by Unknown
We’re getting married next week. This is the last time we’re going to see each other until then; an idea Sarah thinks will add a little spice to our wedding day and, more importantly, our wedding night.
From her smile, the way she brushes one of my fingers, the way her eyes almost imperceptibly flicker towards my crotch, I know it’s not the wedding day she’s talking about. But then, with Sarah, it never is.
“Tom’ll be arriving tomorrow,” I reply. “Few final arrangements he’s going to help me out with.”
“And act as your chaperone,” she teases. “Keep your hands off the stripper and on your…” she bats her lashes, “…rosary beads. Until you see me again, of course.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m sure I’ll manage. I swear, sometimes I can go minutes at a time without a single act of debauchery passing through my mind. But after this week, wedding night?” I tap the table. “Let’s just say I expect full payment for my patience.”
“Oh, really?”
“Best spend this time resting up, that’s all I can say.”
“Oooh,” she coos, offering a sultry smile, “Promises, promises.”
“Can I get you something for dessert?” The waiter appears at our tableside, a pair of menus held behind his back.
I indicate that it’s a question best directed toward the lady.
Sarah takes her time in replying, looking the man slowly up and down. She smiles and says, “Yummy,” while her foot slides up across my calf beneath the table.
Handing us our menus, the waiter barely suppresses a smirk. I pretend not to notice as he shoots me a glance before giving my fiancée a wink. For Sarah, flirting is a natural state of being. I don’t mind. Much.
She stares after him as he walks back to the till point, hidden discreetly behind a panel of dark, polished wood.
Once he’s away out of sight, her eyes meet mine.
I know what she’s thinking and my heart leaps in my chest. I clear my throat, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.
The waiter takes our order. I feel her eyes upon me.
Inch by inch, her foot climbs higher until it brushes the inside of my thigh.
That gets my attention and when I look up she arches a perfect eyebrow and nods in the direction of her intentions.
“No.”
“Oh, come on,” she pouts, stealing a glance over to the service bay.
Turning in my seat, I can just about see our waiter talking to one of the waitresses.
“Just once more,” she whispers. “For old time’s sake. You’re about to make a respectable woman of me.” And her foot completes its journey, the intimate touch making me stiffen.
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
I shift a little in my seat but she doesn’t let me get away, her grin growing wider.
“Please…?”
“No,” I laugh. “We’re not—”
But she already has. In the space of a second, she’s gathered her things and walked out the door.
I splutter in shock, turning to see if the waiter has noticed, if anyone has noticed, and as she passes the window she waves, that impish smile on her face again.
I stare at the candle flame in terror. I should have seen this coming, I tell myself. She’d been so adamant that we have a table near the door.
Who am I kidding? I did see this coming.
The waiter is still talking to the waitress.
Through the window, I can see Sarah walking away under the honey-glow of the pier-side streetlamps.
Chest bursting with anxiety, my hand finds my jacket and I’m out the door.
She giggles as I catch up, a giggle that turns into that laugh as she entwines her arm with mine and we begin to walk quickly down the promenade.
“Hey!” The voice echoes out across the river and we’re both laughing now as we break into a run.
And the thought comes to me again as the blood pounds in my ears.
Sarah was always more woman than I could handle.
And don’t I just fucking love it.
It begins to rain, shimmering sheets of it kicking up spray, creating neon haloes around everything outside the taxicab. The interior is an intimate, silent bubble.
Without speaking, she lets her long, red-dipped fingernails scratch gently at my inner thigh and I begin to wonder if I can persuade her to part with me tomorrow morning instead.
“Here we are,” the driver rumbles, the car coming to a stop with a tender lurch beneath us. “Home sweet home.”
Sarah hands him the money and, laughing, she leaps out into the rain.
This isn’t our place, it belongs to Sarah’s friend, Michelle, away for a few days on business. She owns the penthouse. This is where Sarah will be staying a week. A whole week.
“Wait two minutes,” I say, and the driver nods as I leap out after her, up the steps and into the dry, arched enclosure of the doorway. As I catch up, she turns to look at me, hair matted to her face, dress clinging to her curves. She leans back against the door.
I get close. She smells of perfume and wine and herself and for a moment there’s nothing but the sounds of our breathing, cloth against cloth, the patter and gurgle of water, the warm growl of the car engine behind us.
My hand slides down her back to cup her-
“Ah, ah,” she says, grinning, placing a finger across my lips. “Wedding night. Then,” and whispering into my ear, “whatever you want, hubby. I promise.”
“Promises, promises,” I mutter behind her finger, kissing it.
She spins around, her hair wafting her scent in my face as she fishes through her bag for her keys.
“Can’t I get a sneak peek now?” I ask, stepping closer and giving her cheek a squeeze.
She pauses and, with a small sigh of surrender, arches her neck to be kissed. I dip to do just that, only for her to spin around again, giving me another faceful of wet hair.
“No.” She grins. “Wedding night.”
Now it’s my turn to sigh. I put on my best puppy dog eyes.
