by Rosie Fiore
‘I didn’t know anything,’ I said, surprised at the anger in my voice. ‘Nothing at all, it seems. And I still know nothing. All I know is that I’m going to keep finding out how little I knew.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘This must be so difficult for you.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘No, but I do know Helen, and I know how she. . . compartmentalizes her life.’
‘By “compartmentalize”, I assume you mean she lies. I was with her for five years. Married to her for four of those. And she lied to me, every single day.’
‘I know that’s how it must seem. But she does that. She. . . closes off parts of her life. Walks away from them. She wasn’t lying. We really are dead to her.’ She laughed at this. ‘That sounds melodramatic, but it’s true. I saw her do it when she was a little girl. A friend upset her and she came home and said, “Shelley isn’t my friend anymore.” I laughed, because you know what little girls are like. They’re always saying stuff like that and then the next day everything is hunky-dory again, without a word being said. But not Helen. She never spoke to Shelley again. Through the rest of kindy, primary school and high school, she ignored her like she didn’t exist.’
That had a real ring of truth. One of the mothers at school had told Helen she would help with a cake sale but then hadn’t turned up, leaving them short of helpers and running around in a panic. Helen wasn’t rude or angry. She sent a short email to the woman asking her why she’d let them down. The woman replied saying, ‘Sorry, I forgot, lol.’ That lol did it. Helen blanked her forever more. A couple of the mums had mentioned it to me – they were in awe of how Helen froze the woman out. It wasn’t vindictive, or angry or bitchy, she just stopped seeing her. She rendered her invisible. Was that what she had done with Judy, and then with me and the girls?
Judy was waiting for me to respond. I didn’t know what to say. But at the same time, I didn’t want her to go. There, on my screen, was Helen’s face. Older, less groomed and shiny, but Helen’s face nevertheless. Her smile, and, I saw with a pang, the same way of tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. What I realized most poignantly from talking to Judy was how much I missed Helen. I hadn’t allowed myself to think about that. I’d been too busy being hurt, betrayed and angry. But I missed her. I realized I had to say something.
‘So you saw my Facebook post?’ I said. ‘And you contacted me to. . .?’ I didn’t know why she had contacted me. It was unlikely she would be able to tell me where Helen was.
‘I hardly ever go on Facebook,’ she said, ‘but someone I know in the UK had shared the post and it came up when I logged on yesterday. As you can imagine, I got quite a shock when I saw Helen’s face on my screen. I haven’t seen or heard from her in years. I read the comments under the post and someone said she had been found, but then someone else said she’d disappeared on purpose and had run away from her husband.’
‘Run away from her husband,’ I repeated, and snorted.
‘That’s what they said,’ Judy said calmly. ‘But I know that with Helen, things can often be more complicated than they first appear to be. The post had all your contact details, so I thought I’d better get in touch. I thought that I might know things about her that you didn’t know, and vice versa.’
I nodded. ‘I’m sure you know a lot, Judy, and I want to know it all, I just. . .’
‘Need some time? I get that. This must all have come as a shock, especially just as you were beginning to pick up the pieces.’
I smiled at her, glad that we could see each other’s faces. She was kind, I could see that. In another life, or rather, in a version of my life that was never going to happen now, I would have enjoyed getting to know her. I think I’d rather have liked having her as my sister-in-law.
‘Tell me something about yourself, Judy. What do you do? Where do you live?’
‘Ah, not much to tell,’ she said. ‘I live about a kilometre from where we grew up. I work in a local bookstore. Well, I manage it these days. Never married, no kids. I keep an eye on the folks, now they’re getting on. I like to garden and I love my dogs.’ She grinned apologetically. ‘See? I told you. Not much to tell. Helen always said I was born an old lady. I used to mind when she said that, but I don’t any more. Grew into my age, I reckon. It was Helen who dreamed of an exotic, adventurous life.’
