Gone Without a Trace

by Mary Torjussen

  I sighed.

  If only people would realise, just for one minute, how hard it was trying to find him.

  17

  Later I caught sight of myself in the ladies’ loos. Prior to Disappearance Day, I’d made a point of going to the cloakrooms mid-morning, lunchtime and mid-afternoon to make sure I looked OK. I’d always go just before a meeting, too. I’d keep my straighteners in my handbag, and while they were heating up, I’d powder my nose, touch up my eyelashes, put some gloss on my lips and spray some perfume around. It meant I could go back to my desk confident and happy that I looked the best I could. That was something I’d learned in my first week at work; we’d had a training session from one of the female directors, and I saw her in the cloakroom later. It took her just a couple of minutes to make herself look great. She saw me looking at her and told me she did it three times a day and it gave her confidence. She warned me that she needed all the help she could get, working in a firm like this, where most of the partners and directors were male, and said that a woman who wanted to move up the ranks couldn’t afford to let her guard down for a second. She was right.

  Today, when I saw myself in the mirror, I realised I had let my guard down. It had been down for weeks and it showed. It really, really showed.

  My hair was lank and tousled. I blushed, unable to remember whether I’d even brushed it that morning. It must be clear to anyone that it hadn’t been washed for days. I took my hairbrush out of my bag and tried to tidy it. My straighteners were at home and had been unused since the day Matt left. I had make-up on – I hadn’t sunk so low that I’d come to work without it – but my face was dry and pale. I looked exhausted. Dark shadows lay under my eyes, and the skin around them was starting to thin and wrinkle. My lipstick had long gone, and I pulled it out of my bag and applied it, but somehow it made things worse. I looked ill without it, haggard with it. I scrubbed it off and put some gloss on, but that only made the rest of my face look drawn and drained of energy. I dabbed my mouth with tissue so that the gloss was barely a sheen.

  I pulled out my perfume and gave my wrists a quick spray. It was a Chanel fragrance: Chance. I’d bought it a few weeks ago, ready for my trip to Oxford. A kind of good luck charm. I looked down at the bottle and frowned. That had worked well, hadn’t it? I threw the bottle into the bin and rinsed my wrists until the scent had gone.

  As I walked past Sam’s office to get to my own, I saw him working, his shoulders hunched and strained. It was obvious he was avoiding looking at me. I paused. I was going to lose his friendship if I wasn’t careful. I knocked on his door – a first in all the time I’d known him – and went into his office, shutting the door firmly behind me. The last thing I wanted was for someone to overhear me.

  ‘I’m really sorry I shouted at you,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said with a relieved smile. ‘I know you’re having a tough time. Is there anything I can do to help you?’

  ‘Well there is actually.’

  ‘Anything. Just say.’

  ‘Do you know the name of your barber?’

  His eyes nearly popped out of his head. ‘What?’

  ‘Your barber,’ I said impatiently. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Umm, I think it’s Sharik.’

  ‘But you know his name. And does he know yours?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. He calls me “mate”. He calls us all “mate”. We don’t have to book, so we don’t have to give a name. Why?’

  I looked down. ‘No reason.’

  ‘Are you going to book a hair appointment?’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said. I shuddered at the thought of someone touching me. Then I remembered the way I’d looked earlier, the state of my hair. ‘I’ll make one soon. Don’t worry about it.’

  For the next few nights, I planned my outfit for work before I went to bed. I made sure my clothes were clean and pressed, my shoes polished and a new pair of tights lay next to my underwear. The alarm was set for 6.30 a.m. so that I’d have time to wash my hair and do my make-up.

  I did get up at the right time each morning, but it was my stomach that woke me rather than the alarm. I’d be halfway to the bathroom before I was fully conscious, and more often than not, as soon as I was sick, the alarm would beep in unison.