She laughs, “No,” and kisses me lightly on the lips. “I’ll see you in a week and then,” she winks, “I’ll give you a night you ain’t ever going to forget. Promise.”
With practised precision, she gives me a quick squeeze between my legs and before I can react she’s darted through the door into the sanctuary of the brightly lit hallway beyond.
Giggling, she leaves the door open just a crack, revealing one dazzling blue eye and half her devilish smile. “Just a week,” she says.
“A week,” I repeat, and turn back towards the taxi, the squeeze she gave me still singing between my legs.
“And Derren?” She waits until she has my full attention. “No flogging yourself.” She makes a gesture with a partially closed fist.
The door slams closed before I can get to her and I spread myself flat against the mottled glass.
The blur of her beyond laughs and blows me a kiss before turning away in a shimmer of black, disappearing into the light.
I sigh again, duck my head and hurry back to the taxi, collapsing across the seats.
As the car pulls away, the driver catches my eye in the rear-view. “Landed on your feet there, son.”
I don’t say a word, knowing that the smile on my face says it already.
My phone begins to vibrate and I lean over to see who’s calling, my hands busy pushing my dinner around the frying pan.
I frown, not recognising the number, but then, a lot of wedding people are calling these days. It’s the lateness of the hour that bothers me.
“Hello? Derren speaking?”
“Derren? Derren! It’s Michelle.” Her tone drops a sudden ice-cold ball of worry in my gut.
It’s been three days since the restaurant and Sarah hasn’t been in touch once. Until now, I had assumed it to be one of her games. Now, my mind starts throwing up a dozen other possibilities, the first and foremost of which is that she’s got cold feet and done a runner. It’s improbable. It’s ri
diculous. But still, there it is.
I realise I haven’t replied. I’m still cooking, my hands calmly continuing of their own accord.
“Michelle, are you alright?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she laughs, shrill and unnatural. “I mean, I’m not. I mean, it’s Sarah.”
My throat constricts. Something in her tone plucks a tight, high-pitched note of warning in my heart.
“Derren, please, tell me she’s at yours.”
Another note, a pleading one now, that shrinks my stomach. I drop the spatula in the pan to pinch at the bridge of my nose. “Um, no, she’s not. She’s not at Claire’s?”
“No, I don’t think she is.” Her voice twists into a tight, high squeak at the end, punctuated with a loud sob that hurts my eardrum.
“Michelle? Michelle, come on.” I bite my lip as she continues to sob. “Michelle, come on, what’s going on? You have to talk to me.”
She tries, but all I hear is a croak of vowels, too contorted with tears to make sense.
I run a hand through my hair so hard it hurts, bringing tears to my eyes. At least, that’s what I blame it on. I begin to pace the kitchen, back, forth, back, forth, trying to think of a way to calm her enough so she can tell me what’s going on. So I can find out exactly where she’s made a mistake.
Tom, my brother, is away on clandestine stag night preparations and with each walk towards the door I stare hard out into the hallway, willing him to come in. He’s always been better at this kind of thing.
“Michelle.”
She’s still crying.
“Michelle, come on. You’re sure she’s not just popped out?”
I want to reach down the phone and pull the words from her. She’s going to say something that will make sense of it all. Sarah’s at the gym, she’s at her parents, she’s working late at the studio.
Please, God, please, please, please.
“Michelle?”
“I thought it was just a robbery.”
And I freeze in the middle of the room, every muscle in my body contracting.
“Wait, Michelle, what? Say that again?” But the moment is gone and she’s begun to cry again, even harder than before.
“A robbery? What robbery? Michelle, please, what robbery?”
I let out a frustrated, tearful exclamation of my own and look up towards the door again, across the vacant hall.
I could be there inside of half an hour but thirty whole minutes of staring down that bright, white tube carriage, no phone signal, no clue…
“Michelle, what robbery?”
“…I, Derren, I’ve just arrived back home and… Everything’s everywhere, my jewellery’s… I checked her room… There’s blood in the bed. Derren, there’s lots of blood.”
My breath catches in my throat, the world around me turning grey. I’m no longer in my home. I’m just a man, surrounded by … things.
“Maybe she cut herself … the glass, from the break-in…”
“You think I didn’t think of that? There’s just … so much.”
“Have you phoned the police?”
“I … I didn’t want-”
“Phone them. Right now. I’m coming over.” I close the call and my hand flicks involuntarily, sending the phone thudding down the carpeted hallway, as far away from me as possible.
It doesn’t feel like enough, and the spatula soon follows.
The light drizzle that floats down, gentle as snowflakes, cools my hot cheeks and burning eyes. Against the expanse of grey clouds, I can see that my vision is still dotted by the glare of the camera flashes from the press conference.
The female PC guides me gently down the steps, a professional hand just touching my back.
Tom is waiting at the bottom, holding the taxi door open.
He hugs me close before ushering me into the car. I climb in as far as I can go, resting my forehead on the cool glass.
“How did he do?”
