The restaurant turns its lights up as a reminder to customers that it’s near closing time. Gareth offers to pay and I mumble something about reciprocating when I’ve got a job. He says he’ll hold me to it as he’d love to see me again, but doesn’t want to wait until I’m gainfully employed.
He walks me to the taxi rank and kisses me briefly on the lips before I get in a cab, leaving me wanting more. I wave until the taxi drives out of sight of him.
Back at the house, I let myself in what I think is quietly after drinking a bottle of wine. Mother is asleep upstairs. With my flush of post-date adrenaline, I’m so very tempted to sneak into her room and see what’s in the box in the wardrobe whilst she’s asleep. What stops me is knowing that if she wakes up and catches me I may never get another chance.
I climb into the single bed and, for the first time in a long, long time, go to sleep feeling something akin to happiness.
14
At Aunty Lena’s on Sunday I don’t get a chance to speak to her alone. As soon as mother and I arrive for food, she ushers us into the warm kitchen and there we stay until the delicious roast chicken meal has been eaten, coffee served and drunk and it’s time to leave. Lena doesn’t pick up on any of my hints to take a walk in the garden and I can’t even follow her when she goes to the loo because Den won’t stop asking genial questions about my date (which my gossipy mother let slip) and my interview tomorrow. When will I have the house to myself?
I ask Aunty Lena when she and Mother have another girls’ night planned. Mother then invites Lena around to our house to watch a DVD, saying that as the nights are getting colder she doesn’t much like going outside unless she has to. I wonder whether the real reason is that she doesn’t want to give me a chance to snoop?
That evening, Mother and I sit in front of a period drama on the television, a Victorian story I vaguely remember from the school English lessons I actually turned up to, then when the news comes on I make my excuses for an early night. I want to make sure I feel fresh and alert tomorrow for my interview.
After going to the bathroom I can still hear the television on downstairs. I check my watch and there are still ten minutes of the news bulletin left to go: or maybe seven if Mother skips the sport at the end. Feeling emboldened, I take my chance and creep into her bedroom without turning the light on, gingerly open the wardrobe doors and crouch down to open the infamous shoebox.
Except it’s not there.
Only nine shoeboxes are stacked up at the bottom of the wardrobe. I look through them as quickly as possible and all they contain is footwear. The box with the notebooks and letters has gone.
There’s not enough time for me to check the rest of the wardrobe and chest of drawers. I close mother’s bedroom door with about two minutes to spare before I hear her switching the television off and padding slowly up the stairs.
Where has she put the box and what is in it that she doesn’t want me to see?
That night it takes me a long time to get to sleep because my brain won’t shut out all the thoughts boxing each other in my head. I have a classic anxiety dream where I climb a stepladder to reach the box but fall from the top; Gemma is at the bottom but, instead of trying to catch me, she turns her back and walks away. I wake up gasping for air just before I hit the ground.
Poor slumber means I oversleep and am in a grump for most of the morning. My mood does not improve after I’ve put on my interview outfit – the kitten heels remind me of the missing shoebox – and when I see myself in the mirror wearing the black suit I think it will be obvious to the interviewers that I’m an imposter. Even the bus journey to the hospital takes longer than it should due to roadworks.
To my surprise, despite my low spirits, the interview actually isn’t too bad. Although I haven’t had any care work experience, I talk about looking after my cancer-stricken mother, leaving out the fact it has barely been for over a week, and give lots of examples of working with customers. Thanks to an hour’s free internet access at the library on Saturday, I’d done my research and dropped in some details about the NHS trust and current political issues affecting healthcare in general.
The panel, a friendly-enough trio comprising an HR manager, the manager of the healthcare assistant bank and a Ward Sister from orthopaedics, say they’ll let me know in the next day or so. I treat myself afterwards to a chocolate bar from the vending machine to raise my energy levels before catching two more buses to Wilson & Zedda.
