‘You’re supposed to keep stirring,’ says a voice, over my shoulder. I jump. Rory’s home too early. I didn’t hear him come in. This was supposed to be a surprise.
‘I hate cooking,’ I mumble, picking up a spatula and prodding the noodles, feeling sweat prickle under my armpits.
He laughs in my ear, wrapping his arms around my waist. ‘I’ve noticed.’ He spins me around so that I’m facing him. He’s still wearing his coat and his nose is red with the cold. I can smell rain on him. ‘But it’s the thought that counts. And you know stir-fries are my favourite.’ He kisses me.
I bat him away good-naturedly, turning back to the cooking. ‘You’re distracting me.’
‘Okay, okay. I’m going to take my coat off. I’ll leave you in peace.’ He retreats with his coat folded over his arms.
He’s in a good mood. The job must be going well. I’m going to tell him. Once I’ve finished making his favourite food and opened a bottle of wine, I’m going to be honest about everything. I know I wasn’t being paranoid earlier in Queen Square. That man had been following me, and when he saw I’d noticed he turned and went back in the opposite direction. If it is Adam, then why? What does he want from me?
We sit at Aoife’s little round table in the dining-room end of the open-plan kitchen-sitting room, with a view of the river. Rory makes a good stab at the food despite its charcoal aftertaste. He knows I’ve done this for him. He holds my hand across the table and tells me about his day in one of the tougher Bristol schools and uses words like ‘rewarding’ and ‘challenges’. All the while the food churns in my stomach and I hardly touch my wine.
Rory’s always been honest with me about what he wants. Marriage, and babies, a big, happy, bustling family like the one he came from. He wants loyalty and honesty; he doesn’t believe in lying. Even little white lies. Once, I didn’t want to go out with his university friends. It wasn’t that I don’t like them: they’re good fun and I love hearing stories about what they got up to when they all shared a house together. They called Rory Mrs Mopp because he was the one who cooked and cleaned. But on that particular night I was tired and just wanted to stay in and watch TV. I asked him to make an excuse for me, but he didn’t. He told them the truth when they came by to pick us up. ‘Sorry, mate, Jessie would rather stay in and watch Mad Men tonight,’ while I squirmed. Rory didn’t mind. He was good-natured about it and went out anyway. ‘I don’t see the point of lying,’ he’d said, when I’d questioned him about it afterwards. And I love that. Really, I do. But sometimes it’s a lot to live up to.
I take a deep breath. ‘I need to be honest with you. I’ve done something,’ I begin.
His face falls, the fork to his lips. ‘Oh, God. What have you done? Have you poisoned the food?’ He laughs.
‘Rory. Be serious. This is important.’
‘Okay, okay.’ He takes a forkful of noodles, his eyes shining.
‘I lied to you,’ I blurt out, ‘about why we left London.’ And then I tell him everything, about the phone hacking and Wayne Walker and his threats and how I think he – or someone – may be following me now.
His eyes widen and he swallows. ‘You got sacked?’
‘I was lucky I didn’t get arrested,’ I say, putting my fork down.
‘So we left London and my job – which I loved – so that you could run away?’ He puts his fork down, too.
‘More of a fresh start,’ I mutter. ‘Not running away. As such.’
‘And this Wayne guy? You think he’s followed you here?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘I feel like I’m being followed.’
He leans back in his chair. ‘Jesus. Phone hacking. What were you thinking?’ And there it is. That look. The look I’ve been dreading. He’s seeing me for who I really am. He’s not going to want to marry me, or have babies with me, or any of the other things he’s planned and I feel … relieved.
‘It’s better that you know now … who I really am.’
His frown deepens. ‘What are you talking about? You’re not a bloody murderer. You made a mistake. Wayne Walker should never have threatened you like that anyway, regardless.’
‘But I lied.’
‘I know. And it makes me feel sad that you weren’t honest with me at the time. But, Jess, why are you telling me this now?’ And then it dawns on him. He’s not stupid, my Rory. ‘You’ve found the ring, haven’t you?’
