‘I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to, but …’ I don’t know where to start.
‘How much?’ she asks.
‘Four hundred pounds.’
‘Four hundred?’ Pearl looks incredulous. ‘I thought you were going to ask for at least ten grand.’
She and Rudi probably spend more than four hundred pounds on their weekly date night. To her, it’s a ludicrously small amount to worry about.
‘What the hell’s going on that you can’t find four hundred pounds?’
‘Don’t ask, Pearl. And please don’t tell anyone, ever. Not even Rudi.’
‘I won’t – but, Jules, I’m worried about you.’
She puts her arms around me. I push her away and have to press three fingers into my forehead to stop myself crying.
‘Everything all right?’ Rudi says when he comes back in.
‘Jules is just tired,’ Pearl says.
Rudi places a hand on my shoulder. ‘It gets better, Jules. It really does.’
‘I know.’
How did I end up here, lying to my oldest friend? I wish I could unwind time, go back to 1994 and stay on that train taking me to Guildford, arrive in Portsmouth Harbour and take the next ferry to France, then none of this would be happening. I would never have met Alan Johns or Gideon Risborough or Brandon Wells.
Chapter 18
1994 – Guildford
On Thursday, Julia learnt she’d be spending Friday night alone in Guildford. Pearl rang to say that she had last-minute tickets to a gig. Andre claimed to be too broke to go out both nights, so would only meet them on Saturday. In both cases, Julia suspected the real reason was a man. Why were her best friends intent on coupling up the moment she was single? The promise of Friday night in London had carried her through the week. Now the long evening stretched before her, with a batty landlady the only possible company. And as it turned out, even Genevieve had a more active social life than her. She was leaving the house just as Julia returned from work.
‘I thought you were going to London,’ she said as Julia approached.
‘I’m taking it easy tonight,’ Julia said.
Genevieve was dressed more conventionally than usual, radiating sophistication in a cream trouser suit and sage green silk scarf.
‘A night in? I do envy you,’ Genevieve said in a manner that conveyed she did no such thing. ‘Edward’s insisting on taking me to the theatre. One of those dreadful Russian plays where everyone’s either young and thwarted or old and bitter. No wonder they embraced communism. The gulags must have seemed rather jolly after a week in a dacha.’ She swept the scarf over one shoulder. ‘Enjoy your evening and don’t do anything I wouldn’t.’
To be pitied and patronised by her landlady was the last straw. And though, rationally, Julia knew Pearl and Andre weren’t responsible for her, and had a right to a love life, she still resented them.
Young and thwarted – Genevieve had hit the nail on the head. Julia would probably end up like one of those women in a Chekov play, old and withered, watching geese fly to Moscow.
Having no appetite, Julia opened the bottle of Chardonnay she’d bought on the way home and went straight to her room. She had never lacked company before. Now, alone in Guildford, she felt lonely and she needed to talk to someone. She fetched the cordless phone from the hall and dialled the one person she knew would always be in on a Friday night.
‘Are you all right, Julia?’ Audrey asked when she picked up.
‘Fine,’ she said.
‘Only I don’t usually hear from you on a Friday. Aren’t you going out?’
Not Audrey as well.
‘I thought I’d have a quiet night in.’
‘You can do that when you’re old. When I was your age, I was out every Friday and Saturday. Of course, we had dances back then, not these discotheques.’ Julia was about to object to the word discotheques, then thought better of it. ‘It’s how I met your father. The Apollo, 1965 – did I ever tell you about it?’
‘Once or twice,’ Julia said.
‘And don’t roll your eyes.’
‘I didn’t,’ Julia protested.
‘I can hear you down the phone,’ Audrey said.
How did she do that? Julia had, in fact, just rolled her eyes.
‘Though I don’t suppose you can meet anyone in those places,’ Audrey said. ‘Far too noisy for anything like conversation.’
‘I’m enjoying a little downtime.’ Julia leant over to the side table and topped up her wine. ‘And you weren’t out every weekend at my age. You married my father at twenty-two, remember?’
