by Rosie Fiore
‘Miranda all right?’ she asked quietly once the potatoes were bubbling on the cooker.
‘If all right means she’s a selfish, self-absorbed little brat, then yes, she’s fine.’
‘She was upset in the park.’
‘She says she’s embarrassed,’ I spat, loading the word with as much sarcasm as I could. ‘Helen is. . . I don’t know where. . . but wherever it is, it’s not good, and Miranda is worried about how she’ll look to her friends!’
‘I think she’s struggling to find a way to express how she feels,’ said Mum.
‘She’s perfectly articulate.’ I rinsed a crusty plate under the tap. ‘She has always been able to express herself clearly. The word she used was “embarrassed”.’
‘Well, embarrassment and shame are quite closely related.’
‘Ashamed?’ I almost yelled. ‘What the hell does she have to be ashamed of?’
‘I didn’t say “ashamed”,’ said Mum. ‘And don’t yell at me. I said “shame”. As in loss of honour or respect.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘She’s eight. She’s not really capable of imagining how Helen feels, or what she’s going through or even what you feel. It’s not because she’s bad, it’s just how her brain works. All she knows is that two days ago her life was ordered, and she was popular and Helen was a big shot at her school with all the reflected glory that brings. And now Helen’s gone and Miranda’s a freak, the centre of attention for all the wrong reasons. I don’t expect you to understand it, but try not to hate her for feeling what she’s wired to feel at her age.’
My mum is a clinical psychologist and knows more about the human mind than anyone I’ve met. She’s retired now, and while she’s calm and warm and grandmotherly, she is not averse to telling you when you’re plain wrong.
‘None of this is easy,’ she said, her voice slightly gentler now, ‘but being cross with your children for having the emotions of children isn’t going to make it any easier.’
We worked together peacefully in the kitchen after that. She gave me some carrots to peel and chop while she got a chicken into the oven. We were about to go through and join Dad and Marguerite in the living room when the doorbell rang; three short bursts and then a long one. Tim.
He enveloped me in a wiry hug. He smelled of fresh sweat and kitchen – a faint hint of oil and garlic lingered in his hair. He wears it loose when he’s not working, but because he’d come straight from the restaurant, it was twisted into a loose bun at the back of his neck. I tugged on it affectionately. ‘What the hell is this? Is it one of those man buns I hear the hipsters are wearing these days?’
‘Don’t know, bro,’ said Tim. ‘You’re much more the hipster than I am, with your Soho offices and your folding bike.’
‘Come in,’ I said. ‘The folks are in residence and working miracles as usual.’
Tim grabbed the rucksack he’d dropped at his feet and came into the house. He brought a gust of energy with him. Mum lit up – he’s her favourite, although she’d strenuously deny it. Dad got up and Tim gave him a long hug. He’s always been demonstrative. Dad and I might, over the years, have become the kind of stiff English father and son who shake hands, but Tim will have none of it. He hugs everyone, including Dad, whenever he sees them. And because he hugs Dad, I’ve had to too. I’m secretly glad of that. My dad gives great hugs.
Marguerite rushed over, and Tim got down on his knees to hug her and whisper to her. Even Miranda, hearing Uncle Tim’s voice in the hall, came hesitantly downstairs and was drawn into his embrace.
He stood up and sniffed the air.
‘Already cooking, Mum? Couldn’t wait for me?’
‘Well, I’m sure it’ll benefit from your special touch,’ said Mum, smiling.
Tim went into the kitchen with his entourage of women. He turned on the kitchen radio and tuned it to something cheerful, and began chopping, singing and bashing pots and pans about. It sounded as if life had somehow breezed into the house with him. I left them to it, but then Tim yelled to me that he couldn’t find the garlic crusher. When I went into the kitchen, he and the girls were dancing to ‘Uptown Funk’. Miranda spun around as I came into the room, and her face was a mask of guilt. I managed a weak smile. If Tim could get them smiling and dancing, who was I to stop them?
