The Disappearance of Emily Marr

by Louise Candlish

  The heat generated by this diatribe seemed to linger in the air after she’d finished speaking, repelling apology and denial equally. The compulsion to giggle had left her, but Tabby still wasn’t sure she could bear much more of this meeting – this day – and yet, according to Moira’s wall clock, it was not yet eleven. She glanced across at Emmie, whose thoughts were now elsewhere, her mood apparently unperturbed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Moira, finally. ‘I don’t know what else I can say.’

  It came as no surprise when Moira announced her decision: they were both sacked.

  The following days were the strangest of Tabby’s life. If ever she had valued the structure imposed by work, any kind of work, it was now. Without any formal obligation to leave it, the house became a jail and Emmie her jailor – though the reality was the other way around. She was responsible for Emmie now.

  Emmie had spoken little since her spirited moment in Moira’s office, either of her own drama or of the one that had caused them to lose their jobs. Not once did she ask Tabby if Moira’s allegation were true or who the man was who’d been visiting. She had no interest in it, just as she had none in eating or looking after herself – both she managed only with Tabby’s near-forcible encouragement. The same went for their walks, which continued only in short and painful form, rarely drawing them beyond the fortifications of Saint-Martin. Emmie was drinking now, a couple of glasses of wine before bedtime, and in camaraderie or defeat – she was not sure which – Tabby joined her. Any thoughts of a parallel with poor Sylvie Woodhall were best left unvoiced. Sleeping hours began to exceed waking ones for both of them.

  By Thursday, the normality of working for Moira was so far out of reach as to feel like a job she’d done long ago, or perhaps only read about someone doing in a novel. For the first time, Tabby wished she could leave Ré. Without an income, the island was an untenable base, besides which she had enough cash now either to move on or travel back to England. But she couldn’t leave Emmie in this condition, not when she had caused the collapse. Without her meddling, Emmie would not have had to relive her traumatic recent past, she would not have lost the job that was anchoring her to the present.

  Somehow, it had all gone catastrophically wrong again.

  The next morning she found the number of a doctor and phoned to ask for advice. Thankfully, his English was better than her French, good enough for her to understand that he could do nothing without examining Emmie in person. House calls were not available, so she would need to bring Emmie to his surgery. This, Tabby knew, was impossible: even if she could somehow trick Emmie into it, she would turn on her heel the moment she realised she was in the presence of a doctor. If only things had not ended so badly with Moira, she could have appealed to her for help. Tabby thought again of Phil, the brother in Newbury who obviously loved and cared for his sister, and the next time she had access to Emmie’s phone she searched it for his number. To her disappointment, there were only three names listed: Moira, Emmie’s landlord M. Robert, and Tabby herself. There were no UK numbers at all: she had cut herself off well and truly.

  As Emmie slept, Tabby took the laptop and read again parts of her story, hungry for clues as to what she might try next to improve her friend’s spirits. Finding none, she did however note one passage that she must have missed the first time, or read too quickly to absorb its significance: ‘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.’ Here, after all this time, was the explanation to the one remaining element of Emmie’s behaviour she had not been able to fathom: why she had allowed Tabby to stay on the night of the break-in, why she had invited her to move in. Tabby was the recipient of her random act of kindness, her attempt to do a stranger a good turn. It broke her heart to know how the sweet, open-hearted girl in the story – flawed, yes, but as she said herself no more flawed than any other woman in love – had been reduced to the lost and broken creature in the bedroom upstairs.

  At last, the following weekend, she woke up knowing just what she had to do. She made the phone calls as she shopped for food.

  ‘I need to leave the island for a few days,’ she told Emmie that evening. ‘I’ll be gone when you wake up. Will you be OK?’

  ‘Of course,’ Emmie said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’

  This was plainly incorrect, for she had scarcely left her bedroom since Wednesday, but other conditions encouraged Tabby to proceed with her plan. One, Emmie had not touched the laptop since Tabby had slipped it downstairs (nor had she asked where it was); two, she had had a bath and washed her hair; three, she had eaten the scrambled eggs and bread Tabby had taken her that lunchtime.

  Having stocked the fridge with the healthy foods of recuperation – as if this were the simple matter of feeding a cold! – she left a couple of paperbacks by Emmie’s bed. She reminded her friend that she would be gone in the early hours and promised she would be back in a few days’ time and that everything would go back to normal. Whatever that was.

  It was a little like leaving a young child to fend for herself, but Tabby reminded herself that Emmie had coped perfectly well before she arrived. Being on her own again might be just what she needed.

  Meanwhile, Tabby would go back to England and find Arthur Woodhall.

