by Isabel Wolff
‘And do you think there’s any chance he might ever…come back?’
I inhaled slowly. ‘That’s…highly unlikely.’
‘But it does happen sometimes.’ I looked at him. ‘I’m sure I read that somewhere.’
I shook my head. ‘It’s almost unknown. Especially after so long. If Nick was going to come back then he’d have done it a long time ago—probably within the first three months. That’s what the experts all say. They say that the longer a missing person has been away then the harder it is for them to return. I suppose they’re afraid they’ll be in serious trouble, because they know they’ve caused so much misery and stress.’
‘So he just…disappeared? Out of the blue?’
‘Into the blue, I often think. His car was found by the coast.’
‘And how did it happen? If you don’t mind talking about it?’
‘No. In fact I’d like to tell you.’ I had another sip of water. ‘We’d been on the London Eye. I thought it would be a nice thing to do on New Year’s morning. We’d had a few…difficulties…and I said that it would give us a positive perspective on everything. And I did remember, afterwards, that when I’d said that, he’d smiled this strange, rather sad little smile.’
‘And he disappeared later that day?’
I nodded. ‘It was around six o’clock—I know that because I was listening to the news on the radio as I did something in the kitchen, and I heard him call out that he was just going to get a pint of milk. So I said fine, but half an hour later he hadn’t returned. And after an hour had passed he still wasn’t back, and by then I had a very bad feeling, and I opened the fridge and saw that we already had a full bottle of milk. So I ran to the little local supermarket and asked the woman at the check-out if she’d seen him, and she said she hadn’t. Then I looked for the car, and it was gone. So I called his office in case he’d gone there, but there was no reply—and he wasn’t answering his mobile phone. I waited another two hours, and by now I was in a real state. By the time it got to ten I was frantic. So now I rang my parents, and they told me to call the police. But the police said that I couldn’t report him missing until he’d been gone for twenty-four hours. You can imagine what those next twenty hours were like.’
‘Agony.’
I nodded. ‘Fliss came round and spent the night. Every time the phone went it was like an electric shock; I felt as though my nerve endings were attached to twitching wires. But I clung to the belief that there must be some perfectly rational explanation and that I’d suddenly hear his key in the door. But I didn’t hear it. Not that night, or the next day—or ever again.’
Luke shook his head. ‘Did he take anything with him?’
‘Just the car. Three days after he’d gone they found it abandoned on the Norfolk coast, just outside Blakeney, where he used to go on family holidays as a boy. In it were his phone, his house keys, and his wallet—the credit cards untouched. Then, the next morning, they found his scarf. It had been washed up on the beach.’ I shuddered at the memory. ‘So then a massive sea search was launched, with helicopters and divers, but they failed to locate a body. But they said that if he had committed suicide—which I refused to believe because I knew him well enough to know he’d never do that—then he’d be washed up further down the coast, probably within three weeks. But a month went by and nothing was found.’
‘The waiting must have been terrible,’ Luke said. My stomach lifted up and down just thinking about it. ‘For his family too.’
‘He didn’t have siblings, and both his parents had died. His mother years ago, when he was a student, and his father three months before Nick disappeared. The National Missing Persons’ Helpline were very supportive. They put up posters in Norfolk and London. They also advised me to talk to homeless people down on the Embankment, just in case Nick was living rough. So I spent a month trudging around, going into pubs and cafes, showing people his photo, asking if they’d seen him. I had to bear in mind how, if he was living rough, his appearance might have changed. He’d be unshaven, maybe bearded. He’d be thinner than he was—he was a big, well-built man. He might be walking in a different, less confident way. And I went to Leicester Square every day for those four weeks, just sitting there on a bench all afternoon, watching the people go by, thinking that I might suddenly spot him. And I remember, once, running after a man who I was convinced was Nick—I even called out his name, but he didn’t hear, so I grabbed his arm from behind. And he turned, and he looked so shocked…He clearly thought I was mad.’ I clutched my napkin. ‘I think I did go mad for a while.’
‘And what about your work?’
