Lucky Girl

by Fiona Gibson

  She marches back to her table and rams a buggy, containing a mewing child, out of the door. ‘Good,’ Ed says under his breath.

  I get up to order our food. Ed brightens and says, ‘Stella, it’s not usually like this….’

  ‘It looks fantastic, Ed.’

  ‘We need to…’ A flicker of smile. ‘Improve our facilities. What would you like?’

  ‘Two lattes and… I can’t decide.’

  ‘Something sweet?’ he suggests.

  I gaze into the display cabinet. There are strawberry tarts like you see in French patisseries, and something partway between chocolate cake and mousse. The kind of dessert that involves making a mess of yourself.

  And there’s something with pastry and caramelized apples. An upside-down apple tart, just like Charlie chose on holiday in France.

  Dad couldn’t forget the tarte tatin. It was as if the taste had impregnated his tongue. He tried to recreate it at home but the apples dissolved in our mouths like indistinct clouds, and the pastry wasn’t right. He blamed substandard British flour, and me for buying the wrong kind of apples. He started to use words like caramelization. Like a wayward child, it wouldn’t behave the way he wanted it to.

  ‘Who’s your friend?’ Ed asks, loudly enough for Robert to hear.

  ‘That’s Robert, my—’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘No,’ I say firmly. The waitress pushes past me on her way to the kitchen. I’m taking too long, dithering at the counter. I ask for two slices of tarte tatin, aware of Ed watching me as I head for our table.

  Robert looks up and says, ‘Verity isn’t happy about you and me spending time together.’ He gazes through the window at the long-limbed girls flying back and forth on Rollerblades, their hair wafting behind them like aerosol spray.

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  ‘You don’t know, do you?’ He smiles, blushing slightly.

  I shrug, confused.

  ‘She was convinced I had a thing about you. Even accused me of having a fling.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous!’ I decide not to confess about the toothbrush stashed in my bag, the day we went to Butterfly World.

  ‘She wanted me to stop lessons,’ he continues, ‘but I wouldn’t. And she was right, you know. Verity’s very perceptive.’

  ‘Right about what?’

  Robert squeezes my hand. A fragment of pastry melts on my tongue. ‘I did have a thing about you,’ he says, as Ed appears to take away my empty plate.

  26

  Missing Person

  Diane brings dense floral perfume into my hall. ‘Could the girls sleep over on Friday night?’ she asks.

  ‘You mean all night?’ She hasn’t mentioned the concert. She’s either deeply ashamed for not being there, or has forgotten it ever happened.

  ‘They won’t be any trouble.’

  ‘I’m not sure—’

  ‘I’ve got tickets for Wicked Queen,’ she says. ‘Normally I wouldn’t bother with a tribute band—bloody diabolical, most of them. But we’ve booked a hotel. Room at the top, fantastic view of the whole of Wolverhampton.’

  I don’t ask who the other part of the ‘we’ might be. I’m more concerned at the prospect of being in sole care of her children at weird hours like 4:30 a.m.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘if you’re sure they’ll be happy staying here.’

  ‘They’ll love it,’ she says, awash with relief. At that moment, Wolverhampton seems as distant as Adelaide.

  Friday, 5:28 p.m. The girls are picking at chips and watching SpongeBob, an animated yellow sponge who inhabits an underwater city called Bikini Bottom. I bought oven chips and studied the instructions on the bag: Preheat oven to 200 degrees. Spread chips thinly on a tray and place near top of the oven. Bake for around twenty minutes until crisp and golden.

  ‘My dad’s show’s on in a minute,’ I tell the girls. ‘But we watched it last week!’ Midge protests. Jojo lets herself slide, as if she’s been liquefied, onto the floor. She has already removed her lilac sandals and socks and lined up ten nail polishes—a different color for each nail—which Diane bought for her birthday. Before the girls crept into my life I wouldn’t have let anyone place lid-less bottles on my floor. I’d have laid down newspaper, and insisted that only one bottle was open at a time.

  Dad ambles into shot. One paper described him as ‘affable and modest, with a relaxed style and infectious enthusiasm’ but in fact he’s barely noticeable among erupting flowers. He doesn’t look like a dad anymore, but a granddad; the kind who’d help a child with her homework, not rip her worksheet in two.

