What She Left

by Rosie Fiore

  The day was something of a milestone, I think. Not just because it was the first major family occasion we’d got through without Helen, but because there were moments when things felt, if not normal, at least not tinged with insanity. There were moments when I smiled, even laughed, when the girls relaxed and had fun. And it was all thanks to Lara. She’s a nice woman, and her mum’s a darling too.

  I should have been tired after all the upheaval of the day and the late night the night before, but somehow my sleep cycle has got reversed. No matter how grindingly exhausted I am during the day, I can’t sleep at night. In the early days after Helen went, I spent hours online but also hours roaming the house and obsessively going through her things. I searched her clothes, checking every pocket. I went through every bag and suitcase and every drawer, looking for a clue. I needed to know two things. I needed some hint as to why she had gone. Was there someone else? Where was she? Was she ever coming back? And secondly, I needed to know how she had done it. When I told Tim this, he laughed and said something about stable doors and bolted horses.

  ‘There’s no point, mate. The fact that there’s no obvious trail says to me that she planned it carefully. And that suggests that she doesn’t want to be found.’

  He stopped short of saying ‘Move on’ that time, but he’d made it clear that was what he thought I should do. But I couldn’t. Helen had always seemed so open, so transparent and honest, I had never had reason to doubt her or be suspicious. I had access to her PC. I knew the unlock code to her phone. She’d never, to my knowledge, had locked drawers or private hiding places that I was forbidden to see. But I suppose if you’re hiding enormous secrets, acting like you have no secrets at all is the best possible defence.

  A month or so after she’d gone, I was faced with the awful conundrum of what to do with Helen’s stuff. I couldn’t bear to live with it in the house. Opening the wardrobe and seeing her clothes hanging beside mine cut deep every single time. Even so, I didn’t feel I could take it all to the tip or the charity shop. It wasn’t mine to give away, even if she had left it all behind. In the end, I packed all her clothes and personal things into suitcases and boxes and rented a storage unit. It was a surprisingly small one. She didn’t have a lot of personal items. She had a lean, well-coordinated wardrobe (she was forever taking clothes she wouldn’t wear again to the charity shop), only a few books, and no heirlooms, photograph albums, old teddy bears or keepsakes. I’d always put this lack of hoarding down to her practical nature, and also to the fact that she must have left her childhood possessions in Australia. But maybe it was more sinister and premeditated than that. She didn’t want to own anything she wasn’t prepared to leave behind.

  So when I loaded up all her stuff, it all fitted into a single car load, with her bicycle on the rack. I drove it over to the storage place and piled it on a trolley to take it to the unit. The boxes and suitcases took up next to no room; I’d only taken a slightly bigger unit because I had to fit in the bike. It took me just five minutes to pack it all in. I took one last glance at the small pile of stuff, then swung the door closed and secured it with the new padlock I’d bought from the disinterested, gum-chewing woman at the desk downstairs. The unit was an additional monthly cost I could scarcely afford, but I genuinely didn’t know what else to do. How long would I have to keep paying for it? Who knew?

  As for the question of how she’d done it, I was equally at a loss. It was likely that Marguerite and Miranda’s story of her regularly getting cashback in the supermarket was true, but if so, for how long? How much had she stockpiled? And, of course, I now knew she had taken her passport too. So she had identification, and an unspecified amount of cash. In this era of electronic banking and our ineradicable digital trail, was that enough? How far could she get with that? Was she still in the country or had she bought an air ticket and fled abroad?

  But even before that, how had she got away from the house without being seen? Before we found out she was safe and well, the police had scoured CCTV on major roads and at bus stops and train stations for several miles around. They’d spoken to taxi drivers. No one had seen her. It was so unlikely. Helen was a striking woman, beautiful even. People would have noticed a beautiful woman wearing a floral dress. But no one had. She had simply vanished.

