Last Seen

by Lucy Clarke

  ‘Answer me!’

  There is a pause. ‘I was on the quay.’

  If you stand at the back of our beach hut, you can see across the harbour to the quay. Occasionally he’ll have a drink at The Rope and Anchor with some of the men from the sandbank – but he wouldn’t have left Jacob’s birthday early to go to the pub.

  ‘Who were you meeting?’ I ask.

  But I already know the answer. I know exactly who else was on the quay that night, who goes there every year on the same day, who’d been sitting around our family table hours before.

  I know who he was with.

  I think I’ve always known.

  ‘You were meeting Isla, weren’t you?’

  I stand rigid, staring at Nick. My breathing is shallow – my gaze pinned to his face. I feel as if I’m bracing for impact.

  The very first time I met Nick, he was sitting on the deck of Isla’s beach hut, waiting for her. His long back was pressed against the closed door of her hut, and he looked relaxed, content. When he saw me approach, he shaded the sun from his eyes with a hand and stared at me for a moment. ‘Sarah, right?’

  I had smiled. ‘Right.’

  I climbed on to the deck and slumped down next to him, leaning against the sun-warmed wood. ‘So, where is she?’

  ‘Walking the headland, maybe. Or in town, perhaps.’ He smiled easily, without worry.

  I glanced at him sideways, taking in the strong line of his jaw, the closely shaven skin, the smart polo shirt he wore. He was handsome, clean cut, polite. Isla spoke of him casually, like a new healthy food she was trying to include more of in her diet.

  Nick, on the other hand, was intoxicated with Isla. Within minutes of meeting me, he’d asked a series of thoughtful questions about me; I didn’t flatter myself that he was particularly interested in me – he just wanted to understand me, to better understand Isla. I thought it was smart of him because, even then, to work out one of us, you needed to know the other.

  Isla was his first love. She burst into his world with her summer tan, her long golden legs, and that air of lightness that makes people want to grab on to her even more tightly.

  Everyone remembers their first love, because it’s tied into something sentimental to do with the person you were in your youth. It’s hard to extinguish it completely, because it would be like extinguishing part of yourself. And I worry that it’s particularly hard to extinguish when your first love happens to spend every summer in the beach hut next door.

  For years I’ve grappled with an unsolvable problem: I want Isla close to me, yet far away from Nick. It is an equation with no balancing answer.

  From the moment I first kissed Nick, I wondered whether I was making a mistake. I didn’t want to be caught in Isla’s shadow, questioning whether Nick loved me as passionately, or desired me as deeply. And perhaps I did feel a little like that in those early months – but then we had Jacob. The landscape of our marriage deepened the moment Nick placed his palm on my stomach and felt our baby kick. The love he felt for our child was locked into our feelings for each other and, for a long time after Jacob was born, I didn’t worry about his feelings for Isla.

  But then Marley died.

  Everything shifted. His death undid all of us in different ways, and I’m not sure we were ever stitched back together in quite the same way.

  I hear someone clear their throat and I turn, forgetting that the police are still here. My voice is crisply polite as I ask, ‘Please could you leave us for a few minutes?’

  They look at one another. PC Evans says, ‘Nick, we’d like to see you at the station later. Get the correct details of that evening.’

  Nick nods, but doesn’t speak. His eyes are on me.

  I wait until I am sure we are alone and then I ask, ‘You met Isla on the quay, didn’t you?’ I now recall Fez saying he thought he’d seen Nick’s car parked there and that he’d been expecting him to be in The Rope and Anchor.

  ‘I saw her, yes.’

  I lift my chin. ‘You’re having an affair.’

  ‘With Isla?’

  ‘Yes, Isla. Of course, Isla! It’s always been Isla!’

  Nick moves past me towards the beach hut doors. For a moment I think he’s going to storm from the hut, disappear; instead he yanks the double doors shut. Then he swings around and faces me, eyes shining. ‘There’s no affair!’

  He’s lying, he has to be.

  ‘Why were you together? You said you were going straight to Bristol.’

  ‘I was meeting someone else.’

  Someone else? ‘Who?’

