The Lost Girl

by Carol Drinkwater

  She was having a baby. She was having Oliver’s baby.

  Had she missed a pill? After a late night? Overworked? Too much wine? She counted back the days, the dates to early November. A child conceived while Kurtiz was at drama school and Oliver was starting out in repertory theatre. A weekend conception when he was home? She always waited up for him, for his little car to pull up outside. Running down the outdoor steps to greet him.

  When had she been so careless?

  Alone in January, tramping through rain and sleet to get to drama school, trying to avoid catching cold, with little money for extra food or heating, she worried herself senseless over the revelation. With sleepless nights, listless days, lacking in concentration and vitality, her studies were suffering. How would Oliver take it when she eventually broke the news to him? Would she break the news to him? Would Rory and Jonathan turf her out? Would Oliver turf her out? In her mind, there was never any question about whether she would have the baby. The alternative was unthinkable, but what if she, a student of twenty-one, was obliged to face such a momentous life-changing experience all on her own?

  And what would her parents say?

  She feared Oliver would run a mile when she divulged the fact to him. The prospect of facing him, of losing him, caused her even more sleepless nights.

  How would they manage? She waited weeks – three Sundays – before confiding in him. Oliver had sensed that she was troubled but she fobbed off his questions with excuses of tiredness, college concerns.

  It was the weekend before St Valentine’s, which fell on a Tuesday that year, when she finally came clean. He listened silently to her stuttering words, barely coherent phrases, his arm wrapped round her shoulders, a frown of puzzlement on his face. Yes, he’d sussed that something was nagging at her, but never in his wildest dreams had he guessed at this possibility.

  ‘How far gone are you?’ he asked her quietly.

  ‘Three months, a bit more, I think. It was sometime last November.’

  ‘And you’re not mistaken?’

  She shook her head, strangled with emotion. He was going to suggest she get rid of it. She closed her eyes, unable to look him in the face. Was this the inevitable break-up? The loss of him she had so dreaded?

  ‘Christ,’ he murmured, and rose to grab a beer. ‘Want one?’

  Kurtiz shook her head.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  She nodded.

  ‘A real living, pumping-heart baby, with legs and arms and other bits?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  He swigged the beer, crossed to the window and stared outside at the dreary afternoon. London in the rain. Raindrops dripping off unformed leaves, bare trunks and branches darkened by the damp. ‘Blimey, that makes me a soon-to-be-father.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Lousy timing, KZ, you must agree?’

  Yes, the timing was lousy. Neither of them was jumping up and down with joy. It was too momentous, too damn scary, too grown-up.

  ‘I’ll soon be home,’ he encouraged. ‘We can talk about it more when I’m back. We’ll plan for the future when this contract’s over, okay?’ He swung back to her.

  She didn’t say anything.

  ‘I’d better start nagging my agent. Get the old boy to concentrate on TV roles. We’re going to need some serious cash. I’ll be feeding three of us.’

  Kurtiz nodded, both drained and relieved that it was out in the open. The baby was theirs now, not some guilty secret held tight against her breast. She had misjudged Oliver.

  As he piled back into his Mini before dawn on the Monday morning, shivering, kissing her goodbye, he mumbled in her ear, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll sort it. I’ll think of something.’

  She waved him off in her nightie and overcoat with the collar up, but the second he was out of sight her doubts re-emerged. Would he change his mind and dump her? Or if his loyalty proved unswerving, if they stayed together, how would they cope?

  Paris, November 2015

  A car pulled up at the kerb. Kurtiz was in the gutter, vomiting, coughing and spewing, the taste in her mouth bitter. The passenger door opened. A booted foot stepped out onto the pavement inches from her shivering, hunched body. ‘Are you hurt? Here, take it easy.’

  Arms lifted her. She was too weak to stand. Her legs were buckling beneath her. The person, a male, was negotiating her towards the car. Someone, another male, stepped out from the driver’s seat, ran round to unlock a rear door.

  ‘Water,’ she dribbled. ‘Do you have any water?’

  ‘She’s in shock.’

  A bottle of water was handed to her, but she hadn’t the strength to grasp it. The man with his arm round her held it to her lips and fed her, one sip at a time. ‘Where are you from? Were you in the concert hall?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘We’ll take you to a hospital. You need treatment.’

