by Elena Wilkes
‘Miss?’ the officer looked at me enquiringly.
What could I say?
I could feel the absolute humiliation scorching my skin. I was aware of the looks of the other police officers as they spoke quietly to Paul. I didn’t want to hear the conversation.
I had no defence. I had no case to argue. I was wasting their time; they didn’t say it, but I knew that’s what everyone thought.
‘Let’s get out of here, shall we?’ Paul led me by the elbow away from the milling bodies and towards a pub on the corner. ‘How about a drink?’
I could see the police cars beginning to pull away and the groups of people dispersing.
My shame stood with us, uncomfortably, in the gloomy bar. A thin man in a tweed jacket peered at us over the top of his spectacles. He smoothed out the newspaper in front of him and tapped his biro, leaving dots of blue ink in the margin. Behind his head a television on the wall flashed in garish colour.
My whole body chafed and squirmed. ‘I can’t tell you how bad I feel Paul. God, I feel so stupid.’
‘It could easily have been him, though.’ He ordered vodka for me without asking. ‘We both thought it as soon as we saw that girl had gone missing. Have you seen the latest?’ He nodded up to the TV screen, which was showing a reconstruction of the child’s disappearance: a semi-detached Victorian yellow-brick house, a car on a street, a mother with her baby. I thought of the real mother watching this nightmare playing out yet again, literally morning, noon, and night, and my heart contracted with grief.
‘Can we not talk about it?’ I didn’t think I could stand anymore. ‘But thank you for trying to be nice.’
‘I’m not just being nice.’ Paul handed over the money and waited for the change.
‘Yes you are. But I appreciate it,’ I added.
‘You don’t get it, do you?’
‘What don’t I get?’
He leaned in closer, making me look straight at him. ‘I care about you very, very much. I’m on your side, no matter what happens.’
My grief almost choked into tears.
‘Don’t you believe me?’
I didn’t dare speak.
‘Do you want me to tell people how much I think of you?’ He raised his voice slightly and the barmaid and the newspaper man glanced round. ‘Maybe shout it? Shall I? Shall I shout it—’ he got louder. ‘Is that what you want?’
‘No. Please.’ I grabbed at his hand. ‘Shhh!’
‘Say you believe me, then.’ He shouldered down right against me and put his face close to mine.
‘Or shall I shout it again?’
‘Okay, okay – I believe you!’ I twitched a glance round and he nearly laughed.
‘Best you forget all about this morning and concentrate on me and us and being happy,’ He nuzzled my neck, breathing heavily, and then paused. ‘Unless you feel differently?’ he pulled back.
‘No! I don’t! I mean I do… don’t… feel differently, that is…’ I petered off and he laughed.
‘I think you should show me then.’ He kissed behind my ear, wetting my hair. ‘If you want to. Finish that drink and come home with me, and show me just how much.’
‘Say that again.’
‘What?’
‘Where we’re going.’
He licked my neck; the skin tingled with the warmth. ‘Home,’ he whispered.
We slid off the stools, leaving what was left of all that awful afternoon sitting there as we bundled along the streets, being all daft and giggling. I was inexplicably happy: light almost: the pavements rolling away beneath my feet, the weight of his arm slung about my shoulder, the solidity of him there right next to me. He made me realise with him by my side it was okay to give myself a break sometimes. I didn’t have to think about Gould, or the girl, or Viv, or the police – I could let it go for a while. I felt better. He had made me feel better.
I looked away into the shadows of houses and shops, the cold sunlight sparking intermittently from the windows. We went to cross the road. Paul’s hand tightened, pulling me to dodge between the passing cars and I had to look away from the darkness. I blinked painfully – the red and orange glowing shape of him bobbing and darting, moving blindly in front of my eyes. I had no choice but to follow, my hand in his, strong and decisive, and for a second I couldn’t see anything else.