We were back to talking about Helen and I wasn’t ready for that. It was too raw, and Judy’s passing comment made me seethe with a thousand unasked questions. Exotic how? Adventurous how? And would this information help me understand why she’d chosen to vanish? I felt a rising wave of panic.
‘I need to go, Judy,’ I said abruptly. ‘The girls. . .’
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘Listen, I’m here. With the time difference, this is a good time for me – I’m home from work, and I’ve had my dinner. On a day when the girls are at school, when you’ve got some time, you can call me.’
‘Thank you, Judy,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’ I didn’t know what else to say. We stared at each other in silence for a moment, then she gave me a quick grin and I saw her lean forward to cut off the connection.
Helen
The Jubilee Line was fast – much faster than she had been prepared for. She was rattling through central London at great speed. She’d hoped for some time to compose herself, calm her racing heart and prepare for this vast next step, but within a few minutes, it seemed, they were pulling into Canary Wharf. She gathered herself and got off the train, checking behind her and around her to make sure she hadn’t been seen by anyone she knew. They would be starting to look for her within the next few hours, so she was keen to get off the streets as soon as possible.
She walked briskly, head down, and was on a Docklands Light Railway train within a few minutes. She chose a window seat and turned her face away from the other passengers, watching the unfamiliar landscape of east London slide past. No one she knew would be anywhere near here, she was sure of it, and she had taken sufficient precautions with her appearance that a casual passer-by couldn’t possibly mistake her for the suburban housewife missing from north London. Except. . . As the thought occurred to her, her hand flew up to her right ear, the ear turned towards the rest of the train carriage. The scar where the earring had been ripped out was plainly visible on her earlobe; a raised, white ridge. It was. . . How did they describe such things on detective programmes? A distinguishing characteristic? She’d barely given it a thought when her hair was long – it was easy to cover up if she wanted to. But now she had cut her hair short, there was no way to hide it.
The train pulled into Greenwich station and she slipped off it, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible and keeping her head down as she passed beneath the CCTV cameras. She needed to make one stop before she was safe. Somewhere in Greenwich there would be a branch of Claire’s Accessories, where she’d be able to find clip-on earrings. A few pairs would do the trick, to help her conceal the scar.
Before Sam, before the girls, she had never had cause to step into one of the overcrowded little shops, its racks crammed with feathers, sequins and silly bits of fancy dress. But it was Marguerite’s favourite place in the world, and as Helen walked into the store, she could almost feel Marguerite’s sweaty little hand tugging her and pointing, quivering with excitement, at whatever bit of shiny tat had caught her fancy. The pain of it bent Helen almost double, and she stood for a moment in the doorway of the shop, holding herself tightly, her breathing uneven. Someone tried to come into the shop behind her and huffed with annoyance because she was blocking the entrance. Helen saw the assistant look up enquiringly. The last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself. She’d buy earrings later. Right now, she needed to get out of this public place. She turned abruptly and walked quickly out of the shop and off up the street.
Her destination was five minutes away, in a quiet street away from the hubbub of the middle of Greenwich. As she approached, she slipped her hand into her bag and drew out the keys. She’d
had them zipped into a compartment in her bag for the last week, alongside the other mobile phone. There was a small parade of shops – a newsagent’s, a scruffy shoe-repair shop which didn’t look as if it got many customers, and a small, dusty art gallery which was seldom, if ever, open for business. Between the art gallery and the shoe-repair shop there was a black-painted door with a row of three doorbells beside it. Helen slotted her key into the door and pushed it open, checking again to make sure no one had seen her go in. She drew the door closed behind her. The tiny hallway was littered with pizza leaflets and the window ledge by the front door held a long-dead spider plant. She climbed the stairs, passed the first floor, where two front doors faced one another across a small landing, and continued up a second flight. There was only one door at the top; it looked new and was freshly painted a pristine eggshell white. ‘14C’ proclaimed the brass numbers on the door. Helen unlocked the mortice and then the Yale lock and gently pushed the door open.
