Gone Without a Trace

by Mary Torjussen

  I felt as though my legs were about to give way. I sat down on the sofa and looked at the room. My stomach was clenched so tightly I almost doubled over.

  What’s happened?

  I didn’t dare go into the rest of the house.

  I took my mobile from my bag. I knew I shouldn’t call Matt – what was the point? He’d sent me the clearest message he could. At that moment, though, I had no pride. I wanted to talk to him, to ask him what was happening. I knew, though. I knew exactly what had happened. What he’d done.

  There were no missed calls, no new messages, no new emails. Suddenly furious – he might at least have had the decency to let me know – I clicked on recent calls and scrolled down to find his name so that I could ring him. I frowned. I knew I’d called him a few nights ago. I’d been in the car, just about to leave work; my friend Katie had sent a message saying that she and her boyfriend, James, might come round, and I’d phoned Matt to check we had some drinks in. There was no record of that call on my phone. I scrolled down further. Months of calls flashed by. None of them was to him or from him.

  I closed my eyes for a second and tried to take a deep breath, but I couldn’t. I felt as though I was going to faint, and had to put my head down on my knees. After a few minutes, I looked back at the screen, clicked on contacts and typed M for Matt, but nothing came up. Panicking, I typed S for Stone, his surname. His name wasn’t there.

  My fingers were suddenly hot and damp, slipping on the screen as I scrolled down the list of text messages. Again, there were none to him and none from him, though we had sent a few each week. We tended to do that rather than call, lately. There were still messages to friends and to my parents and to Sam at work, but nothing to Matt. I’d bought that phone at Christmas with my bonus. I’d sent him a message then, though he was only in the kitchen, asking him to bring a bottle of Prosecco into the living room. I could hear him laugh when he read the message, and he brought it in with some more chocolate mousse. I was lying comatose; the agreement had been that I’d cook Christmas lunch for his mother and us, but wouldn’t have to do anything else for the rest of the day.

  I double-checked now and looked at my texts to Katie. It took a while to scroll through them, as we sent several a week – several a day at times – but eventually I found the first one, wishing her a happy Christmas and telling her that Matt had bought me a Mulberry bag. She’d acted amazed, but I knew he’d asked her advice on it. I don’t know how she’d kept it a secret.

  My mind whirled. What had happened to Matt’s texts and calls?

  I switched the phone off and on again, hoping that might do something. There were texts from Katie, sent yesterday afternoon, asking me about my trip to Oxford today. She’d phoned me just before the training started this morning, too, to wish me luck, knowing how much the day meant to me. I’d spent a few minutes talking to her in the car park before I had to go in. There were texts to and from Sam, my friend at work, and Lucy, my assistant, as well as some from my mum and a few from my dad, including those exchanged in Oxford just hours ago. There were also messages from Fran and Jenny, old friends who I run with sometimes, and from university friends I still saw occasionally. There wasn’t anything from Matt at all.

  Of course I knew what was going to happen when I opened my emails. No new messages, but that wasn’t a surprise. I tried to think of the last time Matt had emailed me rather than texting. Back when we first met, we’d email several times a day; we both used to have our private emails open on our computers while we were working, so we could chat throughout the day. You’d think that would have made us less productive, but in fact the opposite happened and we found we were firing on all cylinders, working fast and furious and making great decisions. We were so fired up, we both got promotions, and it was only when Matt’s company started logging network accounts after some idiot was found to be looking at porn all day that we had to stop. My heart sank now as I looked at the folders; the one with all his emails in was missing. I opened a new message and entered ‘Matt’ into the address bar. Nothing came up.

  I could hear myself breathing, short, shallow breaths. There was the beginning of a mist around my eyes and I could feel myself starting to hyperventilate.

  I had no way of contacting him.

  3

  For a while, I couldn’t move. I sat on the edge of the sofa, holding my stomach as though I was in labour. My mind raced and my palms were tingling. When the lights of a car came to our end of the street and shone through a gap in the curtains, I jumped up, and before I knew it I was flat against the wall next to the window, pulling the curtain slightly to one side.