Chapter Six
We didn’t mention the episode again. I picked up some stuff from my flat and then stayed at his. I didn’t say it, but I was actually too nervous to go back. I didn’t read the daily newsfeed on my phone, and when anything looked like there might be an article about Cassie on the TV we turned to another channel.
I was scared of what they might be saying about me at work. I sent Emma ‘funnies’ so that it looked as though I was keeping in regular contact, when in truth, I was keeping her at a distance. On the few occasions we spoke, it was stilted and uncomfortable as though we were passing acquaintances rather than best friends.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Mm… Okay.’
‘Just okay?’
The elephant in the room sat between us. I stalled, she stalled.
I heard her take a breath. ‘Enjoy your time off, yeah? Don’t even think about work stuff, okay?’
‘I’ll try not to.’
‘You’ve probably let it all get to you.’
Meaning?
‘Probably.’
‘We all know it happens to people.’
I knew what they must be saying. I knew how they thought. These conversations always depressed me. Even to Emma I had become one of those ‘people.’ The ones who take the job too seriously. The ones you had to be ‘careful’ with and who were spoken about in whispers. Was Emma whispering with them?
‘I haven’t heard you mention your mate at work recently. You haven’t fallen out, have you?’ Paul looked away from the TV programme we were watching. The question came completely out of the blue.
‘No, we haven’t fallen out exactly. We’ve kind of…’ I shrugged, not really knowing what had happened.
‘You would have thought it would be the perfect time for her to keep in contact and make sure you’re okay, wouldn’t you?’
‘It’s probably me as much as her,’ I looked back at the screen.
‘You shouldn’t defend her, you know. It’s you that needs support. Does she know you’re staying here now?’
I sighed. ‘I don’t think she does, no.’
‘Speaking of which, you probably need these to make your life easier.’ He reached down beside the cushion and threw something with a yellow ribbon tied to it. It landed with a dull rattle at my feet. It was a set of keys.
I looked across at him, a bit shocked. ‘Oh! Are you sure about this?’
‘Perfectly.’ He carried on watching TV.
I picked them up. quietly thrilled.
They looked like the keys to a whole new life.
I was given a space to hang my clothes in the wardrobe and a drawer of my own. I had part of the shelf in the bathroom and my shower stuff sat primly on the rack in the shower. It was a very easy place to live. Paul worked from home a lot of the time and I got myself into a little routine: making breakfast for us both and then me pottering round the shops in the village, or up into Hampstead or across to Chalk Farm, finding great places to drink coffee and read a book. I cooked most evenings, while Paul took over on Friday nights, usually the same thing: steak or lamb and some delicious salad-y thing. I’d watch him, his shirtsleeves flapping over a wooden chopping block as he wielded the blade a little too recklessly, dicing cucumber and tomatoes, oiling slippery slabs of meat before sliding them into a hot frying pan. I loved that time, standing, nursing a glass of wine, observing the whole theatre of the performance. He’d glance up at me, suddenly aware of my presence, and I’d smile happily back. I felt utterly complete in those moments. Nothing could get between us. I wouldn’t let it.
I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t go snooping again. I kept
my word. Days and weeks passed. I was acutely aware of the drawer and its contents but I studiously ignored it, walking past it time and time again until it became ordinary. In the end, I felt nothing but a mild and fleeting curiosity about the girl and who she might have been to him – no more than that. I was nicely ensconced here and part of his future. She was tucked away in there and part of his past.
Or so I believed.
Until the morning Paul picked up his work phone.
I was getting dressed when it rang on the bedside table. He scooted past me and picked it up.
‘Hello. Paul Webb,’ he said breathlessly.
I carried on buttoning up my shirt as he turned away from me and began to pace answering questions abruptly with ‘yes’ and ‘no’ answers.
