The Missing Pieces of Sophie McCarthy

by B M Carroll

  ‘Good morning,’ he replies, after a pause that speaks volumes.

  ‘Don’t be glum,’ I implore him.

  Unfortunately, he doesn’t agree. ‘I’ve made things worse.’

  ‘How, exactly?’

  ‘Sophie will be furious with me.’ He sighs, sounding incredibly tired, despite the fact that he’s only just woken up. ‘I haven’t been fair to her.’

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake. Nothing happened. We slept next to each other. Is that a crime?’

  ‘In Sophie’s eyes, yes.’

  ‘Well, I don’t care about Sophie’s eyes.’ My tone is petulant, but my hand – when it reaches out of its own accord to touch his face – is oddly gentle. His morning stubble prickles my fingertips. His breath is warm. He groans and turns his head away from my touch. He doesn’t want this. He’s right: it will only make things worse than they already are. Still, my head fills with other potential moves I could make from here. I could lower my lips to kiss the hollow of his neck; I can already imagine how warm his skin would be. Or I could slide my leg over his, push myself against him. More brazenly, I could drop my hand down under the covers and claim his early-morning erection. So easy, any of these moves. So very tempting. Things I’ve done a thousand times before without a second thought. ‘I want to be crystal clear, Aidan. I love you, and I want you to come home. We’re your family. We were here before Sophie. This is where you belong.’

  His hand finds mine and our fingers interlace in what feels like a pledge. I feel so close to him now, so deeply intimate that my sexual urges have been momentarily satiated. ‘I love you too.’ His voice breaks. ‘I always have, and always will. But I need to fix this mess, and I need to do it in such a way that I can live with myself … Will you give me some time?’

  This is the same as what he said last night, when we talked and talked and talked. He still loves me, but he needs time to sort things out. What choice do I have? He is a man plagued by his conscience. It’s vital – if we’re to have any chance of putting this behind us – that he extracts himself from Sophie in a way that he feels is honest and fair.

  I tighten my fingers around his. ‘Just don’t take too long.’

  Channelling all my willpower, I pull back the covers and get out of bed. ‘I’ll get some coffee on.’

  Downstairs I turn on the radio, fill the kettle and pop two slices of wholegrain bread into the toaster. It’s all I can do not to break into song. He loves me. I love him. He needs time. I can give him time. Am I being a complete walkover, welcoming him back with open arms, no questions asked? Should I hold out on him, even just a little? Make him pay for leaving us, for choosing Sophie over us? No. He wasn’t himself. The man who decided to leave us was a stranger, anguished beyond recognition, and making him pay feels futile, even cruel. I’ve seen enough army couples try to reunite after a split to know what works and what doesn’t. Holding on to the bitterness, the hurt, the anger, is the worst thing you can do. It festers, you see. It may well be only a small residue of bad feeling to start with, nothing more than a slight desire for the offender in the marriage not to get off that lightly, but it always seems to grow much bigger than that. Until the couple splits up again. As far as I’m concerned, it’s start with a clean slate or not at all.

  Jasmin is still sound asleep when Aidan comes downstairs, his hair wet from the shower. The whole scene feels achingly familiar.

  ‘Big day today?’ I enquire conversationally, sliding his coffee mug – a Father’s Day present from Jasmin with DADDY hand-painted in uneven bubble writing – across the counter.

  ‘Huge.’ He sits on one of the bar stools and sips his coffee. ‘We’re going up the mountains on a night-time training exercise.’

  ‘Ah, an overnighter.’ I smile. ‘I remember those.’

  Aidan would be incredibly tense in the days leading up to an exercise – all the planning was his responsibility. Then I would hear nothing while he was away, and I would worry for him and his men because things can go wrong on expeditions like that; they sometimes use live bullets, for goodness’ sake. But he always came back in one piece, dirty, exhausted and deeply satisfied that everything had gone to plan.

  ‘Panther’s one of the most challenging I’ve been involved with,’ he says now. ‘Coaches, helicopters, boats, climbers – it’s a logistical nightmare. I should get going. I wanted to get in early this morning to sort out a few last-minute details.’