  Nick sighs deeply. ‘Your mother.’

  I blink, dumbfounded, the remark throwing me off course. ‘My mother? I don’t—’

  ‘The business, Sarah. It’s screwed, okay? It’s absolutely screwed!’ He exhales hard. ‘Your mother was giving me a loan.’

  I know our finances are tight – they have been for months. That’s why we rent our house and move into the beach hut in summer. We’ve discussed the option of a loan in the past, but we can’t get anything more from the bank, Nick’s parents have their money tied up in investments, and his brothers don’t have enough to spare. My mother has never been an option because I won’t be indebted to her. ‘I … I can’t believe you’d do that behind my back.’

  ‘I was looking after our family. We all win, Sarah: your mum feels like she is helping; I don’t lose the business or have a bloody heart attack from the stress; you and Jacob get to keep your home. We all win,’ he repeats. ‘Except that I knew you’d say no to the idea because of your bloody pride!’

  I’m quiet for a moment as I begin to see that Nick hasn’t been telling me the full extent of our financial problems. ‘How much did you borrow?’

  There is a long pause. When Nick speaks, his voice is low. ‘Seventy thousand.’

  My eyes widen. ‘Jesus, Nick! Seventy thousand! How the hell are we going to pay that back?’

  ‘I intend to pay it all back – with interest. But your mother … she is calling it a gift. She says the money would come to you anyway – better that we have it now when we need it.’

  ‘I don’t believe this!’

  Nick glares back at me, eyes flashing. ‘Lucky your mum came to my rescue. I didn’t win the pitch, in case you’re interested. Found out yesterday. It’s only thanks to your mum that my staff still have jobs.’ The bitterness in his tone is new and unsettling.

  I gather myself enough to ask, ‘Where does Isla fit in? You said you saw her.’

  He shrugs. ‘She saw me with your mother. I asked her not to mention it to you.’

  ‘So she knew what was going on, too?’

  ‘She?’ Nick repeats. Then he laughs, a sharp note of disbelief. ‘You know what’s mad? That you are more shocked that I’d take a loan from your mother, than if I’d told you I’d been sleeping with Isla.’

  ‘Have you? Slept with her? I need to know, Nick. I need you to tell me honestly: since we’ve been together, have you ever slept with her?’

  Nick throws his head back, gripping a fistful of hair. He makes a raw, guttural exhale of frustration. ‘For God’s sake, Sarah! How can you even ask me that?’

  The question, seeded in my head years ago, has now grown roots that seem impossible to pull up. I can hear the emotion in my voice as I say, ‘You were in love with her.’

  ‘Yes! I was! And I will not apologize for that! But we broke up because it wouldn’t have worked—’

  ‘No. The relationship ended because Isla left you. I was there that summer, Nick. You were heartbroken!’

  ‘My God, are we really going to do this? Right now, when our son is missing?’ The veins in his neck stand proud as his chin juts forward. ‘I was twenty-one! That was over two decades ago! It doesn’t matter who “ended” the relationship: it would have ended at some point because it wasn’t right – we weren’t meant to be together long term. Isla and I both know that. You, you, are the only one who doesn’t!’ He slams his fist into the beach hut w
all. The force of the punch causes the double doors to swing open on to the deck. ‘For fuck’s sake, Sarah! When does this stop?’

  I want to tell him to lower his voice – that people will hear – but I don’t have a chance as he’s saying, ‘Do you know what it’s like to live with someone looking over their shoulder at you – distrusting you? You set me a thousand little tests, ready to judge whether I’m going to slip up. When I hug Isla, I have to be sure it’s for just the right length of time – not too short so as to look rude, but heaven forbid I should hug her for a moment too long.’

  I draw back, stunned by Nick’s venom.

  ‘I know you check my phone.’

  My face heats with embarrassment. It’s true: I did three weeks ago. And a few weeks before that, too. Sweat is building under my arms. I’m aware of Isla’s hut right next door – and even though she’s thousands of miles away, I wish Nick would whisper. ‘Please, Nick—’

  ‘There’s always a test – a measurement. How much do we love you? But what if we can’t meet your standards? What then? Will you cut off Isla? Will you cut me off? Just like you’ve done to your poor fucking mother.’