  ‘No.’ She attempted to wrestle herself free. ‘I have to find my husband. My daughter. If you could give me a lift …’

  Kurtiz, London, 1995

  In early March when Oliver’s Birmingham engagement had run its course, he returned to London, intent on securing the next job. With a career that had started off so well, he was not prepared for the months of trudging from one casting session to another. The fierce competition. Rejection after rejection. He responded badly. His ego and ambition took a battering, while svelte Kurtiz was beginning to fill out. A daily reminder that a third person was soon to burst into their lives.

  This was insane. They were not ready for such responsibility. As it was, they were struggling to meet their rental and cover the bills. Oliver was on the dole, and he hated it, cursed it as demeaning. Being an actor was one thing but being an out-of-work actor was altogether another state of affairs. She began to realize the heights of his pride, his ego. They bickered. For different reasons they both grew downhearted. Even so, Oliver never once suggested that she move out or give up the child. His loyalty reassured and heartened her.

  And she loved him.

  Yet neither had ever expressed such a sentiment to the other. They hadn’t got around to Love. This pregnancy had come too soon.

  Kurtiz skipped her morning classes to attend her six-month check-up at the clinic in Hampstead. She walked all the way up the hill. It was a bright, fresh late April day and the wind brought ruddiness to her cheeks. During this, her second ultrasound, the foetus was identified as female.

  ‘See here, it’s a little girl. She’s on the small side but all the bits and pieces are right where they should be.’ The obstetrician smiled. A kindly dark-haired Indian lady, thirty-something, in a red and gold sari.

  Kurtiz’s attention was glued to the screen, an artwork of grey and charcoal. In the midst of which was a curled sleeping form, like a wingless translucent bee. Could that person, the little girl, hear her? Did she have ears and eyes yet? Was the tiny, semi-formed child aware that she was being photographed, that beings were peering into her secret safe space, appraising her? ‘It’s awesome. I wish I could take a photograph.’

  ‘We can give you a printout.’

  ‘Is she … comfortable? Not lonely?’

  The obstetrician smiled. ‘Yes, I’d say so, and I doubt she’s lonely.’ The woman glanced at Kurtiz’s left hand. No ring. ‘Do you have someone to share this with?’

  ‘My baby’s father.’ Kurtiz nodded, inner pride bubbling.

  ‘Good. It’s usually better when you are a couple. Not always, of course, but if he’s supportive …’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘… then you have nothing to worry about.’

  She strolled out of the clinic as though walking on air, conscious that with every step she must take care. A baby girl with all her limbs and bits in the right places. It was hard to take in. This was no acting role. She was going to give birth. Kurtiz Fellows was going to be a mother to a curve-shaped daughter. Oliver’s child. They would need a name, a cot. By July, they would be three sleeping in Oliver’s room. Woul
d Rory and Jonathan complain if the baby cried at night? They must have noticed her condition, though neither had commented. Should she look for other accommodation? A larger space. How would they afford it?

  Later that week, without a word to anyone, Kurtiz took a tough and painful decision: she quit drama school to find full-time employment. And it was time to break the news to her parents. She wrote them a letter and then, before posting it, she tossed it into the bin and telephoned instead.

  Her mother answered. ‘It’s an age since we’ve seen you. Granny’s been asking after you.’

  ‘Mum, there’s …’ She would have found it easier to speak to her dad or even her dear old nan, who always took her side.

  ‘What? I need to get your father to the phone. Michael!’

  The silence was a time bomb.

  ‘Kurtiz, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘Your father’s on the extension.’

  ‘Hi, Dad.’

  ‘Hello, baby.’

  ‘Let me repeat what you have just told me within your father’s hearing. You’ve left college, and you’re pregnant!’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘Is that why you didn’t come home for Christmas? You knew I’d spot it.’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ sighed her father.

  ‘Kurtiz, how could you? After all we’ve been through to get you there? We are very not pleased. What does the child’s father say to this?’

  ‘He’s happy.’

