Then She Was Gone

by Lisa Jewell

  And then came that phone call. The pleasant mother being not quite so pleasant. Christ, you know, I can barely remember what she said now. I wasn’t really listening. All I could think was no, no, no. Not my Tuesdays. Not my Tuesdays. So I was curt, verging on rude, most likely. I told her that it was a great inconvenience. When it was nothing of the sort. It was a fucking travesty, that’s what it was. A fucking travesty.

  I dropped the phone afterward and I screamed out loud.

  I fixated on all the nice things I’d done for Ellie. The gifts I’d bought her. The special papers I’d found for her, printed off for her. The extra ten minutes I’d sometimes tag on to the end of our lesson if we were in the zone as I called it. I bubbled and fermented with resentment.

  That phase went on for a week or two and then I entered the nostalgia phase. Everything had been better then, I told myself, when I’d spent Tuesday afternoons with Ellie Mack. My relationship with you had been better, my teaching had been better, my life had been better. And I thought, Well, maybe if I could just see her, just see her face, maybe I’d feel a bit like I’d felt then.

  There’s a word to describe what I did next. And that word is stalking. I knew where Ellie was at school, of course I did; not too far from my home, as it happened, so it was easy to pass by at 9 a.m., at 3:30, to watch her coming and going, the boy with his arm slung around her shoulders, the glow coming off the two of them so fucking bright and golden it’s a wonder they could see where they were going. They were the culmination of every teen romance movie ever filmed, right there, in real life.

  Then came the half-term and I no longer knew where she was going to be. So I had to become a little sneaky. It was tricky because obviously I was working all the hours with my other students, and seeing you too, servicing your sexual requirements like a good girl. But I worked out that she was at the library a lot, and that she passed my road on her way there and that if I put myself in the window of the café on my street corner I’d be able to see her when she passed by. So whenever I wasn’t teaching I’d be there, in the café on the corner, looking for a glimpse of that waterfall of gold hair. And you know, Floyd, I swear that was all I wanted. I just wanted to see her.

  But for some reason that day, I found myself rising from my chair. There she was standing between two parked cars, waiting to cross the road. Her blonde hair was tied back and hidden somehow inside her hood or the back of her jacket and I wanted . . . I swear, I just wanted her to see me, to acknowledge me in some way. And I approached her and there it was, like a punch to the gut: Jesus Christ, she doesn’t know me. Not for the first second or two. I watched the memory slot into place like a slide in one of those carousels from the olden days and then of course she was all smiles and kindness. But it was too late. She had completely failed to verify my existence.

  If only she had known, Floyd, if only she had known how much I’d needed her to do that, then maybe none of it would have happened. Maybe Ellie Mack would have gone to the library, got to sit all her GCSEs, got to marry Theo, got to live her life.

  But, unfortunately, that’s not the way it worked out.

  34

  Poppy serves dinner for Floyd and Laurel on Friday night. She lights candles, wraps a bottle of wine in a linen napkin, and pours it from the base, like a sommelier. She doesn’t eat with them because that would ruin the role play, merely hovers at a discreet distance, clears the table between courses, asks how their food is. Her hair, Laurel notices, is in a topknot, rather than the more formal hairdos she normally favors, and she has a tea towel tied around her waist in an approximation of a waiter’s apron. She looks very grown up. Very pretty. More like Ellie than ever. Laurel can barely tear her eyes from her.

  She makes love to Floyd that night.

  She is wrong, she concludes, lying in his arms afterward. She is wrong about it all. The lip balm means nothing. Maybe Noelle bought herself fruity lip balms. Maybe her whole house was full of fruity lip balms. The fact that Poppy looked like Ellie was also neither here nor there. People looked like people. That was a simple matter of fact. And maybe SJ had imagined Noelle’s flat stomach.

  And this man, this man right here with his lovely jumpers and his gentle touch, this man who sends her smiley-face emojis and cannot live without her, why would he have invited her into his life if he was somehow involved in Ellie’s disappearance? It makes no sense at all.