“He did just fine, it’ll be on all the channels by the time you get home. We’ll let you know if it throws anything up.”
“That’s great. Thank you.”
“Thank you,” I say. My voice is hoarse and it doesn’t carry well but the PC hears, dipping her head to give me a sympathetic smile.
“Get some rest,” she says.
There are photographers at the gates, held back by a couple of officers. They still manage to fill the back seat with lens flare. You’d think they’d have had their fill at the conference.
It’s been three days since Michelle’s call; three days that have been an endless litany of questions with no answers.
The media loves it: the bride who went missing a week before her wedding, blood in the bed and no leads.
The police say they’re doing everything they can to find her.
They don’t say ‘body’. They never say ‘body’, not around me, anyway. But I still hear the word everywhere I go, lurking beneath every conversation. There was blood.
As far as they can tell, whatever happened must have taken place minutes after I left. I try not to think about that. The police urge me not to.
My phone begins to ring and from the corner of my eye I watch Tom pull it from his own jacket pocket.
Because of the wedding, everyone has my number. So on top of everything else, I’ve had to endure a constant parade of condolences until eventually I just handed the phone to Tom, unable to say ‘thank you’ any more. These past days, I think they’re the two words I’ve said the most. Thank you.
Tom listens for a second, and says, “No, thank you.” He hangs up, shaking his head, and begins to slip the phone back in his pocket with no explanation.
I hold my hand out for it and he hands it over.
Once we’re back home, he does everything for me; opens the doors and presses the button for the lift. My house keys are in his pocket. All there is for me to do is stand, looking useless and wretched, feeling stamped and flattened.
It feels better to be back in the flat. The comforting silence is emphasised by the small, intimate sounds of our homecoming: my brother shutting the door behind us and shrugging off his jacket.
I just wander straight inside, not bothering with my jacket, and shuffle vacantly from room to room, taking everything in with hollow eyes.
Everywhere I look I see the evidence of my grief: the alphabetised CDs, the meticulously tidy room, the pile of neatly-stacked plates in the kitchen, each of them done in a fit of displaced energy, from an urge to impose order on my tattered life.
“Do you want me to fix you some tea?”
I watch as Tom flips over two mugs and drops in a couple of tea bags, not even expecting a reply.
My phone goes off in my jacket pocket, a text, but I make no move to answer it. The very idea of reading another variation of the same sad message tires me.
“I’m going to bed.”
Tom looks at me a moment and nods. “OK. I’m out here if you need me.”
He hugs me again, pats and rubs me on the back and I try my best to offer him a smile.
I shut my bedroom door behind me and sigh. My face twists with tears for a moment. I give two harsh sobs before regaining control, but those two exclamations have been enough to give me a headache.
There’s a packet of aspirin on the bedside table. I take two, swallowing them dry.
The bedroom is where my grief shows the most; the bed is made with fresh sheets, every surface is clear, free even of dust. Sarah’s things have been tidied away. I’ve always been the tidy one. When Sarah comes back she’ll laugh to see what I’ve done and I’ll smile, sheepishly.
The wastepaper basket in the corner is overflowing with used, balled-up tissues.
I’m sick of today. All I want to do is sleep.
I shrug off my jacket and the sleeve catches on my elbow. I hurt myself trying to pull it off and once it finally comes free, leaving the skin of my arm red, I hurl it into the corner, where it lands with a satisfying thud.
To
morrow is supposed to be our wedding day.
I crawl up the bed and sink into the pillow. I breathe deep. Even though I washed it, it still smells of her, as if she had never left.
The everyday routine of waking smothers the memories of the past week for a moment, and I feel the now-familiar sinking of my heart as I remember.
I sit and cry until I can face the day, pulling on yesterday’s jeans and a comfy hooded top.
It takes me a while to remember where I’ve left my phone, my eye catching my jacket as I chug back another couple of aspirin.
Tom’s already up, sitting at the breakfast table, hunched over a bowl of cereal. He offers me a smile and I know he’s heard me crying. A second bowl sits ready in my place.
I sit down and take a couple of tasteless mouthfuls before checking my messages: a call from our parents, a reporter asking for an interview…
I almost choke.
The text message is from Sarah.
I cough, swallow, and wave Tom back to his seat.
Can’t wait to see you. S xx
I read it over and over.
“Derren?”
My brother is watching me intently, spotting something in my body language.
I read the text again, checking that it’s still there. I can’t believe it’s true. But it has to be true, it’s right here. I’ve spent almost a week unable to believe she’s dead. Now I’m struggling to believe…
“She’s alive.” It feels good to say. “She’s alive.” And I’m around the table, showing it to my brother over his shoulder, unwilling to relinquish the phone.
He frowns, taking a hold of my wrist to steady my trembling hand.
I’m grinning, tears running down my face, desperate to hold onto this feeling of elation, waiting for him to reply, to confirm that what I’m seeing is true.
But Tom is still, silent, his brow furrowed.
“Derren…”
“They didn’t find her phone, who knows what happened?”