  ‘Well, we’re not. What can you do? You’re not qualified for anything. And you’re certainly not ready for motherhood. Your father’s very concerned, Kurtiz, aren’t you, Michael?’ The less-than-encouraging voice of her mother. Her father said no more, but she felt his heartache, his disappointment, and it cut her deep, but she had a minuscule wingless bee-like being inside her and now she came first.

  ‘Buzz, buzz,’ she whispered, as she put the phone down and rubbed her hands across her extending belly.

  To quell her parents’ disquiet – she did not want to alienate them – Kurtiz took a train to Kent to spend a few days in her childhood home. Her grandmother, who lived in the same village, was, as she had always been, super-supportive and understanding.

  ‘You’ll manage, girl,’ she said, ‘because you’re a bright young thing and I’m proud of you. It won’t be easy, mind. I was a single mother – tougher back in my day – but if you’ve a nice young fellow to see you through that’ll make all the difference.’ She clipped open her tattered bag and handed Kurtiz fifty pounds in notes. ‘Buy the baby some fancy clothes and bring her down to meet her great-grandma as soon as you can.’ She winked as Kurtiz hugged her tight.

  Their daughter, all five pounds four ounces of Eliza Ross, a gurgling perfect princess with a fluffy soft head of pale gingery curls, was born on 4 July 1995.

  Independence Day.

  Precious little Eliza with gleaming eyes, that later turned flecked and hazel just like her father’s, proved herself a talisman for Oliver. A mere ten days after she was born, Oliver landed a plum TV role as a detective in a long-running series, a police drama, The Fleet. A year’s contract with a clause for renewal if the character worked well and the audience warmed to him. ‘And it’s decently paid, my lovely ladies. We will not starve, not for a year or two, at any rate.’

  Exhausted though she was, Oliver dragged Kurtiz along with tiny Lizzie, a ten-week babe in arms, to the Groucho Club where he was now a fully paid-up member and where the new parents drank champagne, got ever so slightly sozzled, took a taxi home instead of the tube and made love with their baby sleeping soundly in her own new cot just a few feet to their side, until three in the morning, when she bawled and screamed to be breastfed.

  Oliver’s ‘smouldering good looks’ proved popular with both the media and the viewers, particularly the female audiences, and for a short while his face beamed out from the front covers of magazines such as Woman’s Own. Four months after his face had hit the small screen, he signed for a second year. His role was written up, offering him more screen time, meatier scenes and a better contract fee. Kurtiz couldn’t have been prouder, and those autumn days were blissful. London was enjoying an Indian summer. After Oliver had left for the BBC rehearsal rooms and Kurtiz had finished laundering mountains of nappies, which, when hung to dry, made their room reek like a goat farm, she would push the pram to Hampstead Heath or Primrose Hill and sit reading magazines, frequently articles about her baby’s father.

  Oliver was voted ‘Heartthrob of the Month’ by Cosmopolitan and, for a heady few years, he was a household name. It seemed he could do no wrong. The BBC plucked him from the original cop show and gave him the leading role of Edward Rochester in a serialization of Jane Eyre. He confirmed the network’s faith in him by winning an award and topping a viewers’ poll for most eligible bachelor.

  It was Kurtiz’s mother who mentioned it. ‘He’s a bachelor, darling, a rising star, and you are a mother. Has he never mentioned marriage to you? I was brought up by a single parent, as you know, and it was jolly well not easy.’

  ‘Mum, I’m not a single parent. Oliver is my partner. We are just not married, that’s all.’

  ‘Partner. I know what your father thinks about that. And what about your career?’

  The offers were flooding in for Oliver, ‘the bad guy with puppy-dog eyes’, as one magazine dubbed him, and he signed his next, very lucrative contract with a competing network. He was a wild success in the role of a heartbroken doctor, and the ratings soared. He switched agents, ditched the sad chap who smoked a pipe and had only one assistant, who had taken him on directly from drama school, and moved to a smarter, more sophisticated agency in Soho, with links to LA.

  ‘Isn’t that a little callous?’

  ‘Finger on the pulse, KZ.’ Oliver winked when she expressed her concern for the poor solo agent, who had been toiling devotedly to build Oliver’s profile and career.

