What She Left

by Rosie Fiore

  Dear all,

  My wife, Helen Cooper, went missing this afternoon, Wednesday 24 May, from our home in north London. She left the house around 9.30 a.m., wearing a blue floral dress, and has not been seen since. If you have seen her or have any idea where she might have gone, please contact me.

  Thank you,

  Sam Cooper

  I added my own mobile number and email address, attached the photo of Helen in the dress and hit ‘Send’. I got four or five bounce-backs immediately. I knew it was a mad, scattergun approach, and Helen, if she was fine and well somewhere, would hate the public nature of it, but I had to do something. I went on to Facebook, logged out of Helen’s account and into my own. Using similar words to my email, I posted the same thing, asking people to share it. It looked just like those dodgy, widely shared missing-person posts that show up in my feed all the time. I’d often said to Helen that they always seemed like hoaxes, but I found myself praying that mine at least looked genuine.

  I sat staring at the screen for a long time, hoping that replies would begin to pop up, but it was 1.30 a.m. and everyone who might know something was probably asleep. She’d been gone for sixteen hours. I got up and wandered restlessly around the sleeping house. I checked both girls, straightening Marguerite’s limbs, flung wide in sleep, and tucking Miranda’s foot back under the blanket.

  I stood for a while in the dark hallway and then opened the front door. Helen’s car was still in the driveway and our road was silent. I imagined her walking briskly away from the house and vanishing into thin air. I sat down on the doorstep, the front door open behind me, and kept watching the end of the road, as if by sheer will I could make her come round the corner, wave to me and walk down the road and into my arms. But the road stayed silent, and no one came round the corner at all.

  I sat on the doorstep until about 4 a.m., when light began to creep over the tops of the houses. I was cold and my whole body ached. I got up creakily and went into the house. The girls were as I had left them. I went upstairs and got my warm dressing gown and then sat in the armchair by the front window. If she came home, I’d be able to see her as she turned into the road. I must have dozed off for a while because the next thing I knew, I was being jerked awake by my phone ringing on the arm of the chair beside me.

  ‘Hello?’ I sounded fuzzy and gruff.

  ‘Sam!’ The voice was female, breathy and light. I didn’t recognize it. ‘I’m so sorry, did I wake you?’

  ‘No, no.’ I struggled to sit upright, ran a hand through my hair. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Ella, Helen’s friend from the school. I was just ringing to see if you’d heard anything. Such an awful thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘No news,’ I said, trying, in my bleary state, to remember which of the women Ella was. I glanced at my watch. It was just after seven.

  ‘Nothing from the Facebook post?’ she asked. ‘That’s gone crazy. I thought you might have got some calls from that.’

  I got up from the armchair and, with Ella still talking in my ear, wandered over to Helen’s PC and turned it on again. Ella was explaining that she and some of the other mothers had made us some food and would be dropping it off once they’d taken the kids to school.

  ‘We won’t stay, of course,’ she said. ‘We don’t want to intrude. . .’ There was a note of wistfulness in her voice, as if she were hoping I might ask her to come in. I found that strange. Did she really want to be in the middle of our family disaster?

  The PC had booted up and I opened Facebook. I had four thousand notifications. I didn’t know it was possible to have four thousand notifications. My post had been shared hundreds of times, and there were multiple comments attached to each share. I looked through a few of them, but as far as I could see, they were all people ‘sending love and prayers’, or saying how pretty Helen was and they hoped she would be found safe. I had dozens of private messages and emails too, but these too were all messages of support rather than any concrete thoughts on where Helen might be. There were so many, though, and it had spread so far, that I wondered if I’d be able to find the one comment which held a real clue, even if there was one.

  I was still holding the phone to my ear and I could hear Ella twittering anxiously.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I said, although I hadn’t heard anything she’d said for the last few minutes. ‘I’ll be in touch as soon as we hear anything.’

  She kept talking, but I said, ‘I have to go. Bye, Ella,’ as firmly as I could and disconnected the call.

  I heard a faint noise behind me and turned to see that Miranda was awake, lying on her side on the sofa, watching me with her big dark eyes.