The room beyond the door was empty, the walls snowy white and freshly painted; in fact the smell of paint still lingered faintly in the air. The flooring was immaculate blonde wood. There was a tiny open-plan kitchen off to one side, separated from the main room by a breakfast bar. The door to the little bathroom stood open, revealing the brand-new fittings.
Helen dropped her handbag by the front door and walked slowly around the airy, empty space. She was still trembling from the stress of her journey, but for the first time that day she felt she could breathe freely. In fact, for the first time in months and months, she felt she could relax.
But there was no time for sitting around. She had to get started. The space was so pure, she felt loath to change anything about it, but she saw that along the wall beside the front door there was a row of boxes. These were all things she had bought online and which her landlord, owner of the art gallery downstairs, had generously taken in and put in the flat ready for her arrival. She used her new keys to rip open the tape on each box, and carefully unpacked the contents.
The first box held a single-sized duvet and pillow, tightly wrapped in plastic, along with a set of bed linen in pure white cotton, and a couple of fluffy white towels. The second held kitchen equipment: two saucepans, one small, one slightly larger, a couple of good sharp knives, and a single bowl, plate, mug and set of cutlery. There was also one finely shaped wine glass. A further box held white, floor-length cotton curtains of the right size to fit the wide window, and a small venetian blind for the bathroom.
She was hooking the blind up when the buzzer sounded. She went through and glanced out of the window on to the street. There was an Ikea van below. The deliverymen carried the wooden frame and single futon she had ordered up the stairs and put them below the window, and set the barstool beside the kitchen breakfast bar. They were surly men, without much conversation, and Helen was happy to see them go. If she had her way, they would be the last two people to enter her space.
She made up her bed and then opened the large box from an online clothing retailer. She unpacked her new clothes into the fitted wardrobe – leggings and jeans, big T-shirts and loose tops, a denim jacket and some Converse sneakers. The clothes were good quality but plain and not at all feminine. Not one item would have looked right in her wardrobe in north London.
Helen Cooper wore pretty sundresses in summer that showed off her slim, tanned legs, and neat miniskirts, bright, jewel-coloured jumpers, and expensive boots in winter. Any jeans she owned were crisp and tailored, teamed with smart blouses and well-cut jackets.
Helen Day’s jeans were a loose, ‘boyfriend’ cut, already rumpled and faded. The oversized tops would conceal her figure, and the Converse and denim jacket, combined with the boyish haircut, would give her an androgynous air.
Helen Day. For it was, of course, Helen Day who had rented this flat, and Helen Day was in possession of deed-poll documents registering her legal change of name.
Helen glanced at her watch. It was past six o’clock. Where were the girls? Had they waited for her at the dance school or headed home? Had Sam worked out there was food in the fridge and freezer? Was he giving the girls dinner?
She sat on her barstool, cradling her left hand in her right. She stared at her watch. It was a slim, girlish watch with an expensive brown leather strap, a gift from Sam for her last birthday. She unbuckled it and laid it on the counter in front of her. Then, slowly, she drew off her engagement and wedding rings. She looked around the room and her eyes lighted on the small box from which she had unpacked her new coffee mug. She put the watch and rings in the box and, standing on her tiptoes, pushed the box to the back of the top shelf in the wardrobe. Then she picked up her keys and went out to buy food for her first night in her new home.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sam
‘Helen’s got a sister? Fucking hell.’ Tim was sitting opposite me in the crowded bar in Soho, leaning in to hear me over the braying bankers in the early Thursday evening crowd.
‘A sister and parents. All still in Brisbane, very much alive.’
‘And they had no idea about you?’
‘None at all. Apparently Helen left Australia suddenly six years ago, and they haven’t heard from her since.’
‘So she’s got previous.’
‘Previous?’
‘She’s absconded before. Sorry, that probably sounded insensitive.’
‘Absconded sounds like she escaped custody.’
‘Well, did she?’
‘What, you think I was holding her against her will?’