  She falls asleep in the crook of his arm, her hands entwined with his, feeling safe.

  “I love you, Laurel Mack,” she thinks she hears him whisper in the middle of the night. “I love you so much.”

  The uncertainty returns the following morning. She is the first up and the house ticks and creaks as all Victorian houses tick and creak. The kitchen is filled with cold white morning light and last night’s candles and background music are a distant memory. She quickly makes two cups of coffee and takes them upstairs to the warm cocoon of Floyd’s bedroom.

  “I have to go somewhere today,” he says.

  “Somewhere?” she says. “That sounds mysterious.”

  He smiles and pulls her to him. They sit up side by side in the bed, their feet and ankles entwined. “Not really,” he says. “I’m meeting my financial advisor.”

  “On a Saturday?”

  He shrugs. “I always see him on a Saturday. I don’t know why. But I’ll only be a couple of hours. I wondered if maybe you’d be able to stay here and sit with Poppy? While I’m gone?”

  “I’d love to,” she says and they drink their coffee. From upstairs they hear the sound of Poppy rising. They hear her footsteps on the stairs and then her knocking on the bedroom door. Laurel pulls Floyd’s dressing gown tighter across her breasts and Floyd calls out for her to come in. Poppy runs in and throws herself between them, right onto the sex-scorched bedsheets, against the pillows that Laurel had gripped last night and buried her face into.

  Poppy rests her head against Floyd’s shoulder and then she finds Laurel’s hand and grabs it and Laurel feels oddly wrong, braless and unwashed, holding the hand of a young girl inside this nest of adult yearnings.

  “I’m popping out later. Laurel’s going to stay with you,” says Floyd.

  “Yay!” says Poppy. “Let’s go somewhere.”

  She presses her face against Laurel’s shoulder now and Laurel nods and smiles and says, “Yes, that would be lovely.”

  And as she says it she drops a kiss onto the top of Poppy’s head, the way she used to do with all her children when they were small. And there’s a smell about her scalp, her hair, a smell that sends her reeling back in time: the smell of Ellie.

  “We’ll go out for cake,” she says, a particular café coming immediately to mind. “We’ll have fun.”

  The café is on the corner of Noelle’s road. Laurel noticed it when she was here on Thursday. It’s called the Corner Café and it’s been there forever; she’s sure she once took the children there for tea when they were tiny after a swimming lesson or a visit to the dentist.

  Poppy has a pecan and maple twist. Laurel has a granola bar. They share a pot of tea. Laurel glances at Poppy nervously. She’s aware that she’s horribly overstepping the boundaries of her relationship with Floyd by asking his daughter to collude with her behind his back like this, but her need to answer questions outweighs her sense of loyalty to Floyd.

  “Have you ever been here before?” Laurel opens.

  Poppy looks around her over the rim of her oversized teacup. “Don’t think so.”

  “You know,” Laurel says cautiously, “you used to live on that street?” She points over her shoulder.

  “Did I?”

  “Yes. With your mum.”

  Poppy glances up at her. “How do you know?”

  Laurel smiles tentatively. “It’s a very long story. How’s your pastry?”

  “It’s totally fantastic,” Poppy says. “Want to try some?”

  “Yeah,” says Laurel, “why not. Thank you.” She accepts the piece that Poppy tears off and
passes her. “You know,” she continues carefully, “I went in there the other day.” She nods in the direction of Noelle’s house.

  “Where?”

  “To the house where you used to live. To talk to your”—she drums her fingertips on the underneath of her chin and pretends to think hard—“well, I suppose he’s your cousin.”

  “My cousin? I don’t have any cousins.”

  “Well, yes, actually, you do. You have tons of them. Most of them live in Ireland.”

  “No they don’t.” She looks defiantly at Laurel. “I promise you, I do not have any cousins.”

  “That’s definitely not true,” says Laurel. “There’s two living in your mum’s house, just there. Joshua and Sam. They’re in their early twenties. Joshua’s at university studying history. He’s really lovely. You’d like him.”