‘You’re right. I still think of you as seventeen. But you should be out. I know the whole Christian thing was a low, but there are other men out there. I’ve told you, you can’t sit around moping. Remember your Aunt Rena.’
‘I’m going out tomorrow, Mum. And it’s only been two months. I’m not exactly Miss Havisham.’
‘You say that but Christian’s not hanging about, even if you are. I saw Ellie the other day.’
Julia put her glass down. ‘I don’t want to hear about her.’
‘You can’t bury your head in the sand.’
‘Please, Mum, don’t.’
She turned to look out of the window. A tiny dot high up, a lark perhaps, hovered in the sky.
‘She seemed embarrassed to see me,’ Audrey continued. ‘Guilt, I suppose. But I couldn’t help noticing – I have to say, it’s not very tasteful – didn’t say that to Ellie, of course.’
Julia’s attention returned to the phone.
‘What’s not very tasteful?’
‘The ring – too flashy. A large solitaire diamond with sapphires, set in platinum,’ Audrey said. ‘Not my sort of thing at all, but it must have cost a pretty packet.’
‘Ring?’ Julia said.
‘The engagement ring.’
Julia felt sick. ‘Have they …’ She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the answer. ‘Have they set a date?’
‘Not yet. I did ask,’ Audrey said. ‘I hope you don’t think me disloyal, but the village is too small to go around avoiding people and having feuds. She and Christian decided to wait. In my day it would have been tout de suite, but no one minds so much now. I’m guessing she’ll want to lose the weight first.’
‘She’s got fat?’
Ellie had always been a little chubby. It would serve Christian right if she blew up like a tick.
‘It’s only natural,’ Audrey said.
‘For Ellie, I guess,’ Julia sneered.
‘You do know, don’t you? I’d assumed Pearl or Andre would have told you.’
‘Told me what?’
‘Ellie’s expecting. Why do you think they got engaged so quickly?’
Engaged and pregnant. Julia wasn’t sure if she wanted to hang up or throw up.
‘Oh dear. I wouldn’t have sprung it on you like that if I’d thought you didn’t know. You seemed to be taking it well,’ Audrey said.
‘She’s definitely … I mean, it’s not a false alarm?’
‘Lord no. She has quite a big bump – due in September.’
Right up until the day he and Ellie came to the house together – they were very sorry, they hadn’t planned it, they hadn’t meant to hurt her – she and Christian had discussed children. How many, two; and names, Leonard and Hester. Now he and Ellie would be having those babies and using the names Julia had taken such care in choosing. And it was due in four months. They must have been seeing each other long before the few weeks they had admitted to. And now Christian was going to marry Ellie, when he wouldn’t marry Julia. They should wait until they had a house, had established their careers, he had said. Late twenties, early thirties was the right time for children. He was twenty-three.
‘Julia,’ Audrey said. ‘Julia.’ More insistent this time.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you all right? I can tell you’re not, but really you must have known this was coming.’
‘I have to go, Mum.’
&nbs
p; ‘Now, Julia, don’t get into one of your moods.’
Julia hung up.
How could Christian carry on as if Julia had never existed? They’d known each other since they were eleven years old – more than half their lives. How could he not miss her?
The initial overwhelming pain, which had sunk to a gnawing sickness, now flooded back in a wave of anger and despair. Her whole body shook. Her breath was fast and shallow. She had been comforting herself that Christian would regret his choice. He’d soon find Ellie dull. She was so ordinary. Julia almost pitied her. News of the engagement and pregnancy shattered her protective shell of derision.
She should have finished with Christian after A levels, gone to a far-off city, slept with inappropriate men and smoked illegal substances. Instead she had stayed at home, supressing her ambition for a false dream of suburban domesticity.
The phone started ringing. Julia ignored it.
Had Pearl and Andre known and made excuses for Friday, so they wouldn’t have to be the ones to tell her? Were they on the phone to Ellie, congratulating her and arranging a hen night? Isn’t that what you did for newly engaged, expectant mothers – congratulate them?