‘Right… Right… Yes… Hang on—’ He waved to attract my attention. ‘Pen?’ he mouthed squiggling in the air. I looked about and shrugged. He pointed down at the drawer. ‘Yes… Absolutely… One moment, just let me grab a—’
I tried to make my actions appear natural: putting my hand inside, lifting the bits of paper and maps again, going right to the back and picking out a stray pen – when I saw it: the miniature book from the market. In those few seconds, my eyes immediately scanned the gap in the wood. The book had appeared and the photograph had gone. I handed the pen over.
‘Thanks.’ He gave me a brief smile as I was forced to slowly push the drawer closed again. ‘Won’t be a sec—’ I looked up to find him holding the phone away. ‘I’ve left some papers in the car.’ He nodded towards the door and disappeared, carrying on the conversation, his voice trailing away as he went down the stairs.
It took me seconds.
Lifting all the contents out, I went through the lot as quickly and as carefully as I could, even shaking out the papers in case it had got lodged. There was no photograph. Puzzled, I picked up the tiny book. It was exquisite, real quality: hand painted illustrated plates and clearly worth the forty pounds the guy wanted. Had he gone back and bought it? I was there the whole time though, he couldn’t have done. Had he moved the photograph? The query hung over me as I put it all back, all in the right muddle.
When Paul came back from the car, I was sitting at the breakfast bar.
‘Okay?’
I’d put out some cereal for us both and I took a mouthful and waved my spoon to show just how okay I was. He detected nothing as far as I could tell, gathering together his papers and sorting his stuff out for work. I watched him as I chewed, thinking I was making too much of it, wondering if it had got lost, or thrown, or picked up deliberately.
But untruths sit heavily, their indigestibility means they have to come back up sometime.
And they surely did.
* * *
It was a Saturday morning. We were sitting companionably reading on the floor in the lounge, cups of coffee by our sides with the win-door wide open. From here I could see the tips of the chimney pots sitting up against a blue backdrop of sky. I had been thinking about the photograph a lot. It was really bugging me. I wanted to hint; I wanted to give him a chance to just tell me. A warm May breeze picked up the edges of magazines and newspapers distracting me from saying the thing I knew was coming.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you.’ Someone else’s voice uttered the words. I kept my eyes lowered. ‘I found a book… Like… By accident. In your bedside drawer.’
‘Mmm?… What book?’.
‘The book you were looking at in the market. Did you go back and get it?’
I watched the corners of his mouth pull down. He twitched a shrug. ‘I don’t remember looking at any book. You’ll have to show me sometime.’ He carried on reading.
‘Paul,’ I chewed my bottom lip.
‘Hmm?’
‘Remember you told me about that relationship you had, years ago?’
‘Not really… Which one?’ He licked the tip of one finger and went to turn the page.
‘You said she was someone you could’ve married.’ I stared at the edge of the paper, not managing the forty-five degrees it would take to lift my head. From the corner of my eye I watched him slowly lift his own.
‘You’re becoming obsessive, you know that?’
I ventured a glance up. He was regarding me steadily.
‘You did say that, though, didn’t you?’
‘Fucking hell, Lucy!’ He snapped the paper in front of him. ‘What is all this?’
‘I was just—’
‘Well don’t “just”.’ He shook his head irritably.
I watched the muscles in his lips purse and relax, debating. Eventually he took a breath.
‘Her name was Caitlin. We went out for quite a while but it was never a marriage job. Does that tell you what you want to know?’
The sound of her name knifed through me. Caitlin. There she was. All of a sudden, whole and three-dimensional.
‘Was she important to you?’
‘Important to me?’ His whole body went still.
Leave this now. Leave this, leave this.
‘I just want to know what she was like.’
‘No you don’t—’ his eyes were steely. ‘No one ever wants to know what ex’s are really like. They don’t want the boring reality. They want to torture themselves with the fantasy of them: imagining the drama, picking over the ghosts of a romance that probably never even existed.’ He snapped the paper as an end to the conversation and pretended to read.
