She quickly explained. “It was Ted’s wedding present to me. The photographs.”
“Your favourite?”
“Grace Kelly,” she said without hesitation. “Lace and embroidery girl, that’s me.”
We stood side by side, taking a moment to admire the actress in antique rose point lace and reams of silk taffeta and tulle.
“Her veil was covered with appliquéd lace lovebirds and thousands of seed pearls,” Suzanne explained, expression dreamy.
She moved me into the main living area, where mannequins worked the room. There was also a tailor’s dummy punctured with pins. Full house.
It was a claustrophobic box of sequins and silk, but I soon felt quite at home. Its saving grace was the natural light, flooding through floor-to-ceiling windows. Suzanne rushed me further still into the room, apologising about the mess, while reassuring me that a move to her new studio was imminent.
“The loan has been approved. I’m taking this super seriously.”
She talked incessantly while chucking fabric off chairs and the sofa until there was space to sit down.
“I’m messy but not usually this messy. Cece hates it; hyperventilates each time she visits, which isn’t often, trust me. Seriously, she gets breathless and out comes the whirring fan. Keeps emailing me the name of her cleaner–has even offered to pay.”
I laughed. “She is one proactive person.”
“Neat freak.”
I perched on a purple and white striped futon upholstered within an inch of its life while Suzanne continued to steamroll back and forth creating more space, which involved much flinging, stuffing and throwing. Her idea of wallpaper was tear sheets from fashion magazines: wall-to-wall couture, catwalk shots, models, shoes and accessories in black and white and colour.
The place brought back memories of 2Glam. The hectic schedule, rails of clothes whooshing up and down corridors, couriers dropping off shoes for shoots, photographers dashing up in the lift to show off their book.
We finally found Suzanne’s sketches under a bolt of pink organza and I laid it out on the coffee table while Suzanne wheeled in a hanger rail of designs.
“Feel free to go through them while I… I’ll fix us drinks.”
She bolted to the kitchen, leaving me to look.
I prowled through the clothes first and within seconds was seriously thrilled.
Her debut collection consisted of 12 dresses, the romantic theme at large with ruffles and ribbon and a big nod to embroidery and lace–her signature stamp. There was a lot going on but it worked. She promised standout feminine looks and great confidence in the cut.
“I hope you’re not hiding in the kitchen,” I shouted as I admired an evening gown–fresh creative talent in keeping with Corset.
Suzanne’s head popped round the door, immediately.
“It’s safe to come out. I like what I see.”
“You do?” She cantered over; an excited four-year-old. “You like the designs?”
“I really like the designs.”
“Oh, gosh.”
“Have you got help to run up the clothes?”
She nodded with a nervous grin, hand over mouth. “I do. And the debt to prove it.”
“Every good designer has debt. And a manager.”
She winced. “Not there yet.”
We talked for two hours and it was great to focus on work. Suzanne had nailed a business plan and was in talks with an upmarket boutique that had commissioned an order. I felt relaxed, less weighed down with demons as I made suggestions and talked through ideas for a magazine shoot. Suzanne scribbled notes furiously.
When we started to wind up discussions she said, “It must have been hard to give it up. Life in London?”
I smiled and nodded, distracted by a framed photograph on the wall that stood out from tear sheets and professional fashion shots: a man getting out of a car not unaware of the camera. His face was unreadable; happy, angry, indifferent.
“That’s Ted,” she said, following my gaze, confirming my thoughts.
He was tall and narrow with sharp edges, shoulder blades visible and cheekbones. I saw a mouth turned down slightly at the corners, in concentration or rage.
The sun hit the corner of the photograph and cast a faint haze over its subject and scene. It didn’t surprise me for a minute that this man could disappear in a translucent glow, too bright to be seen in the passing.
Life was slightly different for Suzanne because, unlike the rest of us, she didn’t know for sure if her husband was definitely dead or not.
Chapter Twelve
The Living Dead
Suzanne was quite open about what she had been through: married for three years before her life had effectively been put on hold. That was seven years ago.
Her husband, Ted Holmes, disappeared one afternoon without explanation. He simply never came back home. No one knew where he had gone or where he was now.
His absence didn’t erase him from Suzanne’s life, though. She kept his clothes, his bike, books. He didn’t pack a suitcase or take his passport. He was just gone. How little you need to leave a life.
“I’ve kept everything, even razors,” Suzanne confessed, sheepish. “The last empty beer can he drank from.”
Ted was officially absent or missing, whatever the authorities wanted to call it. Suzanne told me she even received paperwork from the local council who creatively referred to him as the “living dead.”
I thought about clothes folded in drawers, aftershave and razor blades still at large.
“He went out to get some cigarettes and never returned. Our joint bank account hasn’t been used and he didn’t take any clothes. His passport is still in the drawer upstairs.” She chewed down on her nails. “I just want to know what happened. I want him to be safe.”
Even after all this time she still sounded baffled and with good reason.
