It’s hard to speak, but I grit my teeth and try to sound normal. ‘Sorry, Mama. Yes, Mama. I know the dress.’
‘I want you to put that on. Wear those flat black ballet shoes you have. Comb your hair and then you can come back downstairs and lay the table. Okay?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
I do what I’m told, but my stomach is still hurting. It’s hard to stand at first. I try to use Martha’s trick of biting my tongue and also my wall trick of closing my eyes and thinking of something else. It’s really hard and there’s a time where I have to bend over and touch my toes to make the pain go away. I do manage it, though. I have a glass of water from the bathroom and everything feels better.
It’s not long after I finish laying the table that the doorbell sounds and Mama tells Martha, Father and me to be ready.
Even though I’ve put my dress on, the writer is wearing jeans – which Mama has told me in the past is disrespectful. She is carrying a big bag and has a notepad and pen with her. She says her name is Samantha and is really smiley. She knows my name and calls me pretty, which is nice of her. I try to smile back but it hurts because of my stomach.
Samantha and Mama talk about photographs and they agree that pictures should be taken before we have tea. Samantha says she has a friend outside and it’s a man with a really big camera. He has keys attached to his belt and they jangle every time he walks.
It’s really hard not to make any noises because my stomach is hurting so much, but I think I manage it. The photographer takes lots of photos of us all together. He starts with us at the table, ready to eat, then he takes us into the reading room and makes us all sit around as if we’re reading a different book each. Mama gives me an Enid Blyton story and tells Samantha how it used to be hers when she was my age.
We take more photos in the garden and more again in the living room. Each time, the photographer says things like, ‘Can you move your arm out a little bit, Charlotte?’ I do what he says, but Mama has a look in her eyes that tells me she isn’t happy.
The photographer eventually says he has enough pictures and then Mama goes into the kitchen to serve our food. Samantha gets to sit at the head of the table, which is usually Father’s spot. This is the first time Martha has eaten with us in a long time. She visits on Saturdays or Sundays sometimes, but Mama says it’s only ever because she wants something. Martha once told me it’s because she wants to make sure I’m all right, but I don’t know who to believe.
Mama has made a full roast dinner, which is my absolute favourite. She tells Samantha it is the type of thing she has put in her new cookbook, which is called British Classics. Mama talks about her book a lot. She’s written another one with Father – but I can’t remember what that one’s called. I won’t tell her that, though.
Martha is acting really strangely. I’ve never heard her say ‘please’ so many times before, let alone ‘thank you’. Samantha asks her what life is like now and Martha says things are good and that she’s trying to figure out what she wants to be. Mama smiles and says she supports her daughter, but the funny thing is that I’ve heard them arguing about this before. Mama will say Martha is a freeloader – whatever that means – and Martha replies that she can do what she wants.
Father doesn’t say a lot. He’s wearing a suit and talks about the book he’s written with Mama. Samantha then turns to me and asks if I’m aware of how famous my parents are. I repeat the lines Mama told me to say, that ‘they will always be Mum and Dad to me’. I have to remember to say ‘Mum and Dad’ instead of ‘Mama and Father’ and nearly forget.
Samantha says it’s really sweet and asks what I want to be when I grow up. Mama had given me a list of questions she thought Samantha might ask and then made me remember each of the answers I was allowed to give. We’ve spent the past week going over them again and again. She wouldn’t let me go to bed last night because I kept getting words wrong.
‘I want to be just like my mum,’ I say. Mama smiles at me. For me. She’s happy. Samantha writes something on her pad and says that’s very nice.
I’m hoping she’s going to ask some more questions because I spent such a long time learning what to say. It makes me a bit sad that she starts talking to Mama instead.
Everything is going really well, but I am only halfway through finishing my plate when my stomach starts to hurt so badly that I think I need to scream. It feels like someone is pinching my side, digging their fingers into my front and back so hard.
‘May I be excused, please?’ I ask.
Mama is halfway through a sentence, but she turns to look at me instead of Samantha. There is a moment where her eyebrows dip in the middle and I think she might shout. It’s only there for a second and then she smiles at me.
‘Of course you can, Charlotte.’
I slide out from the chair, being really careful not to make it squeak. Father hates that. As soon as I’m in the hall, I run for the toilet. I don’t know why it’s happening now, but I know I’m going to be sick. Mama says it’s dirty, but I can’t stop myself. I kneel over the toilet and then my stomach starts to squeeze. It’s in my chest, then my throat and then I feel the lumpy, sludgy goo covering my lips before splashing into the toilet. It happens three times before I’m able to sit back on my knees.
It’s hard to breathe and the smell is horrible. I’ve also got a bit of sick on the top of my dress and Mama is going to be so angry with me.
Before I can think of what to do, there’s a knock on the door and then Mama hisses my name. I manage to reach across and unlock it before she pushes it open.
She looks at me and then turns to the toilet bowl.
‘I can’t believe you’re doing this now, Charlotte,’ she says.
‘I’m sorry, Mama. I tried not to.’
