You Sent Me a Letter

by Lucy Dawson

  The two men look at me a little more curiously. Where have I just flown in from? ‘London,’ I reply absently, looking around me, scanning the faces of strangers, looking for Marc, or Isabelle’s long hair, Olivier’s backpack… I reach for my phone again and Google the Atlantis in Dubai, selecting the phone number straight away.

  ‘Hello? My name is Sophie Turner. My husband and I are staying at the hotel with our children, and we’re waiting for our collection at the airport, only I know my husband rang to see where the car was, and now I can’t find any of them and my husband’s phone is off. I’m so sorry’ – I give a small, desperate laugh – ‘but is it possible for you to call the mobile phone of the driver, so I can track them all down?’

  ‘Of course,’ says the man on reception. ‘One moment, please, Mrs Turner.’

  I hold, and then he comes back on the line. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Turner, what name did you say the reservation was under?’

  ‘Marc Turner. Marc with a “c”.’

  There is an agonizing pause, but then he says pleasantly, ‘Ah. I can see you on our system now. One moment, please.’

  I start to breathe again as the line goes quiet, and eventually he returns. ‘I’m afraid the driver is not answering his phone, Mrs Turner, which leads me to think he must be driving still. I am sure he will be with you very shortly though, and I apologize for his late arrival.’

  ‘OK, thank you.’

  Well, that was useless. I hang up and try Marc again. It goes straight to voicemail.

  Taking a small step back as someone else tries to speak to the men behind the desk, I accidentally knock my case over. It falls to the ground, and as I bend to set it back onto its wheels, something small and metal clatters to the ground, having apparently slipped out of one of the side pockets. As it bounces on the hard floor, the person next to me bends helpfully and passes me the shiny object.

  It’s Marc’s wedding ring.

  My mouth falls open in surprise as my phone simultaneously buzzes in my hand. It’s Marc! But why is he texting me? I open it – to be confronted by the image of Rich and me.

  The one with my leg around him.

  Every one of my muscles locks into a spasm of complete shock. I am unable to move – I simply stare at the picture, transfixed with horror, before snatching my head up and looking desperately at the people walking past me; purposeful strangers on their way to their destinations.

  Neither Marc, nor the children, are anywhere to be seen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Clutching his wedding ring, I have an overwhelming urge to shout ‘MARC!’ at the top of my voice, but I notice, as I’m wildly scanning faces, that the staff behind the desk are now openly staring at me. They’ve realized something is very wrong and instinct tells me to proceed with caution. I pretend to dial a number on my phone and, holding it to my ear, wait a moment, then say, ‘Ah! There you are!’ I roll my eyes. ‘Found him!’ I mouth, and they smile widely. I put my hand on my case and pull it away, still talking.

  I make sure I’m well away from the desk before wobbling over to the nearest seat. Crashing down, I try to blink away the frightened tears that are pricking the back of my eyes.

  He knows. He knows everything.

  I’m not sure how long I sit there waiting – another half an hour? – before I realize he is not coming back. He must have found the driver after all and gone on to the hotel without me. I’ll have to make my own way there, try and talk to him, attempt to explain.

  I somehow manage to work out, by reading TripAdvisor reviews, how much money I am going to need to get to the Atlantis from the airport, and where to get a taxi from. Just as the reviews warned, the traffic is terrible, and it takes more like an hour and a half, but I barely register a thing. I am silent in the back of the car, as bright, gaudy lights flash past us. I cannot believe this is happening.

  Once I arrive at the hotel, I hurry straight to reception and ask for our room numbers.

  ‘Certainly. What name is your reservation under, please?’ the receptionist asks pleasantly.

  ‘Turner.’

  ‘Thank you. Ah, I see you’re checking in today. Welcome! Could I ask you please to fill out these details, Mrs Turner?’ She passes me a sheet of paper. ‘And your credit card, please? It won’t be charged until the end of your stay. Also, if you have your passport, may I—’

  ‘My husband will have already have done all this,’ I interrupt her, having scanned the form she’s passed me. ‘I just need to know what room number we’re in.’