That sodding ring. The antique ruby ring I’d stupidly admired in that boutique in Clifton during the summer. Ever since I found it nestled in his underwear drawer a few weeks ago, I’ve been waiting for the proposal. And I’m just not ready. I’m not ready to settle down and become somebody’s wife. Why can’t things stay as they are?
‘I wasn’t snooping. I was looking for some socks.’ He knows I’m always stealing his socks, even if they are too big, as one of mine always seems to go missing.
He pushes his plate away. He’s lost the colour in his face. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me as though wondering who I am. I look away, unable to witness the pain I see in his eyes. Eventually he asks, ‘Don’t you want to be with me any more?’
My stomach twists. ‘Of course I do. I love you. I just …’
‘You don’t want to get married to me?’
Tears spring to my eyes. ‘Just not yet.’
He sighs. ‘Jess. We’ve been together for nearly three years. We’ve been living together for two.’
‘I know.’
‘I’m thirty-four. I want kids. Lots of kids. I want to move back to Ireland eventually. I thought you wanted all that, too.’
I hang my head.
‘What are you so afraid of?’
My head shoots up. ‘Nothing.’ I clench my fists in my lap. ‘I’m not afraid of anything. It’s just moving too fast. Okay. We live together, don’t we? We haven’t even bought our own place yet. We’re not in a position to get married. Financially.’
He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, but then, ‘We could afford to buy our own place in Ireland. That’s why we’re living here practically rent-free. So we can save.’
Ireland again. This is his dream. Not mine. And then what? He’ll saddle me with a couple of kids and do a runner, like my dad, leaving me to bring them up on my own. In a country I’m not familiar with. Away from my friends and family. Not that I’ve got much family … or that many friends left. I gulp.
He reaches across the table, as though reading my mind. ‘I’m not your dad, Jess.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I know that.’
‘I don’t think you do,’ he mumbles, getting up from the table and taking our plates to the sink.
I sit there for a while, staring at the half-drunk bottle of wine on the table. The lights twinkle in the distance, reflecting in the dark, undulating river. I feel as if I’m at a crossroads in my life – I was at the same point a year ago when we moved from London. But I didn’t want to face it then. I wanted Rory. I still want him, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for marriage and kids. I look across at him in the kitchen. He’s standing staring at the kettle as if wondering what it does and my heart sinks. I should go to him, reassure him, tell him how much I want to make our relationship work. He bought me a ring because I said I loved it. This funny, sexy, kind man wants to spend the rest of his life with me. Me. And I’m scared. Rory was right about that.
Rory turns to me, the hurt still in his eyes. He looks like someone’s kicked him in the stomach. ‘I’m going for a drink,’ he says, moving towards the hall for his coat.
I get up from the table and follow him. ‘On your own?’ Rory never drinks alone.
‘One of the other supply teachers I’m working with asked if I’d meet him for a drink tonight. I said I couldn’t. Obviously. But now …’ He shoves his arms into his navy duffel coat, his dark hair falling over his forehead as he fiddles with the toggles. I call it his Paddington Bear coat. It suits him. It makes him look bookish, but sexy. I long to go to him, to reassure
him, but I’m rooted to the spot, unable to do anything but stare as he slips his shoes on without undoing the laces – the same ones he wore for work. He still hasn’t had the chance to get changed.
‘When will you be back?’ I try not to sound whiny. That was how my mum sounded when my dad went out all hours, before he left for good.
He looks at me then, our eyes meeting properly for the first time, and his face softens. ‘I just need some space to take in what you’ve said.’ He attempts a smile. ‘I’m disappointed but I’ll get over it. You know I’ll wait until you’re ready.’ He reaches for my hand, squeezing it. ‘I don’t want anyone else.’
And then he’s gone, leaving me standing alone in the hallway, wondering what I’ve done.