  In those early days Oliver seemed to be lunching almost on a weekly basis with Samantha, his new agent, and he began to talk of movies. The big screen. Hollywood. He took up running on Hampstead Heath, joined a gym, discovered Pilates.

  Meanwhile, Kurtiz stayed at home to care for Eliza. She was smitten with her tiny girl, obsessed with the growing process – fingers, teething, tumbling, babbling incomprehensible words, and shrieking: ‘She has the lung capacity of a navvy,’ remarked Oliver, one sleepless night – content in her all-encompassing world, but she also knew that soon she would have to find something else to occupy her, before she turned into a domestic bore. Also, she feared her mother’s warning: that Oliver would lose interest in her, that he would judge her dull. Or was that her mother’s fear – an only child reared without a father – feeding into her?

  While Oliver lunched at the Ivy or skipped about town to interviews and screen tests, Kurtiz began silently to worry that all the success might turn his head, that an off-screen romance might blossom with an actress or a make-up lady, or even Sam, his agent, that he would find his real-life companion unattractive. Yet her fears continued to prove unfounded. Oliver excelled in the role of besotted dad, as well as that of kind, enthusiastic partner. They were eventually married in the Camden Town register office on a Tuesday afternoon. Rory and Jonathan were their witnesses. Eliza, almost a year old by then, with an upright crest of sandy hair that would have made any punk proud, was beginning to walk, crawl, fall, and gurgle sounds of happiness and curiosity. She was in attendance in the pram Kurtiz had purchased from the Oxfam shop in Kentish Town Road.

  Two weeks previously, she and Oliver had put down the deposit, paid for out of his television earnings, on a three-bedroomed house in Tufnell Park. They moved in mid-June, taking with them the few basics they had squirrelled together over the time they had cohabited in his furnished room in Belsize Park. Once they took possession they ran excitedly from space to space, up the stairs and back down again, staring at stained walls, a dying electric cooker, a bath that wept rust. I
t was clear they lacked pretty much everything – not even the mattress in Belsize Park had belonged to Oliver – but they had a healthy baby and a volcanic level of energy and love. On his first free day from filming, she and Oliver took the bus to Tottenham Court Road and bought themselves a king-sized double bed from Heal’s and a bottle of champagne from Oddbins. With those two purchases they had blown the last of their funds. Both their bank accounts now sat at zero.

  They went home, drank the bubbles and christened the bed.

  Kurtiz chided herself for her lack of faith in Oliver. From their first night together she had believed their relationship was doomed. Yet here they were, four years down the line, a happily married couple with a child, her husband a TV star. It was time to start accepting her good fortune and build herself a career of her own.

  She never allowed herself to admit it aloud, and certainly not to Oliver, but she missed acting desperately, even though she had never been employed as a professional actress. She revelled in the buzz, the nerves and uncertainties, when they paid off, which she lived vicariously through Oliver. She took him through his lines in the kitchen after she’d cleared up the dishes from dinner, had fed Eliza and put her to bed. He would talk through his character choices; she offered her opinions and felt her own adrenalin rising. It was only after he’d left for the studio, edgy on shooting days, and she was at home scribbling shopping lists, getting Eliza ready for play school, that the emptiness seized her.

  She had everything most women dreamed of – especially Oliver – yet she felt a lack of purpose and drive, and berated herself for not allowing motherhood to be sufficient. Oliver wanted another child, he talked of a son, but it didn’t happen. Kurtiz wondered privately whether her body was not playing ball because somewhere within her she needed to get out and find her own place in the big world. But where?

  Paris, November 2015

  Marguerite had fallen asleep in her chair, feet curled up beneath her, like a small hibernating mammal. The television was still transmitting, mostly replays now and a few first witnesses to the shocking events of earlier in the evening. The sound had been muted. Her exhaustion was causing her old limbs to paralyse, numbed by pins and needles, and her head was swimming, but she could not, would not, go to bed. If she lay down in the other room she would sleep, and if she slept, she would not hear the doorbell. The woman would return at some point. Where was she? What did she have with her? Marguerite knew that the massacres were over. The death toll, the TV reporters continued to claim, remained at thirty with possibly more to be confirmed. The screen jumped between the same three locations as it had hours earlier. It seemed like weeks she had been on watch duty here.