She lowers her voice to a hiss: ‘Don’t you know how important this interview is?’
‘I’m really sorry.’
‘Time and time and time again, you try to make things about you, don’t you?’
‘It was my stomach, Mama.’
‘I don’t care what it was. You’re going to go upstairs and don’t even think about coming down. I’m going to have to say you were feeling tired, or something.’
She takes a small step backwards and looks along the hallway and then turns back to me.
She leans in really close so that we’re eye to eye. I don’t think her lips move but she speaks anyway. ‘You really are a horrible child, aren’t you? I wish you’d never been born.’
Thirty-Eight
Now
Seth
Pamela the publicist is treating Charley as if they are long-lost friends. We get the full rigmarole of ‘I remember when you were this high’, ‘Oh, you poor dear’ and ‘Do you know, I first met your mother when she was still at Butlin’s’, and so on.
Charley told me yesterday that she doesn’t ever remember meeting Pamela before.
Diane Young arrives a little after nine in the morning and then it’s a whirlwind of action. There’s a specialist make-up artist who leaves Charley looking utterly unlike herself. Her look, if you can say she has one, is natural and generally untouched.
Not now.
She looks like she might at Hallowe’en and the only part of her face they haven’t painted is her eye. If anything, it’s darker than it was yesterday and I wonder if they’ve blackened it further.
‘New look,’ she says to me quietly when we’re alone in the kitchen.
‘I don’t like it,’ I reply.
‘Me either.’
It’s only a fleeting moment before somebody comes in to drag her off for a chat with Diane.
I’m a spare part and though I don’t really mind, there’s still a part of me that feels fairly put out. I do live here, after all.
With little else to do, I find a spot on the stairs. Engineer types run back and forth along the hallway, carrying cables and equipment, while I read some of the news stories.
Alice stayed for a while yesterday and ta
lked to Charley about shop stuff. Charley seemed to think she’d be back at work by Monday at the latest, but Alice said she’d get one of her friends to help her out for at least a week. After that, Charley and I spent the day together. There didn’t seem much point in leaving the house to potentially be followed, so we closed the curtains and watched television.
I don’t think either of us was particularly paying attention.
I wonder when regular, everyday things will begin to feel normal again. It seems a long way off.
We’ve not heard any updates from the police, but the news websites are reporting that the police are looking for a man with a local accent. That seems to be the only new thing they have. There is some insinuating that the person who abducted Charley could be the person who killed her parents. Because the police haven’t made any sort of link, the official reports can’t say as much, but that doesn’t stop people in the comments sections. Some columnist has written a comment piece wondering, ‘Why can’t the Willis family be happy?’
Pamela finds me in the end. She’s at the bottom of the stairs as calm as ever. ‘They’re starting if you want to come and watch,’ she says.
‘Is that a good idea?’
‘Charley’s asking for you.’
I’m not sure why that takes me by surprise but it does.
I follow Pamela back through the house into the living room, which has been redressed in much the same way it had been when Diane was interviewing me. The smart seats are back and so is our framed wedding photo. Charley gives me a small smile as I sit on the sofa at the far end of the room. With the lights, camera and equipment, plus Diane, Pamela, Charley, me and two cameramen, the room feels very full and very warm.
Diane starts with yet another recap of Charley’s history and my own interview. Then she leans in and softens her voice. ‘Would you like to tell everyone what happened to you?’
Charley does, repeating the story she told me yesterday. Not looking like herself is one thing – but she doesn’t sound like herself either. It feels like she’s going through the motions. Some of the things she says are word-for-word what she told me. Not similar, not using a couple of the same words, but identical.
Diane doesn’t know this, of course. She’s at her absolute heart-wrenching best, leaving the most perfect of pauses to punctuate what Charley is saying.
Pamela is enraptured by it all and hasn’t touched her phone since the interview began. It’s the longest I’ve seen her last without tapping out an email.
After the television interview, Charley will have a sit-down with someone from a magazine, then a pair of newspaper journalists. One after the other, just like she wanted.
The problem is that no one’s questioning the obvious stuff. Or perhaps the police are, but they’re not ready for another cross-examination yet. I’ve heard the story twice and had plenty of time to think about everything she said since the first time.
A man planned well enough ahead to bring a knife to our wedding, meaning he knew when and where we were going to get married. But how? We only invited a small number of people and didn’t post anything publicly precisely because Charley didn’t want the media to pick up on it.
That same person knew about the hotel and the service exit. He was careful enough to wear a mask at first and then make her wear a hood to hide his identity… and yet he left a shed door unlocked.
He gave Charley clothes to change into, took her wedding dress… and then left it in a bush where it would be found. I’ve been trying to think of a reason why. Perhaps it was to push the blame onto someone else? Or make the police look for her in an area away from where she actually was.
I’m sure there is an explanation, but I’ve not thought of something that feels right.
Then there’s the big question.
Why?
There was no ransom demand, no robbery. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t hit her.
Didn’t kill her.
So why?