  Poppy glares at her. “Why have you been talking to them?”

  “Oh, just one of those things. One of those great coincidences in life. Because it turns out that”—Laurel draws in her breath and forces a smile—“I used to know your mum, a long, long time ago. And when your dad told me that she’d disappeared, well, I was a bit curious. So I called her up on her old phone number and this lovely boy answered the phone and he invited me for tea. He doesn’t know where your mum went either. He’s just looking after her house for her until she comes back.”

  Poppy shudders. “I don’t want her to come back.”

  “No,” says Laurel. “No. I know you don’t. But Joshua said”—she turns her smile up a few degrees—“that there’s another cousin your age. Called Clara. He said she’s really funny and clever. He said you’d like her.”

  “Clara?” says Poppy, her eyes brightening. “She’s my cousin?”

  “Apparently,” says Laurel. “And your mum’s family all agree with you, that your mother was a bit strange. But apparently she had a sister who died when she was little. It sent her a little loopy. But it sounds like the rest of the family are really normal.”

  “Her sister died?” Poppy repeats pensively. “That’s really sad.”

  “I know,” Laurel replies. “It is really sad.”

  “But no excuse for being a horrible mum.”

  “No,” she agrees. “No excuse at all.”

  Laurel allows a silence to fall, giving Poppy a chance to absorb it all.

  “What did you say he was called?”

  “Joshua.”

  “That’s a nice name.”

  “Yes. It’s a very nice name.”

  Another silence follows. Laurel makes a great pretense of being absorbed by her granola bar while her heart races with nerves about what she’s about to do. “I’ve got his number,” she says after a moment. “I could call? See if he’s about? Go and say hello?”

  Poppy looks up at her and says, “Do you think Dad would mind?”

  “I don’t know,” she replies. “Do you think he’ll mind?”

  Poppy shrugs. “He might. But then . . .” Her face is set with a slightly staged resolve. “. . . I don’t have to tell him, do I? It’s not like he tells me everything he does.”

  “I don’t want to be responsible for you lying to your father, Poppy.”

  “But I wouldn’t be lying, would I? I’ll just tell him we went for tea. And that is true.”

  “Yes. That is true.”

  “And it’s not as if he’ll say and did you do anything else? Is it?”

  “It’s unlikely.”

  “And he might not even be there. My cousin.”

  “No. He might not. But I could give him a call. Just in case. Would you like me to do that?”

  Poppy nods, once.

  Laurel taps in his number and presses call.

  Poppy’s steps slow as they turn onto the front path.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t,” she says.

  “We don’t have to. It’s fine.”

  But before they have a chance to change their minds, the front door is pulled open and Joshua is standing there in a hoodie and jeans, another young man standing just behind in a fluorescent green T-shirt and they’re both saying, “Oh my God. Poppy! Poppy! Come in! Come in out of the cold. My God, if it isn’t little Poppy!” and things of that ilk and Poppy turns briefly to Laurel, who smiles encouragingly at her, and they are both swept into the house on a wave of slightly manic hospitality and delight.

  “So,” says Joshua, his hands in his pockets, bouncing up and down and beaming, “so you’re Poppy. Wow! Sit down, Poppy. And Laurel. Sit down. Please. Tea? Coffee? Anything?”

  Poppy sits primly and shakes her head. “No thank you,” she says. “We just had tea and cake,” and Sam and Joshua look at each other and hoot and Joshua says:

  “An English cousin! We finally have an English cousin. We already have a Canadian cousin, two American cousins, and a German cousin. And now we finally have an English one. Wow. And look at you. I can see my grandmother in you, so I can.”

  Poppy smiles grimly, slightly overwhelmed.

  “So, this used to be your house? Is that right?”

  “Maybe,” she replies, looking around herself. “I can’t remember.”

  “We should give you a tour, wouldn’t you say? What do you think?”

  Poppy glances again at Laurel, who nods, and they follow Joshua and Sam through the house. Poppy is uncharacteristically quiet at first, peering nervously around doorways.

