‘I’m afraid this means she’s not technically missing. She’s left an explanation for her absence.’ She handed the note back. ‘And there’s nothing suspicious about it. You didn’t bother to come back for something she’d arranged. You didn’t even notice if she was there when you did come back. I don’t want to judge, but maybe she’s just fed up with being taken for granted?’
Melinda was all too familiar with the feeling. It was one of the reasons she was relishing her new relationship – she loved the sense of being appreciated and taken into consideration, instead of being at the bottom of the pile.
‘Mum’s not like that,’ said Luke.
‘No, she’s not,’ agreed Simon. ‘She’s just not the sort of person who gets in a huff. This is totally out of character.’
‘We all have a breaking point. Perhaps she’s not very good at saying how she feels?’ Melinda put the lid back on her pen. ‘I can’t register her as missing when all the evidence points to her …’ She paused for a moment while she looked for her words, then shrugged. ‘Running away from Christmas. I can’t say that I blame her, either. We’ve all wanted to do it.’
‘There’s this as well.’ Simon proffered the prescription. ‘This is the really worrying thing. We had no idea she’d been prescribed antidepressants. Or even that she needed them.’
Melinda’s gave a shrug. ‘Antidepressants aren’t all that unusual these days.’
‘It’s unusual for Mum,’ protested Hattie. ‘We’re really worried. Mum’s always just there.’
Melinda sighed. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do at this point. Mrs Kingham has left a note saying she is going away for a few days. There is nothing suspicious about her actions. I know it’s upsetting, but—’
‘Surely you could find out where she is? Track her car via her number plate?’
‘I’m afraid the police aren’t here for your convenience, sir.’
She handed back the note and prescription. Simon shoved them in his pocket with a sigh.
Putting what had happened into words made it crystal clear. They’d treated Lizzy badly. They’d been too wrapped up in their own selfish little worlds to care about the person who cared about them the most.
‘Let’s go,’ he said to Luke and Hattie.
Melinda watched the three of them leave the station. She hoped wherever Mrs Kingham was, she was sitting with her feet up with a glass of wine and a good book in her hand. Good for her, she thought, having the balls to run away from Christmas. For the past few years, during her unhappy marriage, she’d found it torture too, but now she was reclaiming it for herself. She grinned as she thought about the present she’d bought for her new boyfriend. His eyes were going to pop out of his head.
Simon thought he might cry as they left the police station. He felt judged and he felt foolish and he felt afraid. He knew the others did too.They all looked at each other for a moment, each of them imagining Lizzy in the kitchen with her rabbit slippers on, her curls shovelled on top of her head in a big butterfly clip, wielding a mug of tea, singing along to Crowded House or shouting out the answers to Pointless on the tiny telly in the corner. Hattie was right.
Lizzy was always there.
31
Back in the sanctuary of the hut, Lizzy found herself making everything look festive. She might have run away from Christmas, but she kept finding it creep under her skin. It was almost automatic. Anyway, it wasn’t just about her any more. She wanted the hut to look Christmassy for Harley. She dotted a dozen tea lights around the hut, put three foil-covered chocolate Santas down the middle of the table, found a CD of Frank Sinatra’s Ultimate Christmas and put it on. By the time she had started preparing the mulled wine, the hut smelled of cinnamon and cloves and brandy and it felt very festive indeed.
Harley put the rest of the shopping away and stoked up the wood-burner.
‘This is amazing,’ he said. ‘I wish Mum and River were here.’
Lizzy was grating mounds of Gruyère to put in the mac ’n’ cheese. She wasn’t going to think about Simon and the twins. Every time she did she felt a lump in her throat.
‘What’s the story with Jack and Nat, do you think?’ she asked instead.
Harley shrugged. ‘I guess we’ll find out.’
‘Divorced? Maybe it’s “his turn” this year,’ suggested Lizzy.