  The statement knocks the wind from me. I place a hand against the counter to steady myself. ‘I didn’t cut her off.’

  ‘Course you did! You’ve told me how she’d always loved your sister more. That Maggie was the favourite. You said your mother would rather surround herself in memories of Maggie than make new ones with you.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  Nick’s gaze is pinned to mine. ‘Is it? Your mother was grieving. She lost her child. Maybe you didn’t cut her enough slack. You’re so easy to slight, Sarah. Maybe your mother was hurting so much she didn’t have it in her to give the level of affection that you demanded. Maybe she couldn’t measure up to your strict quota of how deeply you need to be loved.’

  My mouth opens and closes, but no words come out.

  ‘You know what your constant doubt does? It makes people search for emotions they don’t have. You should be careful with that, Sarah. Very careful.’

  I think of the accusation I’d fired at Isla when I last saw her. What am I doing to the people I love? My legs feel as if they’re going to desert me as a sob heaves through my body. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Those two simple words of apology drain the tension from the hut.

  Nick exhales a long, shaky breath. ‘Jesus, Sarah. You need to trust me.’

  I cover my face, shocked at myself – shocked at how far I’ve let things go. For so long I’ve wondered if something was going on between Nick and Isla. The worst thing is, I’d decided that if it was, I would let it. I would let Isla have an affair with my husband – because I owed her.

  My son lived. Hers didn’t.

  29. SARAH

  DAY SEVEN, 11 A.M.

  Wind gusts across the sandbank, sweeping the sand smooth. Heavy clouds roll in from the sea, and rain doesn’t look far off. The beach is empty as I hunch my shoulders against the salt wind, my hands stuffed into the pockets of my fleece. White sea foam quivers on the tideline and wheels in the air like flung bubble bath. A high tide has washed in a decomposing jellyfish, its milky tentacles tangled with seaweed. I step around it and carry on walking.

  Right now, where I want to be is at home. I want to be able to lock the front door and lie in my bedroom with the blinds lowered. I don’t want to hear the excited shouts of children playing cards in beach huts, or the whistle of kettles boiling for families sitting down to tea and plates of biscuits. The sweetness of summer days and nights here feels like a distant memory – almost unreal – as if the beach huts are just a setting inside a glass jar, like a snow globe that has been tipped on its side.

  The tenants renting our house leave in two days. Until then, this is where we have to be. Nick has gone into the office to sort out a work problem. As he pressed a cool kiss on my cheek, all I could think was: How do you have the headspace to focus on anything but Jacob? I managed to hold my tongue: things are fragile enough between us as it is.

  I’ve tried calling Isla again. I rang in the middle of the night and listened to her recorded voice asking me to leave a message – so I did. I told her everything that’s happened so far. I talked into the emptiness, explaining. I need to explain it to someone.

  She didn’t call back. She didn’t ring and tell me that it’s okay, it’ll all be okay.

  But then, I don’t deserve her reassurances.

  I look towards Isla’s hut, and am surprised to see a woman sitting on the deck, her back to me. The narrow shoulders and the slim frame are so familiar that the hairs prick on the back of my neck.

  I squint to see more clearly.

  No, it can’t be.

  As I approach, the figure turns.

  My mother sits neatly with her feet placed together on the lower step. She looks diminutive in a light summer coat and tailored trousers, hair tousled by the wind. She hasn’t been to the sandbank in years.

  Seeing me, she stands, a hand half rising to wave. Her gaze moves over my face, perhaps taking in my red, puffy eyes, the hollows beneath my cheeks. I haven’t washed my hair in days, and I’m wearing a tired fleece thrown on over old jeans.

  ‘Oh, Sarah,’ she says gently, surprising me by stepping forward and wrapping her arms around me. She smells, as she always does, of perfume and face powder and breath mints.