  Chapter 23

  Tabby

  It was the last weekend in August, a bank-holiday Monday in the UK, she discovered, and there were no available flights to London from either La Rochelle or Nantes that would not swallow her entire cache of euros. The Eurostar from Paris was fully booked. She would need to travel cheaply and slowly by train and ferry.

  She began in the darkness of early morning, taking the bus to La Rochelle Station and marvelling at the length of the famous bridge she had first crossed with Grégoire. She still had no whole memory of her arrival in Ré that night in May. Such was the strangeness of the last few weeks, she thought that if she were to return and find the bridge gone, the island vanished, she would not be entirely surprised.

  The train to Saint-Malo involved a change in Rennes, and then the ferry to Portsmouth took most of the day. It didn’t feel like a homecoming and she was grateful for that. She did not need the distraction of a sentimental journey. Arriving in England close to 7 p.m., she decided to take a cheap hotel room near the station for the night rather than risk arriving in London without a reservation and having to use every last penny on an expensive room there.

  It was the right decision: in the morning she was well rested and optimistic, certain that by the time her head returned to the pillow that night she would have made progress, perhaps be on her way back to Emmie with news to lift her from her despair, even propel her to happier times.

  She did not know London well, was not certain she had ever set foot in Emmie’s old neighbourhood, and so on arrival at Waterloo was pleased to find herself on the right side of town and just a bus ride away. Of course, she was not so naïve as to assume Arthur Woodhall would simply answer the door and welcome her with open arms, willingly returning to France with her that same day. For one thing, he probably didn’t live there any more – Emily had not once seen the lights on in his house during the period between the tragedy and her departure from the neighbourhood – and for another he would surely be at work, though not at St Barnabas’. Having remembered the news report of his resignation, Tabby had phoned the hospital for confirmation that he no longer held a post there. She could only pray that he had not, like Emmie, changed his name, making it impossible to follow his trail.

  She’d forgotten how beautiful England could be in late summer. The sun was high when she reached the turn into Walnut Grove and saw at her feet the steep slope of shimmering green so familiar from Emmie’s descriptions. It was a narrower street than she’d expected, the trees on either pavement meeting at their tops to create a canopy, under which she began to walk as if through an enchanted forest. It was easy to
see why Emmie had fallen in love with the place, how she’d been charmed into believing that being in possession of a set of keys was the same as belonging. Walking down – she’d begun at Arthur’s end, the ‘good’ end on the hill – she was struck by the height of the houses, so tall and imposing after the low roofs of Saint-Martin. Number 11 was dauntingly grand, what Tabby would consider a mansion, the white stucco exterior immaculate and the windowboxes on the first floor bright with summer flowers. The watered blooms and the gleam of light through the fanlight were promising signs: the house was open, lived in once more. But by Arthur? Would a man so catastrophically bereft live in a house so large, would he be able to use its rooms without seeing the ghosts of his own children?

  She rang the bell. A Nigerian woman appeared: a cleaner, Tabby assumed, like her. She automatically relaxed.

  ‘I’m looking for Arthur Woodhall. Does he still live here?’

  The woman shook her head, readily enough for Tabby to see this was a misunderstanding she’d had to correct before. ‘He moved out. Another family live here now.’

  ‘Oh, I see. When did he leave?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you know where he went? Is he still in London?’ But the poor thing clearly knew nothing and was anxious to get on with her work. The closed door caused a prickle behind Tabby’s eyelids and she berated herself. It was scarcely likely to be the only one today: she needed to toughen up if she was to accomplish what she’d set out to do.

  She turned and surveyed the row of houses across the street. These ones were narrower, with brickwork painted black, but were nonetheless large and smart, rising to four floors. Two houses might be said to be directly opposite number 11 and she approached the one on the right first, fixing her smile as she knocked. The woman who answered was too young, in her thirties, hair loose and feet in flip-flops. She could not be the famous Nina Meeks. The cries of young children from within supported this, for Nina had older children, the same age as the Woodhalls’. The thought made Tabby swallow hard. This was where it had all begun: this street, these houses.

  ‘Oh.’ Seeing her, the woman wore the crestfallen look of someone who’d been expecting a delivery of cakes and been handed instead a council tax summons. (Don’t think of Susie, Tabby told herself.) ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for Nina Meeks. I was told her house is near here, is that right?’

  The woman frowned. ‘Who’s asking?’

  Of course, Nina was famous. What neighbour of a celebrity would just give the information to a stranger, especially when the whole street had so recently been crawling with press? Then Tabby remembered that Nina was press, the sort that trampled over people’s lives without any thought for the harm they were causing; how many other Emmies had she ritually tortured? Tabby need make no special allowances for her.

  ‘My name’s Tabby Dewhurst. I’ve come all the way from France in the hope of talking to Nina about something very important, to do with her work. Please, I’m sure she won’t mind meeting me.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you try her office first?’