  She frowns and looks back at her screen. ‘No, he’s not checked in.’

  It’s my turn to be confused. ‘He must have! He left the airport long before me. One of your drivers picked him and the children up.’

  ‘Um, OK…’ She types something and then, hesitating, says, ‘Would you excuse me a moment, Mrs Turner?’ She disappears through a door behind her, and then, moments later, re-emerges with a smartly suited man who smiles at me politely.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Turner,’ he says smoothly. ‘I can confirm that your husband and children have not checked into your reserved family suite. You are, however, most welcome to do so yourself, of course.’

  I stare at him foolishly for a moment, and he lowers his gaze respectfully.

  ‘But your driver collected them. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Er, yes, madam,’ he answers evasively.

  ‘And brought them here?’

  ‘Ah, I’m afraid I am unable to confirm that detail for you, Mrs Turner.’

  My heart skips a beat. ‘They’re not here?’

  ‘I can’t confirm that for you, Mrs Turner,’ he repeats. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘He’s booked in under a different name and he’s asked you not to tell me, hasn’t he?’ I say slowly.

  He doesn’t answer. We all stand there in silence, apart from the sound of my heart thudding so loudly in my ears, I start to feel sick. I reach for my purse in my bag and fumble out my credit card. ‘I’ll just check in now. It’s fine.’ I try to keep my voice steady.

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Could I take your passport, please?’

  I glance up at him in horror as I remember. ‘I gave it to my husband,’ I whisper, and sudden tears rush to my eyes. ‘I don’t have it.’

  He hesitates, and then says kindly, ‘No matter, Mrs Turner. You can confirm that detail with us later. OK, so here are your keys – your suite is on the third floor. We will have your case brought up to you immediately. Enjoy your stay.’

  I give him a quick glance as he says that, and realizing his glib, force-of-habit oversight, he at least has the grace to look embarrassed.

  ‘If my husband is here, or arrives later,’ I say quietly, ‘will you please tell him to contact me urgently?’

  ‘Of course,’ he says sincerely, but I am certain I feel him and the other receptionist staring and whispering once my back is turned and I am walking unsteadily towards the lift.

  In the large, anonymous seating area, just off the bedrooms, I wait over by the window for my case to arrive, locking it inside the second it does. Heading straight back out, I walk up and down endless plush corridors and through the public areas looking everywhere for Marc and the children. They have to be here… But it’s vast, with rabbit-warren corridors, and I quickly realize I stand little or no chance of stumbling upon them, particularly given he evidentally doesn’t want to be found.

  Back in our room, I resort to trying his phone over and over again, but it remains switched off. Isabelle’s mobile is too. I try to think rationally. Claudine… She will know where they are, but I don’t have her number. Could I reach her via Julien perhaps? The Paris office, if it’s anything like Marc’s London one, will have a 24-hour switchboard. I Google him under ‘Julien’ with the company name and there he is, instantly – Julien Calvel. I hesitate, but this is undoubtedly an emergency. I have to find Marc.

  I tell the receptionist – one thankfully does pick up my call – that I ne
ed to get a message urgently to Mr Calvel, regarding his stepchildren on holiday in Dubai, and I leave my name and number.

  Then I wait.

  In less than ten minutes, my phone begins to ring.

  ‘Sophie?’ It’s Claudine, panicking. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Marc is very angry with me, and he left me at the airport. I need to get hold of him urgently. He’s at the hotel, I assume, but I don’t know where. Can you reach him for me please, and explain I really want to talk to him?’

  ‘He abandoned you at the airport?’ she repeats blankly.

  ‘Yes. We arrived, got off the plane, I went to the loo, and when I came back, he and the children had vanished. He’d left behind my suitcase, and’ – I take a deep breath – ‘his wedding ring.’

  There is a long silence. ‘They’ve vanished…’ she says slowly.

  ‘Marc was phoning to see where the car was and the children were playing with the trolley. I came back and they had gone. I waited for a long time but they didn’t come back, and now the staff won’t even tell me if he’s here or not. You must know – please tell me!’

