11 Missed Calls

by Elisabeth Carpenter

  ‘Stress, perhaps? Or maybe it’s the heat. It’s probably nothing serious. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I think it’s probably both,’ I say, hoping she won’t ask any questions about it.

  I don’t want to tell her that I think I’m either dying or losing my mind. What if it doesn’t stop and I bleed to death? Oh God, I can’t breathe again.

  The woman places a hand on my arm. ‘There, there. Don’t panic. I’ve seen plenty of nosebleeds. They usually stop after a few minutes. Take a deep breath in.’

  I do as she says. Her voice is soothing; it calms me.

  ‘You’re brave, bringing such a young one to Tenerife,’ she says. ‘Where have you come from?’

  ‘Preston.’

  ‘Oh. I’ve never been there. We’re from the south coast, near Eastbourne.’

  She’s looking at me as I glance at the balcony.

  ‘I know it’s early,’ she says, ‘but I’m looking after him today. Even though he’s probably old enough to look after himself. My husband and my sister have taken my little one to the water park. I can’t swim – well, I can, but I’m not a strong swimmer. Doggy paddle mostly.’ She smiles, but then the smile drops as she looks at the carton of milk still on the table. ‘They’re probably having an affair.’

  My mouth drops open.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m always saying too much to total strangers.’

  I take the tea towel from my nose. The blood has stopped.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘It makes a change from thinking about my own problems.’

  Annie’s been quiet since we got here, but she’s starting to fret. I’m about to say we must go, when the woman says, ‘I’m sure them going to the water park is just an excuse for them to spend the day together. She hated swimming when we were kids – more than I did.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s just that I haven’t anyone to talk to. Everyone I know is friends with all of us. It’s a bit tricky.’

  For the first time since she was born, I’m glad when Annie starts bawling. I stand quickly.

  ‘I’ll have to go. Her milk will’ve cooled by now.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  She gets up to open the apartment door, and I wheel out the buggy.

  ‘I never got your name,’ she says.

  ‘Debbie.’

  ‘Debbie. Right. I’ll make sure to get this blanket back to you nice and clean. I’ll leave it at reception.’ She leans against the door to stop it slamming shut. ‘You take care of yourself. I’ll probably see you around. I’m Ellen by the way.’

  ‘Bye then. And thank you.’

  ‘No problem.’

  I turn and walk away.

  She doesn’t look like an Ellen.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Anna

  I turn on the car stereo: it’s Amy Winehouse singing ‘Valerie’. When Jack and I started dating, it played on the radio all the time. He used to roll his eyes when it came on. ‘The Zutons’ version is far superior,’ he said. He was a music snob then. He doesn’t listen to music in the house these days.

  There’s still no news about the DNA test. It’s been three days since he gave a sample and, apparently, it might be another two days before we get the result. Well, before he gets the result. I thought I knew everything about him. But you only ever know what a person chooses to reveal to you. He never told me his ex-girlfriend was pregnant when they split up. Is that something you would share with your wife?

  It’s one thing after another.

  Yesterday, after we looked around my old house, Sally brought up Nathan as we stood by her car.

  ‘Do you have any idea of what happened to him?’ she asked.

  ‘He and Monica divorced, I think. She said he’d moved somewhere down south. Leo barely remembered him … he didn’t spend much time with him as a kid.’

  ‘Does no one mention Nathan? Have you asked about him?’

  ‘It’s not the sort of thing I’d bring up. To be honest, Sally, there’s a whole host of things I never ask about. I’m scared of hurting everyone’s feelings all the time. I thought my dad and Monica fell in love and then she got divorced. I only knew about Nathan from Robert. There’s been no need for Nathan to be in our lives.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll let you know if I find out anything else.’

  She seemed annoyed at me, and I’m not surprised. I should’ve drawn her out a family tree – it’s confusing even to me sometimes.

  ‘I left my DS at home,’ says a little voice from the back seat.

