11 Missed Calls

by Elisabeth Carpenter

  The taste of wine lingers in my mouth – I want to spit it out. My face feels hot.

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘He’s sixteen,’ I say aloud, more to myself than Jack.

  ‘I know this is a lot to take in.’

  ‘When did you find out?’

  ‘That he existed – and the accident? Only a few weeks ago. Fran’s brother contacted me on Facebook of all places. But you’d just received that email from someone claiming to be your mother.’

  ‘Okay.’ I stand. ‘Right.’

  And I walk out of the door.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Wednesday, 23 July 1986

  Debbie

  Mum’s laid on a cold buffet of vol-au-vents with creamed mushrooms, crustless cucumber sandwiches, and fairy cakes decorated with red, white and blue icing. She’s set it on the coffee table, which is quite casual for Mum, considering the occasion. And she’s let Peter and me sit on the floor so we’ve easy access to the food, so it doesn’t go to waste.

  We’re going on holiday tomorrow, and Peter’s barely talking to me. It’s because I can’t remember getting home after the Friday night out with Monica. I must’ve drunk more than I thought.

  ‘What time did you come home last night?’ he’d said, standing over me as I lay in bed on Saturday morning. ‘I went to bed at midnight and there was no sign of you. I’ve been up since six with Annie – I’m knackered.’

  ‘I can’t move,’ I said, my voice monotone.

  I couldn’t even lift a hand. How could I tell him that I didn’t remember what time I got in? I don’t know what I was doing till after midnight. It was only about nine or ten when I left Monica.

  ‘It’s ten o’clock, Debs,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go to work. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘I know I said I’d cover the kids for you, but the duty manager’s gone home sick.’

  For me?

  I threw the cover over my head, wanting a hole to swallow me into nothingness.

  ‘I’m sick.’

  ‘You’re not sick, you’re hungover.’

  He whipped the quilt off my head; I brought my legs close to my chest, cowering against the pillow like a wounded animal. I hid my face with my arms. I didn’t have the strength to sob, the tears just rolled down my face.

  I heard him sigh as he stood next to me. I felt his breath as he crouched before me. His fingers reached through the gap in my arms and brushed the hair from my eyes.

  ‘You didn’t used to get this hungover.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll call your mum and dad … see if they can come over.’

  And they did, God bless them. They stayed until Peter came home from work, but I stayed in bed.

  I wouldn’t see Monica when she came round on Sunday. On Monday, I got up to pick Bobby up from school, waited until Peter got home, and then crawled up the stairs to bed. Annie was easy to look after. Bottle, nappy change, lie her next to me. She was fine. Tuesday was a repeat of Monday. If my children were still alive, then I was doing my job.

  Monica visited again yesterday, Tuesday, evening. I heard her and Peter talking.

  ‘You should call the doctor,’ she said. ‘It’s not normal. It’s not like her to be like this.’

  Yes, it is, I thought, staring at the bedroom ceiling. It’s definitely like me. It’s the real me who’s been cocooned, pretending, just waiting for the chance to show my real colours.

  ‘She was in a weird mood when she walked out of the pub on Friday night,’ said Monica. ‘It was only about ten o’clock.’

  ‘So where the hell was she for all those hours?’ said Peter.

  They could ask all they want; I didn’t know the answer. The last thing I remembered was walking out of the pub. I told Peter I got lost, took the wrong bus. For all I knew that could be true, but it didn’t matter where I was. I didn’t care what happened to me.

  Now he’s annoyed because I haven’t packed yet and we’re leaving tomorrow. It’s his day off and we’re round at my parents’ house. I don’t care if I go on holiday taking only the clothes I’m wearing.

  ‘Has it started yet?’ Dad’s standing at the doorway between the living room and the kitchen.

  ‘Not yet,’ says Mum. She turns her bottom so quickly she nearly falls off her chair. ‘Have you changed your mind?’

  ‘No, I bloody haven’t,’ he says. ‘Not if that b—’ He glances at Bobby running Matchbox cars along the skirting boards. ‘Not if that woman’s going. I’ll be in my office if there’s an emergency.’