‘I had to go back. It was hard, but I needed the money—and the distraction. But I wanted to stay in the flat in case Nick phoned, or even turned up. I had this fear that if he came back and I wasn’t there, then he’d just take off again. So my boss, Tom, let me work from home. He was wonderful actually.’ I remembered again how supportive Tom had been, despite the fact that he was having his own marital crisis. He’d drop off the books I needed. He’d bring me funny videos, to cheer me up—I remember he gave me a boxed set of Ealing comedies and five series of Frasier. He’d make sure I had enough in the fridge.
‘So you never went out?
I shook my head. ‘Hardly ever, and then not very far. I had a new phone line put in, so that our main one was always clear in case Nick called. When I did have to leave the flat, which was rare, I’d leave a note for Nick on the door. I left all his things completely untouched. Our marital home was like the Marie Celeste.’
‘And how long did this go on for?’
‘Two months. By then, of course, I was a wreck. Day in, day out, I lived in this…void. I was in such a state that I could hardly eat. It was as much as I could do to wash. But then in early March I got these two silent phone calls—one in the afternoon and one the following morning. I could hear faint breathing at the other end, and I just knew it was him, so I said “Nick, please don’t hang up. Please, please just talk to me.” Both times I heard a sigh, or he might have been trying to whisper my name. But then the line went dead—and that was all the contact I had. Until…’ I paused while the waiter took away our plates.
‘Until…?’
‘The middle of April. The World Tonight did a feature about missing persons, and they interviewed me.’
‘I heard it. That’s how I knew.’
‘And the following morning, my case manager at the Missing Persons’ Helpline phoned me to say there was fantastic news—Nick had just made contact. I was so happy…’ I heard my voice catch. ‘I was…elated. I just kept saying how wonderful it was, and I kept thanking them for their help, over and over…’ My throat was aching with a suppressed sob. ‘Then I asked them when I could see him, but they didn’t answer. So I asked them again. I said, “When can I see him? I want to see him.” And there was this odd little silence. And they told me that he’d phoned their 24-hour “Message Home” line and had said he was safe and well—’ my eyes were brimming, the tears tickling my lower lashes—‘but that he wanted no further contact.’
‘No further contact?’
I covered my face with my hand. ‘The relief…The relief of knowing that he was all right—but at the same time the knowledge that he didn’t want to see me. The cruelty of it—after all I’d been through.’ I felt a hot tear slide down my cheek. ‘Sorry,’ I murmured, ‘but I can never talk about it without crying.’
‘Who could blame you?’ Luke murmured. He discreetly passed me his handkerchief. ‘But at least he wasn’t dead, thank God.’
I swallowed. ‘Yes. That’s what I told myself. “At least he’s not dead.” Although, in one way, he was. And that’s what it’s been like ever since. I’ve been in this awful limbo in which I feel like a widow—I even got letters of sympathy—and yet my husband’s alive. And it was impossible to start again with anyone else, because, technically, my marriage wasn’t over—although, of course, it was. Even if he did come back, which he’s not goi
ng to after so long, we could never go back to being a “normal” couple. Can you imagine my resentment? Plus I’d never trust him not to do it again.’ I thought again how ironic it was that Nick, who had seemed so ‘safe’ after my heartache with Luke, should have done something so terrible.
‘Why can’t you just get divorced?’
‘Because you can only divorce without consent after five years. And I couldn’t face the idea of going on dates, and having to explain that I was still married, but that my husband was a missing person—that he was out there, somewhere, but I didn’t know where, because he didn’t want me to know. I felt stigmatized by what Nick had done—as though I was such an awful person he couldn’t bear to see me, or even talk to me, or separate from me honestly and openly. It totally destroyed my morale.’
Luke reached for my hand again, but this time I didn’t withdraw it.
‘You’re lovely, Laura. It’s about him. He’d obviously got terrible emotional and mental problems which had nothing to do with you.’
I could feel my face tingling at the light pressure of Luke’s fingers on my skin. ‘Maybe…Yes…I guess. I don’t…know.’
‘So doesn’t he ever make contact?’
‘Not with me. Every few months he sends the Missing Persons’ Helpline an e-mail, saying only that he’s okay but not where he is. The last one came just before Christmas.’