  ‘I could, I suppose, but I’m in the area now and I don’t have much time before I have to get back.’

  The woman considered the factors: Tabby’s innocuous appearance, the name redolent of sleeping cats, the distance travelled. ‘She’s two up, number sixteen. But she probably won’t be in, so don’t get your hopes up.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  At number 16, there was an agonising wait before a young man came to the door, which startled Tabby into temporary silence as she thought again of the boys she’d read about in Emily’s story. This must be the good friend of Alexander; nineteen or so now, college age. There were no obvious signs of bereavement, but it was over a year since the accident. Life went on, as it had for all involved, even for Emmie for a period.

  ‘I’m looking for Nina. Is she your mum?’

  ‘She’s in town, at the paper, I think.’

  ‘The Press?’ This was more promising. It would be easy enough to find the address of a national newspaper.

  ‘But she’ll be back later,’ he added.

  ‘Do you know what time? I’ve come quite a long way to see her.’

  Tabby was lucky that the boy had either been raised to be helpful or kept unaware of any harassment Nina had been subjected to during the scandal, because he answered quite guilelessly, ‘She said about five o’clock, maybe earlier.’

  ‘OK, I’ll come back then if that’s all right?’

  ‘Sure.’

  It was frustrating to have to wait almost three hours, but she did not wish to risk going into central London only to find that Nina had passed her on a train heading home. On the other hand, it was heartening to have positively located one of the people she’d come to see and to have won the boy’s casual permission to return. She took her time walking down the Grove towards the high street, at last reaching the other two houses mentioned by Emmie: 199 and 197. One-nine-seven was the Laings’, hosts of the party at which Arthur and Emmie had met, but otherwise undesirable components of her story. There was Sarah Laing’s black and gleaming four-by-four parked outside. Tabby was glad not to be looking for a meeting with her. The woman had been jealous of Emmie, spitefully so. With all she had – this house, her family, wealth, security – she’d still found the space and energy to envy someone with so much less. In her own way, she had been as responsible for Emmie’s ostracism as Nina.

  Next door stood one of the most down-at-heel houses on the whole street. The door was shabby and dented, the paintwork on the window ledges dark with dirt, a mismatched array of cheap roller blinds at the windows, hanging at various careless angles. She tried to picture Emmie behind the window of the first floor – was the living room on the left or the right? – somehow finding a viewpoint at which to watch the reporters below while not being seen herself. It seemed incredible that an ordinary woman should find herself the object of such interest, such intrusion. No wonder she had said it hadn’t felt as if it were really happening to her.

  All at once, the door to number 197 jerked open and a short woman in jeans and wedged heels clopped down the path towards the Range-Rover. Sarah. As she climbed into the driver’s seat she cast Tabby a look that was neither friendly nor unfriendly, a kind of acknowledgement that she was not worth registering.

  She thinks I’m one of her neighbours’ cleaners, Tabby thought. She wasn’t sure she liked Walnut Grove. It felt like the kind of street where the residents made it clear if you offended their superior sensibilities, adulterous affair with a neighbour or not.

  Just before five, she arrived at the gate of number 16 at exactly the same time as Nina Meeks was parking her Prius in a bay opposite – she recognised her cap of raven hair from the news coverage. It was not ideal to have to accost her kerbside, but it at least allowed her to catch her prey off guard.

  ‘Ms Meeks? My name’s Tabitha Dewhurst. Your son said it might be OK to come and have a quick chat with you.’

  Busy juggling an armful of bags and papers, Nina hardly glanced her way. She looked much older than Tabby had pictured, the strains of her profession pinching the skin between her eyebrows and drawing down the corners of her mouth. ‘You’re a friend of his?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what do you want to talk about, exactly?’ She spoke rapidly and in a sharp tone, hovering rather than pausing, in anticipation of a succinct response. Her eyes were an arresting blue, with flecks of yellow-gold, and to experience their focus was to feel your defences fall as fast as your nerves rose.

  ‘It’s about Arthur Woodhall,’ Tabby said. She’d planned every last word of her approach, judging that his name might open doors wider than Emmie’s.

  ‘I can’t think of anything you might have to say about him that would interest me,’ Nina said. She was on the move again, but not objecting when Tabby followed her up the path. Nor did she close the door in her face, instead standing looking at her uninvited guest
from just inside, her head slightly cocked. She had the unmistakable energy of the innately inquisitive, the same kind that had got Tabby involved in this affair in the first place.

  ‘Would it be OK to come in, just for a couple of minutes?’ Tabby persisted and Nina sighed, ‘If you must,’ and then Tabby was in, closing the door behind her.