I shut up. The newspaper lowered. Abruptly, he eased one leg out from under him and kneeled up to stretch. He looked past me to the open sky as though I wasn’t there, his shirt riding up in two curtains, showing that delectable patch of stomach that made me want to lean forward and nuzzle it. I reached out.
‘I’m bored,’ he yawned widely, shifting out of my reach. ‘I might pop out for a while.’
‘Oh.’
‘I won’t be long.’
‘I could come with you if you like?’
‘Depends how long you’re going to be getting ready.’
‘Seconds… Not even that.’
I cast around for my trainers but he was already up and pulling his jacket on, scuffing his feet into shoes.
‘Come on if you’re coming.’
He clattered down the stairs in front of me while I was still pulling the front door closed and trying to wrestle with my coat and bag. The soles of his shoes squeaked smartly across the tiles and I had to trot to keep up. He reached for the catch on the front door, but halted so suddenly that I nearly crashed into him.
‘What’s the matter?’
He stared down.
‘What—?’ I said peering over his shoulder. But didn’t get to finish. At his feet was a rose, a single perfect flower: brilliant red.
He stooped to pick it up.
‘What is it?’ It wasn’t the question I was really asking. A dull feeling of disquiet rippled through me.
I watched him as he bent the stem in two, crushing the petals, and walked ahead of me down the steps. The feeling wouldn’t go away. All I could think was there was something acutely wrong with this; he knew it, I knew it. His phone began to ring.
‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’
‘Nope.’ He kept his back to me, as he stalked straight to the dustbin behind the front wall and dropped the flower inside. ‘There.’ He dusted his hands off and turned to walk briskly down the path.
‘Paul,’ I put one hand on his arm. ‘You don’t think that could be anything to do with Simon Gould, do you? I mean, I know he saw me with you. If he could hack my account then maybe I should mention it to—’
‘Jesus Christ!’ He spun round, his jaw tight with anger.
‘Why not?’ I stared at him. ‘Clearly he’s got a thing about me, so I thought…?’
‘Gould?’
‘Yes, Gould, he’s—’ but he cut me dead.
‘Are you being serious?’ He gave me a furious look of disbelief and then strode quickly away down the street.
‘Pa
ul!’ I hurried after him. ‘It’s possible! Look, what’s wrong for god’s sake?’
‘If you don’t know, then I’m fucked if I’m going to tell you.’
‘Jesus! All I said was—’
He wheeled round, almost barging into me. ‘You really don’t get it, do you?’ His eyes were marbled with anger.
‘No I don’t.’ I really didn’t.
He shook his head slowly. ‘Can you actually hear yourself Lucy? Someone accidentally drops a flower on the step and you think you’re going to ring Viv, or the police… Do you know how completely mad that sounds? Jesus Christ. You honestly want to drag me through that all over again, do you?’
I was so stunned at the ferocity of the attack I couldn’t answer.
‘I mean, have you thought about what happened at that market?’ He jabbed the air. ‘Have you actually considered what it was like for me, me, in my position, ringing the police with some bloody cock-and-bull story about seeing a bloke who’s not really there? Have you thought about that? Have you?’ He paused, breathing heavily. ‘Well I can give you the answer right now. No. You. Haven’t.’
My mouth wouldn’t work. I suddenly thought I might cry.
‘Christ. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ My breath came out in gulps.
‘Yeah, you seem to spend an awful lot of time being sorry.’ He went to cross the road and then halted as a car whizzed past.
I had no idea where all this had come from.
He glanced over my head to check the traffic. ‘I really can’t do this.’
‘Paul!’
He was scaring me now. ‘Look, I said I was sorry. It was only a thought! I didn’t mean anything by it, it was just a—’
But he’d gone, striding off across the road, leaving me jaywalking down the white line, waiting for the traffic to pass. I glanced at an oncoming car that slowed. The driver was a woman. As she passed, she turned slowly to face me and I felt an instant jolt of recognition. She was wearing the same green jacket as before, and her dark hair was clipped up at the sides, but it was her, the woman I had seen in the market.