  ‘I haven’t heard from him since yesterday. You’re sure neither of the children has been taken ill? Have you checked anywhere?’

  ‘I asked at the information desk at the airport, and they said there were no reports of a medical emergency – and Marc would have called me by now if they were at a hospital and that was what this was about. I know it’s because of something I’ve done, and he’s very angry, but I have to speak to him – only he’s gone!’ I can hear hot, frightened humiliation bubbling up in my voice.

  ‘It’s OK, Sophie,’ she says automatically. ‘Don’t worry, we will find them. Stay where you are and I will call you right back once I’ve spoken to him.’

  ‘Claudine,’ I blurt suddenly. ‘It wasn’t you, was it? That letter, the flowers, the pictures – any of it?’

  ‘You’re asking me about pictures again?’ She sounds exasperated. ‘I’ve told you! I don’t know what you are talking about, whatever Marc has done or said to the contrary. I need to find my children. I said I will call you, OK?’

  She hangs up. I open my other hand slowly, looking at Marc’s wedding ring and the small red marks on my palm from where I have been gripping onto it. I should never have agreed to marry him. If I’d only said no that morning when he—

  My mobile goes again. It’s Claudine. Her voice is strained, but she’s trying to hide it. ‘Only Isabelle’s phone is ringing, although there is no answer, but, as Julien says, it’s quite late at night with you now, isn’t it? Marc has probably put the children to bed. Maybe you should try to get some sleep too and we will call you in the morning your time when we know more, and everything is calmer.’

  ‘I am so sorry for all of this, Claudine.’

  There’s a pause, then she says, ‘It’s OK. I’m the only other person who understands what it’s like to be married to Marc, remember? I will call you, I promise.’ Then in a rush, as if she can’t help herself, she adds, ‘I tried to warn you about him, Sophie. You can’t say I didn’t!’

  When she is gone, I stare at his wedding ring afresh, her words echoing in my head. Once again, I picture Marc stood silently at the foot of our bed, watching me have sex with Rich. He can’t possibly have known all along?

  Can he?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘He hasn’t returned any of our calls. Isabelle’s phone is now switched off. We do not know where they are.’ Julien’s voice pours down the line, but it offers me no comfort at all this time, curled up in the chair of my air-conditioned hotel room, looking out at an almost plastic-blue sky. ‘It’s now been almost forty-eight hours since Claudine has had any contact from the children, and that is unprecedented. Sophie, I have to tell you that we have now reported the children as having been parentally abducted by Marc, both to the police here in France and to the authorities in Dubai. At the moment, all Immigration can confirm is that the children legally entered the country last night, and that they have not left. We know no more than that. Claudine tells me that Marc has your passport. I think you must assume that you will need to visit your embassy to obtain a replacement so that you can return to the UK.’

  ‘Parentally abducted?’ is all I can repeat, horrified. ‘But this is—’

  ‘He has removed them from their place of habitual residence, and that is illegal.’

  ‘No, Julien, wait! I’m sure this is just about something I’ve done, it isn’t—’

  ‘Please,’ he interrupts firmly. ‘I am not trying to belittle your very valid and distressing situation, but I think you need to accept that this is much, much bigger than you and Marc. I don’t believe this is an impulsive decision on his part – I think he has been planning this for some time. I have spoken to the managing partner of Marc’s office. Did you know Marc left his job in London the day before you married, having worked out a three-month notice period?’

  ‘What?’ I gasp.

  ‘I’ve done some asking around. It seems he’s been taken on by another London firm and is due to start there in two weeks. But I don’t think he will be there.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ I say quickly. ‘I’d say that’s a positive sign. He must be intending to—’

  ‘You are defending him?’ He talks over me. ‘A man who abandons you in a strange country? And you are not concerned that your own husband didn’t tell you that he had left his job? You also need to understand what I have been advised today by a specialist in this field. The United Arab Emirates is not party to any of the international conventions that provide many other countries with a legal framework within which a child abducted by one parent can be returned to another. Only the local courts in Dubai can order the return of Isabelle and Olivier. Despite all of my legal contacts, if Marc contests us when we find him, the progress will be, at best, long and slow. The help that the French authorities can provide is limited. I have had to warn Claudine that she may not see her children again for years. You think Marc didn’t know this? I don’t believe it, even if you say otherwise.’