While they were waiting for the macaroni cheese to brown, she changed into her favourite cable-knit sweater and skinny jeans and a pair of cashmere slipper socks. She felt windswept from the open air that afternoon and relished the glow it had brought to her skin as she put on a touch of mascara and lip gloss. She ran her fingers through her hair to fluff up her curls. For the first time in a long time, she liked what she saw in the mirror – maybe the sea air suited her or had blown away some of her anxiety. The frown line between her eyebrows seemed to have faded. Cheaper than fillers, she laughed to herself.
Then she curled up on the sofa with a copy of The Shellseekers she’d found on a bookshelf. She’d brought books of her own, but somehow the lure of someone else’s reading matter was more enticing, and she couldn’t think of a better book to be reading at the seaside.
Harley was drumming his fingers on the kitchen worktop. He seemed restless. He felt a bit happier now he had bared his soul to Leanne, but there was something still bothering him.
‘Can I ask you something?’ he asked Lizzy.
‘Of course.’
‘Do you think I should visit my dad in prison?’ he asked. ‘I mean, I’m eighteen now. I can if I want.’
‘Do you usually?’
‘No. We sort of cut him off when he got put inside. Well, Mum did. But … I don’t know … Maybe there’s two sides to every story. And I never gave him a chance to tell me his side. I only got Mum’s. But maybe whatever he was doing was for us?’
‘That doesn’t make it right,’ said Lizzy.
‘I know. But I did – do – love him. He’s still my dad. Mum made it very difficult for us to see him. She would never take us to visit him. Then when we moved down here, it was impossible.’
Lizzy could understand a mother wanting to protect her children from someone who had committed a crime. But Harley was old enough now to make up his own mind.
‘It’s never too late, I suppose. And forgiveness is a very powerful thing.’
Lizzy was keenly aware she was being a hypocrite. She was hardly the epitome of forgiveness. She was punishing her own family for their wrongdoings, after all.
There was a knock on the door. Lizzy looked up. She couldn’t help wondering if, by some miracle, her family had tracked her down. Did she want that to happen? For a moment, she wondered what on earth she was doing, running away like that. What was she hoping to achieve? Then she remembered how standing alone by the Christmas tree had made her feel small and insignificant and meaningless. This was her way of saying ‘I matter’.
Harley opened the door. Jack and Nat were standing on the doorstep, Nat bundled up in a reindeer onesie and Jack bearing a bottle of champagne and a big plate.
‘I think I was a bit churlish earlier,’ said Jack. ‘We’d love to join you, if you don’t mind. And I brought this. It’s my own gravlax.’ He proffered the plate. ‘Cured with vodka.’
There were coral pink slices of salmon laid in perfect rows, so thin they were almost translucent, the scent of lime mingling with the aniseed of dill.
‘How gorgeous,’ said Lizzy. ‘We’d love to have you. I’ve made mountains. Nat, I can make you your own little mac and cheese – you can have it now if you’re hungry. I’m not sure if you’d like lobster or not.’
‘Oh, he’ll eat lobster,’ laughed Jack as they trooped in. ‘He’s well-trained.’ He looked around the hut. ‘Wow. This is totally different from the one we’re in.’
‘They’re all different,’ Harley told him. ‘I like the on
e you’re in, though. It’s kind of retro.’
‘Yes,’ said Jack, and took in a deep breath. ‘My … um … my … wife …’ He faltered for a moment. ‘My wife would have loved it.’
Harley and Lizzy both stared at him.
‘She was … really into … vintage stuff.’ He gulped. ‘Could I have a drink?’
Later, when everyone was in a carbohydrate slump and had sunk into the sofas with a glass of wine, Jack bared his soul. Nat was curled up in a sheepskin beanbag, fast asleep, so he could speak without worrying.
‘Fran died,’ he managed to say. ‘Just before Christmas this time last year.’
Harley didn’t know what to say. He twirled one of his locks around his finger, a habit when he was uncomfortable. He had known unhappiness in life, but nothing on this scale.
‘It’s OK,’ said Lizzy. ‘You can tell us. If you want. Or not. If you don’t.’
Jack took a slug of his mulled wine before carrying on.
