you finding love again, then.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind, that would be great.’
‘Pippa’s mum is on her own now too. Pippa is my new roommate, remember?’
I nodded.
‘Pippa’s dad left her ʼcos he got his secretary pregnant.’
‘Nice,’ I said. ‘This story isn’t endearing me to the idea of getting involved with a man again.’
‘No, I know. Pippa’s mum said that she doesn’t need a man any more because now she has BOB.’
‘Who’s Bob?’ I was confused.
‘It’s not a who, it’s a what. Battery Operated Boyfriend. BOB.’
‘Wait, what?’ I was stunned. ‘Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?’
‘If you think I’m talking about a vibrator, then yes.’
‘Grace!’
My daughter fell about laughing. ‘Oh, Mum! You should see your face! There’s nothing wrong with having a bit of fun, by yourself, if you catch my drift. You’re only forty-five, you’re not dead!’
Words failed me, which is a bit of a unique situation for me. I’m not normally lost for words or shy about that sort of thing – some of the conversations Rachel and I have had over the years would probably make a soldier blush – but there was something very wrong with my eighteen year old daughter extolling the virtues of masturbation to me. Grace didn’t seem to be able to stop laughing and I felt myself getting very hot all of a sudden – and not in a good way.
‘I think we should just draw a line under this conversation. I’m going to make myself a cup of tea and I’m going to go to bed.’ I stood up. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I asked.
‘Mum, you’re so funny. Goodnight,’ she said. She pecked me on the cheek and then left the room, still chuckling to herself about her easily shockable mother. I went into the kitchen and tried to focus on filling the kettle, but I kept thinking about that photo of us all together. What had I done with it? For the life of me I couldn’t remember but suddenly, finding it seemed like the most important thing in the world. I knew there was a shoebox full of photos stashed in the big cupboard under the TV – actual proper photos complete with random strips of negatives; those slippery black slices of plastic that no one ever did anything with but kept nonetheless. I left the kettle boiling away and went back into the living room, stepping over the cushions that had been kicked onto the floor and almost tripping over the gigantic trainers my son had seen fit to abandon in the middle of the room.
‘Bloody kids. Only been back five minutes and already the house looks like a tip,’ I muttered, flinging the shoes out into the hallway. I opened the cupboard and knelt down to get a better look inside. It was crammed full of the kind of things that you try and tidy up when you know you’ve got visitors coming but can’t be arsed to put away properly. Bits of paperwork, letters and bills, board games that haven’t been played for donkey’s years because someone lost a vital piece, or the dice went missing. I spied the pile of Women’s Fitness magazines right at the back – all still wrapped in their plastic – evidence of a twelve month subscription that I signed up for in an attempt to get fit. Much like the vegetable spiraliser, these glossy passports to a healthier me had remained unused and hidden away in the back of the cupboard.
Pushing my guilty conscience aside, I reached in and found what I was looking for. The shoebox had seen better days: the sides were held together by layers of yellowing sticky tape and the lid was held on with an old rubber band. I pulled the box out and sat on the floor, legs stretched out in front of me; I placed the box on my lap. I traced the outline of the words written on the top with my finger, words that my husband had written so long ago – ‘THE GRANT FAMILY ARCHIVE’. Tom always wrote everything in capital letters, pressing his pen or pencil so hard down onto the paper that it left an imprint you could still see three or four sheets later. After he died, almost three months after in fact, I’d pulled a notepad out of the kitchen drawer to write a shopping list on and been completely floored by the imprint of Tom’s handwriting on its pages. The shock of seeing the outline of his shouty capitals had taken my breath away. He hadn’t written anything heartfelt or poetic, just a list of mundane things – ‘EGGS, BREAD, MILK. BUY AAA BATTERIES!!’ – words written a hundred times over in the years we were together, but seeing their ghostly outline on that notepad had turned my bones to water. I remember collapsing onto the floor in the corner of the kitchen and I stayed there until my sister, Kate, came and found me.
As I wiped a thin layer of dust off the top of that old shoebox I had to admit that seeing Tom’s distinctive hand still made me pause, even after almost a decade, but it no longer reduced me to a pile of emotional rubble. Well, hardly ever.
I slipped off the rubber band and opened the box. Somewhere in the house, probably the loft, I knew there were photo albums that I had meticulously curated over the years, documenting our family history. From the first holiday that Tom and I took together (Lanzarote, all-inclusive hotel, terrible food and explosive diarrhoea for most of the second week. Tom that is, not me), to our wedding and then the arrival of the kids and beyond. But this box held all those random pictures that never quite made the cut. Tom loved taking photographs of all of us but especially the children. He took so many and to be honest it drove the kids and I potty. Every time we went anywhere he would be taking pictures, making us pose for the camera when all we wanted was to find somewhere to buy ice cream or souvenirs. Deep down Tom was a frustrated photographer trapped in a sales rep’s body. Every chance he got, that camera was in his hands.