  I forgot Sophie was sitting in the back. I’m driving on autopilot. I flick off the radio and bring myself back into the present.

  ‘Do you want me to turn around and go back for it?’ says my guilt.

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ she says, with a touch of melancholy. ‘I’ll probably just watch the movie channel all day.’

  ‘Sorry, love. I’m off next weekend. We can do something fun then.’

  ‘Why is Daddy working on a Saturday too? He doesn’t usually work on a weekend when you do.’

  ‘It’s just this once. And you love going to Nana and Grandad’s, don’t you?’

  She sighs. ‘Yeah.’

  We pull up outside Dad’s – at least my autopilot didn’t take me straight to work. I open the door for Sophie and she hops out.

  ‘I need my backpack,’ she says, grabbing it from the back seat.

  She leads the way up the path. She’s such a little individual. As much as I want her to grow into an independent young woman, I love her just as she is right now.

  Sophie knocks twice on the door, but there’s no answer.

  There’s a flap of a hand in the front window. I bend to peer through the letterbox and Dad’s walking towards me. He opens the front door as I stand.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he says.

  I let Sophie go in first, ushering her into the living room before joining Dad back in the hall.

  ‘Everything okay?’

  There are sobbing noises coming from the kitchen.

  ‘Is Monica all right? How’s her arm?’

  I scrutinise his face, trying to read his expression. There are remnants of tears coating his bottom eyelashes. I open the door of the kitchen and Monica’s sitting at the kitchen table – an array of papers and letters in front of her.

  She stands quickly, ripping a piece of kitchen roll from the holder on the wall.

  ‘Is that the time?’ she says, dabbing her cheeks, her make-up surprisingly intact. She puts the tissue into her trouser pocket and sweeps the pieces of paper with her left hand.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I ask her. ‘Has the pain lessened?’

  ‘It’s okay. The doctor said it’ll heal in two or three weeks. It’s only a sprain.’

  ‘Shall I take Sophie to work with me? I don’t mind – she can help in the back.’

  ‘No, no. I love having her here. She stops me wallowing. I’m a terrible patient.’

  ‘What’s this?’ I say, picking a pink letter up from the pile on the table. ‘I’ve not seen this one before.’

  She snatches it from my hand before I can read the writing.

  ‘Nothing, nothing. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Are all of these about Debbie?’

  She settles the pile into a neat square with her unbandaged arm. She sighs loudly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why are you crying?’ I say.

  I sense Dad behind me, not knowing where to put himself or what to say.

  ‘I’m just being silly. Thinking about Debbie and everything else.’

  I look down at the top of the pile and there’s a photo of Nathan. It’s not the time to bring it up, but I need to tell them anyway.

  ‘I went to the old house yesterday,’ I say. ‘With Sally.’

  ‘Sally?’

  ‘The private investigator.’

  There’s a slight roll of Monica’s eyes.

  ‘I met Mr
s Sullivan, who still lives next door. She said she never saw anything of Nathan after we came back from the holiday in Tenerife. When was the last time you heard from him?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  Her eyes don’t meet mine. Dad helps her to sit back in a chair.

  ‘He phoned a few times, didn’t he?’ he’s talking to Monica. ‘He gave you an address he was staying at.’

  Monica nods.

  Dad looks at me.

  ‘But you’re right,’ he says. ‘I last saw him the night your mother left.’ He sits down in the chair opposite. ‘I always thought they ran away together. Did Monica ever tell you that Debbie and Nathan were a couple in their teens?’

  ‘No,’ I say, trying to catch Monica’s eye again, but she’s still looking at the picture of Nathan.

  ‘He wrote a few times,’ she says. ‘And the odd phone call. But I didn’t see him. After seven years of no contact, I divorced him.’

  ‘Have you still got his letters?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Why didn’t you keep them?’

  ‘Because he hurt me.’ Her shoulders shake as she sobs. ‘And I didn’t want to upset your dad. Peter and I – all of us – had already started living together. We’d moved on without the pair of them.’