  Joshua pushes a door at the top of the landing, “This must have been your room. Look, it still has the wallpaper.”

  Poppy falters for a moment on the threshold and then she steps in, her eyes wide, her hands running across the wallpaper. It’s pale gray with a repeated pattern of pink rabbits and green tortoises on it, engaged in a running competition. The tortoises are all wearing sweatbands and the rabbits have on running shoes.

  “I remember this wallpaper,” she says breathlessly. “The hares. And the tortoises. I used to see them running in the night. I’d stare at them and then I’d shut my eyes and they’d be running. Hundreds of them. Through my dreams. I remember it. I really do.”

  “You want to see some more?” says Joshua, giving Laurel a knowing look. “There’s another room downstairs. I wonder if you’ll remember that, too?”

  Quietly they descend back to the ground floor, through the kitchen and then down into the basement.

  Poppy stops once more on the threshold, grips the outside of the door with her fingertips. She gasps and says, “I don’t want to go in there.”

  “Oh, but it’s fine,” says Joshua. “It’s just a room.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Her eyes are wide and her breathing is audible. “I’m not allowed in there. My mum told me never to go in there.”

  Laurel touches her shoulder softly. “Wow, that’s an interesting memory. Why do you think that was?”

  “I don’t know,” says Poppy, sounding vaguely tearful. “I don’t know. I just remember thinking there was a monster down there. A big, scary monster. But that’s just silly, isn’t it? There was no monster down there, was there?”

  “Did you have pets?” asks Laurel. “When you were tiny? Do you remember having some hamsters?”

  Poppy shakes her head slowly and walks out of the kitchen and toward the front door.

  35

  Laurel takes Poppy home after their visit to Noelle’s house. They walk in silence for a while. Laurel has never known Poppy to be so quiet.

  “Are you OK?” she asks as they wait at a crossroads for the lights to change.

  “No,” she says. “I feel all weird.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Just remembering things I haven’t remembered before. Thinking about my mum when I haven’t thought about her for so long. Meeting cousins I didn’t know I had. It’s been a bit overwhelming.”

  “Yes,” says Laurel, cupping the crown of Poppy’s head with her hand. “Yes. I bet it has.”

  Laurel swallows away the lump in her throat. She needs to stay
focused. She cannot jump to fantastical conclusions. In the scheme of things it is far more likely that the monster in Noelle’s basement was actually twenty dead hamsters, not Ellie. She needs to assume that this was the case and then find the evidence that it was not. She needs to stay sane.

  Floyd is there when they get back. Poppy starts to babble immediately about cake and tea and then disappears very quickly to her room before, she assumes, Floyd can ask her anything else.

  Laurel watches Floyd unpacking carrier bags of shopping. For a moment, as he reaches for a tall cupboard to slide in a box of teabags, his shirt slips from the moorings of his waistband, flashing a slice of pale flesh, and she feels herself sliding back through time again, as she’d felt in Nando’s the week before last with Poppy. She’s back in her own kitchen in Stroud Green. In front of her is Paul. He’s wearing the same shirt, it tugs itself briefly from his waistband, he slides the teabags into the cupboard, he turns to face her. He smiles. For a second the two moments blend in her mind, the two men merge into one.

  “Are you OK?” Floyd asks.

  She shakes her head once, to dislodge the glitch. “Yes,” she says. “I am. I am fine.”

  “You looked like you were miles away.”

  She smiles as widely as she can, but she suspects it is not wide at all. She knows she should say something about her visit to Noelle’s house with Poppy but she can’t. And she can’t ask him any of the questions she wants to ask him—Did you know that Sara-Jade claims to have seen Noelle at eight months pregnant without a bump? Do you never want to find out what happened to Noelle? Would you not like to find her? Do you never ask yourself questions about the strangeness of everything?—because then everything about them, about Floyd and Laurel, all of it would be squashed and remade, like a clay pot on a wheel. And it’s such a lovely pot and she’s worked so hard on it and so much depends on it staying exactly as it is.