  ‘Is she back?’

  ‘No, honey.’

  ‘Is she dead, Daddy?’

  ‘No, my love,’ I said, going to sit beside her and hug her. ‘Of course not. She’ll be back, I’m sure of it.’

  In all of Miranda’s eight years of life, that was the first time I had ever lied to her. Helen had simply vanished. Helen, who was as constant as the sea, who had been my touchstone for the past five years. If she was gone, how could I be sure of anything?

  Lara

  My phone didn’t stop. I had to put it on silent, so the constant ringing and bleeping didn’t wake the kids and Mum. Linda’s phone chain had not revealed Helen’s whereabouts, but it had set in motion a mad flurry of gossip and speculation. Someone had seen a suspicious group of men sitting on a bench in the park. Someone else thought they remembered Helen saying she had a manicure appointment that morning, or maybe she had said that last week. Anyway, did I think she should tell the police? Linda rang at about ten and we chatted for a while, and in the course of the conversation she mentioned something about Helen not being the first wife Sam had lost.

  ‘Well he hasn’t lost her,’ I said. ‘She’s only been missing for twelve hours or so.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  I suppose I had been told at some point that Helen was the girls’ stepmother rather than their mother, but it hadn’t been significant at the time. She was so clearly devoted to them, concerned and involved. She didn’t look any different to the rest of us.

  ‘What happened to the mother?’

  ‘Died of a brain haemorrhage, when Miranda was a toddler and Marguerite was just a baby. Tragic.’

  ‘Poor Sam,’ I said.

  ‘I wouldn’t be in a hurry to “poor Sam” him,’ said Linda. ‘You know it’s almost always the husband—’

  I cut her off. I’m not usually that assertive, but I had to say something. ‘He was in Manchester. If something has happened to her, God forbid, Sam had nothing to do with it. And anyway, I think you’re being ghoulish. She’s not dead. At least there’s no indication that she is.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Linda, and I was glad that her down-to-earth nature meant that she hadn’t taken offence at my sharp tone. ‘It’s probably just one of those things. She’ll be back at the school gate tomorrow.’

  But she wasn’t, and neither was Sam. The girls weren’t in school, and there were a couple of officers at the gate, stopping people and asking if they remembered seeing Helen the previous morning.

  We all hung about much longer than we usually would, talking, once the kids had gone in. For lots of the mums, Helen’s disappearance was the most exciting thing to have happened to them in ages. The speculation about the men in the park had expanded into a full-blown rumour, and a few of the women let rip with some Daily Mail-style xenophobic sentiments about illegal immigrants. One mum took particular delight in dredging up every scare story she could think of. I looked at the circle of women around her, hanging on her every word. They were all enjoying it far too much. I thought of Miranda’s strained, thin little face and Sam’s forced cheer. I turned and pushed Jonah’s pushchair up the hill as fast as I could.

  I wanted to do something to help, but I didn’t know what. I didn’t want to ring – I imagined Sam’s heart leaping every time his phone rang, thinking it would be ne
ws of Helen. I considered offering to take the girls but decided he probably wanted to keep them close. I thought of sending a text, but that seemed too informal, given the gravity of the situation. In the end, I fell back on the old standby of taking food round. In a crisis, no one has time to shop or cook, and people often forget to eat properly. I also had a clear memory of Helen laughing in the playground about how useless Sam was in the kitchen.

  ‘He’s a star about laundry and he mows a mean lawn,’ she’d said, ‘but he can’t boil an egg. Without me or his mum, I think he and the girls would live on cereal and stir-fries.’

  Mum had gone out, so while Jonah had his morning nap, I roasted some chicken pieces and made some mixed roast veggies. It was basic, but there you are. I’m a competent cook, but nowhere near Helen’s standard. I was just trying to prevent them from starving, really. When Jonah woke up, I put the food into a disposable foil tray with a lid so Sam wouldn’t have to worry about returning dishes, balanced it on the top of the pushchair and set off.