  By the end of that week, although my hair was still clean and glossy, I’d lost so much weight that my clothes were baggy on me, and I looked pale and drawn, as though I hadn’t slept for weeks. Which of course I hadn’t.

  I walked past Sam’s office, and by the time I reached my own desk, an email from him was waiting for me:

  Meeting room one, now. Bring a file.

  Quickly I took a random file from the cabinet, and realised at once that I should have been working on it anyway. When I got to the room, I saw he’d pulled the internal blinds and put the ‘Meeting in Progress’ sign on the door.

  He closed the door behind me and turned to me, his face full of concern. ‘Hannah, you look awful.’

  My instinct was to say something sharp in return, but I held back. I needed his friendship and, besides, he was right. ‘I know. I was sick again this morning. That’s every day this week. I feel dreadful, but I’ve got a meeting with George at eleven and I’ve got so much work to do on that account, I can’t see how I’ll manage it all.’

  He must have known I’d spent too much time messing around trying to find Matt, because I saw a flash of irritation cross his face, but he spoke kindly enough. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You’ve got ninety minutes. I’m not busy at the moment. Let’s see if we can sort it out.’ He touched my shoulder tentatively. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  My eyes filled with tears at his gesture, but I knew it would be a long time before I’d feel all right.

  ‘Unless . . .’ he said. He lowered his voice, though we were the only people in the room. ‘Oh no, Hannah, I’ve just thought. You’ve been sick and you’re tired all the time. Are you sure you’re not pregnant?’

  18

  The rest of the day passed in a daze. It was impossible to concentrate. I stopped Sam in his tracks, telling him not to be ridiculous, and we focused on the work, with him coaching me through the report I’d written, reminding me to make notes at particular points so that I wouldn’t forget what to say. I’ve never had to have anyone help me like that, and I smarted with embarrassment, but the truth was, I couldn’t do it alone that day. In the end I had to explain to my manager that I was suffering from headaches and was a bit behind with the work. I don’t think it went down too well; George has a low tolerance for illness and prides himself on never having a day off sick. I was like that myself until recently. Sam was the only person at work who knew that Matt had gone, and I could tell from the way they looked at me that others were wondering what was up with me, though no one had dared to ask.

  After the meeting with George, I shut myself away in my office, determined to focus on work. I could see Sam in his office on the other side of the room; see the way he’d glance at me every few minutes. I felt on show, as though part of me was revealed. And of course all I could think of was pregnancy.

  When I first met Matt, he’d said he wanted a family, but lately he hadn’t mentioned it. I frowned. I’d told him I wanted to be made director at least before I even thought about children. I hadn’t been interested in a family, not at that stage in my career. It was always something I assumed I’d want in the future, rather than right now.

  I sent Katie a text:

  Sam thinks I might be pregnant.

  Within ten seconds, there was a reply.

  What? Do you think you might be? What’s Sam got to do with it?

  At that moment, my office phone rang and I had to deal with a client’s enquiry about some work I’d done for them a few months back. In that time, text after text came through. The first one pinged and I hurried to turn off the sound, but I could see the messages flashing up on my screen, fast and furious.

  Do you reall
y think you might be pregnant?

  Call me tonight! I’m in Edinburgh and can’t come round.

  What will you do? I thought you were on the pill.

  The last one came through just after I’d put down the landline:

  I know this is a bit personal, Hannah, but when did you last have sex?

  I glared at the screen. Katie really was losing all sense of boundaries. I ignored her texts, knowing it was the fastest way to irritate her. She must have realised she’d gone too far because her next one, a couple of hours later, said:

  Sorry. I’m just worried about you. xx

  I didn’t answer that one either. After her question, all I could think of was the last time Matt and I had slept together. We’d both come home late one night a few weeks before he disappeared and decided to go out for a meal instead of cooking. Things were going well for both of us: I’d had an appraisal that had been so complimentary I was still pink with pleasure when I met Matt hours later, and one of his projects had completed early, which meant he’d got a bonus. We had a few drinks that night and it was suddenly just like the old days, when I’d only see him at weekends.