  It seemed to me, as I went over the facts for the thousandth time, that she could only have done it with help. She must have walked away from the house, as Mrs Goode said, and then been collected in a side road by someone driving a car – a friend, an accomplice, a lover? But who? Who was helping her? Where had she met a man, begun an affair and planned an escape, all the while being the perfect wife and mother, being at the school gate on time, living a busy, productive life? How had she managed it? Was this faceless lover scheduled for sex between 11.45 and 12.30 every Thursday, between yoga and her summer-fair committee meeting? Or what if he wasn’t someone she’d met recently? What if he was someone who’d always been there, in the background? It flabbergasted me. Yes, I’d played away a little, but it hadn’t meant anything. It was just sex, part of the work game. I could scarcely remember the names of the few women involved. But Helen? Her steadiness was the rock on which our family was built. If she had been having an affair, was our whole marriage a lie?

  Even after six months, it’s impossible to halt the relentless flow of questions. I can’t stop myself from going over every detail of the last few months with Helen. I’ve dissected every conversation I can remember, thought about moments when she was away from the house or was distracted or distant. With hindsight, everything is significant. But the truth is that at the time there wasn’t anything that aroused my suspicions. And that means one of two things. Either Helen was the most brilliant liar in the history of liars, or I was a total mug. Every time I work my way through this particular sequence of thoughts, it leaves me with a mess of anger, misery and self-pity. And so I drink. I think myself sick and then I drink.

  I know I can’t go on like this. It’s not going to help Marguerite and Miranda one little bit if I fall to pieces. I cannot let them down. That isn’t an option. I have to pull myself together and go on living. Up until this point, there has been no way off the nightmarish merry-go-round of despair. But, somehow, Miranda’s birthday has offered the tiniest chink of light.

  Lara’s nice. Her mum’s nice. They’re kind people who helped me out when I needed it. It’s embarrassing how I fell apart when Lara told me the restaurant was closed. She was amazing. Calm, practical, not at all judgemental. I said thank you, of course, and washed dishes, made sure their house was left tidy before I took the girls home. But it didn’t feel like enough. Maybe I could invite them out for dinner or something. Nothing fancy, just a nice meal with the kids and some friendly chat.

  Lara

  There was school-gate gossip about the birthday party, of course there was. It had been blown out of all proportion by the time I got there to drop Frances off. I was immediately drawn into a crowd of chattering mums, all of them asking me what had happened, and then, before I had a chance to answer, breathlessly telling me how amazing I was to save poor Sam.

  Somehow, the flooded restaurant, which no one could have foreseen, was cited as an example of Sam’s helpless maleness. It would never have happened when Helen was around, they said, shaking their heads, or if he had a woman to organize him. Then they all glanced over at me, appraisingly. Sam had clearly sung my praises and told everyone how I’d opened my home to them. I could see into the hive mind and they had me and Sam married off, blending our households and popping out a new baby to seal the deal. It wasn’t even 9 a.m. yet.

  ‘It was nothing,’ I said shortly. ‘Anyone would have done it. I just happened to be there.’ Then I waved cheerily over my shoulder and hurried out of the gates.

  I was glad of the big hill and the effort it took to push Jonah’s pushchair up it. It helped my frustration and general discomfort with the scene I’d just left. Individually, I’m sure they’re all lovely women, but coll
ectively they’re like a. . . a giant cliché amoeba. They don’t have an original thought between them. Most of them are so utterly committed to creating the perfect middle-class illusion, it’s impossible to find the real people underneath. With their gym-sleek figures, their beautiful, spotless homes and their smarmy ‘No, I don’t work, they’re only young for such a short time’, as if those of us who do work are deliberately robbing our kids of an idyllic childhood. They all pretend to be such good friends, and have nights out and coffee mornings and play dates, but no real conversations ever take place. No one is allowed to admit to fear, or worry or, God forbid, boredom.

  As I got to the top of the hill, it struck me that Helen had been queen of them all – the sleekest, the prettiest, with the most beautiful home and the most perfectly cared-for children. She’d also been the one with the most banal and pleasant conversation. And yet she’d had the biggest secrets. She’d lived a whole other life and planned a devastating escape without anyone having the first hint that she was going to do it. I laughed, a little out of breath, startling Jonah. Maybe I underestimated all the school-gate mums. Who knew what enigmas were lurking under those M&S-clad bosoms?