  He means his shed, where he has a sneaky packet of cigarettes and a portable black-and-white telly.

  Poor Mum. She loves a royal wedding, but Dad won’t watch anything that has Margaret Thatcher in it. The back door slams shut and Mum rolls her eyes, tutting.

  ‘I wish he’d forgive and forget,’ she says, as though Dad losing his job was just a falling out of friends.

  Peter gives me that look – the one that says, Your mum lives in a bubble of Jesus and Victoria sponge.

  ‘Oh, it’s about to start,’ she says, shifting further from the edge of her seat.

  I bet she’s dying to sit on the floor to get a closer look at Fergie’s dress, but she never would.

  ‘That Elton John,’ she says, ‘he gets invited to everything.’

  It’s been on the telly for hours already and they’ve only just got married. I will Annie to wake up, but she’s barely stirring. Was Monica telling the truth when she thought Nathan was having an affair? He’s not mentioned anything to me, but then, why would he?

  I almost cheer when there’s a knock at the door, and jump up from the floor – the most animated I’ve been in days. ‘I’ll go,’ I say, taking advantage of Mum’s abandonment of civility while she’s engrossed in ivory duchesse satin.

  I open the door, and it’s Nathan.

  ‘Hey, Debs. Come outside for a bit.’

  I blink in the daylight – it feels like I haven’t been outside properly for weeks, even though we only arrived here a few hours ago.

  ‘What? Why?’

  He beckons me. I pull the door to after clicking the latch on.

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. I know what it is before he says anything.

  ‘I got a letter, too,’ he says.

  He glances around as though looking for someone watching us.

  I narrow my eyes.

  ‘Did Monica tell you I was getting letters?’

  ‘Not exactly. I didn’t know you got more than one, though – I saw it on her bedside cabinet.’

  ‘What does yours say?’

  ‘Here.’ He holds it out to me – his nails are bitten. ‘See for yourself.’

  I grab it.

  Keep your hands to yourself, you dirty bastard.

  My cheeks burn with the insinuation of what’s been written.

  ‘Do people think we’re …’ I say. ‘But we’ve only ever gone out once … everyone knew about that.’

  I search for an emotion on his face, but find nothing.

  ‘Monica said she had a contact at the police,’ I continue, ‘perhaps she should take that one too. What did she say when you showed it to her?’

  ‘I haven’t shown it to her. And the police won’t care about things like—’

  ‘You haven’t shown her? But we haven’t done anything wrong.’ I glance through the living-room window – Mum and Peter are where I left them. ‘Look, I can’t deal with all of this – I’m just about managing to get out of bed.’

  I close my eyes. I can’t believe I’m being so honest with him. I open my eyes again.

  ‘Sorry, Debbie. I shouldn’t have come round. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t tell Monica about it … she might ask about you.’ He goes to put a hand on my shoulder, looks into the window, and puts it down by his side. ‘To think someone’s been watching us – it’s creeping me out a bit.’ He starts to walk backwards towards the gate. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. I just didn�
�t want to bring it up in front of everyone and spoil the holiday.’

  I don’t have the energy to ask why it would spoil the holiday, or tell him that I’ve been getting the letters for weeks. I watch him as he gets into his big white car and drives away. I want to run after him and shout, ‘Don’t leave me!’

  I go back into the house and close the door behind me. There are cheers from the crowd on telly as Prince Andrew and Sarah Ferguson exit Westminster Abbey. They have everything they’ve ever wanted now. What would it be like to have a happy ever after?

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Anna

  I’m sitting in my car, across from the house I lived in as a baby. I arrived early to take in the atmosphere. I have driven down this road countless times and tried to peek in number fifty-seven, but I’ve never stopped, or walked down this street. I’ve seen the peach curtains open, closed; the airer in the front bedroom window, but never the occupants go in or out.

  I’m not in the mood for this. I lay awake last night, thinking about a child on this earth who might be related to Jack, to Sophie. It all happened years before I met Jack, so I can’t be angry about that – he didn’t even know himself. I thought about that poor boy who has just lost his mother. The DNA test result will arrive any day now. I’m ashamed to think it, but I hope Jack isn’t the father.