  He’s been commissioned to write a book to accompany the series. A photographer spent three days at Silverdawn Cottage. Maggie sent me color photocopies of his pictures: irises, like long purple tongues, and blazes of poppies and cornflowers.

  Maggie can pay for more help in manning the car park. She has cleared out the spare bedroom and surprised Dad by re-painting it. He complained that the white she’d chosen was too harsh for his eyes. She bought a self-assembly desk, which neither of them has got around to building yet. ‘I’ve tried to persuade him that he needs a computer,’ she told me, ‘but you know how he is with technology. Who else do you know who still uses an adding machine?’

  When Frankie’s Flowers has finished, I clear away the girls’ plates and lift down Midge’s box of missile components from the bookshelf. ‘Would you like to play my flute?’ I ask Jojo.

  ‘No thanks,’ she mutters. Since the school concert she’s had no instrument to practice on. I’ve offered mine when she’s been here, but she’s always found something better to do, like picking the icing from Party Hoops and scattering pink and green crumbs onto my rug.

  ‘It must be your bedtime,’ I suggest.

  ‘We don’t have one,’ Midge chirps from her missile workshop at the table.

  ‘You mean you never go to bed?’

  ‘I’m not tired,’ she says, widening her eyes to demonstrate her alertness.

  She has constructed a weapon capable of blasting the top bunk through their roof, and Jojo with it, to some distant planet where they do unspeakable things to girls who love pink, and fairies.

  2:27 a.m. A muffled noise, like hiccups. I laid out the spare mattress in the small bedroom, covering most of the floor and creating a padded-cell effect. Jojo lined up her fairy dolls in sitting positions so they could watch her as she slept.

  More hiccups. I swivel out of bed and creep through to the spare room. There are dark shapes of the girls’ faces, swathes of fine hair on pillows.

  A pair of eyes gleams wetly. ‘Jojo?’ I whisper.

  A damp sniff.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m asleep,’ she whispers hoarsely. I step across the parts of the blanket with no limbs beneath and crouch beside her. ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask. ‘Are you missing your mum?’

  Fierce shake of the head.

  ‘Can’t you sleep?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ she hisses.

  ‘Come in with me so we don’t wake your sister.’

  She untangles herself from the blankets and lets me lead her by the hand to my room. She’s wearing the lilac nightie with the lace coming undone at the neck. We sit on my bed’s spongy edge. ‘Tell me what’s wrong,’ I say, putting an arm round her shoulders. She feels cold, slightly clammy, and is clutching a startled-looking doll.

  ‘It’s Toby,’ she murmurs.

  ‘Forget about the concert. It was awful, but he’s just—’

  ‘He’s hurt,’ she cuts in. ‘Someone punched him and gave him a pain in his tummy.’

  ‘Hasn’t been fighting again, has he?’

  She turns to me, and her eyes gleam like marbles. ‘You know how Mrs Summer said he wasn’t allowed to talk to me ever?’

  ‘Yes.’ The Monday after the concert, Jen called Toby into her office and laid down strict rules. She had already spoken to his mother on the phone. One more step out of line and his parents would be called in for a meeting. She wo
n’t tolerate name calling in her school.

  ‘He came up to me at break time,’ Jojo continues, ‘on Thursday I think, and I was going to say leave me alone, but—’ Her voice splinters.

  ‘Jojo, what did he do to you?’

  ‘Nothing. He started crying. I’ve never seen a boy cry—only Dad when we moved out. And he’s not a boy. He’s a man.’

  ‘Was Toby sorry? Is that why he cried?’

  ‘He didn’t mean to say it. He was just upset ’cause his mum and dad had made him come to the concert.’

  ‘That’s no excuse,’ I tell her. ‘He’s just a horrible bully.’

  ‘He was already in trouble for not taking part in the concert. His dad was even madder ’cause of what he shouted at me. So he hit him. That’s why his stomach hurt.’

  Jojo wipes her wet face on her nightie. ‘Are you sure about this?’ I ask.

  She nods, and I lead her by the hand back to her makeshift bed. When I peek in later there’s a faint smell of sweets, even though teeth were thoroughly brushed. Jojo is breathing steadily. But I know she’s not sleeping.