  Perhaps there is some part of us that never forgets the embrace of our mothers; the tension I’ve been carrying in the knots of my spine, the tightness of my shoulders, softens, releases slightly in the space of her arms. Tears follow, a stream of them running down my cheeks. My mother holds me tight, one hand smoothing back my hair. As a girl I used to have nightmares, and I remember the dip of the bed as my mother would climb in beside me, leaning her head back against the wall, eyes closed, stroking my hair until I fell asleep.

  Eventually I gather myself, wiping my face dry and tucking my hair behind my ears. My mother takes my hand and leads me into the beach hut, directing me to the sofa. We sit together, my mother upright as a needle, her knees touching mine.

  I begin to talk, explaining all that’s happened over the past few days, sparing almost no details.

  My mother listens closely, her expression neutral. When I’m finished, she looks me squarely in the eye and says, ‘Life can be messy, Sarah. It can be ugly, painful, and complicated. But you mustn’t cower from it. Jacob is a strong, intelligent young man. He’ll be okay.’ She pats my knee, then stands. ‘Tea.’

  I watch the white caps dancing on the waves as I hear my mother negotiating the cramped beach hut kitchen. After a struggle with the water pump, the kettle is filled and she lights the hob. There’s no teapot here, and I hear her adding an inch of boiling water to both mugs, warming the china before serving our tea.

  ‘How is Nick?’ my mother asks, handing me my tea and a plate with small buttered squares of malt loaf, which she must have found in one of the cupboards. I can’t remember the last time I ate anything, and I place a piece in my mouth, chewing lightly as I watch a curl of stream drift upwards from my tea.

  ‘He’s gone into the office.’

  My mother nods. ‘Everyone needs an escape hatch.’

  Yes? Then where’s mine?

  My mother says, ‘I understand he’s told you about the money I gave him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry if that … caused problems.’

  I shrug. ‘It was very generous, but I just—’

  ‘Don’t want my help?’ My mother says this with an arched eyebrow, but there is a light smile on her lips.

  ‘Something like that.’

  We finish our tea without speaking, but the silence is strangely comfortable – nothing like the long silences that have punctuated the latter years of our relationship. I realize why my mother’s presence is so comforting: she understands. She has lost a child. She knows exactly what this is …

  ‘Isla,’ she says suddenly, in that clipped wa
y of hers that makes Isla’s name sound like something distasteful. ‘What does she have to say about everything?’

  ‘She’s in Chile. We haven’t spoken.’

  ‘You haven’t called her?’ she says, surprised. ‘I thought the two of you were still joined at the hip.’

  ‘I’ve called, and emailed, but I’ve not heard …’

  My mother’s nostrils flare in disapproval.

  ‘Maybe she’s not got phone reception,’ I say, feeling oddly defensive, falling back into old patterns. My mother has never warmed to Isla; I’ve often wondered whether she resented the long hours I used to spend at Isla’s house when I was a teenager, preferring the noise and vibrancy and warmth that waited for me there.

  She makes a tutting sound.

  ‘What?’

  ‘After all the support you’ve given her over the years … and she can’t even be bothered to pick up the phone.’

  ‘We argued. Just before she left.’

  My mother watches me closely. ‘About what?’

  I look down at my hands, unsure how to explain. It’s more than jealousy – and I’ve spent enough time in the early days of our friendship experiencing the sawn edge of that emotion to recognize the difference – no, it’s more that when I look back over the shape of our friendship, I realize with a sudden shock that I have been the compass circling around the sharp point of Isla’s life. Now that I really think about it, I see with startling clarity that that has always been my role. Years ago, when Isla’s mother died, I dropped everything to be there for her – but then she just upped and left, went travelling without so much as a backwards glance. Even my wedding to Nick felt like an apology, something to be celebrated mildly so as not to rebuke Isla. When our boys were born, I was the one who suggested Isla should move in with us after her Caesarean, because what else could I do? Isla had no one – and there I was with Nick.

  I can’t help wondering if it will always be me who supports her, me who picks up the pieces. When Isla returns to the sandbank each summer, she expects a whirlwind of attention, to be absorbed back into the fold of our family. I prepare her hut, stock her fridge, cook most of her meals – and then at the end of summer she disappears, a migrating bird, back to her life in Chile.