‘They found out – we found out – she had cancer, just after we found out she was pregnant.’ He gave a half-laugh. ‘We’d sort of given up hope. We’d been trying for quite a while. We were going to give it a break – it can be pretty exhausting, trying for a baby – then talk about options. IVF. Whatever. So it was a bit of a surprise. But not as big a surprise as finding out the real reason why she’d been feeling so terrible. Not the fertility drugs or the morning sickness …’
He could remember the appointment. The wonderfully empathetic consultant who had broken the terrible news, her anguished eyes filled with a look that said, ‘I’d rather be telling you anything but this.’ It seemed to come from nowhere, the diagnosis. A strange new trio of words which strung together meant nothing at first – non-Hodgkin lymphoma – yet the subtext was abundantly clear.
Fran had been sitting there, in a yellow gingham shirt dress and espadrilles. Surely nothing like this happened to girls in yellow gingham, Jack remembered thinking. She had looked puzzled and said, ‘Oh. I see.’ She didn’t raise her voice or start asking questions. She just sat very still.
‘What does this mean?’ demanded Jack. ‘I don’t understand. How long has she had it? Why are we only finding out now? Surely there are symptoms? She’s been feeling tired, yeah, but—’
‘Shh, Jack,’ said Fran. ‘Let the doctor speak.’
‘You have,’ said the consultant, ‘three options.’
‘We’re not going to like any of them, are we?’ asked Jack, and Fran put a hand on his arm to quieten him.
‘You can have chemo now and risk harming the baby – we don’t know quite how much damage it can cause, but we can monitor—’
‘No.’ Fran was emphatic. ‘That’s not an option. I have spent the last year making sure I don’t eat or drink or do anything that might harm a baby. I’m not going to go down that route. Next.’
The consultant breathed in. Option two was clearly going to be even more unpalatable. ‘You can abort the baby and start chemo straight away.’
Fran just laughed and shook her head.
‘What?’ said Jack, frowning at Fran. ‘But surely—’
‘Option three?’ said Fran brightly. ‘What’s option three?’
‘You can wait until the baby is born and start treatment immediately afterwards.’
The consultant’s words fluttered in the air. Her voice was so gentle, it seemed impossible that they could hold such devastating news. Fran and Jack waited a moment for their resonance to settle.
‘Well, that,’ said Fran, ‘is the only option.’
‘No,’ said Jack. ‘Surely Fran needs treatment straight away?’ He looked at the doctor. ‘If she wasn’t pregnant, would you wait six months?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said the consultant. ‘But it’s never an easy decision. We are very aware there are two lives to consider here.’
‘One life,’ said Fran. ‘There’s only one life that matters to me.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’ Jack’s voice was harsher than he meant it to be.
‘Jack,’ said Fran. ‘It’s simple probability.’ Fran always solved problems in a scientific manner. ‘Option three is the only option that has a no-risk outcome for one of us. Assuming, of course, that at the moment the baby is fit and healthy?’
‘It certainly seems to be,’ the doctor agreed.
‘So if we want to guarantee that one of us comes out of this alive, that’s what we go for.’
Jack stared at her. How could she have assessed the risks in such a calculated manner in such a short space of time? His brain couldn’t assimilate the horror at all.
‘You’re mad,’ he said to Fran. ‘You need treatment straight away.’
‘I’m not putting my baby’s life at risk.’
‘You don’t have to decide this minute,’ said the consultant. ‘In fact, I would advise against it. Go and sleep on it. Take as much time as you want to discuss it. Then come and see me.’
Jack was shaking his head. ‘You have to explain to her. I don’t think she’s thinking straight. She’s more important than the baby.’
‘No,’ said Fran. ‘The baby comes first.’
‘How come you get to decide that? What about how I feel?’ Jack knew he was shouting but he felt the power slipping away from him. He knew Fran had decided; that he wasn’t going to be able to talk her round. He wanted the consultant to intervene. Insist, at the very least, that they started treating Fran no matter what the risk. He knew his wife and how steadfastly she stood by her decisions. How stubborn she was. And it was one of the reasons he loved her so very much. ‘Help me,’ he pleaded. ‘Make her see sense.’