  We’d walked to the restaurant, and on our way home we held hands; then, when I tripped over a kerbstone, he put his arm around me and turned towards me and kissed me there on the street. We made it home in record time, and within seconds we were on our bed and it was fast and frantic, just like it used to be. Afterwards we lay there panting and sweating and I remember laughing and curling up to him, telling him I loved him.

  I frowned now, thinking about that. Had he said it to me too? I remember he pulled me towards him and kissed my hair and told me I smelled lovely, but had he told me he loved me? It seemed to me that I’d remember if he hadn’t, but then surely I’d remember if he had. We’d got ready for bed quickly, and I do remember it wasn’t long before he was asleep. I’d lain next to him feeling so relaxed, then snuggled up behind him, put my arm around him and was asleep within minutes.

  Had I really got pregnant that night? I felt a surge of panic. I couldn’t go through that on my own.

  On my way home from work that night, I stopped at a supermarket and wandered through the store, putting shampoo and toothpaste into my basket. I looked at the aisle where the pregnancy tests were. A young mum was there with a toddler in a buggy, her face pale as she compared prices. I walked around until the aisle was empty, then went back and put a couple of tests in my basket. I felt calm and icy, quite detached from what was happening.

  When I got home, I went upstairs to my bedroom, flung my jacket on to the bed and kicked off my shoes. I put on my pyjamas and dressing gown and went into the bathroom, locking the door. I don’t know who I thought was going to come in.

  I’d taken a pregnancy test before, of course; hasn’t almost every woman my age? I hadn’t done so for many years, though. I tried never to think of that time in my life, but as I sat there waiting in the locked bathroom, it was almost as if I was that girl again, panicking and wondering what the hell I should do. Just like last time, I knew before the result appeared what it would say. I did the other test straight away, hoping it would say something different, but knowing it wouldn’t.

  It didn’t.

  I sat holding the tests on the bathroom floor, the tiles cold against my legs. I didn’t know what to do. I think I was more desperate then than at any time in the last few weeks. Then I found my phone in my bag and sent Katie a text:

  Just taken two tests. I’m pregnant.

  19

  Katie called that night, but I turned the sound off on my mobile and pulled the landline lead from its socket. I lay on my bed as the evening grew dark and watched as my mobile lit up and Katie’s name appeared on the screen again and again. I couldn’t talk to her. I didn’t know what I would say. There was nothing she could say that could help me now. I needed peace and quiet to think about what I was going to do.

  Later, I went down to the kitchen, suddenly starving. I opened the fridge, and the cold white light made my eyes tired and sore. A bottle of chilled sauvignon blanc sat in the wine rack. Condensation misted the glass, and suddenly I was desperate for the release it would give me. My hand stretched out for it without thinking. I unscrewed the lid, heard the whisper of air as it left the bottle and stopped dead in my tracks.

  I had to stop drinking.

  Slowly I screwed the lid back on and put the bottle back into the fridge, then closed the door. There was food in the freezer that I could cook, but suddenly everything was too much effort. I took an apple and some biscuits instead and ate them as I sat at the island, before going back to bed, my hand on my stomach, my thoughts all over the place.

  Sam was really kind to me at work. He came into my office first thing and asked whether I was OK. I told him he was right, I was pregnant, but I didn’t want to talk about it. He nodded and said, ‘Congratulations. Grace will be very jealous.’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone here, will you? I need time.’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  We sat in silence then; when there’s something so huge to discuss, it’s hard to think of anything else to chat about. When my phone beeped with a text from the garage reminding me my car was booked in for a service that afternoon, he immediately offered to take it in for me at lunchtime. ‘So you can rest,’ he said, and when I gave him a sharp glance, he added, ‘I know you’re working hard.’

  If only I was. My days were spent investigating Matt’s disappearance; my job was done in the odd spare moments I had when I was stuck for somewhere else to look.