  A tap on my car window interrupts my thoughts.

  ‘Morning, love,’ says Sally, not raising her voice to compensate for the closed window.

  I get out, rubbing the tops of my arms. It might be July, but it’s freezing. Sally’s wearing the same beige mac, but today she’s wearing jeans with at least a five-centimetre turn-up.

  ‘Hi, Sally. Let’s get this over and done with.’

  She tilts her head to one side.

  ‘Are you not feeling up to this? You haven’t received any more emails, have you?’

  ‘Actually, no, I haven’t. She didn’t reply to my suggestion of meeting up, and that was days ago. To be honest, I’ve had a lot on my mind since.’

  ‘Anything you want to talk about?’

  ‘Not right now.’

  A front door slams shut opposite. A man opens a small garage at the side of his house and takes out a toolbox. He’s in his sixties, with grey hair and a swagger like he’s God’s gift.

  I look away when he catches me looking at him.

  ‘Well, I never,’ he says. ‘It’s like going back in time with you stood in front of number fifty-seven like that. You look just like my old neighbour. Same long dark hair, pale skin. Pretty too – not that I said that to her face.’

  I want to wipe myself clean after feeling his eyes all over me.

  ‘You remember Debbie Atherton?’ says Sally.

  ‘Course I do. There’s been no one under sixty that’s lived there since. Always thought she was too good for round here though, didn’t she?’ He opens the boot of his car, placing his toolkit inside, next to a bin bag full of women’s clothes. ‘What’s it to you two? You Cagney and Lacey?’ He laughs at his own joke, wheezing like he’s only got one lung.

  ‘We’re just here to view the house next door,’ says Sally.

  ‘Ah, yeah. Old Mrs Sullivan, property tycoon.’

  He goes into his garage and presses play on a white stereo. Hanging on the wall above it is a 2017 David Beckham calendar. The song ‘Gloria’ from the film Flashdance booms out of the old speakers.

  ‘If it’s all right,’ shouts Sally, over the music, ‘I might come back another time to have a chat to you about Debbie.’

  He salutes her. ‘Right you are, Columbo.’

  She smiles and rolls her eyes at me.

  ‘Come on,’ she says, holding me by the elbow and walking me towards number fifty-nine. ‘The reason I dragged us both here, is that I’ve done a bit of research – obviously – and I discovered that the person not only owns the one for sale, but also your old house.’

  ‘You mentioned it yesterday.’

  Sally knocks on number fifty-nine and smiles in preparation. It opens slowly, to a woman of about eighty.

  ‘Are you my ten o’clock?’ she says.

  ‘We are indeed, Mrs Sullivan,’ says Sally.

  ‘Well, come on in then. You don’t have to take your shoes off. I keep mine on all the time now. You never know when you’ll have to scarper, do you?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ I say.

  ‘I was joking, love. They support my ankles. Weak as twigs.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  For someone who works in a shop, I’ve never been very good at small talk.

  ‘Who do we have here then?’ she says.

  ‘I’m Sally and this is Anna.’

  ‘Right you are. Do you mind if you see yourselves round? Only, I’ve had three already this morning and I’m feeling a tad delicate.’

  Sally purses her lips to stifle a laugh.

  ‘That’s fine, Mrs Sullivan. We’ll not trouble you for too long.’

  We go straight upstairs and stand in the bedroom overlooking the back yard.

  ‘Why are we actually looking round the house?’ I say to Sally. ‘I thought we were asking about next door.’

  ‘I know. But I didn’t have the heart to not have a look round. Plus, I’m nosy.’

  ‘Right, well, let’s get back down there. I’ve got to get home.’

  She puts a hand on my arm to stop me from going downstairs.

  ‘Do you want me to keep looking for Debbie?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Do you think you’re close?’

  ‘I’ve got a few leads. I’ve got to go down to Eastbourne.’