It felt wrong to see him in Helen’s kitchen; he would certainly not have cooked there had she been around. He’d occasionally brought over dishes he’d made at home or at Mum’s, but having full access to Helen’s utensils, herbs and ingredients – she’d never have stood for that. Was I being disloyal letting him do it now? Would she ever know? I had no answer to that, nor to any of the thousand other questions that whirred around in my head. I could only answer one question with any certainty. That question was: did I want a drink? The answer was yes. Hell yes, I did. A stiff one, and right away. I opened the fridge and took out a bottle of wine, pouring myself an enormous glass. I raised the bottle and my eyebrows in Tim’s direction and he nodded, so I poured him a similar glassful. The wine was crisp and cold, with a sharp apple scent. It was delicious and I had to stop myself downing it in one go and pouring another. I should stay sober enough to drive, I reminded myself. In case. . . In case something happens.
I didn’t stay sober. I polished off three quarters of the bottle of wine on my own before Tim got dinner on the table. I reasoned that if we needed to drive somewhere, Dad or Tim could take me. All I knew was that for the first time in twenty-four hours the dark waves of panic weren’t crashing mercilessly over my head. Somehow, the wine and Tim’s presence were keeping them at bay.
We all sat down round the outside table, and I opened a second bottle of wine. The food smelled good, but I couldn’t imagine eating. Mum saw I hadn’t put anything on my plate and served me a thin slice of chicken breast and a few vegetables.
‘You have to eat,’ she said quietly. ‘You have to. For all of us.’
I put a forkful of the chicken into my mouth, but it dried up and clung to my palate. I took another big gulp of wine to force it down. One mouthful, one sip. It probably wasn’t quite the nutritious meal Mum had in mind, but it was something.
Mum went to the kitchen to serve up a dessert of fruit salad and ice cream. Tim asked a few discreet questions about the police investigation and I filled him in as best I could, constantly aware of Miranda listening in.
‘So there’s no evidence of. . .’ Tim stopped. I knew he wanted to say ‘foul play’, or ‘violence’ or something.
‘Nothing. No suspicious sightings or at least none that can be verified. No one who shouldn’t have been in the neighbourhood. And no sign of a. . . scuffle or anything.’
‘What’s a scuffle, Dad?’ asked Miranda. I knew I’d gone too far, saying that.
‘A fight.’
‘Do they think she had a fight with someone?’
‘They don’t think anything yet. Helen is missing, but so far there’s nothing to say anything bad has happened to her.’
‘But she’s disappeared,’ Miranda said insistently. ‘People don’t just disappear. They get seen by witnesses or on CCTV. They don’t just vanish.’
Tim raised his eyebrows at this rather sophisticated statement from his eight-year-old niece. I shrugged at him.
‘TV,’ I said. ‘They learn about criminal procedure from TV, like we did.’
‘What about money things? Cash withdrawals? Card transactions? Can they access those?’ asked Tim.
‘They’re tracking all her accounts, but so far nothing,’ I said. ‘Which is odd. I can’t imagine how she hasn’t used a card. She never carries cash.’
‘What’s cash, Daddy?’ asked Marguerite, snuggling in next to me.
‘Money. Real money. Ten-pound notes and such,’ I said, hugging her.
‘And twenty-pound notes?’
‘Exactly.’ I smiled down at her.
‘Is cash like cashback?’ she asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘
Like when we go to the supermarket and Mummy says, “Can I have thirty pounds cashback?”’
I laughed. ‘You funny little thing. The things you remember. You can’t have heard Mummy say that often.’
‘Every time,’ said Marguerite.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Every time we go shopping, Mummy says it. And she puts the money in the secret inside pocket of her bag.’
Tim and I both laughed at this, and Marguerite got the sharp little crease between her brows that foreshadowed a tantrum. ‘It’s true!’ she shouted. ‘Don’t laugh at me!’
‘I’m sorry, sweetie,’ I said. ‘We didn’t mean to laugh. I’m just imagining Mummy hiding away lots of twenty-pound notes in a secret pocket in her bag.’
I know what kids are like – quick to translate a one-off event into ‘always’ and ‘forever’. No doubt Helen had withdrawn cash once or twice, for the window cleaner or possibly the tooth fairy, and Marguerite had remembered it because it was unusual.