  At 10.30, my office phone rang. It was Katie.

  ‘Hannah?’ she said, her voice low and furious. There was an echo on the phone; it sounded as though she was in the ladies’ toilets. ‘What the hell are you doing sending me a text like that, then ignoring my messages and not answering your phone?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, making a note in pencil of the phone number of a hotel in Manchester that was opposite a bar Matt and I had been to when we first met. ‘I had a lot to think about.’

  ‘But . . .’ I could hear her confusion ‘Are you sure you’re pregnant? I thought you didn’t want children yet.’

  ‘You know what they told us in sex ed,’ I said, searching now for hotels near John Lennon Airport and wondering whether he’d flown somewhere from there. I stopped to make a note to remind myself to check which flights had left Liverpool that day. ‘No contraceptive is foolproof.’

  ‘But now . . .’ she said. ‘Of all the times for it to happen. Why now?’ She lowered her voice. ‘Were you having a lot of sex? Was that it?’

  I laughed, and realised it was almost the first time since Matt had gone. ‘That’s a bit personal, isn’t it?’

  ‘Or did you forget your pill? What happened?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I said. ‘I’ve been sick the last few mornings and Sam asked whether I might be pregnant. I hadn’t thought about it, so I took a test.’

  ‘And you are?’ she said. ‘Oh Hannah, what are you going to do?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I said.

  She whispered, ‘Are you going to keep it?’

  I flinched.

  ‘How many weeks are you?’

  ‘It’s early days,’ I said. ‘And Katie . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s not very nice asking someone if they’re keeping the baby when they’ve just told you they’re pregnant. Don’t you think congratulations might be in order?’

  I heard her take a deep breath, then I ended the call.

  I did no work that day. Absolutely nothing. Luckily a meeting that had been scheduled for eleven o’clock was postponed for a few days, so I sat at the computer and found the phone numbers for all the hotels twenty or thirty miles away from me in the Manchester and Chester areas, then phoned each one – this did have the advantage of making me look busy if anyone was looking through the glass – and asked whether Matt had stayed there recently. He hadn’
t, or at least they said he hadn’t. Or he hadn’t used his own name. At that thought my head throbbed. How was I going to find him if he’d used a different name?

  At the end of the day, Sam came in to see me.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you a lift to the garage.’

  I stared at him blankly.

  ‘I took your car to be serviced at lunchtime,’ he reminded me. ‘You need to pick it up.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Yes, of course.’ I’d completely forgotten about that. ‘Thanks for taking it.’

  On the way out to the car park he said, ‘I’ve just remembered I need to take a file home tonight. You wait in the car; I won’t be a minute.’

  He beeped open his car and I sat there waiting while he went back into the building. The interior was clean and shiny and vacuumed; I could see how Sam spent his weekends. I pulled down the visor and winced as I saw my reflection. I took out some make-up and tried to repair the damage, then searched in my bag for a tissue. There weren’t any there. I glanced around the car and opened the glove compartment, found a handy pack of tissues and took one. Underneath the pack was a phone. I glanced up at the office building. I could see Sam on the tenth floor, running down the stairs, a folder in his hand. He never used the lift; he said taking the stairs meant he didn’t have to go to the gym. I don’t know what made me do it, but I switched the phone on. A prompt appeared, asking me to enter a four-digit code.

  It wasn’t that I wanted to read anything on his phone; it was more of an idle challenge to see whether I could guess the code. A timed challenge, if you like, given that he’d be back at any minute. I typed in the day and month of his birthday, but it was rejected, as was the month and year. I entered Grace’s birthday, but that was rejected too.

  I glanced up at the building again, and after a second or two I saw him on the staircase. He was now on the fourth floor. I typed in ‘1234’, thinking he might have left it at the default, but he hadn’t.

  Adrenalin pumped through me. I’ve always been competitive, even against myself.