  ‘Eastbourne? Where that other letter was from? Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

  ‘You said you had lots on your mind. Tell you what, I’ll let you know as soon as I find anything while I’m down there. We can catch up when I get back. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  I should be thinking that there’s hope – a proper lead we’ve never had before. But another part of me is worried about how she will explain the cost of the trip to Jack’s firm. I suppose it could be worse: she could’ve been travelling to Tenerife.

  ‘She was a beautiful person, your mother,’ says Sally. ‘I feel as though I’m getting to know her. I’m like that with all the missing people I look for. I suppose some might think that’s unprofessional, but I think it helps – to see them for who they were, not just a person in the news. Or not in the news, in this case.’

  ‘Thanks, Sally. It’s nice to hear someone else say it.’

  She did what people always do: refer to Debbie in the past tense. She must know more than she’s telling me.

  We’re still standing on the landing.

  ‘If nothing comes of this,’ she says, ‘I was thinking of placing something on Facebook – it’s actually quite effective these days. Though you have to be wary – violent partners use it to search for vulnerable ex-partners. Always check the source.’

  ‘Will do,’ I reply, wondering if she’s actually talking to a Dictaphone hidden in her pocket.

  I walk down the stairs and I feel as though my head will explode with the enormity of everything. All I can think about is Jack waiting for me at home. He needs my support, but I’m here. I should be the better person, swallow my pride and say that we will deal with anything together: him and me. I suppose Jack is having to do the same.

  We shuffle into the hall; we’re taking up too much space.

  ‘Thanks for letting us view your house, Mrs Sullivan,’ says Sally.

  The lady isn’t in her chair, but at the window. She’s parted her bright-white net curtains, not caring if she’s seen by the outside world. We stand at the threshold.

  ‘He insists on playing that God-awful music,’ says Mrs Sullivan.

  Sally clears her throat. ‘I said thank you for—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I heard you.’ She drops the net curtain. ‘I’m glad I’m moving … there’s been so much sadness on this street. Even for that one over the road
.’ She’s still looking at the man working on his car. ‘Poor Dean.’

  Sally and I look at each other with raised eyebrows.

  ‘Had a lovely wife,’ she continues. ‘Trisha. Though I say lovely, she was rather fond of herself. She took off with a billionaire. No, I’m wrong. It was a millionaire, like the shortbread. Took their little son with her, she did.’

  ‘That’s awfully sad,’ says Sally. ‘What else do you remember about this street?’

  ‘Well, around that time – actually, Trisha left before this – but next door … his wife ran away while they were on holiday in Tenerife.’

  ‘Is that what people say?’ I say.

  ‘About Trisha?’

  ‘No. About next door.’

  She looks at me through narrowed eyes.

  ‘You look familiar,’ she says. ‘Are you a relative?’

  I look to Sally; she shrugs.

  ‘I’m Debbie’s daughter.’

  Mrs Sullivan’s eyes are still narrow, then they widen as she regards me afresh.

  ‘Dear Lord, so you are. You’re the spitting image. I bet you get that all the time.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘No? How odd.’ She shakes her head. ‘A terrible thing. I hope you don’t think me awful for gossiping – only, it was a pretty big thing that happened on this street.’

  Sally steps forward. ‘The estate agent told me that you actually own the house next door, and that you’re putting that on the market soon. Is that right?’

  ‘It is, love,’ she says to Sally, but she’s still looking at me. ‘Ah, of course. Is that why you’re here? Did you want to have a look at next door?’

  ‘I …’

  ‘It’s a bit of a mess right now. The last tenants left it in a right state. They were six months behind in the rent, but I was held to ransom – they have so many rights, you see.’

  ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble,’ I say.

  Part of me wants to leave, to not see the house. I wouldn’t be able to remember anything anyway. But I suppose we’re not here for that; we’re here to see if Mrs Sullivan or Dean remembers anything.

  Mrs Sullivan grabs a set of keys from a silver cup on her bookcase, and we follow her out of the house. She steps over the small wall dividing the two properties and she opens the front door, pushing it hard against the pile of mail lying behind it.