I wish there was someone I could ask for advice. I have transient relationships with the friends I do have, colleagues I’ve worked with, friends from university, and I still keep in touch with Gina from school – although she’s moved to Denmark now – yet nothing deep, no dark confessions over a glass of wine, no insights into what I really think or feel. I’ve never really let anyone in, apart from Heather, and look what happened there. Even with Rory and Jack I still keep a part of myself hidden, preserved.
I slump onto the sofa, my mobile in my lap. We don’t have a landline. It’s easier that way. I think of my mum in Spain, not really knowing anything about my life, too busy with her husband, her friends and her expat community. We’ve drifted further apart over the years. But I call her anyway, suddenly desperate to hear her voice. It rings for a while and just when I contemplate hanging up, she answers.
‘Hello, Jessiebobs,’ she says, her voice tinkling and light, but behind it I can hear the drone of indistinct chatter, the clink of cutlery, the faint laughter that tells me she’s out. Jessiebobs. She used to call me that all the time when I was a kid. ‘This is a surprise.’
I’ll say. We haven’t spoken in months. There are no weekly calls from Spain, no texts to check that I’m okay, not like Rory and his mum.
‘Just thought I’d ring to catch up,’ I say.
‘It’s a Friday night.’ She sounds puzzled. Of course. I should have realized. My mum has a better social life than I do. ‘I’d have thought you’d be out.’
‘You obviously are.’ I can’t help the note of bitterness creeping into my voice.
She sighs. ‘Yes. Yes, I am …’ Her voice is suddenly drowned by a burst of laughter. ‘Listen, Jess, I can’t talk now. Can I ring you back tomorrow?’
‘I … Yes, that’s great.’
‘Speak soon. Love you.’ And the phone goes dead.
I stare at the screen for a few moments before tossing it onto the sofa. It’s only seven thirty but now the evening looms ahead and I feel lonely and trapped in this apartment that doesn’t feel like mine. I wander into the bedroom with photographs of Aoife and her friends taken on various nights out over the bed, and open the top drawer in Rory’s side cabinet, retrieving the little square box. I sit on the edge of the bed and admire the ring again. It really is beautiful. I try it on to find it’s only a little bit big. Why can’t I be normal? Heather got married. Heather had a baby.
My mind goes back to when Margot let us spend the night in one of the static caravans. It must have been only a few months before that fateful summer and the caravan park was quiet, the season not yet kicking in. We took a four-berth right on the edge of the park, with views of the cliffs and the bay of Tilby. We could have had a bedroom each but we’d slept in the living-room part with the sofa folded down into a bed. It was early April and cold, and we’d huddled together in our individual sleeping-bags, talking of all the things we would do when we left school.
‘I never want to get married,’ I’d said, pulling the edge of the sleeping-bag up to my chin. It smelt mildewy. ‘I want to travel. See the world. Not be tied down by some man.’
‘Same,’ agreed Heather, wriggling like a maggot in her luminous yellow sleeping-bag. ‘I want to go to Paris and write and wander along the Left Bank and maybe take a lover.’
We’d laughed at this. Take a lover. It was something we’d heard in a film and now it was a running joke. We weren’t going to be tied down. We’d just take a lover.
Yet Heather never left Tilby or, as far as I can work out, took a lover. She met Adam at eighteen and married him at twenty-two. Margot had said he was her first and only boyfriend.
I’d been twenty-nine when I’d met Rory, and he definitely hadn’t been my first. Far from it.
I push the ring back into its padded box and hide it under Rory’s socks, so that I can no longer see it, as though the sight of it would burn my retinas. I turn off the light and I’m about to leave the room when my eyes catch something across the road through the bedroom window. I step forwards, half hidden by Aoife’s retro-print curtains. In one of the upstairs windows on the third floor of the derelict building I can see the faint silhouette of a person. I can’t make out whether it’s male or female but they’re holding a torch and directing it right at me. Can they see me? They probably could earlier when I was sitting on the bed with the curtains open and the lights on. I shudder at the thought. The building used to be an old granary and flour warehouse. Are squatters living there? Or is someone hanging out there to spy on me? I step forward and draw the curtains tightly.