  Diane has revised her opinion of tribute bands. ‘Lead singer,’ she announces the following evening, ‘had his teeth fixed so they’d look just like Freddie’s. Twelve grand it cost him.’ She goofs her front teeth to demonstrate the kind of dental handiwork she’s talking about. She’s brought the program to show me—Unforgettable, Unadulterated: A Night of Pure Showmanship!—plus bubble bath sachets and a hefty octagonal glass ashtray embossed with Plaza Hotel. ‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘but I don’t smoke.’

  ‘Use it for nibbles,’ Diane insists. ‘Come on girls, get your stuff. Stella will be glad to see the back of you.’

  Midge stuffs her weapon into a carrier bag. Jojo pulls on a matted yellow cardigan. We haven’t discussed Toby since last night. I need to talk to Jen; there are guidelines on how to deal with these situations. Words like guidelines, and policies, are reassuring.

  As they leave, Diane adds, ‘Met the lead singer, Martin. Lovely bloke, no airs about him, even though he’s played all over the world—London, Paris, Wolverhampton, Coventry….’

  ‘What did you talk about?’ Midge pipes up.

  ‘The day Freddie died. What we were doing. I remember like it was yesterday—working in that bee place, couldn’t bring myself to open up. Visitors hammered on the window. Couldn’t face their bloody questions. I just sat there, stone still, hoping they’d think I was a wax dummy.’

  She smiles unsteadily and ushers the girls home. I retrieve a stray chip from the floor and go to call Jen, who always knows what to do. But my phone rings, and Maggie blurts out, ‘Sorry to disturb you, Stella, but—’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard from your dad.’

  ‘No, not since his last letter. Why—has something happened?’

  ‘He went out four or five hours ago, when I started building his new desk. I got into such a muddle with the silly instructions—all these crucial bolts and things missing—that I didn’t notice the time. He hasn’t come home, Stella.’

  ‘Where was he going?’

  ‘Just the usual, walking the dogs.’

  ‘He’s probably run into Harry and gone to the Smugglers.’

  ‘I’ve already phoned Harry.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing, Maggie.’

  ‘It’s so unlike him to do this. There’s bound to be some explanation, isn’t there, Stella?’

  ‘Of course there is,’ I say, trying to keep the trace of doubt out of my voice.

  I call her back an hour later. Still no Dad. ‘I’ve been up to the village,’ Maggie says, ‘and checked the Poachers—Kevin says no one’s seen him since quiz night last Wednesday.’ Her voice is high-pitched and breathy, like a child’s.

  ‘I wish I could do something.’

  ‘I’ve phoned the hospital,’ she adds, and the words fracture. ‘Maggie, don’t get upset. Maybe he’s visited someone, lost track of time.’

  ‘It’s nearly midnight,’ she protests.

  My hand strays to the red-and-gold box on the bookshelf. I trace its carved curls with a finger. ‘Do you think you should phone—’

  ‘The police? I already have. Grown man, out walking his dogs—they pretend to be concerned, but it’s not a priority.’

  ‘And there’s no sign of the dogs.’

  ‘No.’

  I run a finger along the sharp edges of the folded-up recipes. ‘Maybe you should try to get some sleep.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maggie says softly.

  ‘Call if you need me,’ I say, feeling powerless and small.

  Instead of sleeping, I watch my alarm clock’s blue glow: 12:37, 12:38. I try holding my breath for a minute but can’t even manage thirty seconds. It feels like my diaphragm’s not working properly.

  Faint music drifts in from next door. We will rock you. I slide out of bed, pull on my dressing gown and head downstairs to check the answer phone again, although I would have heard the phone ringing, even over the music. I try Charlie’s number—he’s been out all evening—but it just rings and rings.

  People go missing. They go out, for a newspaper or a short walk, as if it’s just an ordinary day, and are never seen again. Some have other families, other lives. Others, I suppose, are just desperate.

  I lift the color photocopies of Dad’s flowers from the bookshelf and flick through them. In the cool streetlight they look eerie, as if they belong in a forest where wolves live. Round-ended scissors, a glue pot and pieces of ripped cardboard litter the table from Midge’s recent craft session. I’ve stopped putting things away when she’s finished. Sometimes the table is cluttered with her stuff for days on end, and I eat my supper from my lap on the sofa. It no longer seems important to be neat.

  Diane is singing now, at 1:17 a.m., and Dad still hasn’t come home.