Their office is located in a small but smart building on the ground floor of an office block that contains four different businesses. I head to Wilson & Zedda’s coolly-designed reception, decorated in different shades of grey that contrast with the dark green of a huge yucca plant in the corner, and tell the receptionist that I have an appointment to see Ian Zedda.
She leads me to the second door on the right and ushers me in where I find Ian sitting in an electric wheelchair behind the desk.
‘Annie! Come here, bend down and give me a kiss. I won’t tell my wife,’ he jests. I’m aware his speech is slightly slurred, something I’d forgotten, as when I was a child I had become completely used to it.
I do as he asks and kiss him warmly on the cheek, also giving him a friendly squeeze on the shoulder. He beckons me to take a seat on the other side of the desk.
‘How lovely to see you again after all these years!’ he enthuses. ‘I often wondered where life took you. What have you been doing?’
I cross my legs. ‘Nothing exciting. I lived in Leeds for fourteen years but came back recently because my mother’s got cancer.’
‘Your mother?’ He raises his eyebrows. He obviously remembers my fraught relationship with her.
‘Yes. Kidney cancer.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, but am glad it’s brought you back.’ Good old Ian.
‘And you? I know you’re a solicitor and you’re married – congratulations – anything else to report?’
Ian shakes his head. ‘No kids, yet, just work, work, work. It’s early days but the business is doing well and takes up most of our time. It’s our baby. I have a wonderful wife.’
‘Is it difficult living and working together?’ I question.
‘Not really, we enjoy it. Most of the time we hardly see each other during the day anyway because we have our own clients. In the evening it’s great being able to talk about work with someone who understands it all.’
‘Well, your office is certainly impressive.’
‘Glad you think so, it cost enough to deck out. We wanted to look the part. How can I help you solicitor-wise?’
Pulling my chair a little closer to his desk, I explain about Gemma, Toby Smith and my phone call with DI Glass. Ian listens intently and prompts me for a few more details.
‘I’m so sorry that your sister is still missing. With my solicitor hat on I have to advise you that after such a long time it’s very, very unlikely Gemma will be found alive.’
I look down at my kitten heels. ‘I know. But if Toby Smith had anything to do with her disappearance I want to find out.’
‘I understand. I’ll certainly write a letter, free of charge for an old friend. I’ll write it tomorrow. I’ll need your address please and the date Gemma went missing.’
I tell him and he speaks the details into a Dictaphone.
Work talk finished, he says, ‘You know, I did look once on Facebook but couldn’t find you. I assumed you’d got married and changed your surname.’
I waggle the bare fingers of my left hand in front of him. ‘No husband, no name change. I’ve never bothered with social media. I like a bit of anonymity.’ I specifically never registered with Twitter or Facebook and the like because I don’t want to be found. Once, around the twentieth anniversary of Gemma going missing, a journalist tracked me down who wanted to rake up the past for some maudlin piece about how the family was coping. I gave him short shrift and sent him on his way but the experience worried me and made me more convinced than ever not to leave a digital foot
print. He’d apparently found me because my name was listed on the website of the company I was then working for, they were big on trying to appear as if their staff were your new best friends and not trying to fleece you out of your spare cash to buy an insurance product you don’t need. I swiftly resigned, moved on to another firm and changed my personal email address to my first name and four numbers. Towcester is a recognisable surname. With hindsight, I should have changed it by deed poll, but I’m too broke at the moment to do so.
‘Jen and I are having a party at home on Saturday night to celebrate her birthday. Do come along, bring a plus one if you’d like to. I’ve told Jen lots about you and she wants to meet you. It’ll be fun.’
‘I’d like that.’ I wonder whether to invite Gareth along. It’d be a cheap way for me to reciprocate his hospitality last Friday night. Since then we’ve exchanged numerous flirtatious texts and I’m due to meet him for a drink tomorrow evening.
‘Great. I’ll email you the address. Come anytime from 7.30 p.m. You don’t need to bring bottle – we’ll get plenty of wine and beer in.’
With that we say our goodbyes. I leave his office much lighter and spritelier than I did when I left the house that morning. Fingers crossed that his letter will do the trick and the police will agree to question Toby Smith in prison.