  ‘Will I call you a taxi?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I’ll flag one down on the main road. Do you mind if I stick my head in on Jasmin first?’

  ‘Of course not. She’s had enough sleep. For once!’

  ‘Last night went OK, didn’t it? Only three times. She’s definitely improving.’

  ‘Yeah, she is.’ My eyes meet his and there’s so much conveyed in the look we share: the memory of all the bad nights over the last few years; the dreadful worry that there was something drastically wrong with our daughter; the tiredness, the despair, the rows, our dwindling hope as theory after theory and plan after plan proved not to make the slightest difference; now there’s sheer relief and a rather unexpected pride – in Jasmin, in ourselves – that we seem to have found the answer and we’re beginning to see a real improvement. Sensory overload. It sounds so plausible, so obvious. In hindsight.

  Aidan goes back upstairs, and I’m draining the last of my coffee when my phone beeps so loudly I almost drop the mug with fright. The text is from Hannah.

  Sorry for the early morning intrusion. Just wondering if you can fit in a coffee after school drop-off? Need to discuss something with you.

  That’s odd. I wonder what Hannah needs to talk about. Something to do with soccer? And what’s so urgent that it can’t wait until the game at the weekend? Doesn’t she have work this morning? Won’t this coffee make her late?

  Sure. Let me know when and where.

  Aidan reappears. ‘She’s awake, and full of questions about why I’m still here.’

  I shrug. ‘That’s to be expected. She’s a smart girl.’

  Our eyes meet again in another look that seems to say a thousand things.

  ‘Right, I’m off. I’ll see you soon. Very soon.’

  ‘Bye, Aidan.’ Quite suddenly, I’m scared to let him go. What if this exercise is especially risky? What if he gets seriously injured? It would be too cruel that, just as we’re beginning to pick ourselves up from the last accident, another should occur. Be safe, I implore him silently. Keep yourself and everyone else safe.

  He lets himself out, and I resist the urge to run to the front window and steal one last glimpse of him.

  50

  Aidan

  The house is empty and cold. Sophie’s nowhere to be seen and the bed hasn’t been slept in, but I’m too short of time for even a brief phone call to establish where she is. Change into my uniform. Quick shave. Don’t forget the bag I packed before I went to see Chloe last night, with extra clothes and toiletries for the exercise.

  I leave a note on the counter.

  Sorry about last night. Back late tomorrow. Talk then.

  My guess is that she’s at her parents’ house. I can’t think of a friend she would turn to. Sophie’s friends are groups rather than individuals. Some girls she knows from school, another group from university, a small knot of similarly minded colleagues from work. Nobody close enough to be in daily contact. Richard is invariably the one she calls when she’s upset, or in need of anything. The dynamic of their relationship has bothered me at certain points over the last few months, and now it strikes me – just as I’m heading out the door – that Richard’s more like Sophie’s best friend than her father.

  Another taxi. It’s only a matter of days now until the twelve months are up, when I get my licence back, and I’ll never take the privilege of driving for granted again. The ease of going straight from front door to car. No more jerky stops, no more foul smells, no more delays from buses that have come and gone too early, or arrive unapologeticall
y late.

  The traffic is heavy and progress is slow, despite the short journey. I could call Sophie now – it looks like we’ll be at this particular set of lights for a few minutes – but it’s still very early. She tries to stay in bed as late as she can in the mornings so that she’s had enough rest. And it’s not as if I can offer her any assurances. I’d be waking her only to upset her even further.

  Staying with Chloe last night was cowardly, an act of weakness, and Sophie – despite our stand-off about Jasmin, despite the fact that we’re barely speaking to each other – deserves much better. It’s obvious now that she’s blindingly jealous of both Chloe and Jasmin, and that’s why she has been so terribly callous, so quick to lay blame. And there’s no doubt she would have assumed the worst when she got my text last night. The fact that Chloe and I didn’t have sex means nothing. What we did – admitting that we still loved each other, my promise to extract myself from Sophie – was far more dishonest. It was cheating.