I was definitely baffled. “No one has seen him?” I studied the photograph, searching for clues. “He didn’t call anyone?”
She shook her head. “He vanished into thin air. Can you believe that? He’s an unsolved disappearance.”
I stopped staring at the photo and glanced at her. She was wearing a cream crocheted dress with prim neckline over purple footless tights, fragile looking under the helmet of curls. She sat back in her chair with an other-side-of-the-world expression on her face–with you but not with you.
“He’s a photographer,” she explained, present tense, pointing to work on the wall. “Got an excellent eye. I met him through a tutor who recommended Ted shoot my first-ever collection at college when we were in London. Here…more of his work.”
She pulled out a portfolio from underneath the coffee table. He did have an eye. It was indulgent and dark but he knew how to lavish attention on his subject.
How the hell could someone just disappear? We were the communication generation and yet couldn’t find someone who went for a packet of Marlboro Lights and never came back. I tried hard not to sound too disbelieving. “No one saw him?”
“No one. Well, no one saw him after he was spotted at the bus stop not far from here.”
“What about his family? Didn’t he try to contact them?”
“His parents are dead–old age and ill health.”
“Siblings?”
“One sister. She lives in Australia. There isn’t much of an extended family and whoever there is, is just getting on with their lives, as you would, I suppose.”
“I suppose.”
“I guess you could say there is no one else to keep up the search but me. I can’t give up on him, even though he’s been gone longer than the time we had together.”
There was a small silence as she slid the portfolio back in its place. “Sometimes I wonder did he ever exist.”
I waited for her to go on.
“I thought he might have gone to Australia but his sister says no. Our friends in London haven’t heard from him. His passport is here, although, obviously, he
could be anywhere in the world.”
Or nowhere, I thought,
She shrugged. “I miss him. There is no closure.”
“Ah, closure–easier said than done.”
“I’ve stopped the obsessive behaviour, though,” she added, brighter. “I went into overdrive handing out his photo, calling hospitals, reading obituaries. The stuff that makes you go mad.”
She smiled, apologetically, handing me an A4 poster that had been tucked at the back of her design book.
It was a full-length shot of Ted under a MISSING banner. Please Help: Ted Holmes has been missing since 16 October 2004. The last confirmed sighting was on Washington Road, Leith, at X19 bus stop. Ted is about 5”9” (1.79m) tall with medium build. He has light brown hair and blue eyes. Contact details and a web address followed.
“We made sure the posters were available in different languages on his website. Friends helped me set up a campaign–we just kept looking and looking.”
“What did the police do?”
“Not much. I answered endless questions: were there problems in the relationship; money worries or illness.”
“Nothing?”
“I was told that people either run from something or towards something.”
I felt a jolt of shock and thought about Harrison but Suzanne didn’t seem to notice.
“Either way, someone is running, which isn’t much to go on. All I do is go to church and pray that he’ll come home.
I nodded, wishing I had a window of hope like this.
“But I’m not a God botherer,” she added hastily.
I smiled. “Funny, you sound just like Cece.”
Suzanne relaxed and smiled. “You don’t think I’m crazy–the church stuff?”
“Why would I? As far as I know, it could be God out there or a firefly,” I said. “I like to keep an open mind.”
“I’m flexible, too. I just need to believe someone or something is out there who can help.”
“Seriously, you don’t need to explain.”
After a moment she said, “I was told that if someone doesn’t want to be found, there’s nothing I can do. The police are not legally allowed to tell me where he is.”
“Has there been any indication of this–that he is out there but doesn’t want to be found?”
Suzanne shook her head, frustrated. “I’ve no idea.”
“It’s not your fault.”
She looked unconvinced. “I felt so useless at the time; couldn’t think of anything. He wasn’t the kind to self-harm or attempt suicide, wasn’t on meds. The police had no crime reports and we didn’t have relationship problems… I don’t think…” Her voice tailed off.
“The police now?”
“Nothing. There never was much action; low-risk case. It all comes down to a file report–a Missing Person who has ‘voluntarily gone missing’. Reference number 4598.”
Again, I thought about Harrison and the distance between us, not just through work; voluntarily gone missing in marriage.
“Here I am, still waiting,” said Suzanne, interrupting my thoughts.
“Still working,” I said, gently. “Look at this fabulous debut collection.”
You know, perhaps it is time to move on. Distract me,” she said, smiling. “Let’s talk about anything but Ted.”
“Back to fashion?”
“Definitely yes.”
While we selected dresses, I continued to think about Ted. And I reckon Suzanne knows as well as I do that you can’t find someone who doesn’t want to be found. You can’t make them come home when they’ve made up their mind to go. Can’t make them love you when they don’t. Won’t.
Later at Hotel Missoni, Suzanne returned to form and didn’t mention Ted again. I think it was an effort on her part to move forward. We didn’t linger long at the hotel bar once the interview was done. Suzanne headed home and I returned to the office to pick up the latest proofs to read at home with a bottle of red.