As I head back into the living room I hear my mobile ringing. I grab it from where I’d slung it on the sofa, hoping it’s Rory, but I’m surprised when Margot’s name flashes up.
‘Jess?’
I’ve noticed she calls me Jess now, like she did when I was a kid.
‘Speaking. Are you okay?’ She sounds upset.
‘I – I know I’m interrupting your evening and you’re probably busy …’
‘I’m not busy.’ I give a fake laugh. ‘I’m actually home alone.’
There’s a pause. ‘Oh. Right. I thought you’d be out. You always were such a social butterfly.’
Was I? I suppose I was once. Now the only thing I seem to do is work or come home and slump in front of the TV with Rory, watching box sets, broken up by the occasional drink at the pub with Jack. ‘I don’t go out much.’ When did that happen? Since we left London? Or before?
‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘I had a call from the police. They’ve found another set of fingerprints on the gun Heather used.’
I stand up straighter. Now this is interesting. ‘Really? Whose?’
She sighs. ‘They don’t know.’
‘But,’ I begin pacing the room, ‘this is good, right? It means Heather might not have pulled the trigger. Someone else was there.’ I realize, with a jolt, that I’m desperate for Heather to be innocent. How can I be objective in my reporting now?
‘I – I’m not sure …’ She sounds lost and my heart aches for her.
‘Margot? Is Adam with you? Have you told him?’
The line crackles a little and I go to stand near the balcony doors. ‘He went to see Heather. And the …’ Her voice cuts out, then comes back in again, like a radio being tuned. ‘I think he’s at his mum’s with Ethan.’ She sounds very far away.
‘Margot,’ I shout, so that she can hear me. ‘Can I come over?’ It will only take twenty minutes to get there at this time of night.
‘Now?’ More static. ‘Are you sure?’
I’ve never been more sure of anything. My own mother might not have time for me, but Margot always has. ‘I’ll see you soon.’ I abort the call, then scribble a note for Rory telling him where I am, grab my keys and rush out of the door.
I take the lift down to the basement and dart to my Renault. The car park is small and well-lit and there are other vehicles, although no people. I can’t help but feel a little unnerved as I unlock the door and slide behind the wheel. I immediately click on the central locking and start the engine. It’s not until I drive out of the exit that I notice it in my rear-view mirror, and I know that this time it’s not my imagination. There’s definitely someone standing by my building, watching as I
pull away.
23
It’s funny what you dream about in this state of not-quite-here. I’m not dead but at this moment I’m not living. I’m in limbo. Waiting to wake up, in and out of consciousness, with images from my past drifting through the fog, like a surreal version of This Is Your Life. I don’t like to think of my long-ago dead father, but I hope that if I end up joining him, if there is an after-life, then he’ll forgive us.
He wasn’t always a nice man. He bullied the two of us for years, didn’t he? Even Mum. We were better off without him in so many ways. But if he’d lived, if we hadn’t had to leave him behind in Kent, then what followed might never have taken place.
I would never have ended up hurting you.
Mum. She needs to know the truth. If I die now, my story will disappear with me.
I can’t allow that to happen.
24
Margot
The police had revealed something else to Margot on the phone. Something she’s desperate to tell someone about. That was one of the reasons she’d called Jessica. In that moment she felt Jess would understand, knowing Heather as she had.
After she’d put the phone down to Ruthgow, she immediately rang Adam, who had sounded his usual cynical self, warning her not to take it too seriously, that it didn’t mean anything, it could be a fingerprint from ages ago, and she found she couldn’t tell him the rest. He’d only find a way to downplay it and she needed something. She needed hope.
She’d been distracted momentarily by the arrival of a couple wanting to rent a caravan. It was unusual at this time of year: it gets very cold and windy up here as the field with the camping site has views of the sea, although the occasional punter did turn up, usually a rambler who was braving the cliff walks. But it wasn’t until Easter that business began to pick up and that was still four weeks away.
Then She Vanishes Page 13