The Disappearance of Emily Marr

by Louise Candlish

  ‘Yes. It’s supposed to help us identify which bits are no longer within reach.’ The upper parts of the pyramid had been shaded out long ago and we were, at best, in the middle, on the tier labelled Belongingness and Love. ‘So long as he still knows I love him then it means he’s still at that level. Do you think he knows?’

  ‘Yes,’ Arthur said, ‘I do. Definitely.’

  Because it was Sunday, there were no consultants on duty. I had hoped to see Dad’s key worker from the care home, who had continued to keep an eye on him after the transfer and made occasional overtures regarding his return to that more comfortable facility, but she was not there either. It was strange to think of the medical staff detaching themselves from him and the other patients for their weekends off, when I could hardly pass an hour without being reminded of him. Arthur did his best to gain information from the staff that I might not be able to extract myself, but it was clear to all of us there was little new to say, just new ways of saying it. He was sweet to try, though, and to tell me that if I had any questions he would ring one of the senior staff the next day for me.

  In his car on the way home, we were silent at first, grateful for the congested lanes that slowed our re-entry into the city and towards the river. Normally, at some point in my solitary trek home I would phone Phil, let him know that things were much the same, give or take, hear in his voice the same horrible longing for cataclysmic change I knew must be in my own, the same claustrophobic terror that there should be any alteration at all. How consoling Arthur’s silence was, just as it had been at the hospital bedside.

  Presently, I turned to speak. ‘You know when you see people in the street who look totally desperate?’

  He glanced through his window to the street life beyond. ‘Homeless, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, or just people who are lost and distraught about something, at the end of the line. Well, I’d love to be able to say, just to one person, one time, “Come with me, stay with me until you’ve got yourself back on your feet.” Give someone a break, totally against their expectations.’

  ‘That’s a very charitable attitude,’ Arthur said, ‘but it might be a bit risky to take someone in without knowing a thing about them. If they’re roaming the streets and obviously desperate, they may have mental-health issues.’

  ‘I don’t mean I’m actually going to do it,’ I laughed. ‘Not in London. I might be murdered in my bed if I let in a complete stranger. I just meant I’d like to do that, one day, something that makes a proper difference to someone down on their luck.’

  ‘A random act of kindness? I think it’s natural, that sort of impulse. You feel helpless back there…’ – he meant the hospital – ‘you worry you can’t do anything to help your father. But you have to realise you are helping. What you said about love and belonging, honestly, he couldn’t wish for a better daughter. By visiting him so much, you’re helping, both you and your brother. Plenty of families cut back on the visits long before this stage. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the patients in there don’t get a visitor from one week to the next.’

  ‘That’s true.’ It had certainly been the case in the care home, where I knew at least one resident who had no visitors at all. ‘But how do you explain the fact that I’ve had these feelings even before Dad got ill?’

  ‘I don’t know; perhaps you should have trained in medicine or teaching or something. A more formal way of helping people you don’t have a personal connection with?’ He glanced at me, placed his hand briefly on mine. ‘Either that or it’s plain old maternal instinct at work. Have you considered that? The lives we influence the most are those of our children – I can tell you that for a fact.’

  We lapsed into silence. I didn’t know if he was thinking of his sons or of any children we might have together in the future, but I had no wish to alter the atmosphere by repeating my overwrought doubts of last time, by demanding promises of fulfilment and the fulfilment of those promises. I never would again, I vowed. I would not even allow myself to consider the nearest of futures, half an hour from now, when Arthur would drop me somewhere on the outskirts of our neighbourhood because it was far too risky to take me to my door.

  I’d think only of the here and now.

  ‘When did you last go on holiday?’ he said.

  I had to think hard to place the answer. ‘Last year – no, the one before. A whole group of us went to Spain on this cheap deal.’

  ‘Well, as soon as this is over, I’ll take you away.’

  I didn’t know if he meant when my father died or when he left Sylvie, but my response to the two eventualities, one so dreaded, one so desired, held an element in common: a longing for the uncertainty to end. A sense that to wait any longer might break me.

  ‘Where will you take me?’ I asked him, turning my head so my cheek brushed the headrest.

  ‘I have the perfect place in mind. It’s a little island off the west coast of France. It’s very relaxed, very low-key, and the weather is great. We’ll go for two weeks, hole up in a place on the beach.’

  This couldn’t happen this summer, I knew, for he was due to go to Sussex for ten days in August; work commitments would not permit a further two days, much less weeks. And I would never allow myself to leave Dad unvisited for so long. But at that moment, as the car moved through the City towards the river, I wanted to believe it was true.

  ‘What’s it called, this island of yours?’ I asked.

  ‘Ré. I’ve been there a few times, when the boys were younger.’

  I felt my eyes close as he continued to describe his island hideaway. It didn’t matter whether we would actually go there or not because this was a bedtime story, a fantasy, pleasurable and lulling and bespoke. The sand dunes and salt pans, the old stone cottages and terracotta roofs, the hollyhocks that grew taller than your head: they were all just for me.