  If it was Matt, I wanted to be ready for him.

  Someone had come to the empty house next door. Car doors opened and slammed; I heard a man say something and a woman laugh in response. I looked through the gap in the curtains and saw a young couple standing at the boot of their car. I watched unnoticed as they unloaded suitcases and boxes and took them into the house. They must have just left them in the hall, as within a minute they were back in their car and driving off down the road. My new neighbours, I assumed. I looked at my watch. It was after eight o’clock. It seemed an odd time to move in, but then I remembered my other neighbour, Sheila, saying that it was a local couple who had bought the house; maybe they were moving their things themselves.

  I gathered up my courage and made my way through to the kitchen. I pushed the door open and pressed the light switch. When the light blazed on, I caught a flash of the room and closed my eyes.

  He’d done the same thing here.

  Gone was the maroon Rothko print that had glowed above the oak fireplace. Gone too was the white metal candelabra that Matt had brought with him and lit on the night he’d moved in. I remembered him blowing out the candles before taking my hand and leading me upstairs to our bedroom. He’d smiled at me, that easy grin that had always made me smile back, and pulled me towards him in the darkened room, whispering in my ear, ‘Let’s go to bed.’ My heart had melted and I’d hugged him, right where I was standing now.

  I shuddered.

  The back of the house was one room, with a marble island dividing the kitchen and dining areas. French doors led out on to the patio and large windows sat either side, with potted plants and photos on their deep sills. Of course, the photos of Matt had vanished. There were still pictures of Katie and me with our arms around each other at parties, and one of us that I loved where we were wearing Santa hats and holding hands, aged five. There was one of my mum and dad that I’d taken on their wedding anniversary, and another of them with me at my graduation, their faces full of pride and relief. Photos of my friends from university, shiny-faced and bright-eyed in bars and clubs, were still there, and one of me finishing my first half-marathon, holding hands with Jenny and Fran as we crossed the line, but all the photos of Matt had gone. It was impossible now to see where they’d been.

  I sat at the island with my head in my hands and looked out at the room. A square glass vase of purple tulips sat on the dining table, just where I’d put it a few days before. I’d stopped at Tesco for some milk and had seen them by the entrance, their tight buds and dewy leaves a reminder that summer was on its way. The room was clean and tidy, just as it usually was, but it seemed tarnished now somehow, like a nightclub in daylight.

  There were fewer glasses on the shelves of the cabinet by the door. When Matt had moved in, he’d brought with him some heavy crystal wine glasses his grandmother had given him. I hadn’t liked them, had thought they were old-fashioned and doubted they were nice even when they were in fashion, so their disappearance now was no great loss. My Vera Wang glasses were still there, lined up and ready to party. Ready to party in an empty room.

  My stomach rumbled and I went over to the fridge, though I couldn’t face eating. The contents of the fridge seemed the same as they’d been at six that morning, when I’d left for Oxford. A supermarket delivery had arrived last night, ready for the weekend ahead, and everything was
still there. There was twice as much as I’d need now. I’d ordered the food while I was at work and Matt had unpacked it with me, without a word to suggest he wouldn’t be there to eat it. I slammed the fridge door shut and stood with my back to it, breathing heavily, my eyes squeezed tight. When my breathing slowed, I opened my eyes and saw the gaps on the magnetic strip above the hob where he’d lovingly placed his Sabatier knives. Below was a space where his cafetière had stood.

  I steeled myself and opened the cupboards. His packets of coffee beans were gone, the grinder too. If I leaned forward, I could smell the faint aroma of coffee and wondered how long it would last. That was one thing he couldn’t erase. My head throbbed as I opened a lower cupboard and saw the space where his juicer usually stood. In another cupboard I saw that his mugs had gone, the huge ugly ones with logos. He’d carried them with him from university to bedsit and on to his London house, and then to our home – my home – and I wished he’d left them so that I could smash them now.