I decide against calling Mike Braithwaite again because it’s doubtful he will have done a 180-degree turnaround and agree to help. Instead I think again of the photo on the pinboard and Gemma’s room and have an idea. The girl in the group snap, the one with the long black skirt and frizzy perm, who is she? Would there be any 1989 class lists online or some other way of tracking her down? Maybe Gareth will recognise her? On the bus home I call Priti and rope her in to help me find out. She’s more than willing.
Perhaps finding this girl could be the key.
15
I’m late for my drink with Gareth on Tuesday because Mother has a bout of vomiting and I want to make sure she’s OK before I leave the house. Aunty Lena agrees to come round and sit with her whilst I go out, insisting that I shouldn’t cancel my date.
I hadn’t even thought about doing so but I wasn’t going to confess that to Lena. Instead, I thank her for mother-sitting and, as soon as she has set foot in the house, dash off to the pub where Gareth and I are due to meet.
I expected a busy, booming bar aimed at young professional workers to con them out of their wages after a stressful day by charging exorbitant amounts for the latest fashionable concoctions. What I find instead is a quaint, old-fashioned pub with a roaring fire and gastro-menu.
This time we kiss on the lips for a few seconds when we meet and I run my palm down his back, feeling the taut muscles under his shirt. He has already ordered and once again there’s a large, chilled glass of white wine waiting for me.
It’s much less awkward than the beginning of last Friday’s date. Firstly, he asks me all about how the interview went. I did text him yesterday filling him in on the bare bones but today he wants a full breakdown. As part of his supermarket manager job he often interviews potential employees. After I give him a blow-by-blow account of what was said he comes to the conclusion that I’ve done well and that if they’d decided I was wrong for the job they wouldn’t have kept me talking for a full forty-five minutes.
‘They haven’t called today, though,’ I say. I must have checked my mobile phone a thousand times between the hours of 9 a.m. and 5.30 p.m.
‘Didn’t they say it would be a couple of days?’
‘They said “in the next day or so”.’
‘So maybe “so” day will be Wednesday.’ Gareth takes my hand and entwines his fingers between mine. I catch his eye and smile, enjoying the pressure of his fingers on mine and the casual intimacy.
‘I wondered if you’d like to go to a party with me on Saturday? The old friend I told you about, Ian, the solicitor, invited me to his wife’s birthday do. Do you fancy it?’
‘I fancy it and you,’ he replies, goofing around.
I raise my eyebrows in what I hope is a flirtatious manner rather than a gargoyle impression. ‘Good. Friday night it is then.’
‘I’ve got a store meeting on Friday afternoon but it shouldn’t run over. There’s an unwritten rule that, unless there’s an emergency, Friday nights are sacred if you’re not rostered on. I’ll pick you up.’
‘Thanks.’ That’ll save me the bus fare.
‘Did Ian agree to write the letter to the police?’
I pick up my drink with my left hand, not wanting to pull away from Gareth’s grasp in my right. ‘He did. He texted me this afternoon actually and said he’d written it today. Here’s hoping it does the job.’
‘Are you going to call DI Glass to tell him?’
‘In a couple of days. I want to leave enough time for the letter to arrive first. Oh, I’ve just remembered.’ This time I do pull my hand away from his and instantly miss the warmth of his fingers. I use both hands to dig around inside my handbag and pull out a colour photocopy I made at the library on Saturday. It’s the photograph of Gemma, Mike, Toby and the mystery girl. I show Gareth the piece of paper. ‘This is a copy of the photograph I found in Gemma’s room.’
‘She’s still got a room?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Don’t ask. Long story. I’ve worked out the two boys are Mike and Toby. Do you know who the girl is?’
Gareth picks the paper up and holds it nearer to his eyes to get a closer look. He takes his time scrutinising it. ‘Well, you’re right, Toby is the blonde boy and Mike is the one looking at Gemma. The girl? I’m not sure. She looks familiar but I can’t quite place her.’
