The Day We Disappeared

by Lucy Robinson

  Dad looked sharply at me. ‘She decided he wasn’t right for me,’ I told him. ‘But it was based on nothing. Everything’s fine, Dad. Stephen’s still fantastic and I’m still happy.’

  ‘Sure?’

  I could feel Lizzy watching me too.

  ‘I’ve never been so sure,’ I said. ‘The only thing that’s wrong with my relationship is that everyone seems to question it. It’s depressing.’

  And then, as we all stood there in awkward silence, my phone rang, and it was Stephen. At last.

  ‘Hi, Pumpkin,’ he said. ‘Happy Christmas!’

  Lizzy went back to her gravy.

  Stephen was not having quite as nice a day as we were. ‘I’ve had to go for a walk,’ he said, wind crackling down the line. ‘Else I’ll end up punching my dad. He’s being a nightmare. I should have come to Bakewell with you.’ I could hear the strain in his voice.

  ‘Can’t your brother look after him for a bit? Or Petra? You can’t look after him all the time …’

  ‘Oh, they’re all at my sister-in-law’s parents. It’s just me and Dad.’

  ‘Well, he’d be on his own otherwise. You’re doing a good thing.’

  ‘I suppose so. But seriously! He’s playing computer games!’

  ‘Your dad? Really?’

  Stephen laughed drily. ‘My dad is not who you might imagine him to be.’

  ‘Tell me about your day,’ I said. I didn’t like it when Stephen sounded terse: it was so unlike the twinkly-eyed man I loved so much. ‘Tell me about your walk. What can you see?’

  ‘Nothing special,’ Stephen said. ‘Presently, a family of fat people letting their bull terrier shit on the pavement. Ho-ho-bloody-ho.’

  ‘That’s not how I imagined the village to be!’

  Stephen’s dad lived in a village called Wisborough Green, which I’d done a Google image on at the beginning of our relationship just because … Well, there was no good reason for that, beyond nosiness. It was a chocolate-box place with village greens and duck ponds and beautiful old pubs, nice-looking men walking spaniels amid flowers and carefully pruned trees. Not the kind of place where bull terriers did poos on the pavement in front of their indifferent families.

  Stephen humphed. ‘Okay, okay. It’s not a fat family and it’s not a bull terrier. Just an old lady and a poodle. I’m being moody, trying to paint a dark picture, you know. We men aren’t good at sulking.’

  I couldn’t help but laugh. I could almost hear him sticking out his lower lip.

  ‘Want Annie,’ he said sulkily. ‘Oh, are you near your rucksack?’

  ‘It’s upstairs.’

  I could hear him smile. ‘Well, then go up and check the top pocket. The tiny one.’

  I ran upstairs. Stephen was so lovely with his little surprises.

  A jewellery box had been stuffed into it. A blue velvety one, the sort of box I’d never held in my hand before. My jewellery tended to be of the wooden bead variety.

  For a second, my heart slowed down. Surely not … I sat down suddenly on my bed, staring at the jungle mural on the wall that Mum had painted when I was small.

  My life flashed before me, my hopes, my fears, those years of agony tucked away in the past.

  ‘Are you alive?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Hang on.’

  I took a deep breath and opened the box. It was not a ring. Inside was a little silver pendant on a chain, with the letter P.

  ‘Er …’

  I pulled it out, just to check that my eyes weren’t playing tricks. ‘Er, it’s a P.’

  My mind tried to work out what was going on here, but came up with nothing.

  ‘For Pumpkin!’ Stephen said. He sounded delighted. ‘Oh, shit, would you have preferred an A?’

  ‘No!’ I felt suddenly weak. What the hell was going on with me? Would I ever be able to trust a man? ‘No, a P is perfect. I’m your Pumpkin, after all. And it’s beautiful.’ It was. It wasn’t something I’d ever have chosen myself – and Stephen was normally very good at fitting in with my off-piste tastes – but it was, actually, stunning. So small and simple and pretty. I stared at it, sitting quietly in my hand, shining tiny spokes of light on to my fingers.

  Stephen laughed. ‘You are my Pumpkin. My sandalwood-scented girl. I love you, Annie.’ I heard a door close behind him as he walked back into his dad’s house.