‘It is true,’ piped up Miranda, unexpectedly. I looked at her, surprised. She’s generally more likely to torment Marguerite than come to her defence. ‘She does get cash every time we go shopping. I always think it’s funny when she says she has no money and you have to pay. She must spend it all when we’re at school.’
Tim leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and raised one eyebrow. I wasn’t quite sure what he was implying. That I didn’t know my wife? That this cash thing was in some way significant? I felt an irrational flash of anger.
‘Come on, girls,’ I said, standing up abruptly. ‘Bedtime.’
Miranda and Marguerite put up a token protest, but they were both tired. Mum and I took them upstairs and got them through their bath and bedtime routine. Mum took them both into Marguerite’s room and read them a story. I hovered for a while, but the girls were loving their time with Granny, and I was desperate for another glass of wine.
I went to sit on the patio, looking out over the long shadows stretching over the lawn. I heard Mum come downstairs and tell Tim and Dad that the girls were both asleep. There was a soft, murmured conversation in the kitchen behind me. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, and I didn’t want to. I was so tired, and I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I rested my head against the back of the sun-lounger and watched the last glimmers of sunlight on Helen’s lavender bushes.
I must have dozed off because when I opened my eyes again it was cooler and properly dark. My wine glass had tipped over in my hand, and there was a wet, dark puddle of wine on the seat beside me. I sat up, confused, cold and headachey. It took a moment, but then the full crushing horror came rushing back in. Helen.
I swung my legs sideways off the lounger and looked around. In the shadows, under the eaves of the house, I could see a tiny red glow, the tip of a cigarette.
‘Tim.’
‘Evening,’ he said quietly. ‘I was wondering whether I should wake you.’
‘Where are Mum and Dad?’
‘Bed. I said I’d sit up and keep an eye on you.’
‘Whassatime?’
‘About midnight, I think.’
I stood up unsteadily, looking around me. ‘I should. . . I should. . . The police. . .’
‘I’ve had your phone with me the whole time,’ he said soothingly. ‘There’ve been no calls or messages. I would have woken you the second there were.’
‘I need to. . . I should. . .’
‘Go for a pee, wash your face and I’ll make you a hot drink,’ said Tim, standing and coming towards me. ‘Then we’ll put you to bed for real.’
I nodded. It was quite a relief having someone tell me exactly what to do, even if it was my pipsqueak younger brother.
When I got back from the bathroom, Tim had made me a mug of the special drink Mum used to make for us when we were kids – warm milk with a teaspoonful each of butter and sugar and a sprinkling of cinnamon. Being Tim, he hadn’t been able to leave it alone, so the milk was artfully frothed, there was a hint of nutmeg, and the cinnamon had been sprinkled in a perfect geometric pattern. Nevertheless, it was a perfect taste of childhood, and I smiled as I took a grateful sip.
I knew Tim had hoped it would make me sleepy, but I felt remarkably awake. The few hours’ doze on the lounger had refreshed me and sobered me up. Tim came and sat opposite me at the kitchen table. He’d found a bottle of something amber – whisky or bourbon – and had an inch of it in a glass with a few ice cubes. I raised my chin at the glass enquiringly.
‘Jack,’ he said.
‘I didn’t know we had any Jack Daniels.’
‘You didn’t. I brought it.’ He reached into the rucksack at his feet and produced the familiar square bottle. ‘Want one?’
‘Yeah, why not?’
He fetched a glass and poured me a drink. I noticed it was smaller than the one he had poured for himself. I was being managed, but I didn’t mind. We sat in silence for a long time, sipping our drinks and looking out into the dark garden. I liked the fact that he didn’t try to soothe me with platitudes. He was happy to keep vigil with me. Then, unexpectedly, I heard a buzz, the vibration of an incoming text. I jumped, looking around wildly for my phone, but it was Tim’s. He drew it from his pocket, read the message, smiled, typed a quick reply and pocketed his phone again.
‘Who’s texting you at this time of night?’