  Monica’s mobile phone lights up; it’s ringing on silent, the caller unknown.

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’ I say.

  She shakes her head, just staring at it.

  It stops flashing. I peer at the screen.

  ‘There are eleven missed calls, Monica. What if it’s her?’

  ‘How could she know my number? It could be anyone.’

  ‘Then why not answer it?’

  She covers her eyes with both hands, elbows resting on the table.

  I glance at the clock; it’s already 9 a.m. – I should be opening the bookshop now. I really am going to get fired at this rate.

  ‘But after all this time,’ I say. ‘I thought something might have happened to her – that she was dead. Why have you kept this from me?’

  Dad makes a fist and pounds the table.

  ‘Because it’s not always about you, Anna!’

  ‘Right, right.’ I blink away the tears. ‘Right. I’ll phone you later to check on Sophie.’

  I walk from the kitchen and dart my head around the living-room door.

  ‘See you later, love.’

  She nods, her eyes wide. She must have been listening.

  ‘Do you want to come to work with me?’ I say, trying to keep my voice even. ‘You can help sort through the books – it’ll be fun.’

  She shakes her head. ‘It’s okay. I’ll try and cheer Monica up. She’s always crying.’

  ‘I …’ I say, but I can’t get into it with her now.

  I reach into my pocket – and pull out Sophie’s DS. ‘Oh!’ I look at it as though it were put in my pocket by magic – I thought the weight was my mobile phone. ‘Look what I found!’

  Her expression changes in an instant.

  ‘Thanks, Mummy!’ She gets up and takes it from my hands, then settles into the sofa next to her little rucksack.

  ‘See you later,’ I say. ‘Don’t forget to ring if you need me.’

  She waves, her eyes on the console as it chimes into life.

  I say a quiet goodbye to Dad and Monica in the kitchen, but Dad is towering over Monica, his arms wrapped around her. She’s not crying about Nathan now. The letter she snatched from me wasn’t like the rest – its ink hadn’t faded, the creases were sharp. If I were to guess, she received that letter this morning.

  I park around the corner from the bookshop and walk as fast as I can. I get my keys out. Ellen is standing outside the shop. She hasn’t a coat; her hair has a fine mist of rain on it, like a halo.

  ‘Sorry, Ellen,’ I say. ‘I got caught up with childcare.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ she says, but she’s biting her bottom lip, her eyes fixed on the ground.

  She follows me inside, into the back room, and I hang up my damp coat.

  ‘I’ll make you a nice hot cup of tea,’ I say.

  ‘Thanks, Annie.’

  I fill the kettle and flick it on, wishing, for the millionth time, that she wouldn’t call me that. I get the float money from the safe and carry it through to the bookshop. I hold the blue cotton bag in my hands as I collapse onto the stool. I can’t stop the tears falling, my breath is taken over by uncontrollable sobs, even though I’m trying to be quiet.

  ‘Oh, love,’ says Ellen, appearing at my side. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘Everything,’ I manage to say through sharp breaths.

  She goes into the back room and, a few minutes later, places a mug of tea on the counter.

  ‘I’ve put two sugars in,’ she says. ‘Here, give me that.’ She takes the money bag from me and opens the till drawer. ‘Just in case Isobel comes in. She can’t say we’re slacking then, can she?’ She winks at me.

  ‘Thanks.’

  I put my hands around the warm mug.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me what’s going on,’ she says. ‘But it might help.’

  She tilts her head to the side. Her tone is so kind that I do – I tell her everything – about Debbie, about Tenerife. I tell her that Jack might have a child with someone else, that my stepmother is hiding something, and my father always takes her side. I tell her that I’ve barely spoken to my brother these past few weeks, and I used to be so close to him.

  When I finish, Ellen gets up from the chair she pulled in from the back. Her eyes are glossed with unshed tears.

  ‘I met someone called Debbie once,’ she says.

  My own tears have dried.