  There was a police car outside Sam and Helen’s house and I hesitated, wondering whether to leave it on the doorstep. But then I imagined some big, clodhopping policeman opening the front door and ending up with a shoe full of roasted peppers and courgettes. I rang the doorbell.

  I heard quick footsteps in the hall and Sam opened the door. He looked awful, still wearing the shirt he’d had on the night before, now rumpled and stained with sweat. He obviously hadn’t slept. His face fell when he saw it was me.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘I, er, I thought maybe you could do with some food.’ I held out the warm foil tray.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said vaguely. His glance slid off me and he looked up the road, as if he expected Helen to come strolling along.

  ‘It’s just chicken and veggies. Bung it in the oven for twenty minutes or so to warm it through when you want to eat. . .’ I knew he hadn’t heard a word I said, but his hands came out automatically and he took the tray.

  ‘Okay, I’ll go now,’ I said, aware of Jonah twisting and grizzling in his pushchair behind me. ‘I know everyone says this, but if there’s anything I can do, anything at all. . .’

  Suddenly Sam’s gaze came to rest fully on me. His eyes were bloodshot, but still mesmerising.

  There’s an in-joke at the school gates about Sam. He’s known to everyone as Handsome Dad. He’s tall, about six-two, I’d say, broad in the chest and well built, with curly golden blonde hair and wide blue eyes. He has a Viking look to him. In the past, whenever he dropped off his girls or attended a school function, a whisper would pass through the playground and eyes would swivel. Within minutes, he’d be surrounded by a crowd of chattering, animated mums, flicking their hair and making their wittiest jokes. Helen tended to stand back and smile when that happened.

  ‘Thank you. Really,’ he said, and he almost managed a smile. ‘If you hadn’t taken the girls home with you after school yesterday, I don’t know. . . well. . . I want to say I appreciate it. And thanks for the food. That was kind and thoughtful.’

  He looked worn out and so vulnerable. The urge to go back and hug him, or at the least touch his arm, was strong. But I reminded myself that I barely knew him, and that he’d probably find it inappropriate if I did, or, worse, it might make him break down and cry. I couldn’t begin to imagine what he was going through. And after losing his first wife too.

  ‘It’s just one meal,’ I said hesitantly. ‘I could bring you something tomorrow. . .’

  ‘That’s kind,’ he said, a little embarrassed, ‘but the fridge is absolutely chock-a-block. Everyone from the school has been so nice, and the freezer was already full. Helen seems to have crammed it with cooked meals, like she was expecting a siege.’

  I felt like such a fool. Of course my food idea wasn’t unique or original. The yummy mummies would have been falling over themselves to take care of Handsome Dad. Handsome, tragic Dad.

  ‘Well. . .’ I said awkwardly, realizing he was dying to get away and shut the door again. ‘Anything I can do. Anything at all. Just let me know.’

  He gave one more nod and another weak smile and the door closed.

  ‘Come on, Jonah,’ I said. ‘Let’s go to the park and kick a football hard.’

  ‘Balls!’ Jonah shouted loudly, and I couldn’t help but agree.

  When we got to the park, I unstrapped Jonah from his pushchair and he went racing off across the grass like a small, chubby greyhound. It was typical, all the yummy mummies wanting to cook for Sam, fluttering around to see if a little of his tragic glamour would brush off on them. I could imagine them hoping that a media outlet would approach them for a ‘source close to the family’ comment and give them their fifteen minutes in the spotlight. Or maybe they were harbouring a fantasy that Helen was gone for good and they could take her place, ‘comforting’ Sam. I was sure half of them would ditch their boring, balding husbands for a pop at him.

  But as I took off after Jonah, who showed no sign of stopping, I had to laugh at myself. Was I that different? It had been thrilling, being at the cutting edge of the story the day before and looking after his kids. And I’d have been lying if I said I didn’t find Sam attractive.