  Sorry, Sophie. I’m sorry to hurt you yet again. It’s such a mess. All my fault. Blame me for all of it. What am I? A man who ping-pongs between women? Tells them he loves them, only to change his mind? What is wrong with me? I’m a walking disaster zone.

  One thing I know for sure: I’ve always loved Chloe. It’s the Sophie part I’m struggling to understand. Our argument in the car was like being doused with a bucket of icy-cold water. I couldn’t love Sophie if she felt like that about Jasmin. And once I had reached this stark conclusion, I then started questioning if I had ever loved Sophie to begin with. I thought it was love, I really did, but now I can’t comprehend how I arrived at that particular label. If it wasn’t love that I felt, what was it? Attraction? Admiration? Pity? Concern? A need to take action, to make good, along with a generous measure of guilt and the desire to punish myself? All of the above? Whatever it was, it was incredibly strong, something I couldn’t fight, something I felt compelled to act on.

  The coaches are already outside the barracks when I get there. There are three of them, their engines running, even though we’re not meant to depart for another thirty minutes. I have some last-minute paperwork to complete and a hundred and twenty men to organize and keep safe over the next twenty-four hours. There’s no choice: I must leave Sophie, Chloe and this fresh layer of guilt, remorse and confusion behind me, at least while I’m on this operation. Nothing can go wrong. There’s no room for distraction or error.

  I lock my phone in my desk drawer. The only technology allowed on Panther is the radio and satellite equipment.

  Hannah

  Here’s Chloe now, a few minutes early, which is a bonus. I texted Sophie to say I have an emergency at home and won’t be in until ten. She’ll be annoyed. If she knew what I was really up to, she would be considerably more than annoyed. Suffice it to say, the ‘less late’ I am, the better for everyone.

  ‘Hey.’ Chloe smiles as she sits down across from me. Her highlighted hair is tied in a high ponytail, and her skin is shiny with moisturizer. She’s obviously a morning person; happiness seems to radiate from her.

  A waitress appears with much appreciated efficiency. Once we’ve ordered, Chloe rests her elbows on the table and asks, ‘What’s up?’

  A perfectly reasonable question, but where do I start? Back at St Brigid’s, or the present day? With my gut instinct, or the proven facts?

  ‘You know how Jasmin stays the night with Sophie and Aidan sometimes?’

  Chloe blinks in surprise. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t want my twins doing that … I wouldn’t want them staying with Sophie McCarthy, day or night … I wouldn’t want them spending a single minute with her.’

  Chloe stares at me, speechless. After a few moments, her questions come piling out on top of each other. ‘What? What do you mean? Why?’

  ‘Because she’s spiteful and dangerous.’

  The waitress brings the coffees. I’ve lost the appetite for mine. I assume Chloe has too, because she doesn’t even glance down at the frothy cappuccino that has been set before her.

  ‘How do you know this? From working with her?’

  ‘Partly. She’s a bitch at work. She’s a bully, a tyrant who makes life miserable for her staff. But the real reason I’m here is because of something that happened at school …’

  Chloe looks taken aback at this further connection. ‘You were at school with her?’

  ‘I was in the year below. She hurt someone, Chloe. A girl at camp. The girl, Kristina, was a threat to Sophie. She was smarter than her, and Sophie couldn’t stand it. She pushed her down a ravine. Sophie pushed this poor girl down a ravine, and she spent weeks in hospital. Here, I have some messages. I found the girl on Facebook …’

  My bag is on the floor, and I reach down to pull out the pages I printed late last night. My first message to Kristina. Her short response saying that she had spent her life trying to forget St Brigid’s and didn’t want anything to do with a reunion, if that’s what I had in mind. Then my reply admitting that I had seen something the day of the accident, and that I knew Sophie had been lying about her exact whereabouts on the track, and how much I regretted not speaking up at the time. Then Kristina’s response, validation of what I’d suspected all along.

  She pushed me. I did not lose my footing. She pushed me because she couldn’t bear that I was better than her. But nobody believed me. The school said it was ‘natural to want to blame someone’ after such a terrible accident.