  ‘What?’ I throw a damp tissue into the bin. ‘It’s quite a common name.’

  ‘I met her in Tenerife.’

  ‘Did you live there?’

  ‘No, no. It was a holiday.’

  There’s a voice in my head screaming at me; I can’t make out the words. It sounds like: Don’t trust her.

  ‘Ellen,’ I say. ‘Can I ask you something? I know I said I didn’t want to know, but—’

  ‘Why was I in prison?’

  I nod slowly, and watch as she puts the coins in their allotted compartments.

  She turns to me and says, ‘Because I killed someone.’

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  When you kill someone, their soul becomes part of your own – you’re together forever. Do you ever come to terms with what you’ve done? Are there different types of killers, or are we all the same?

  They’ll never forgive me.

  I should never have sent that email. I still haven’t replied to the one she sent back. What am I supposed to say? Some things are too big to say in so few words. I’ve learned that now.

  Chapter Forty

  Sunday, 27 July 1986

  Debbie

  We’re all sitting around the pool, and I’m enjoying a quiet ten minutes while Annie sleeps in the pushchair next to me. She’s not taken to the heat – she’s like me. The others have started on the cocktails already while Leo and Bobby mess around in the pool. It’s only eleven o’clock in the morning for God’s sake.

  ‘It’s a scorcher today,’ says Peter.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We know.’

  He’s said it about fifty bloody times in two days and I bet he doesn’t realise. No one else mentions it because they’re nicer than I am. Or maybe life is just one long drama where we repeat ourselves against different backdrops over and over again.

  I saw Ellen again yesterday, with her nephew. We were sitting around the pool like today when she approached me. She didn’t have sunglasses; she squinted and used her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

  ‘I’ve put the blanket in the wash, love,’ she said. ‘I soaked it yesterday. It should be ready for the little one tonight.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. ‘I brought a spare.’

  She glanced at Monica lying flat on the
sun lounger in a black bikini – her skin glistening with baby oil, Walkman headphones on her ears.

  ‘All right for some, eh?’ said Ellen, wrinkling her nose.

  ‘She’s with me,’ I said, with a little too much force. ‘She’s my friend.’

  ‘Sorry, love,’ she said. ‘Didn’t mean to offend.’

  We exchanged an awkward goodbye, and she went off to get a slice of pizza for the teenager dressed in black.

  Monica’s in the same position this morning, only she’s in a neon-green bikini. She hasn’t one hair on her body. If only I had the time, the energy or inclination to be bothered with that. I’ve had the same pair of shorts over my swimsuit since we’ve been round the pool. I’d wear a wetsuit if I could.

  ‘Are you going in the pool today, Debs?’ says Monica, barely moving her lips.

  Peter and Nathan don’t look up from their card game; they’re using pesetas with holes in the middle as poker chips.

  ‘I’m not inflicting my blubber on everyone,’ I say. ‘I’m fine as I am.’

  Monica sits up, removing her headphones. I don’t think she has any music playing.

  ‘Blubber? What are you like? You look gorgeous!’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘The water will cool you off nicely when it gets hotter later.’

  I wish she’d shut up about the bloody swimming pool. But I look at it, glistening in the sun, and wish I could be like everyone else – jump in like Bobby and Leo, not care what anyone thinks.

  ‘Why don’t you get a cocktail?’ says Monica. ‘It might chill you out a bit.’

  ‘I am chilled. I can’t be drinking while I’ve got the baby. Peter’s on his second drink already. He never drinks cocktails in England.’

  She laughs and swings her legs to the side of the lounger.

  ‘We’re all here – everyone can help with the baby.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I mutter.

  ‘I heard that.’ Monica stands. ‘And that’s why I’m going to get you one.’

  Before I can argue, she’s sauntered off to the bar at the side of the pool. She returns five minutes later with half a pint of an orange creation.

  ‘I’ll never drink all of that.’

  ‘Sure you will,’ she says, handing me the deliciously cold glass.