  Later on, when I got home and Jonah was down for a nap, I turned on my computer. When I logged on to the BBC website, Helen’s face smiled out at me from the front page. I checked a few of the newspaper websites and she was there too. The Daily Mail article was the most comprehensive, with a picture of Sam and Helen’s house and a range of shots of Helen that they had gleaned, I assumed, from her Facebook account. It was so odd to see the pictures on a national newspaper website and to read about people I knew, and our neighbourhood. This was the closest I had ever come to being in the public eye, although it didn’t mention me by name; the article just said, ‘Mrs Cooper failed to collect her children from school,’ which wasn’t strictly true – it was Sam who’d failed to collect them. It didn’t elaborate on what happened after that. At the end of the article there was a quote from Sam. ‘If anyone has seen Helen or has any idea what might have happened, please let us know. We love Helen very much and we want her home safe.’ I could imagine him saying it, his blue eyes wide and serious. I pictured the way his jaw would have clenched, the set of his shoulders. They should put him on TV, I thought. That would certainly draw attention.

  I made the mistake of scrolling to the bottom of the article and reading some of the comments. There were a selection saying how gorgeous Helen was, and one that actually said that it was no wonder someone had stolen her away. Ugly though that was, it was by no means the bottom of the barrel. Others assumed Helen was dead for sure and were quick to arrest, try and convict Sam. ‘It’s always the husband,’ wrote one commenter in an echo of what Linda had said. ‘Mark my words. They’ll find her beaten to death or strangled, and it’ll have been him.’

  ‘A woman like that will have had plenty of admirers,’ said another. ‘She’s probably got herself a richer boyfriend and run away.’

  One comment said simply, ‘I would.’

  People are scum, they really are. I closed the page in disgust.

  Horrifying though the comments were, I suppose similar thoughts must have gone through many people’s minds. How does a woman just disappear? Especially a woman like Helen, whose life seemed so stable. It would take something big, an act of extreme violence, to knock her from her path, surely?

  I mean, there are people who feel solid and secure in their lives – people like Helen. And then there are people whose lives are much more chaotic. Like Marc. I always get angry when I read rants in the right-wing press about single mothers – as if we all made a deliberate choice to raise our kids alone, as if we had no use for a man. But all the single mums I know are like me – women who took a gamble, as we all do when we go into a relationship, and just picked the wrong guy.

  I didn’t even pick Marc. He picked me. I was working as a restaurant manager in a pub. We’d just got taken over by one of the brewery chains and th
ey wanted us to host karaoke evenings. When Marc came in that first time and set up his machine, he was trailed by a crowd of giggling, overweight, forty-something women – karaoke groupies who were happy to go to any pub where he was working. They ordered wine by the bottle and bar-snack platters and stayed all night. They adored Marc, and I could see why. Lean, tall and tanned, with shaggy, dirty blonde hair, he wore double denim and managed to make it look cool, in a strange post-modern-cowboy way. He moved languidly, and smiled at you like you’d shared a delicious private joke or a great kiss, even if you’d never said a word to him. I took one look at him and knew he was bad, bad news.

  I mentally wrote him off, but he had other ideas. He turned up at the pub every day and brought me lunch – beautiful soups and salads, homemade and sealed in Tupperware. If I mentioned I liked a song, he’d buy me the CD. He didn’t make any romantic moves at first; he acted like a really sweet, reliable friend, until I let my defences drop. And then he chucked romance at me. He acted like a lovesick teen in an eighties film. He wrote poetry, cupped my face between his hands and sang to me. It was fabulous, and irresistible, and I knew it wasn’t real. I allowed myself a glorious six months, believing that when the romance faded, he’d be off. But then I got pregnant.

  I considered having an abortion, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’d always wanted kids, but I knew even then that Marc wasn’t the right guy. He went out of his way to prove me wrong. I knew that doing it on my own would be nigh on impossible, both financially and logistically, so I chose to believe him. It was a gamble. Turned out the long-haired-karaoke-dude act was just that – Marc came from money. A lot of it. His dad was a barrister and the family home was this mansion in Warwickshire. Taking me home to meet them, a quirky, pregnant restaurant manager (‘waitress’, his mother called me at lunch), went down rather poorly. They did their best to be polite, but I could see they were horrified. Still, they gave us an enormous deposit for this house, and wished us all the best.