‘And can’t they be traced?’
I shook my head. ‘He uses a different e-mail account each time so it’s impossible. He’s just “disappeared” himself—but the awful thing is, that’s his right. It’s not a crime for a man to go missing, and that’s what thousands of men do every year. They just walk out of their lives, and there’s nothing their families can do except wait, and wonder, and hope. I can’t make Nick come back, even if I knew where to find him. I just want this chapter of my life to end.’
‘And he wasn’t mentally ill?’
I shook my head. ‘And there were no irregularities at his work. There was speculation that he might have done something dishonest, but the charity’s trustees said that the accounts were all fine. I know some people believed Nick had a mistress somewhere, or even another wife; but I found nothing in his e-mails or diary or on his mobile to suggest any kind of double life. Some people thought I’d had an affair and that it had sent him over the edge, or that he was gay, and couldn’t cope; or that he wanted to have a sex change, or had joined a cult, or had found out that he was terminally ill—or was living on the moon with Elvis for all we knew…’
‘I suppose people tend to think there must be a reason for it,’ Luke said.
I shifted on my chair. ‘Yes, that is what they think.’
‘They can’t believe that these things just…happen.’
‘That’s…right. But being at the centre of so much gossip was vile. And I couldn’t hide it because there were a few small pieces in the press—“Charity Director Disappears”, that kind of thing—so everyone got to know.’
‘What about your friends? Were they supportive?’
‘Only at the beginning—which is probably why I became even closer to Felicity and Hope. They might drive me mad in their different ways, but at least I could rely on them. I did have one close girlfriend, but she moved to the States with her husband not long afterwards. All my other friends were ones Nick and I’d had jointly. And they were kind at first of course, but as time went by they started avoiding me—but then what do you say? At least in widowhood there’s dignity, but with this there’s only pity, and curiosity…and talk. And now I’m on national TV I’m terrified that one of the tabloids will pick it all up—so you must never ever mention it to anyone. Do you promise me?’
‘I do. I solemnly swear. But do you have any idea why he might have done it?’
I fiddled with the stem of my wine glass. ‘No…No, I don’t, I…don’t…know. He’d recently been to the Sudan again, and had come back depressed. He was also badly affected by his father’s death. He’d worked for the UN and Nick had idolized him; he’d died of a heart attack six weeks before—he was only sixty-three—and after that Nick became rather withdrawn. And then, well, there was one thing…’ I sighed. ‘We’d had a car crash. Two weeks before Christmas we’d spun off the road on our way back from a party in Sussex.’
‘Were you okay?’
I paused, remembering again the strobing blue lights of the police cars, and the whoop and wail of the ambulance. The kindness of the nurses. Don’t worry, they’d said to me. It’ll be fine. But it wasn’t.
‘Nick took a bad knock to the head. He had concussion, and after that he didn’t seem quite…himself.’
‘Is that what you meant when you said you’d had difficulties?’
‘Ye-es. And I thought, maybe…he’d suffered slight neurological damage, or had some kind of amnesia…’ My voice trailed away.
‘And how do you feel about him now?’
I heaved a profound sigh. It seemed to come up from the very depths.
‘I just feel…so…incredibly…angry. Because he knows where he is—and I don’t. It’s like this mortal game of hide and seek. And there are many, many times when I hate him for putting me through such hell.’
‘But he must have been in turmoil, poor guy.’
‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘Of course. And on one level I feel sorry for him—but the point is he left turmoil behind. Quite apart from the stress of it, I suddenly had to pay the mortgage on my own—£900 a month—when I wasn’t earning a huge amount. There are no insurance payouts if your husband disappears. You’re left completely high and dry. I found part-time work, compiling quiz questions, and my parents and Hope lent me some cash.’ I remembered again how kind Tom had been. He’d given me a ‘bonus’ of £2000, despite the fact that he was in the middle of an expensive divorce.
‘Why didn’t you just sell the flat?’ I heard Luke ask. ‘Move somewhere smaller?’
‘Because if the property’s in joint names, you can’t.’