He touched the side of his nose with a forefinger but didn’t answer.
‘How old is this one?’
‘Shannon? Twenty. Or twenty-one. I forget.’
‘Aren’t you a bit old for that now?’
‘For what? Sex with a hot young thing? Not that I’m aware. I can still keep up.’
‘Not that. I mean for. . . not-serious relationships.’
‘How do you know it’s not serious?’ I looked at him for a long moment, and he laughed. ‘Well, I haven’t bought a ring or anything. But we have fun.’
‘What do you talk about? Her homework? What time her dad wants her home?’
‘I may be getting old, but not as old as your jokes. Listen, it’s fine. I work such unsociable hours, I couldn’t expect anyone to put up with that on a long-term basis. Shannon and I hook up, we have sex, we have a laugh. Ultimately she’ll get bored and move on, or I will, and no one’s heart will be broken.’
‘But don’t you want more?’
‘More what? A life companion? A suburban house? Kids? Not yet. That stuff is expensive. Not just financially – spiritually. There’s so much to lose. I mean, I know they say it’s better to have loved and lost than—’ He stopped suddenly, horrified at what he had said. ‘Fuck. Sam, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.’
I nodded. He was an idiot.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘Look, I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I’m babbling. I mean, after Leonora, for this to happen. . .’
‘Stop talking, okay?’
He did, and mercifully saw this as an opportunity to top up both of our glasses. He wasn’t so stingy with mine this time round.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said eventually. ‘I. . . Look, I know Helen and I have never got along brilliantly, but I know you love her and she loves you. I can’t imagine how hard this must be.’
‘What do you think of her?’ I said suddenly. I didn’t mean to say it. It just came out. Tiredness, booze, whatever. I’d said it now, and knowing Tim, he’d answer. He did, but he thought for a long time before he spoke.
‘She’s. . . polished. Very smooth. Beautiful, accomplished, friendly and lovely – don’t get me wrong, she’s absolutely lovely – but I’ve never really got to know her. Never seen beneath the surface.’
I nodded. He was being kind. To someone else, he might have said she was a stuck-up bitch.
‘Helen came along. . .’ I said, then paused and took a big gulp of my drink. ‘Helen came along at absolutely the darkest point in my life. I was living in chaos. From moment to moment. I was a mess.’
‘I know, I was there.’
&
nbsp; ‘She was neat and beautiful and capable. She was reliable. If she said she was going to do something, she did it. The first time we went out, she talked to Miranda about a book – Possum Magic it was called. She’d read it when she was a little girl in Australia. And the next time she saw Miranda, she’d managed to get hold of a copy. She never made a promise she didn’t keep. And somehow, out of the turmoil of our lives, she made order. She made things tidy and predictable. She made us all feel safe.’
‘I could see that,’ he said. ‘And I can’t imagine how this must feel. I’m sorry, man.’ He reached across the table and put his hand over mine. His hand was warm, and I could feel the calluses he’d got from wielding knives in the kitchen.
I heard an owl hoot, in the distance, a few gardens along. It was very quiet.
‘What was the word you used? Polished?’
‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘Polished seems about right.’
‘It’s exactly right. A smooth, unbroken, shiny surface. In five years with her, that’s all I’ve ever seen too.’
‘What do you mean? Do you mean she’s never cried?’
‘Never. I’ve never seen her cry. Never seen her let rip and really laugh either. I’ve never seen her properly angry, or sad. I’ve never seen her lose control.’
‘You must have had a fight where she yelled at you.’ That was, of course, Tim’s experience of women. He got yelled at a lot.
‘Never. When we disagree, she turns icy and quiet and goes away, then she’ll come back after a while and steadily present her case to me. If I lose my temper or raise my voice, she’ll walk away until I calm down.’
‘Wow,’ said Tim, leaning back in his chair. ‘I don’t know how I’d handle that. A woman who never loses control? Not even when you. . .?’ He saw something in my face and paused. ‘You did have sex, didn’t you?’
I left a long silence. It was a difficult question to answer. Then I said, ‘Not for the last six months. Maybe more.’
‘What? Why?’