  I opened the fridge again and checked the compartments in the door this time. The bottle of ketchup that I never touched – gone. His jar of Marmite – gone. No great loss, as I disliked both of them, but why take them? I checked the kitchen bin and they weren’t there. All my bottles and jars had been redistributed along the shelves so it looked as though nothing was missing.

  I took a bottle of white wine from the fridge and one of my glasses from the cabinet and sat back at the island. I poured a full glass and drank it down almost in one gulp, then poured another. I kept looking at my phone, checking again and again that his number had actually gone. My mind whirred. He’d been fine the night before; in fact he’d been in a great mood. I’d got up early that morning to shower and get ready for my trip to Oxford. I’d left at dawn, terrified of getting caught up in the morning traffic. I’d panicked the whole journey in case I was late.

  I’d leaned over before I left and kissed him softly on his cheek. His eyes were closed and his breathing steady. His face had been warm and still against my mouth. He was asleep, or at least I’d thought he was. Maybe he was awake, waiting for me to go. Maybe his eyes had snapped open the moment he heard my car drive off and he’d jumped up to start packing.

  I started to cry, then, at the thought of that. We’d been together for four years – how could he just walk out without an explanation? And to put all my things back in their old places: it was as though he’d never been here!

  I drank most of the next glass down too, and that made me cry again. I loved Matt. I’d always loved him, right from the start. He knew how much he meant to me; I’d told him so many times. We spent all our time together, and the thought of being without him made my stomach gallop with panic. I reached out for my phone, wanting to talk to someone, but put it down again. I was filled with shame at being left, humiliated at the way he’d gone. How could I tell anyone what he’d done?

  I took the bottle and my glass upstairs with me. I needed oblivion tonight, and this was the quickest way there.

  When I got to my bedroom door, I knew what to expect, but still, the sight of the quilt cover, fresh and clean, upset me again. I’d changed the bed linen the Sunday before, and just by chance had put on the burgundy cover he’d brought with him when he moved in. That was gone now; the quilt cover and pillowcases on the bed were embroidered white cotton, mine from long before I’d met him.

  I steeled myself and opened his wardrobe doors. Of course, it was empty. Wire hangers hung on the rail, and there wasn’t even the faintest smell of his cologne. There didn’t seem much point in checking the drawers, but I did anyway. They were as empty as the day I bought them.

  I took off my clothes and dropped them in the empty laundry basket in the bathroom, found my oldest and softest cotton pyjamas and put them on, all the while avoiding my reflection in the mirror over my chest of drawers. I was too mortified to see my own face.

  In bed, as the night grew dark, with just the light from the landing coming through to the room, I poured glass after glass of wine and drank it without tasting it. I reached into the bottom drawer of my bedside dresser and found my headphones. They were the kind that cancelled noise; just what I needed tonight, when I didn’t want to hear anything, not even my own thoughts. In the darkness of the room, I could feel my head buzzing and my cheeks tightening as the alcohol entered my bloodstream. I took the pillow from Matt’s side of the bed and curled into it. It smelled clean and fresh; there was no trace of him there. Tears ran down my face, and no matter how many times I dried it, within seconds it was drenched again. When I thought of him packing up everything and leaving me without a word, without a hint that he was going, I felt like a fist was clenching my heart, squeezing it tight. I could hardly breathe.

  Where was he?

  4

  I woke in the night, my mouth foul and my eyes sore from crying. Clutched tightly in my hand was the stem of my glass, and the side of the bed that Matt usually slept on was damp and stained from the wine that had spilled. The air was full of the smell of stale alcohol, and as I breathed in the fumes, my stomach churned and I had to make a mad dash to the bathroom.