  Chapter 11

  Tabby

  Even before she’d led Grégoire up the stairs of the house on rue du Rempart, which she was looking after so reliably that Moira had confirmed the job was hers for the rest of the summer if she wanted it, Tabby knew this would become a regular arrangement too – if he wanted it. Worse than that, she knew it would become the highlight of her week, as if in spite of all higher ambition nothing but human intimacy was in the end worth looking forward to. (What would Steve say to that?)

  Even as they were kissing, undressing, groaning, giggling, she was rendering obsolete her own justifications, creating new ones in their place. This is a link to living, she was telling herself. Without it I might disintegrate and die, and who would notice, who would care? Doing this, at least I care.

  And Grégoire cared too, didn’t he? While he was inside her, he cared; maybe for a few minutes afterwards, too.

  The logistics of the thing had taxed her somewhat. She was, after all, supposed to be working and it was not the kind of work you could take home with you and catch up on later. She’d calculated that if she brought from the stocks at home a bedsheet of her own, she could still strip the beds and get the used linen in the machine at the start of her shift in the usual way; if she attacked the kitchen and bathrooms at top speed, completing them before he arrived, she could earn herself a longer-than-usual break; if she left for afterwards only the mopping of the tiles and the remaking of the beds; if she limited her time with him to an hour or so… then she could fit it in.

  The hard bit, it would turn out, was not the muscular exhaustion that followed accelerated and intensive cleaning – adrenalin and lust counteracted that well enough and she had all evening to rest, in any case – but the discipline required to limit herself to a single hour before kicking him out.

  ‘I have no hurry,’ he told her, naked and relaxed on the bed as she began to dress.

  ‘No, but I do. I’m working here, Grégoire. You’re my lunch break.’

  ‘I’ll watch you finish your work,’ he proposed.

  ‘I think you should go home,’ she told him. ‘Aren’t you worried your wi
fe will be wondering where you are?’

  ‘She has not any consequence where I am.’

  ‘That makes no sense.’

  ‘Then we must speak French if you want to have sense,’ he said playfully.

  ‘I don’t have time to speak French.’

  A reluctance to leave on his part had not been scheduled for. She had expected (and would have preferred in the circumstances) an adulterer who had his clothes on and was out of the door within ten minutes of ejaculation. She did not ask what his alibi was – he would only deny he had need of one, peddle his nonsense about separating from his wife – but supposed it must have been easily enough concocted. This is surreal, she thought, hearing the washer-dryer enter its spin cycle downstairs and wondering how easy it was going to be to smuggle back home the used sheet Grégoire was sprawled upon and get it in and out of Emmie’s washing machine without detection (very easy, she decided; if not at her beloved laptop, then Emmie was more often than not absorbed in a book or her own thoughts). She would have thought he’d be more aware of the risk of this situation – unless, of course, it was the risk that aroused him in the first place.

  ‘You might be able to delude yourself, but you don’t delude me,’ she told him as he at last prepared to leave.

  ‘Yes, Tabitha,’ he said, sly, satisfied, happy now to joke. ‘You know me so very well.’

  She wished she had thought to use a false name with him, allowed herself to escape Tabby Dewhurst and be someone else completely.

  At home, she dealt with the bedsheet and switched the kettle on, still on her feet but already anticipating the sweetness of the forthcoming collapse. Four hours of cleaning condensed into three, one hour of sex, thirty minutes of walking, and dinner still to cook: just as she’d told Moira, she had a lot of energy.

  Judging by the sound of running water from above, Emmie was taking a bath. She had her own regular Saturday changeovers, two fishermen’s cottages on the same street in La Flotte, which with a little ingenuity could just about be squeezed into the standard eleven-to-three slot. Tabby was not sure she would like to try such a feat.

  There would be, of course, no drinks in the port tonight. It had come as no surprise that Emmie had not cared to discuss the incident of the previous Saturday. The following afternoon, Tabby had asked, ‘Did something upset you last night?’ and Emmie had replied, ‘No, I’m fine’ in a bright and determined tone. She’d been dressed in her usual casual clothes, all trace of the previous night’s make-up removed. Later, Tabby came across the cigarettes in one of the kitchen drawers, the pack missing just the one she had watched Emmie smoke.

  It was a mystery – but she was getting used to that.

  All at once the lights went out and the noise of the kettle faded. She had been alarmed when this had first happened, but was used to it now. The kettle used enough power to trip the electrics, their budget tariff giving only a limited supply. ‘Just wait till winter,’ Emmie had told her. ‘Apparently you can have hot water or the radiator, but not both at once.’

  It had touched Tabby that she believed they’d still both be here, living together, months from now. She, for one, expected to be gone by autumn time. When high season ended and the work dried up, she’d be on her way. She couldn’t afford to live in an expensive part of France without a regular income. As for Emmie, she gave no impression of planning a departure, presumably aiming to stay in the house until such time as its owners chose to reclaim it. Renovations were planned for the following new year, they’d told her; until then, she needed give only a week’s notice.