‘Do you know if there was a leaver’s yearbook or there’s anywhere I might be able to find a class list?’
‘She might not be in their class,’ Gareth replies. ‘She could be a friend from outside school.’
My heart sinks. I hadn’t considered that.
‘But see the bench they’re sitting on and the huge tree behind it? That’s the woods behind the playing fields. Did you go to the same secondary school as Gemma and me?’
‘Yes but by the time I got there the school had relocated to a new purpose-built site. Wasn’t the old one built in Victorian times? It had asbestos so the council knocked it down and built a housing estate on the land.’
‘They did, I’d forgotten I’m a bit older than you.’
I grin. ‘Best not start comparing children’s TV programme memories. We’ll have no shared cultural references.’
‘Hey, I’m not so old as to have watched Muffin the Mule,’ he says in mock high dudgeon.
‘Not even Bill and Ben, the Flowerpot Men?’ That’s one my father told me about from his childhood.
‘Cheeky. That’s definitely the park behind our old school. The bench was a popular hang-out after hours when there was nothing else better to do. If she’s there it’s odds on the girl in the photo went to the same school.’
Gareth goes to the bar and comes back with another round of drinks. His face looks animated as he tells me excitedly, ‘I’ve had an idea. On social media there’s a closed, invitation only group for people who went to our school. It was set up to organise a reunion. I only signed up for the group for my year but I can see if I can get access to the one for Gemma’s. The girl in the photo may have joined it.’
‘Great idea!’ I say and, without thinking it through first, throw my arms around him, knocking his elbow and causing him to spill some of the beer he’s holding in his hand. It drips on to his black, shiny shoe. ‘You owe me a beer,’ he says with a happy smirk.
‘I think you’re earned one,’ I reply.
The evening rushes by in a way time at work never does and I have to leave relatively early to go home and relieve Aunty Lena. Gareth takes me home in a taxi – giving us time for a smooch in the back – before carrying on in it to go home himself, even though my house is out of his way. The taxi drops me off a couple of houses too early because someone has parked a huge gre
at van outside Mother’s house, meaning that if the taxi stopped there it would be blocking the road.
We share a long kiss goodbye and Gareth promises to call soon to firm up the plans for Friday. I’m too busy thinking of him to realise that I have to walk past Reg’s house. I shiver but not because of the evening chill. The light is on in the upstairs bedroom illuminating the torso and head and shoulders of Reg staring down at me. He opens the window and calls out, ‘Annie!’
I ignore him and rush to the front door. In a kerfuffle I drop my keys and bang on the door whilst I fall to my knees and try and find them in the dark. I’ve only just picked them up when Aunty Lena answers the door. ‘Annie, what’s wrong?’
Pushing my way inside I usher her in, slam the door shut – with no thought that Mother is probably asleep – walk through to the lounge, shutting the connecting door firmly as well, and collapse on the coach.
‘What is it dear? What’s happened?’ Lena wrinkles her nose with concern and reaches out to me.
I lower my voice, finally remembering my mother upstairs. ‘It’s Reg. He keeps watching me when I go past his house. He was upstairs by his bedroom window and shouted down at me. He frightened me, he really gives me the creeps.’
‘Oh thank goodness that’s all it is,’ says Lena, sitting down next to me on the sofa and pulling me into a hug.
‘What do you mean that’s all it is?’ I reply incredulously. ‘His is not normal behaviour. You don’t call out at night to a woman on her own.’
Lena gasps. ‘You didn’t walk home alone did you at this time of night?’ The clock on the mantelpiece says it’s 10.45.
‘No, Gareth dropped me off in a taxi but there’s a van right outside the house so it parked a few doors down.’ I’m still cross about her reaction.
Lena lets me go, takes my hand and looks me in the eye.
‘Reg is a drunk. Someone ought to do something about it but his wife and son don’t want anything to do with him. He’s got a reputation for being a nuisance when he’s had too many, which is probably most of the time. He’s harmless enough, though. Try not to let him get to you. Ignore him and walk on.’
My Perfect Sister Page 10