  I am reeling. He’s left his job and abducted his own children? ‘But Julien, originally he wanted to go to South Africa. It was Claudine who put pressure on him to change the destination.’

  ‘Yes, which was very clever. Make us feel relieved about not taking them somewhere so dangerous, so we don’t suspect anything when you say Dubai instead.’ He is becoming angry. ‘I don’t think you understand. Listen to me! We may not see the children again.’

  At that, words fail me completely. I hear someone else shouting something in French in the background, a female voice. Julien covers the phone and there is a muffled, heated conversation, the sounds of a struggle, then suddenly Claudine is on the line.

  ‘Sophie? You tell me what you know,’ she demands breathlessly. ‘Everything! You said he was enraged with you at the airport. Why? Did he tell you his plan? Did you try and stop him?’

  ‘Of course he didn’t!’ I’m appalled. ‘Marc knows I would never agree to anything like that. We didn’t argue, there was no “plan”. We were waiting for the driver to collect us. We had reservations at the hotel!’

  ‘So everything was ordinary? I don’t believe you. Why did you say he was angry if that is true? You told me he left his wedding ring behind.’

  I hesitate and she hears it. ‘You have to tell me! Please! This is important! It might help me find Isabelle and Olivier.’

  I close my eyes, and I don’t know why, but all I see are Isabelle’s shimmering fish in her bedroom back at mine, suspended from the ceiling, twisting silently in the empty room. Oh Marc… What have you done? They are just children.

  Claudine’s right. I have to tell her.

  I take a deep breath. ‘No, it hasn’t been ordinary. I cheated on Marc recently. Somebody took pictures of me in bed with this other man, and then used them to blackmail me into getting married. Part of what they did was hire someone to break into my house and physica
lly threaten me in the middle of the night. Marc sent me the pictures at the airport and then just disappeared.’

  ‘You think it was Marc who did all of that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I whisper. ‘I have no proof that he did, and why would he marry me, only to leave me at the airport? It doesn’t make sense, but then I would never have believed he would be capable of doing this to the children either.’

  Everything goes quiet. For a moment I’m not even sure she is still there.

  ‘There’s something else,’ I confess. ‘On Saturday night, Marc was very distressed. He referenced your plans to marry Julien, then he told me how much he hated Julien being around the children. How he wished you’d chosen anyone but him.’ I realise I’m crying. ‘You’re absolutely sure he’s done this? Taken them, I mean.’

  ‘There is no doubt.’ Claudine’s voice is shaking too. ‘I don’t think you know Marc at all, do you?’

  THREE MONTHS LATER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I sit in silence, my cup of coffee untouched on the table in front of me as Claudine does her best to stop the sudden tears from running down her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says furiously. ‘This is how it is now.’

  She has lost so much weight I almost didn’t recognize her when she opened the front door. Her hair is scraped back and she’s wearing no make-up. Seated by the window of the vast, bright Paris apartment, every line and shadow on her exhausted face is illuminated by the unforgiving summer sun.

  ‘Please don’t apologize,’ I beg.

  She doesn’t hear me. ‘It was ninety days yesterday. How can that be possible? What is he telling them about where I am – because they will be asking for me.’ Her voice cracks again. ‘I know they will, and I’m not there! I have always been there! When Issy was little and she started school, she used to cling to me sobbing every time I left, and had to be prised off me. I’d feel her little hands trying to keep hold of my coat, but I’d leave anyway because they said she would settle, and it was normal, you know? And afterwards, every day, she would say to me, “You always come and get me, Mama,” over and over and over again, as if that was the only thing that had got her through. And I’d say’ – Claudine has to stop, breathing back more tears – ‘I’d say, “I always come and get you. Always.”’ She closes her eyes and her face screws up in pain. ‘What will she be thinking now? It’s killing me.’