Julia snatched her wine glass from the side table and flung it at the wall. It smashed into tiny shards, which scattered across the bed and into her hair.
A voice came from the landing. ‘Is everything all right?’
Julia jumped. She’d thought she was alone.
‘I just dropped a glass,’ she said.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
Julia shook the glass from her clothes before she opened the door a fraction, hoping to block the view of wine dripping down the wall.
Brandon stood on the landing. His face changed from a smile to a frown. ‘You’re hurt.’
‘No,’ Julia said.
‘You’ve got blood on your face.’
He reached towards her forehead and wiped it with his thumb. Julia saw the red stain on its tip as he withdrew it.
She put her hand to her head and realised it was bleeding.
‘Wait a moment.’ Brandon darted to the bathroom and returned with some tissue.
Julia checked her face in the mirror. A thin red streak ran down her forehead. Brandon made her sit on the bed and dabbed at the cut.
‘You need some disinfectant on that,’ he said. ‘Want to tell me what this is all about?’
Julia shrugged.
‘There’s glass everywhere.’
‘I was drinking some wine. It slipped out of my hand.’
Brandon looked at the wine still trickling down the wall. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘How about we clean this up then get out of here. Being stuck in on a Friday night – it’s not natural. And I could kill for a drink.’
Chapter 19
2017 – Maida Vale, London
I lie awake in Pearl’s spare room, imagining the police crashing through the door with a search warrant. I’ve yet to bin the phones – the pain of wasting four hundred pounds or my subconscious demanding punishment? Pearl’s money will help me buy a new one, but will that be enough to keep me safe?
The bed I’m in is enormous and only emphasises how alone I am. I think of Pearl and Rudi curled up together and the girls gently sleeping in their twin beds. Sometimes being with others just makes you lonelier.
Sleep’s a long way off. I sit up and switch on the sidelight. There are no books in my room and— I don’t know why I’m kidding myself, what I want is Garrick’s phone. No new information comes through on the UK sites, but a video clip pops up on one of the New Zealand ones.
Wells’ parents make plea to UK police.
I press play on the video beneath the headline.
A woman in middle age, tall and broad, appears. The captions says: Mari Hewlett – Brandon Wells’ sister. Next to her is another man who, by his size and bulk, I guess to be Brandon’s brother, though it’s difficult to discern a facial likeness. The man is in his fifties, jowls pulling at his cheeks. Would Brandon have aged like this?
‘My brother was a sweet, quiet boy, who experienced much tragedy in his short life,’ Mari Hewlett says. ‘He went to Europe to try to escape his heartbreak in New Zealand. We never saw him again.’
Her voice becomes high and strangled. She buries her head on the shoulder of the man next to her, unable to continue.
A caption flashes up: Austen Wells – Brandon’s brother.
‘We are all inconsolable knowing Brandon will never come home and achieve all the things he wanted to achieve. Our sadness is mixed with frustration that it has taken so long to get answers and that our mother never lived to find out what happened to her son.’
A microphone is thrust forwards and a male voice asks, ‘Are you angry your original inquiries weren’t pursued?’
Mrs Hewlett manages to stop crying. ‘We knew Brandon wouldn’t just take off and never contact his family. He wasn’t like that.’ Her eyes slide right to someone off camera. She pauses. ‘I can’t say any more.’
Her brother puts his arm around her shoulder and they walk away from the camera.
‘Mrs Hewlett,’ the voice calls.
They continue walking.
‘Do you suspect anyone?’
‘Have the police given you a name?’
The camera cuts to outside Guildford police station.
DI Warren has found a smart suit and looks far more composed than when he appeared in my lounge.
‘Is it true that Surrey Police ignored the Wells family’s plea to find Brandon back in 1994?’ a journalist with a New Zealand accent asks.
‘We’ll be reviewing the case. Our first priority is to find the perpetrator or perpetrators.’