‘The decision has to be yours,’ said the consultant. ‘And can I just say, I’m so sorry.’
Jack looked at her and her gaze slid away from his. She couldn’t meet his eye, and in that moment he knew how the story was going to play out, that he was not the narrator, that there was going to be no amazing plot twist in the third act, with an end scene where the consultant who’d guided them to make the right choice would be godmother at the baby’s christening …
For the next few days, he tried every trick in the book to make Fran change her mind. He didn’t care what tactics he used or who he pulled into their dilemma: parents, friends, people he had found on the internet who had been through similar and survived (he didn’t mention the ones who hadn’t).
At the end of the week, she sat him down.
‘I never thought I was going to get pregnant. I never thought I would bring a baby into this world. It is all I want. I’m its mum, and while the baby is inside me I have to do all I can to protect it. And the other thing I refuse to do, if I do die, is leave you on your own.’
‘You can’t say that. Don’t say that,’ Jack begged. He couldn’t control his tears.
‘Jack, you might thank me for making the right choice one day. Do not think I haven’t thought it through.’ Her voice was shaking with emotion. ‘It’s an awful decision to have to make, but now I’ve made it can we please just draw a line and try and make what happens next as –’ she flailed about for the words – ‘as not-shit as it can be. Even though it’s total shit.’
She slumped, exhausted. Her mouth was twitching with the effort of not crying and he saw how much the decision had taken out of her and in that moment he decided to respect her wishes
Now, retelling it all to Lizzy and Harley, he half laughed. ‘You don’t know Fran. She’d made up her mind and there was nothing I could do. I had to make sure that every day mattered, that the birth was as joyful as it could be, even though we were living with the terror.’
‘You were very brave,’ said Lizzy.
‘No, I bloody wasn’t,’ said Jack. ‘I spent half my life hiding in the bathroom crying my eyes out.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘She didn’t even come out of hospital when Nat was born. She went for treatment str
aight away. Everyone was amazing. My parents. My sister Clemmie. Our friends. Helping with Nat then helping look after Fran when she did come home.’
He shut his eyes, remembering the madness of those days: nurses and midwives and health visitors and feeding bottles and snatched sleep and vomit and crying and chaos. His wonderful parents and his sister, Clemmie. All he’d wanted to do was hold Fran and tell her everything would be all right, but there was never time for calm; never time for them to hold each other.
She got sicker and sicker and weaker and weaker as Nat grew bonnier and bouncier, but every time she looked at the baby her eyes shone with pride. Nat seemed to give her a reason. Jack suspected that he would never have been enough to make her fight as hard as she did against the disease. For nearly three years she grappled with it, always facing it full on, never denying its existence, snarling in its face.
‘Fifth of December last year,’ he managed to say. ‘I was holding her hand and we were listening to Amy Winehouse. She loved Amy Winehouse.’
Lizzy wiped away a tear. Harley got up and took Jack’s glass, then went over to the saucepan to top it up. He handed it back to him.
‘I’m really sorry, mate. Fran sounds awesome.’
‘She was …’ Jack nodded in agreement. ‘And Christmas was her thing. She always made it so special. Which is why I couldn’t face it this year. I’m not strong enough. Every bauble, every carol, every bloody mince pie makes me think she should be here.’ He swallowed and tried to smile. ‘And maybe it’s not fair on Nat, but I’ve tried to do the best I can for him. Make it fun.’
‘And unlucky for you, you found us,’ smiled Lizzy. ‘We’re running away from Christmas too. But it doesn’t mean we can’t have a good time.’ She looked between Harley and Jack. ‘Does it?’
Later, Jack scooped up Nat and took him back to his hut, tucking him into bed. He looked at his little boy fast asleep, those Cheryl Cole lashes resting on his cheeks, one arm flung over the velvety pouch of softness that was Clouseau, who had snuggled up next to him. Their breathing was almost synchronised.
Christmas at the Beach Hut Page 20