I heard the kettle click off in the kitchen, but I didn’t move from my spot on the floor, I was too engrossed in the contents of the box on my lap. I pulled out some old school photos of the kids, marvelling as I always did at how quickly their childhoods had flown by. There was an assortment of other pictures – birthday parties, Christmas, summer holidays – and I was happy that Tom had taken so many despite how annoying he could be with that bloody camera. I hadn’t always felt that way; for the first year or so after he was killed, I couldn’t look at any of them, it was just too painful. I boxed up every album, every picture frame and hid them away, afraid of how they made me feel. I kept the house the same because it was comforting to be surrounded by the familiar, but photographs of happier times just served to remind me of what I’d lost. Gradually it got easier, I put back the pictures of Tom and me on our wedding day, the photos of the kids building sandcastles on the beach with their Dad. Sitting on the living room floor surrounded by memories, I picked up a picture of Tom holding Grace as a newborn in the crook of one arm and holding Sam, aged three, with the other, and I marvelled at how those images no l
onger had the power to reduce me to tears. Time healed, and I knew this was a good thing, but I also knew it scared me. It made me feel as if my memories of Tom, of what we had together, were fading away. There were days when I struggled to hear the sound of his voice in my head. I never thought I’d reach a point where that would happen, and it frightened me; even after ten years, I wasn’t quite ready to let him go.
I’d almost given up hope of finding the pictures of Rachel and Olivia and me, but then I spotted them tucked in amongst a bundle of negatives. We looked so young and happy. Or did we? Looking at Olivia now, always on the edge of shot, never wanting to be the centre of attention, I thought she looked sad. She was smiling but it looked forced. Or perhaps I was just seeing things that weren’t there. I put all the other photos back in the box and placed it back in the cupboard. As an afterthought I grabbed the pile of fitness magazines and marched them through to the kitchen, dumping the whole lot in the recycling box by the back door. The gorgeous model who stared out at me from the cover of one of the magazines seemed to be judging me for my lack of commitment to a healthier lifestyle, but I ignored her and opened a new packet of chocolate digestives to take my mind off it. I made myself a cup of tea and then turned off the kitchen light. As I trudged up the stairs I noticed my framed wedding photo was slightly wonky, so I adjusted it as I passed and wished my husband a silent ‘Goodnight’.
Three
‘A vibrator?’ Rachel screeched.
‘Shh! For Christ’s sake. People are looking.’ Rachel and I were sitting at a table by the window of Morgan’s, our favourite coffee shop, up on the high street. Her exclamation had been heard by at least six other customers, one of whom I was pretty sure was Grace’s old Science teacher. He looked up when he heard Rachel shriek and we briefly made eye contact before he returned to his newspaper. Great.
‘Evie, that’s hilarious. I love your daughter. So, are you going to get one, then?’
‘Of course I’m bloody well not. What for?’
‘Well, if you need me to explain that to you then you probably shouldn’t get one.’ Rachel smirked. ‘Lord knows what you might end up doing with it.’
‘I know what they’re for, you silly mare, I meant why do I need one?’
‘I’ve got one.’ Rachel wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. ‘Actually, I’ve got two.’
I was surprised. ‘Have you?’
‘Yep. Martin isn’t always quite up to the task, if you get my drift. A girl has needs, Evie.’
I waved my hands in surrender. ‘No. No more. I don’t need to hear anything else. Let’s change the subject.’
Rachel just chuckled and went back to looking at the menu she was holding. ‘What are you going to have?’ she asked.
‘Just a cappuccino and a slice of that sexy looking chocolate and raspberry cake.’
Rachel turned in her seat to eye the array of calorie laden goodies on display. ‘Ooh, yeah, looks good. I’ll go up and order.’
I watched as she headed for the counter, marvelling at the fact that, despite my having known her since I was sixteen, she could still surprise me. Grace’s old Science teacher was watching me from behind his newspaper and I smiled at him politely. He smiled back and then folded his newspaper and stood up. Oh, bugger, I thought, he’s not going to come over here, is he? Sure enough, having tucked his paper under his arm and shrugged on his coat, he wandered over to my table.
‘Mrs Grant? Grace’s mum, right?’
I nodded. ‘It’s Evie. Hello, Mr Hill. How are you?’
‘Greg, please. I’m only Mr Hill to my students.’
‘Greg. It’s nice to see you.’
‘How is Grace getting on? Settling in to university life, I trust?’
‘She’s doing really well.’ Up close I could tell that Mr Hill was probably about my age, maybe a bit older, but he dressed like a pensioner. Comfy slacks, navy anorak and shoes that had a vague air of ‘orthopaedic’ about them. He was thinning a little on top, growing the sides longer to try and compensate. All in all, the effect just screamed ‘teacher’. Over his shoulder I could see Rachel was coming back to the table, giving me her best ‘Who the hell is that?’ look. She sat back down in her chair and I introduced them.
‘Rachel, this is Mr Hill. I mean Greg, sorry. He was Grace’s teacher. Greg, this is my good friend, Rachel.’
Greg turned and gave Rachel a polite nod; I saw his face start to redden. Yes, he had definitely heard what Rachel had been screeching about earlier.