  Throwing the main switch by the front door, Tabby turned off the lights to finish boiling the kettle and then reinstated them once her tea was made. Standing idly with her mug in hand, she noticed in the centre of the kitchen table a plastic purple file that she’d never seen before and that presumably belonged to Emmie. It was the kind with loops of elastic to keep its covers closed, perhaps Emmie’s equivalent of her own zipped wallet in which she stored her passport and the old travel documents and tickets that amounted to souvenirs of her trip.

  Her eye was caught by the dark, shiny corner of a photograph sticking out of the top and she reached out a hand to tuck it back in. At the moment of contact, however, she changed her mind, pinched the corner and began to ease it outwards.

  She disappointed herself even as she brought index finger and thumb together. This was the problem with her job, she thought: it made access to other people’s possessions an everyday occurrence, it blurred the line between respect and disrespect until the two were no more than a casual step apart – one that, crucially, only you knew you had taken. What was that famous philosophical question Paul had told her about once? If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, did it make any sound? Something like that. And in any case, if people would keep taping up signs saying ‘Privé’ and yet not use a lock and key – well, it only made the temptation to pry greater and that was not philosophy but human nature. (She was aware only very dimly that she had a tendency to blame her transgressions on human frailty in general rather than any character flaw of her own.)

  Having worked the photograph free, she held it under the light. It was a picture of a couple, a man of about thirty, eyes narrowed at the camera, cigarette between his lips, and a young blond woman whose face was averted from both him and the camera. Judging by their smart dress and the flower arrangements in the background, Tabby judged it to be a reportage-style wedding shot. She would not immediately have known the woman was Emmie had it not been for the dress being the very one she’d worn last weekend, and the similar heavy style of eye make-up. The girl in the photo was rather younger and slenderer, captured in sudden motion as she turned, tresses of hair obscuring the lower part of her face. Her hair was shoulder-length and pale blond, almost platinum-blond, and curled in the 1950s way of Grace Kelly or Lauren Bacall or one of those old movie stars. Tabby peered more closely, admiring the elegance of the dress on Emmie’s leaner frame. It fitted her better here, suited her better.

  ‘Hard to believe it’s me, eh?’

  She started at the sound of Emmie’s voice at the foot of the stairs, giving a little gasp and flushing deeply. She had not heard her footsteps on the stairs, supposed the failure of power must have interrupted her bath. ‘Sorry about the lights,’ Tabby said helplessly. ‘I hope you don’t mind…’ She held out the photo for Emmie to take. ‘I didn’t mean to be nosy. It was sticking out of the folder and I couldn’t help recognising the dress from last week…’

  It was an obvious lie, but Emmie did not challenge her, taking the picture from her but staying close to Tabby so they could both study it. She marvelled at her own image.

  ‘You look very different,’ Tabby said, unnecessarily. ‘Your hair’s so blond.’

  ‘Yes. I needed a total change of style.’

  Tabby wasn’t sure if she meant before or after the photo was taken; certainly there’d been a drastic rethink since, for there was no doubt that the current Emmie was far drabber than this glamorous creature and had gained a fair amount of weight. Then Tabby noticed another detail: in the picture, Emmie held a cigarette at hip height – the camera had caught a curl of smoke from its end – and she recalled how Emmie had hardly been out two minutes before she’d wanted to run off and buy cigarettes. They said reformed smokers were more likely to relapse in the company of old smoking buddies; perhaps clothes could have a similar effect? Had she and Emmie not fallen into that silly argument about the men at the next table, what other old habits might she have revived? What confidences might she have been persuaded to share?

  There was a pause and then Emmie said, ‘I know, I know…’ and the pleasure in her voice made Tabby turn in surprise to her. Sometimes Emmie seemed to have the ability to read her mind: she’d give an answer to a comment Tabby had only thought, and then they’d continue without needing to mention the fact. But this time Emmie had pre-empted wrongly: she wore exactly the expression of someone who’d just been paid
a delightful compliment and was modestly deflecting it.

  ‘You look fantastic when you dress up,’ Tabby said belatedly. ‘Really glamorous. Like I say, I’m not sure I would have recognised you if it weren’t for the dress. Who took the picture? Are you at a wedding or something? Is that an old boyfriend you’re with?’ As an attempt to get Emmie to tell her more about her failed love affair, the ‘badness’ that had ended it, it was a typically unsuccessful one and Emmie merely sighed, slipping the photograph back into the folder and taking it with her towards the stairs.

  ‘Sorry,’ Tabby said to her receding figure. ‘I know I said I wouldn’t ask.’

  When Emmie came back down later and the two ate supper together, there was something subtly different about her, a difference that became more defined as the evening wore on: self-importance, perhaps even vanity. Tabby could be wrong, of course – Lord knew she was not the best judge of character – but she thought she detected in Emmie’s eyes the faint, counterintuitive sense that she was, for the first time, enjoying Tabby’s curiosity.