  ‘I love you too,’ I whispered.

  ‘Stephen,’ called a man’s voice in the background. ‘Lunch!’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Oh! I thought he was on the Xbox?’

  Stephen sighed. ‘He is, but luckily for him he has a son who can cook. I just asked him to stir the gravy while I spoke to you. Now he’s wearing an apron as if he’s spent the last four hours slaving away at the Aga.’ He chuckled. ‘He’s a bugger, my old man. I reckon we can introduce you now. He seems to have got his head round the idea of you and, actually, he’s not been too depressed today.’

  I was happy to hear it. ‘Good! Maybe we can pop over to see him when we’re back from Paris.’

  Stephen agreed. ‘I’d better go,’ he said. ‘I don’t trust Dad alone in the kitchen for long. Love you, little one, speak later.’

  I went to put on the P, but stopped. I didn’t know why, but I felt a bit disappointed. Pumpkin was our private name but it also reminded me of Tim.

  I left the necklace on my bed, sitting prettily in the jade green swirls of my Sri Lankan bedspread, and promised myself I’d not be such an ungrateful girl in future.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Kate

  Dearest Kate,

  I’m not sure about leaving you a letter on Stumpy’s door. What if Joe gets at it first? He’ll never shut up. Literally, we’ll have to tolerate his sniggers and double-entendres for the rest of time.

  On careful reflection, though, I’ve decided to go ahead anyway. I know this is how you start each morning and I love that. I know you’ll find this letter, and you’ll read it right here by the door and Stumpy will try to eat it and you’ll turn round and kiss him. I hope you’ll smile. I hope you’ll be feeling as mad with excitement as I do at this moment.

  We kissed last night. Six and a half long hours ago, if you’re interested in fine detail.

  I can’t believe it! Me and Kate Brady, with all her wild red hair and her cheeky chat and that glowing, lovely smile. We kissed over pork pies in a windy wintery field and it felt so good I carried on doing it for an hour without needing my crutches.

  Kate, I’m going to lay my cards out. This probably isn’t very smooth but – as you’ve noticed by now – I’m about as smooth as a field of sheep. I entertain dreams of one day being a normal member of society – of being able to pick out an outfit, for example, that doesn’t make me look like a mannequin from the farm shop. Or of one day being able to just walk into a room and chat with people, all casual and engaging.

  Small steps, though. For now I’m still learning – and I’m learning a lot of these things from you – and because I’m still learning, I’m going to say it straight:

  I think you’re wonderful, Kate Brady, and I’m mad about you. You saved me from self-imposed death-by-self-pity when I was in hospital, and you saved me from my marriage by barging into this farm and showing me that women can actually be lovely. Respectful, thoughtful, kind; all the things my wife, bless her soul, was (is) not. You even saved my horse’s life when Maria tried to end it. You saved my mum’s life when she was at her wit’s end. You saved us all, you mad Irishwoman. Even Ana Luisa likes you, although she would no doubt try to take that terrible secret to her grave.

  I’m feeling very impatient about when I might be able to kiss you again. (I’m not hiding in Stumpy’s stable watching you read this, by the way. I’ve gone back to bed.) But I want so badly to smell your hair and feel you here in my arms. All alive and funny and obstinate and sweet.

  I can’t wait to start our fu
ture together. I think about you literally all of the time.

  Please will you be my girlfriend?

  Thanks. Love Mark x x x x x x

  I can’t leave, I thought, as Stumpy started trying to eat the letter, just as Mark had predicted, and I laughed and kissed him, just as Mark had predicted.

  I can’t leave this place.

  I was going to have to tell Mark everything, every single thing, and then I was probably going to have to call the police myself.

  Panic expanded in my stomach. I don’t want to! I don’t want to talk to them! I don’t want to talk to anyone!

  Stumpy rested his muzzle on my shoulder.

  ‘Maybe I’ll give it a couple of days,’ I told him. ‘See what happens.’

  He let off a big, bored sigh.

  The sudden sound of an engine on the drive made me jump, but it was only the feed merchant’s van.