‘Oh, yes, well, lovely to see you again. Do you come here often, Evie?’
I cringed inwardly at the use of that dreadful line. ‘All the time,’ I replied.
‘Well, that’s lovely. I hope we’ll see each other again some time, then,’ he stuttered, before bidding us both goodbye. I waited until he was out of earshot before I groaned loudly and rested my forehead on the table.
‘He seemed nice,’ said Rachel, unable to hide the amusement in her voice.
I sat back up. ‘He used to flirt with me all the time whenever I went to Grace’s school. Parents’ evenings, school fayres, you name it. Mr Hill would suddenly appear by my elbow, telling me how much he admired me for bringing up two children on my own and sympathising with how lonely I must be with no husband.’
‘Eurgh! What a creep.’
‘No, he’s all right. He’s much happier communicating with students. Grace always said he was a fabulous teacher. All the kids loved him, it was just the adults he had trouble talking to.’
‘Looked like he wasn’t having any trouble talking to you. He seemed very happy when you told him you were a regular here. I have a feeling we might see Mr Hill again very soon.’ She gave me a knowing wink.
‘Don’t you bloody start. I get enough of that from Grace. Let’s talk about, you know, the thing. Olivia.’
Rachel opened her mouth to speak but stopped as a waitress brought over our cake and coffee.
‘There you go, ladies. Can I get you anything else?’ she asked.
‘Have you got a newspaper handy?’ asked Rachel.
‘Sure thing. Here you are.’ She reached across to the empty table behind us and grabbed a copy of The Observer that someone had left behind. ‘Enjoy your cake.’ She left us alone with our cereal bowl sized cups of coffee and cake slices the size of a baby’s head.
‘I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to eat all this,’ I said. We looked across at each other and then burst out laughing.
‘Yeah, right.’ Rachel pushed her plate and cup to one side and set the newspaper down. The story wasn’t on the front page, something I found myself very relieved about, but when she turned to page five inside, there it was: that photo of Olivia again. Rachel let out a heavy sigh.
‘She looks so young, doesn’t she?’
I nodded. I didn’t feel as if I’d be able to get words past the lump in my throat.
‘Where do you think they got the picture from? It’s not one I recognise.’
We both answered that question at the same time. ‘Lewis.’
After Olivia’s disappearance, Lewis had made a bit of a name for himself by regularly appearing on talk shows, or in documentaries about unsolved crimes. He’d even written a book about his experience of losing the love of his life. I hadn’t read it, never wanted to, but Rachel had.
‘He was on the telly again a few months back. Did you see him?’ asked Rachel.
‘No. What for?’
‘It was a documentary about people who’ve disappeared whilst abroad. It was just a rehashing of old clips from news stories and old interviews but there he was, bold as brass, talking about how Olivia’s disappearance destroyed his life. Load of old crap.’
‘I do think he loved her, Rachel. And he was genuinely devastated when she disappeared.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘He didn’t love her, Evie. He was obsessed with her. In fact, if Liv had disappeared when we were in this country and not on the other side of the Atlantic, I would have assumed that
he had something to do with it.’
‘That’s a bit strong, don’t you think? Don’t get me wrong, I never liked him, I just thought he was a bit of a control freak.’
Rachel shook her head at my naïve view. ‘He liked the fact that she had no family to interfere in their relationship. That’s why he tried to keep her away from us. He was a classic abuser.’
I wasn’t going to argue. Rachel was a trained counsellor now, after all. She’d been running her own practice out of a shed at the bottom of her garden for the last five years or so. I say shed, it was actually a very nice self-contained studio complete with kitchenette and toilet. I looked down at the newspaper that Rachel had spread out.
‘What does the article say?’ I asked.
Rachel scanned the piece quickly and then shook her head. ‘Not much more than we knew yesterday, to be honest. Two hikers apparently got lost and stumbled on the cabin. No other details, just this assumption that one of them might be Olivia.’
‘We need to find out more details. I wonder if we can get in touch with the police in New York. Remember that detective guy, the nice one. What was his name? Beckman, Bitman. Something like that,’ I said.
‘Bittenbinder,’ said Rachel, matter-of-factly.
‘How the heck did you remember that? I’m impressed.’
‘Don’t be. It’s here in the article. They’re quoting someone from the police department whose name happens to be Lieutenant Bittenbinder.’
Detective Bittenbinder, as he was then, was assigned to Olivia’s case as soon as she was officially classed as missing. He was kind and sympathetic; getting statements out of two hysterical English girls couldn’t have been an easy task, but he did it with kindness and a quiet determination to get to the truth. He helped us so much in those first few days, checking we were okay with each new development in the investigation. He even got the hotel we were staying in to agree to put us up for an extra week, free of charge, until the police were satisfied with the information we’d given them and said we could return home. On the day we left New York, he drove us to the airport, promising that he would keep us up to date with everything that happened. And he did, for a while. But that was all before email and instant messages became the norm. We had to rely on the information being relayed between the police in London and the police in New York. Eventually the information just stopped coming. Olivia was listed as a missing person and her case was unsolved.
City of Second Chances Page 3