‘Do you have any leads?’
‘We’re pursuing several lines of inquiry and would appeal to anyone who knew Brandon at the time to come forward with any information, however irrelevant it may seem.’
Cut back to the studio.
The clip ends.
I never thought about Brandon’s family. What they must have gone through and are still going through. I must be callous, devoid of empathy – or is it just self-preservation? I can’t carry other people’s grief as well as my own.
The ache caused by my separation from Sam, knowing him to be in good health, thirty miles away, cannot compare to Mrs Wells’ agony at never knowing what happened to her son. I remember the time when we received a telephone call informing us that Sam had been involved in a coach crash while on a school trip. It was only minor, no serious injuries. Despite these assurances I was sick with fear. Sam’s father told me not to be so stupid. My sickness didn’t subside until Sam was home safe. He laughed at my fussing, his only wound a slight bruise to the cheek where a bag had fallen from the overhead rack and caught his face. Mrs Wells’ son is dead. Genevieve never recovered her son’s body.
It all boils down to missing sons, that one long summer that defined my life. Not the flirting and laughter and running across the Downs. Not my fling with Brandon. Not the housemates I discarded or kept close. But the missing sons. I need to find a way back to Sam, to be his mother again.
He won’t recognise the number for Garrick’s phone. I ring him. It’s nearly one o’clock, but he often stays up late. At first, I don’t think he’s going to pick up. The phone rings and rings and eventually he does.
‘Hi.’
He sounds sleepy, not upset, not missing his mother. My mouth goes dry. I can’t think what to say.
‘Hello,’ Sam says again.
I swallow. ‘Sam, darling. It’s Mum. I just want to—’
He hangs up.
Chapter 20
1994 – Guildford
The Cross Bar in Guildford town centre was rapidly filling up with Friday-night trade and house music pumped through its sound system at an ear-splitting volume. Brandon was snaking his way through the crowd back to Julia, carrying a pint for himself and a large glass of Chardonnay for her. His bulk seemed too big for the room. In a bar mo
re than a pub, his size overwhelmed his surroundings. He was better suited to the outdoors.
She’d been lucky enough to find them a table. Brandon placed the drinks down and looked around, his eyes lingering on a group of girls next to them, sharing a bottle of rosé. Their dresses, heels and make-up made Julia self-conscious of her uncombed hair and plain grey sweatshirt. Brandon was probably regretting asking her for a drink. If he was on the pull, he’d be better off alone.
Slurping on her wine, Julia realised she was already a little drunk. She didn’t care. She’d get drunker, look a scruff and ruin Brandon’s night. Ruin everyone’s night. Why should they all have a good time, when she was so miserable?
Brandon dragged his eyes from the rosé girls back to Julia.
‘So, what’s wrong?’ he asked.
He had to lean in close, to be heard over the music, and Julia caught the scent of tobacco on his breath.
‘Nothing,’ Julia said.
‘That glass “slipped” with a lot of force,’ he said.
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Julia tried to speak and drink at the same time and wine slopped down her chin. She wiped it off with her sleeve. Brandon bent his head towards her.
‘You can’t fool me. I know the signs too well. What’s his name?’
Julia’s face crumpled. She had wanted to speak to Pearl and Andre. But they would be out with their boyfriends, not giving her a single thought. And Brandon, well, he was here, in front of her, willing to listen.
‘Christian,’ Julia said. ‘His name is Christian.’
She told Brandon everything about the break-up, the engagement, the baby. Then about the baby, the engagement and the break-up. And throughout all the repetitions and contradictions – ‘I hate him, I hope I never see him again’, ‘I just want him back’ – Brandon said nothing and listened. Only when she mentioned for the seventh time that Christian had no right to dump her because he only passed A-level Maths with Julia’s help, and that he and Ellie better not be planning to move into the new-build housing estate Julia had been researching, did Brandon pull his chair next to hers and say, ‘It’s rough. I know, I’ve been there.’
The Verdict Page 9