‘And does he ever take money out of his bank account?’
‘No. But we discovered afterwards that he’d drawn £5,000 out of his own savings, ten days before, so he’d clearly been poised for flight. He knew he was going. That makes it even worse. Anyway,’ I sighed. ‘Now you know.’
‘But you’re getting on with your life.’
‘I am. I’ve waited three years and I’m not going to wait any more. Nick’s made it clear that he doesn’t want to see me again.’
Luke put out his hand. ‘But I do.‘ I looked at him. ‘I do want to see you again, Laura. So…can I?’ he asked gently. He glanced at his watch. ‘You’ve got five seconds to answer by the way.’ I looked into his eyes. ‘The clock’s ticking…’ His pupils were so black, I could see myself in them. Drriinggg! ‘Time’s up! And the answer is…?’
‘Well…’
‘I’m sorry, I’ll have to hurry you.’
I half-smiled then I said, ‘Yes.’
‘Really?’ I nodded. He lifted his hand to his chest with relief. ‘Well, that’s…great. So…what day? Let’s see…I’m busy tomorrow as that’s my day with Jessica, but how about Sunday afternoon? That would be lovely for me—I find Sundays very difficult as Jessica goes back to her mum. We could have a nice lunch somewhere. Would you like that?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t this Sunday. I’ve got Olivia’s christening.’
‘Okay then—Monday. In fact Monday would be perfect.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘It’s Valentine’s Day.’
FOUR
On Saturday morning I stayed in bed late, wallowing in the delicious aftermath of my date with Luke. I felt a new contentment—a real sense that my life, which for so long had been crawling along on all fours, was now speeding forward again on all fronts. At nine thirty the phone rang. Maybe it was Luke, phoning to wish me a good morning. I let it ring four times then reached out my hand.
‘Laura?’
‘Tom! Hi there!’
‘Hi. You sound cheerful.’
‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘I feel cheerful. And how are you doing?’
‘I’m fine—and I’m sorry to ring you on a Saturday—’
‘You can ring me any time, Tom, you know that.’
‘I do. But I just wanted to ask you a very serious question…’
‘Yes…’ I said, smiling. ‘And what might that be?’
‘Have you seen today’s Daily Post?’
‘No.’ I pushed myself up. ‘Why?’
‘There’s a fabulous review of the show. Nerys phoned me and I ran out to get it. We’ve had some good write-ups, but they’ve all been small. This one’s big—and it’s great.’
I clutched the duvet to my naked shoulders. ‘What does it say?’
‘It’s by Mark McVeigh…that critic who’s always—what is it?’ I could hear the rustle of the newspaper—‘“Witty and Waspish.”‘
‘Pithy and poisonous more like—he’s commonly known as Mark McVile.’
‘Well he’s been nothing but Mark McLovely about you. His review’s headed “Quick-Witted”.’
‘Good God!’
‘He likes the show’s fast pace,’ Tom read. ‘He also likes, “the combination of the low-brow set with the high-brow questions”, and, above all, he likes your “assured and authoritative” presenting style…Here we are. “The fact that Ms Quick shows neither Robinsonian astonishment when the contestants answer correctly, nor Paxmanesque derision when they get it wrong, makes this clever young woman a refreshing change. She is the natural heir to British TV’s greatest quizmeister—Bamber Gascoigne. As with him, you feel in very safe hands. And, as with him, you suspect Ms Quick could answer most of the questions herself—without needing to phone a friend.”‘ I felt giddy with delight.
‘I told you that the critics would love you,’ Tom went on. Suddenly I heard his mobile trill out. ‘Oh, hang on a moment, Laura…Hello?’ I heard him say. ‘Oh hi! …’ I wondered who he was speaking to. ‘I’m just on the other line…Yes, I’d love to…okay then…I could come over to you…’ It’s funny—we know each other well, yet we never discuss our private lives. ‘Why don’t we meet in Ravenscourt Park? Ten thirty? By the playground? Great.’ I found myself wondering who it was. ‘Sorry, Laura. What was I saying? Oh, I know—I just wanted to warn you that a bit of media interest in you is starting.’