  Charlie phones just after 8:00 a.m. ‘Dad still hasn’t shown up,’ I tell him.

  ‘You’re joking. I just assumed—’

  ‘He’s missing, Charlie. Maggie’s been to the police station. They said most people who go missing turn up safe and sound in a day or two.’

  He says, ‘Please don’t cry.’

  ‘I’m not crying, Charlie. I’m just scared.’

  ‘I’ll come over.’

  ‘I’ll meet you on the back beach later. I can’t stand being here, staring at the phone.’

  ‘Okay,’ Charlie says.

  On my way into town, I ring Maggie on my mobile. ‘They asked me what he was wearing yesterday,’ she says. ‘How would I remember? I said brown trousers.’ Her throat catches as she repeats, ‘I think it was brown trousers.’

  Charlie is sitting with his knees pulled up to his chin on the wooden walkway that runs alongside the beach huts. ‘We should go to Dad’s,’ I tell him. Beach-hut owners are sharing picnics and drinking beers on folding chairs. There’s no sign of Phoebe, Charlie’s ex. I’ve never known him to have a relationship that lasted more than a few months. Mum once said she couldn’t reach him. I wonder if that’s how his girlfriends feel, too, that he shuts them out—his hermit-crab position.

  ‘I don’t think it’ll help,’ he says.

  ‘We could go looking for him—just be with Maggie. She sounds frantic, Charlie.’

  ‘He’s only been gone for, what?’

  ‘Nearly twenty-four hours.’

  ‘There must be a reason,’ Charlie says, looking past me toward the flat, washed-out sea.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘They had a row, she’s too embarrassed to admit it….’

  ‘Relationship expert,’ I snap, then wish I hadn’t.

  He stares down at the wooden walkway that’s gone silvery, as smooth as steel. ‘You don’t care,’ I murmur.

  ‘Of course I care,’ Charlie says.

  I fling a sweater, jeans and my toothbrush into a bag, and leave a message for Jen to apologize for being unable to come to school tomorrow. ‘There’s a family problem,’ is
all I say. I can’t bring myself to tell her what’s happened—to put the words out there.

  I carry my bag to the car, dump it onto the back seat, turn the key—and nothing. A couple of boys in hooded tops rattle down Briar Hill on skateboards, making long, late-afternoon shadows.

  I turn the key over and over. Something’s died in the engine. I wait before trying again, hoping it just needs time to recover.

  Diane is watching me through her front window, clutching a mug. The headboard still rests against the front of her house. Midge has turned it into a den. Most of the salmon-colored velvet has peeled away from the wood, and what’s left has gone mottled from being rained on. I’ve found Midge behind it, lounging on a small mound of satin cushions filched from the living room.

  The door opens, and Diane comes out. ‘What’s the problem?’ she shouts through the driver’s window.

  I open the door, climb out, and hear myself saying, ‘My dad’s gone missing. He’s on some police computer, which means he’s really missing. I just need to get there.’

  ‘Where?’ Diane asks gently.

  ‘Cornwall. My Dad’s.’

  ‘Come in,’ she says. ‘Your car’s going nowhere.’ She sounds like someone in a film, someone who makes grand statements. I follow her into the house.

  Remains of the girls’ tea—fish fingers and beans—have wilted on plastic plates on the coffee table. ‘Has he gone missing before?’ she asks.

  ‘No, of course not.’ I don’t tell her: they’ve found his dogs. Turf showed up late last night and barked to be let in. It was the first time Maggie had ever heard him bark. Surf was found chasing sheep two miles from Penjoy Point. There’s been a campaign to stamp this out—irresponsible owners allowing their dogs to worry livestock. He was lucky not to be shot.

  ‘There’ll be some explanation,’ Diane says. The skin beneath her eyebrows looks puffy, as if she’s been vigorously plucking stray hairs.

  ‘Something’s gone wrong, I just know it—’

  ‘Where was he going?’ she asks.

  ‘Just the usual places, Maggie thinks—across the fields. There hasn’t been a proper search yet.’

  Maggie told me she’d never realized that Dad had so many friends. They all know him—the bakery brothers, Kevin from the Smugglers, the elderly man from the post office, the couple who do B and B in Penjoy Village. They’ve all been out searching.