  The energy of my anger got me to the nursery to drop Jonah off and all the way home. Jogging down our road, I glanced at my phone and noticed a text had come in from Sam. ‘Hey Lara, thanks again for yesterday evening. You and your mum were lifesavers. Would you four be free for dinner next Fri night to say thank you? We could go to a restaurant with an upstairs section. . . or a lifeboat!’

  Dinner with Sam. Well, dinner with Sam, my mum and four children. Even put like that, it sounded good. I wasn’t working on Friday night, and Mum would enjoy a night out. As long as I could prevent Jonah from tearing the restaurant to pieces, it’d be great. I fired off a quick ‘Thank you and yes!’ message, and allowed myself a quick smile. It was exciting to have a weekend evening plan, even if it was just a trip to the local all-you-can-eat buffet and colouring in.

  Sam

  The Sunday after Miranda’s party with her friends, I took the girls to my parents’ for a birthday tea. On the drive over there, they bickered incessantly, until I yelled and told them that no one was to speak until we got there. The silence in the back of the car was thunderous, but at least it was silence. My head was pounding and even though I’d brushed my teeth twice and rinsed with mouthwash, there was a foul, rotten taste at the back of my throat that I couldn’t get rid of.

  We stopped at a traffic light, where the road we were on crossed a main arterial. I knew from experience that we would be there for some time. It was a ridiculously long change. I leaned back against the headrest and glanced in the rear-view mirror. Both girls had forgotten to sulk and were silently playing a game with two plastic figures they’d found in the back, left over from a Happy Meal, or a Kinder Egg or something. I sighed with relief and looked forward through the windscreen. The traffic on the road crossing ours was crawling along, bumper to bumper. I hoped they’d leave the intersection clear when the lights changed or we’d be gridlocked. There was a car broadside to mine, completely blocking my lane. They’d better bloody move, I thought, and tried to catch the eye of the driver.

  The shock hit me like a punch to the gut. It was Helen. Her straight nose, her olive skin, her narrow, pretty hands high on the steering wheel.

  ‘Jesus!’ I swore, and faintly behind me I heard Marguerite say, ‘Daddy! Don’t say the J-word!’

  Inexorably, the traffic on the main road began to move. In seconds, Helen would drive away and be gone forever. I pounded on my horn as hard as I could, bashing it over and over, and the woman driving the car turned sharply in surprise, so she was looking fully at me.

  It wasn’t Helen. It was nothing like her. The woman was at least ten years older, with a sharp line between her brows and smaller, narrower eyes. She gave me a filthy look, clearly thinking I was hooting because she was in my way. Helplessly, I raised my hands and mouthed ‘Sorry’. For an agonizingly long second, she kept glaring at me, then the car ahead of her moved off and she followed and was gone.

  It was a huge relief to be at Mum and Dad’s. Miranda was wily enough to know she wouldn’t get away with being rude to me in front of Granny, so she was on her best behaviour. She was also grudgingly thrilled to get her Into the Woods DVD. However, she was even more delighted with her hilariously inappropriate gift from cool Uncle Tim – a karaoke machine.

  The day was bright and fine, but cold. Mum’s leg was much better and she was keen to walk and give it some exercise, so we put a leash on their old Labrador, Baxter, and all set off towards the common near their house.

  The girls romped ahead, throwing a ball for Baxter, who made a half-hearted attempt to fetch it. Dad and Tim were arguing about something they’d heard on the news before we came out. Mum was walking well, but a little slowly. She had a stick, but I offered her my arm and she took it. I kept an eye on the path, watching out for stones and potholes. She definitely didn’t need another tumble. We dropped a little behind the others.

  ‘So how was the birthday really?’ she asked quietly. Over lunch we’d had a raucous account of the party, and the ‘supercool picnic’ Lara had created. Miranda and Marguerite had interrupted and shouted over one another to tell the story. From their version, it all sounded like a hilarious caper.