  Chloe’s reading slowly, thoroughly. What would I do in her situation? Jump into action, or take some time to mull it over? Take Sophie to task, demanding an explanation, or simply remove Jasmin from her vicinity?

  All I know is that a weight has lifted from me: the self-loathing that came with knowing I had done nothing, kept my mouth shut for fear of drawing attention to myself, talked myself out of my concerns and allowed Sophie to lie through her teeth. Things would have turned out differently if I’d just opened my mouth. Sophie would’ve been challenged. It would always have been a case of her word against Kristina’s. It’s not as if I saw the push – my evidence was only to do with where she was on the path at the time Kristina fell – but at the very least Sophie would have been on notice. She might have realized that it’s not so easy to get away with things. Her tendency to bully and get her own way at all costs might have been tempered, instead of going completely unchecked.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I ask Chloe when she finally looks up.

  ‘What you suggested … I’m not going to allow Jasmin anywhere near that woman.’

  ‘Good.’ I breathe out. My latte is cold when I take a sip. A waste of money, but time well spent. ‘Now, I’d better get to work.’

  ‘How can you face her?’ Chloe asks, her eyes following me as I stand up and hitch my handbag over my shoulder.

  My smile feels rather shaky. ‘Because today is the day that Sophie McCarthy is going to be held to account. In more ways than one. As soon as I get into work, I’m going straight to HR to make an official bullying complaint.’

  I can hear Sophie’s excuses when she hears about my complaint. I have high standards – what’s wrong with that? Her standards are not just high, they’re deliberately impossible. I may have been bad-tempered but I’m in a lot of pain. Pain is no excuse for anything. We’re all in pain, in one way or another. How we react to it is a measure of who we truly are.

  Do you hear me, Harry? It’s not OK to give in to pain. It’s not OK to use it as an excuse.

  Chloe

  I’m shocked. On many levels. That something so dreadfully serious should occur – a girl being pushed down a ravine! – without any consequences. That Sophie could live with herself afterwards. That she could get away with it. That she could be so vindictive, so callous, so cruel, so dangerous. We had no idea who it was we crashed into that morning. We assumed it was someone worthy of our guilt and remorse. How were we to know it was a monster?

  Back at home I tackle some essential housework – a
clean-up after breakfast, a load of washing, then a quick vacuum – before sitting down at my sewing machine. One of the mums from soccer admired my dress last week, and I impulsively offered to make her one the same. It’s already half done: floral chiffon, fitted on top, then falling in soft folds to just above the knee. A dress that can be worn in any season (I had leggings and boots on with mine).

  The rhythm of the machine soothes me, clears my head. What to do about Sophie? Apart from the obvious – making sure that Jasmin is never alone with her again – what other steps should be taken? This accident at the ravine happened fourteen years ago, but shouldn’t the police be informed? Is there a time limit on such things? More pressingly, how should I broach this with Aidan? The woman we crashed into, the woman you live with, is a complete psychopath. What will he make of these emails – Hannah said it was OK to keep them – when I show them to him? Will he believe Hannah and Kristina, two people he hasn’t even met? Has he seen any evidence of Sophie’s vindictiveness and cruelty? If only he wasn’t away on this stupid operation. He won’t even have his phone with him. No technology. The army is infuriating at times.

  Sophie doesn’t like me.

  How many times has Jasmin said these words? How many times have Aidan and I passed it off as being a natural sentiment on her part, to believe that her father’s new partner didn’t like her, when in fact the truth was the other way around? It strikes me now that I should have asked more questions. Why do you think Sophie doesn’t like you, Jasmin? Has she said something to you? Done something? Has she hurt you in any way? If Sophie was evil enough to push a girl down a ravine simply for the crime of being too clever, what could she potentially do to Jasmin? Jasmin, whom her father adores, and who could be deemed a much bigger threat to Sophie’s obvious aspirations to have Aidan all to herself?

  But it was such a long time ago. They were all so young. Maybe it was an accident. Hannah and I are united on one thing: we don’t like Sophie. Maybe that’s blinding us, making us want to believe the absolute worst of her and take Kristina’s side. My head is beginning to feel significantly less clear now.