  Although I should have expected it and braced myself, I felt a jolt at the sight of my toothbrush alone in the holder. I kept my eyes firmly on the basin as I brushed my teeth and cleansed my face, deliberately avoiding the gaps where his shaving things used to be, the empty hook where his dressing gown had hung, the space where his shampoo and shower gel usually stood in the shower cubicle. I felt different, somehow, as though everything had changed. As though I had changed. My head was full and my eyes were swollen from crying, but it was more than that. All my muscles ached and my chest was sore and tight. I felt as though I was ill, as though I had flu.

  I stood at the top of the stairs, about to go down to fetch a glass of water, but stopped as I saw the gaps where the photos had been in the hallway. Unable to face going downstairs and confronting it all again, I turned back to my bed.

  It was hours before I could speak to Katie. She was the only person I could trust with this. We’d known each other since we were five and had sat next to each other at school. We’d stuck together through so much since then. I knew she wouldn’t judge me or ask me what I’d done wrong. She knew Matt well, too; she knew this was the last thing I would have expected. I knew it was early for Katie to be awake at the weekend, but still I sent her a text:

  I need to talk to you. Are you up yet?

  While I waited for a reply, I checked Facebook. My stomach fell when I thought Matt had blocked me, but as I searched for his name and saw he wasn’t there, I realised he must have deactivated his account. Why would he do that? I looked for the messages we’d exchanged, but the entire conversation had gone. How had that happened? And my folders of photos of us had vanished too! Quickly I checked Twitter, Instagram and LinkedIn. I couldn’t find him on those sites either.

  Katie must have had a really late night, because it was over an hour before she replied. I lay there drumming my fingers on the bed, thinking so hard about where he might be that by the time she answered, my head was pounding.

  Just going round to my mum’s. Call you later?

  I couldn’t help it. At the thought of coping with this on my own, I started to cry again.

  Please, Katie. Matt has left me. Can you come round?

  There was a long pause. I imagined her face, stunned at the news; we’d been together for four years, after all. At last she replied:

  He’s gone? OK, give me half an hour.

  I lay curled up in the darkened room, unable to find the energy to even draw back the curtains. Even though I’d brushed my teeth, I could still taste the wine from the night before at the back of my throat, smell it in the quilt and pillows. It smelled disgusting, like I’d lost control of myself. I couldn’t bear Katie to see me like that.

  By the time she arrived, I’d showered and changed the bedding. The windows were open and the curtains drawn, but despite brushing my teeth again, my mouth was st
ill nasty.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she said as soon as I opened the door.

  Instantly my eyes filled with tears and I brushed them away. ‘I came home from work last night and he’d gone, taking everything with him.’

  ‘Everything?’

  I nodded. ‘It must have taken him hours.’

  ‘Oh Hannah,’ she said and put her arms around me. I clung to her for a minute. I could smell her warm, sweet perfume, feel the slick of her lip gloss against my cheek as she kissed me. ‘Come on, tell me all about it.’

  We sat in the kitchen with the French doors open and the fresh spring air wafting in. I made us some tea, but I felt sick at the thought of eating anything. I sat facing the glossy white kitchen units; from here, everything looked normal, as though he had never left. Katie stared around the room, as if she might see something I had missed.

  ‘What’s upstairs like?’ she asked.

  I winced. ‘Same as here. He’s taken all his stuff.’

  ‘Have you phoned him?’ she asked, gently. ‘Do you want me to speak to him?’

  I swallowed hard. ‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘I don’t have his number.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s wiped it all,’ I said. ‘Everything’s gone. Emails, texts, everything.’

  She came over and put her arms around me. ‘Oh you poor thing,’ she said, and the tears came then. Soon I was sobbing. She held on to me and stroked my hair. ‘It’s OK. You’ll be OK.’

  In all the years we’d known each other, she’d hardly ever seen me cry. I tried to pull myself together, embarrassed. ‘I know. It’s just the shock.’

  ‘Don’t you remember his number?’

  I shook my head. ‘He’s had the same one for as long as I’ve known him. Once it was on my phone, I didn’t need to remember it.’

  ‘I’m the same,’ she said. ‘I can’t remember any numbers nowadays. I don’t even notice them. Hold on, I think James has got it.’