  I steadied myself against Stumpy’s door with a shaking hand. Yes, I had to stay. Every part of me knew that. But it could prove one of the most stupid and dangerous decisions of my life.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Annie

  ‘This is the wrong check-in desk,’ I said, scanning the row of BA signs above us. ‘This one’s for New York.’

  ‘It is, my Pumpkin. We’re going to New York!’

  I gaped at Stephen. ‘Eh? But I was there when we booked the tickets! We’re definitely going to Paris!’

  Stephen grinned. ‘The problem is, you have an embarrassingly wealthy boyfriend, who sometimes can’t control himself. He wanted to treat you to something super-special, and take you somewhere you’d never been, so he kind of cancelled the Paris tickets and booked some New York ones instead.’

  I stared at him. ‘We’re going to New York? Seriously? But what about that visa thingy?’

  ‘Um, I kind of applied on your behalf using your passport,’ he confessed. ‘I hope that wasn’t too naughty of me …’

  ‘Oh, my God!’

  ‘And I’m afraid I’ve been really naughty and I’ve not booked us in somewhere mad and bohemian. I’ve booked us in somewhere extremely cool and expensive, and we’re going to be really vulgar and eat in all the most expensive places and buy absolutely anything we want. Okay?’

  I laughed, a slightly mad cackling sound. ‘OKAY!’ I shouted. ‘THAT IS SERIOUSLY OKAY!’

  I had been to New York, in fact, about ten years ago during a layover from New Zealand, but had only been there ten hours and had made the mistake of going to Times Square. After several weeks’ hiking in the glacial calm of the South Island mountains, I had felt overwhelmed and lost. Some mentalist had grabbed my arm and shouted at me about THE WHITE BIRDS while I’d been queuing up to buy a crappy fruit salad in CVS Pharmacy and I’d completely freaked out and run five blocks with my giant rucksack on my back. Then I’d sat on a pavement and cried, until an unsmiling cop had told me to move on, presumably thinking I was a hobo.

  ‘I know you’re upset about how things have been with Le Cloob,’ Stephen said, ‘and that’s part of why I wanted to treat you. Remind you that some people, aka me, think you’re amazing.’

  I grabbed him and kissed him, right there in the first-class queue. Which was not a queue, so really we were just kissing in front of the nice lady.

  After staggering around in a jetlagged fug I finally started to fall in love with the city. Stephen had booked us into the very poshest suite at the Nomad, complete with private roof terrace and expansive views of the city. We were served fantastic breakfasts that seemed to appear as soon as we woke up, and Stephen even talked me into a shopping trip.

  The slight problem – although really it was quite a big problem – was that Stephen’s New York office, which had been causing all of the trouble lately, had got wind of his arrival in town. At least once a day, Stephen received a call he couldn’t ignore and – swearing, apologizing and promising he wouldn’t be long – he would have to get into a big, posh American-style car heading for the FlintSpark offices. Every time I told him I didn’t mind.

  And I sort of didn’t, but sort of did. I was learning to love New York, learning to fall into step with its energy and speed, but only with Stephen next to me. He was completely at ease in the city: he could hail a cab in seconds and knew where everything was, whereas I just sort of skulked around, feeling bewildered.

  What could I say, though? The trip must have been costing him an appalling amount of money. And when he was with me, he was lovely. He even braved the suite’s big bath with me, in spite of my recent (and not insignificant) fart-transgression.

  So I said nothing. ‘I’m fine,’ I told him, then stayed in the hotel until he was free again.

  On New Year’s Eve, Stephen had to go and firefight for several hours. He’d taken the work summonses reasonably well so far, but I could tell that this call had made him angry. He marched away from me, swearing into his phone, and came back sparking with anger like a loose cable.

  I didn’t like it. Although neither, I reminded myself, did he.

  As an apology, he sent me to the Bliss spa for an outrageously decadent afternoon, although I’d rather have stayed at the hotel. It felt odd, having nice women working away at my horrible feet and witch-like talons. I worried about Stephen and concentrated so hard on trying to relax and enjoy myself that, of course, I didn’t enjoy myself in the slightest.