  ‘It all sailed rather close to the wind,’ I said. ‘A couple of near disasters. The party was the least of it. She’s so angry all the time, and it’s hard for me to stay kind in the face of constant rudeness.’

  ‘I know,’ said Mum. ‘And yet you must.’

  We walked on in silence for a while. The path was choked with autumn leaves, already beginning to turn to mush under our feet.

  ‘Tell me about this Lara,’ said Mum suddenly.

  ‘Not much to tell. She’s the mum of a girl in Miranda’s class. Frances. And she has a little boy, Jonah. He’s three or so. She’s a restaurant manager.’

  ‘She was very kind to invite you back to her house.’

  ‘Yes. She’s like that. . . Easy-going and generous. She was a professional dancer when she was younger, so Miranda naturally thinks she’s the coolest thing ever.’

  Mum nodded. I was conscious that there were several bits of relevant information I hadn’t seen fit to impart – that Lara was single, that she was the woman who had taken the girls home the night Helen disappeared. I wasn’t sure why not. Was it because I didn’t want Mum to assume something was going to happen between Lara and me? Or because I didn’t want her to tell me it shouldn’t? There was no doubt that in Lara’s darkened hallway, there’d been a moment when I’d felt a flash of attraction to her. Mum, as a psychologist, is altogether too perceptive. I wasn’t lying to her. I just wasn’t ready to have her cast her razor-sharp gaze on my life right then.

  When we left Mum and Dad’s, at about six, Tim said he’d come back to ours and help me get the girls to bed. He was no help at all, of course – without the excitement of Uncle Tim, baths, schoolbag packing and bedtime would have been a much smoother, less boisterous affair. But in the end we got them both to bed, just twenty-five minutes later than the appointed Sunday-night bedtime.

  ‘Hungry?’ I asked Tim.

  ‘Nah, still stuffed from lunch,’ he said.

  ‘Me too.’ I was itching for a drink. I’d only had one at Mum and Dad’s as I was driving, and I’d been fantasizing about a cold beer all afternoon and evening.

  I went into the kitchen and got us each one. We clinked our bottles together and drank – Tim slowly, me greedily. Tim was still savouring his first few sips and my bottle was empty. I went back to the kitchen and fetched another.

  He ambled through to the living room and settled down on the sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him. I had a few quick gulps from my second beer in the kitchen and went through to join him. He was scrolling through his phone, smiling at something he was reading. I flopped into an armchair. I felt bone-weary and bruised. The thought of star
ting a full week’s work in just over twelve hours filled me with quiet dread. Much though I loved my brother, I just wanted a light, easy evening. No heavy chat. As I watched him, his smile faded, and I saw him look more serious, a small frown line appearing between his dark brows.

  ‘Problem?’ I asked.

  ‘Not as such.’

  ‘Potential problem?’

  ‘Just a. . .’ He hesitated, then looked up and gave me his roguish grin. ‘Lady issue.’

  ‘Is it. . . whatshername?’ I trawled my memory for the last name he’d told me. ‘Shannon?’

  He looked genuinely blank for a second. ‘Oh God, no. Ancient history, that.’

  ‘So who is it now?’

  ‘Someone I met a while ago.’

  ‘Someone a little more age-appropriate?’

  ‘You could say so.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. You don’t want to be that guy.’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘The guy who finds himself at the precise tipping point where being slightly older and more sophisticated morphs into creepy old man.’

  ‘I am not that guy.’

  ‘Yet.’

  ‘Fuck you!’ He smiled.

  ‘So is the age-appropriate one giving you grief?’

  ‘Nah. All good,’ he said, sitting up straighter. I could see he wasn’t in the mood to expand on this, but I couldn’t resist teasing him. He was my little brother, after all.

  ‘So. . . are we looking at wedding bells? Am I going to be dusting off my top hat?’

  He didn’t even crack a smile. ‘Oh no.’