Diane doesn’t ask any of those questions. I don’t blame her – it’s not why she’s here and it’s not the story she’s trying to tell. This is all ‘my hell’ and the family curse. It’s the same thing that’s been peddled for fifteen years.
I’ve not really been listening, but then the big question comes from Diane. She removes her glasses for maximum earnestness. ‘I’m sorry to ask you this, Charley, but do you think the person who abducted you could possibly be the same person who broke into your house all those years ago?’
Charley bites her tongue and then gulps. It takes her a couple of seconds to answer. When she does, her voice is solemn, her gaze distant.
‘I really don’t know.’
Thirty-Nine
Charley spends most of the day repeating her story to the journalists Pamela has picked out. It’s one after the other, once over tea while the TV crew were packing away; then in the garden as the sun shines high.
We eat together in the evening – Emily’s spaghetti – and avoid talking about anything to do with what happened. Charley starts a conversation about perhaps going on holiday in a couple of weeks, bringing forward the honeymoon. She spends some time online looking for destinations, but we don’t make any decisions.
I can’t remember what was on television, but we definitely watched something. We didn’t talk about whatever it was. I ask Charley if she wants to watch Diane’s programme, but she doesn’t. ‘I’m done with that,’ she replies.
We sleep in the same bed, but it is forks again. Her on one side, me on the other. I don’t know what to say to her.
The following morning marks a week since we married. A week since Charley disappeared. I’m awake first and leave her sleeping, heading downstairs to put the kettle on. The fancy furniture of the day before has gone, as has the framed wedding photo. I don’t know who took it. It might even be in a cupboard somewhere.
Charley comes down at a few minutes after nine, still in her pyjamas. She offers a sleepy ‘morning’ and then we hug in the kitchen, making small talk about whether we slept well. The death of conversation.
We’re interrupted by the doorbell, which is something of a relief. I’m hoping it’s Alice or Emily, someone to help the conversation along, but it’s the family liaison officer, Fiona.
She doesn’t hang around.
‘We’ve arrested someone,’ she says.
Charley is resting against the sink and stares back all the way along the hallway, open-mouthed. ‘You’ve arrested someone?’
‘I can’t give any further details at the moment, but I’m hoping we can take you to see something.’
‘Where?’
‘We want to take you to a site.’
‘For what?’
‘I think it’s best if we simply go there…’
Charley is stunned to the point that she seems unable to speak.
Fiona comes into the house, along the hall into the kitchen. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks.
Charley stumbles her reply, saying that it’s a bit of a shock, before clearing her throat. She’s using the sink to hold herself up. ‘When do you need me?’ she asks.
‘As soon as possible.’
It takes her another couple of seconds, but Charley finally clicks into gear, saying she’ll get changed and heading upstairs.
Fiona and I are alone in the kitchen and we listen until the footsteps on the stairs have stopped.
‘Looks like you had a busy day yesterday,’ Fiona says.
‘She wanted to get it all out of the way. She says that’s it now, no more interviews.’
A nod. ‘Our media team weren’t too happy.’
‘I’m not the person to tell.’
I wait to see if Fiona is going to say anything else. When she doesn’t, I ask if they’ve really got their man.
‘I don’t want to say too much,’ Fiona replies.
‘But you must have a reason to arrest someone…?’
‘We do.’
That’s all she’ll say on the matter.
<
br /> ‘Can I come, too?’ I ask.
‘I don’t see why not – but it’s up to your wife.’
Charley reappears not long after, having changed into shorts, a fitted T-shirt and walking boots. She doesn’t mind me going with her and so we both end up in the back of a police 4x4 heading out of town. Fiona is in the passenger seat and it’s then I notice the driver is DS Stanley. The detective slows as we move away from the housing estates and shops into the vast carpets of green.
‘I’d like you to pay attention to the surrounding area,’ Fiona says. ‘If there’s anything you recognise – a gate, a tree, a ditch – anything, you should say so.’
Charley fixes herself to look out the window as we trawl along the back roads like a pensioner on a Sunday afternoon. I recognise odd junctions and signs, but it is proper backcountry territory as we head along rocky tracks and trails, bumping our way up gravelly hills and then lurching from side to side on the way back down.
There are a couple of occasions where I know we’re repeating ourselves, taking the same paths, the same roads.
Charley is silent and so is Fiona. DS Stanley seemingly knows where she is going, taking the various twists and turns without instruction. She hasn’t spoken yet.
We drive for more than an hour, but it’s hard to figure out how far we’ve actually gone. It might be thirty or forty miles in total – but I don’t think we’ve gone more than perhaps ten miles from the house.
That was the other thing with Charley’s story. If she effectively walked and ran home over the course of a night, then she couldn’t have been that far away, especially if she spent some of her time running in circles around a wooded area.
There are plenty of woods circling the town, some small, others vast and largely untouched. From Charley’s description of her escape, I’d imagine the police would easily be able to put together a map of possible places she was kept. It would have to be within ten, perhaps fifteen miles of our house; close to woods that would be dark at night without a built-up area nearby.
The Wife’s Secret: A gripping psychological thriller with a heart-stopping twist Page 21