‘Not you, numbnuts. When she left Australia. Was she in trouble with the law?’
‘What? No.’
‘So why did she leave?’
‘I don’t know yet. It was a shock, seeing Judy for the first time. She looks like Helen, but older. I haven’t been up to asking too many probing questions.’
‘But this. . . Judy. . . definitely doesn’t know where Helen is now?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘Wow,’ said Tim, taking a thoughtful sip of his drink. ‘A whole family left behind.’
I raised an eyebrow at him, and he looked sheepish.
‘I should stop talking, shouldn’t I?’
‘No, it’s fine,’ I said, taking a substantial gulp of my own drink. ‘It’s all fucked up. There’s no point in pussyfooting around it. It raises a lot of questions.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like, how much do I ask Judy? How much do I really want to know? How many lies can I bear to hear unravelled? And what do I tell the girls, if anything?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, if Helen and I were still together, they’d be so excited to discover they have Australian step-grandparents and an auntie. But what are these people to them now? There’s no blood link, and soon there’ll be no legal link.’
‘Soon? Are you thinking about getting divorced?’
‘Not thinking – I’ve started the process. If I can prove that Helen has disappeared and I’ve made efforts to find her, there are forms I can fill in. . .’
‘Whoa,’ said Tim. ‘So soon? She hasn’t even been gone a year.’
‘And she’s not coming back. I told you the night we found out she’d chosen to go that she wouldn’t be back. I can’t keep my life on hold indefinitely.’
‘Why? What have you got in mind? Are you planning to marry Lara?’
‘Oh God, no,’ I said, too quickly and vehemently. ‘I mean, not that Lara’s not lovely. . . She is. It’s just. . . I can’t put myself and the girls through all that again.’
Tim nodded. And then he spoke, quietly. ‘When she went, Sam, was there really no warning?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You genuinely had no idea? You thought everything was fine?’
I shook my head.
‘Do you remember when I arrived at your place when Helen was first missing?’ Tim said gently. ‘We had a late-night talk and you told me you and Helen had disagreed about having a baby?’
I’d forgotten I’d told him that. I’d been delirious with worry and exhaustion. What had I said? I felt a trickle of cold dread in my stomach.
‘Yeah,’ I said, my tone neutral and noncommittal. I didn’t elaborate.
‘You said you’d stopped having sex.’
‘Not stopped,’ I said. ‘That sounds melodramatic. We were a long-term couple. It had been a dry patch, that’s all. It happens.’
‘You said six months.’
‘Did I? I don’t remember.’
‘You said you tried to get her to go for counselling.’
‘This is one of those wisdom-of-hindsight things,’ I said impatiently. ‘It all sounds much worse when you put it like that. We talked about it and she was adamant she didn’t want a baby. I wanted to make sure she was sure. For herself. I mean, I have Miranda and Marguerite. . .’ My voice sounded bluff and false, even to my own ears.
‘Did something happen?’ said Tim, looking at me intently.
I glanced up, and then refused to meet his gaze. I stared at the neck of my beer bottle and the ragged edge of my own thumbnail.
Finally I said, ‘I’ve thought over every moment of the last year or so of our relationship, to try to work out if something did happen. If there were any clues. And. . .’ I stopped. I didn’t want to say it out loud. Tim sat there and waited. Eventually, I continued. ‘There was this one day.’ He nodded but didn’t interrupt or prompt me. ‘With the. . . the baby thing. Every time I brought it up, she’d get evasive. She’d change the subject, bring up something else that we needed to be doing – repairs to the house, a holiday coming up, what the girls were busy with at school. I felt like she was shutting me out. She got so busy with all the stuff she did with the school, and with studying – she was forever doing courses. And I was working really hard too. I felt like we never had a proper conversation. As if we kept missing each other. So I planned this weekend away.’
As I haltingly described what had happened, the weekend flooded back to me, and with the recollection, a nasty, acid surge of shame.