It was late. I left the building too exhausted to feel threatened by ghosts. Suzanne’s revelations had drained me. Another purple night. The full moon had diluted the effects of the darkness down to a lilac glow. I was preoccupied while I walked but watchful.
I inhaled the night air, hot spices from restaurants, cigarette smoke and aftershave, while listening to the continual chink of glassware and voices chattery with news. It was an ordinary evening and I could tell there would be no haunting or chase tonight from The Watcher. I suspected spirits were circling too high above the city, fearing illumination from the moon. It was just me in the world walking through cobbled streets to a rented apartment I now called home.
I wanted to know the truth, that’s what I remind myself whenever I look back. No, I suppose I didn’t want to know but I’m not stupid. Romantic, yes, not stupid. It all has to come out in the end but, Christ, does it hurt.
Truth is a rocket in reverse–you travel at speed downwards on a propellant with liquid oxygen mixing with liquid hydrogen, blasting through pavements and hearts, until you reach a place where there’s no further place to fall. When I finally dropped to a stop in the darkness, it would take more than a damn piece of hospital equipment to kickstart my heart.
Suzanne, on the other hand, will tell you that the truth never comes close to killing you. Faith and forgiveness make a great bullet-protection vest, she argues. The truth can shake you, knock you down even, but can’t break you.
It can’t break you, she repeats.
I still don’t know how to answer that.
Chapter Thirteen
Widow Be Damned
I write down times and places whenever I get a feeling I’m being watched or followed. It’s all there in a reporter’s notebook. The audacious stranger following me home from Ribbons seems ever present but never shows his face again. One look at the notebook and people would conclude I was paranoid. Do you see what death does to you?
Darkness, I decided, was a contributing fear factor so I made sure I lived a floodlit life and also jumped in the car where once I would have walked.
Jim said we encourage spirits. I rubbished this. Then I thought about it so much I was convinced I’d given myself a cerebral aneurysm. Had I brought this on myself? I had to stop the blood flow to these thoughts, otherwise I wouldn’t make it through another week. My head ached and I even had blurred vision at times–all brought on whenever I wondered if Harrison was trying to tell me something; communicate from the dead. You could argue with hindsight that this is exactly what he was doing or believe it was simply the truth working its way to the top.
I soon fell into the routine of meeting the girls twice sometimes three times a week–breakfast or lunch. Occasionally, we’d meet for dinner, hoping our presence in Ribbons would draw a crowd.
The heat seemed to suck the life out of everyone. There was an ongoing lethargy that not even the most sophisticated air conditioning could shift. Babies took on the permanent appearance of bright pink boiled sweets, hot and bothered. People shuffled, exhausted.
There was a lull in the world and even the anonymous envelope failed to deliver a follow-up, although, I suspected unfinished business on that front. I was more concerned at this time with lack of sleep, which was infuriating me with its persistence. Insomnia is a formidable force; it learns to control you–not the other way round. No matter how much pressure you apply, it doesn’t break unless you drill deep into your consciousness with persistent force and excavate the problem causing the problem.
I talked to Cece, Kate and Suzanne, to Jim, anyone who had thoughts on a cure for sleeplessness. The answers varied from sex to counting sequins and “there is no bloody cure, you just get over it.”
My sister helpfully pointed out that insomniac rhymes with maniac for a good reason and offered me enough pills to tranquilise ten thousand men. True, you can flatten it with drugs but it peels itself off the floor and slips back into the bedroom the next night and the next. It has strong-man arms to shake you awake until your teeth ratt
le before it abandons you abruptly in the dark, on your own, until first light. Then you sleep for an hour or so. You might not.
Unlike me, Jim thrived on insomnia. He managed it more efficiently than me. He was a wind-farm manager of sleeplessness; harnessing its power for creative output. He liked to list leaders and winners–the talented ones who thrived on just four hours’ sleep each night. Vincent Van Gogh, for example. Look how well that worked out for him, I said.
Jim glued Corset together and I saw ambition in him as well as perfectionism at work: fact-checking, spelling people’s names with care, confirming ages and relationship connections over and over. He also liked to take a chance on new designers, which was why he was so approachable when I pitched Suzanne’s collection to him.
I had a great relationship with the team but also had dead-spouse baggage, which caused an acute state of embarrassment for everyone in the office at the time of Harrison’s death. Radioactive sadness is considered to pose health risks to the general public.
I was unapproachable at first because no one had a clue what to say. “Hi, sorry to hear that your husband is dead. Can you sign my expenses form?”
Jim became the go-between. He buffered me from people until the awkwardness retreated. There is something about death that can be catching. I’ve seen people recoil. I understand Cece’s thinking that her business was cursed; you become paranoid. Losing a spouse needs an upper age limit. Under the age of 40 is too much for everyone.
On a technical note, even copy editors on the magazine don’t like a widow: a lone word stranded on a line.
I told Jim about Ted. “He walked out seven years ago. Disappeared.”
He whistled. “Man, and she’s still holding out for him? After all this time?”
(2013) Four Widows Page 6