  By seven p.m., when we were meant to be leaving for a restaurant, there was still no sign of him. At seven forty-five a bell-boy came up with a box containing a lovely cashmere shawl. ‘Wrap yourself up and snuggle,’ said the typewritten note. ‘It’s chaos here. Will get away as soon as I can. Am so sorry.’

  I watched Law and Order: SVU and ate a big kale salad. They were wild about kale in this city.

  Nine thirty-five p.m.

  Stephen sent me a string of furious-sounding messages, apologizing, raging, swearing.

  Nine minutes past eleven: I am sacking everyone, he wrote. They have let me down in just about every way.

  Finally, at eleven fifty-five, Stephen arrived back. He was the angriest I’d ever seen him. I could feel it straight away, a nasty, crackling energy that filled the room. Pre-emptive fireworks were already spiralling up into the sky across Manhattan and a banner was running across the bottom of the TV channel, telling me – in case I hadn’t noticed – that it was five minutes to NEW YEAR!

  ‘What happened?’ I called. He had marched straight through to the bathroom, saying he needed the loo. He clearly did not. He went in, locked the door – which he never did – and then there had been a horrible angry silence.

  ‘Stephen? Are you okay, darling?’

  Nothing. New Year struck and a great eruption of fireworks lit the sky; tiny whumps of sound through our triple-glazed windows.

  I turned off the TV and stared at the darkening screen as I worked out what to do. I didn’t like anger. I especially didn’t like angry men. Red flags were unfurling.

  I slid a foot out of bed, then slid it in again.

  Stephen came out five minutes later, his face set in a smile that didn’t quite make the grade. ‘Sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘A very bad day at the office. Not that I should have had to be in the fucking office on New Year’s Eve when I’m on fucking holiday. I’m fucked off. I’m really fucking fucked off.’

  I was frightened by the snarling energy coming off him but I held out my arms anyway. It wasn’t reasonable to expect him never to get angry, just because of my Stuff. He paused, then turned away.

  ‘Let me have a shower,’ he called. ‘I’ll have a shower and I’ll turn my phone off. Even if the entire New York office goes up in flames, which it looks like it fucking might do, we’ll enjoy what’s left of the night.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said to the bathroom door, which had once again closed in my face.

  Poor Stephen. I wondered if he’d ever imagined it being like this, when he’d started FlintSpark all those years ago. That he’d be pulled and stretched in all directions by people in su
its all over the world, needing him in meetings, needing him to make decisions, needing him to authorize unimaginable sums of money.

  He emerged once more, and once more I held my arms out.

  ‘Jesus! Can you stop … Can you please stop being so nice?’

  I stared at him, my heart pounding. ‘Sorry?’

  He looked at me for a very long time.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry, darling Pumpkin. I think I should just go to sleep. We can start again in the morning, yes?’

  ‘Okay,’ I whispered. ‘That’s fine.’

  At two a.m. I was still awake, lying on my back as Stephen slept soundly beside me. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, the anger drained and spent.

  Pull yourself together, I told myself. It wasn’t as if he had threatened me.

  Twenty minutes later, I heaved myself out of bed and padded over to my phone, which had been buzzing with Happy New Year! messages since seven o’clock when midnight had struck in London. I thumbed through them, smiling absently.

  Nothing from Tim.

  I checked my email. Claudine had sent me a message in the last hour. I frowned. What on earth was she doing awake at this time? It must be seven in the morning in the UK. She was not the type to party all night.

  ‘Urgent,’ said her email.

  I opened it. And even though my life had changed the moment Stephen Flint had walked into my office, I only realized it now.

  Annie, I have bad news. Forgive me for the brevity of this message. I have to tell you. Stephen is dating online. I have a profile myself which is how I know. It’s a long story but I can tell you that he is active right now. In fact, he has been trying to persuade me to go on a date with him in the last twenty-four hours. I am dating with a blurry picture, because I am married, and he must not have realized that it is me. I am ashamed of this, and a lot of things I’ve done lately, but this is not the time to talk about me.

  I am so sorry. This is awful. I will try to explain better when I see you. Please do not tell anyone I have an online dating profile, and please come home. I am attaching a screengrab of his profile so that you know it is not just me being a nasty old skunk. He is cheating. And I think he has been since you met.