by Lucy Diamond
Becca gazed at Sara’s pink shiny face, her apple cheeks working quite vigorously as she went on and on, her criticism of Rachel thinly wrapped in fake admiration. The glee with which she spoke! Oh, this was definitely a conversation she’d had several times before with the other ‘mummies’, Becca could tell, picturing them all priggishly harping on about working mothers and neglected children. She felt a pang of sympathy for her sister, having to live opposite this woman and put up with this sort of shit day in, day out. ‘I’m sure she’s doing her best,’ she interrupted pointedly, when Sara paused for breath. ‘And they’re great kids. They all seem perfectly fine to me.’ So jog on, Sara. ‘Anyway, about this business of hers. What does she actually do?’
Sara’s lips parted slightly and her eyes widened at the tone in Becca’s voice. ‘Oh, of course she does her best! Absolutely! And I wouldn’t want you to think for a minute I was saying otherwise. After such an acrimonious split – I mean, you could hear them arguing from here, sometimes –’
Yeah, I bet you could, Becca thought. With the windows wide open so you didn’t miss a single word of it.
‘– No woman could have worked harder than Rachel! I know I wouldn’t fancy it – three children on my own, especially when Mabel has been so—’
Becca’s face hardened and Sara dropped her gaze. ‘Well. Things haven’t been easy for the family,’ she went on. ‘But—’
‘And the business you mentioned? Rachel’s business?’ Can you just answer my damn question without any more of your gossipy little asides, please, you spiteful cow?
‘Yes, I was just coming to that. She’s a fitness coach. A personal trainer sort of thing. Very enterprising! She dropped fliers round to all the neighbours the other week. I can show you if you like. Now where did I put it?’ She bustled through a door into a utility area, her voice floating out as she searched. ‘You’re in luck because our recycling doesn’t get picked up until tomorrow and they didn’t take the paper last week. Here it is!’
She emerged with a printed A5 leaflet between finger and thumb and put it on the table in front of Becca. It showed a yellow sprinting figure against a blue background, with the words CAN I HELP YOU? in big white letters across the top.
CHALLENGE YOURSELF!
REACH YOUR FITNESS GOALS!
ACTIVATE YOUR LIFE!
Want to be fitter, healthier, stronger? Of course you do! But sometimes we all need a bit of help to push ourselves into action. That’s where I come in – your new fitness coach. Call me for further details. Let’s do this!
Becca thought ruefully of poor Michael Jones, who obviously hadn’t read the leaflet past the opening question in his eagerness to be helped, and wondered, had Rachel been there to take the call herself that morning, how she might have responded. Somehow she doubted that Irish-stew-making had been in the forefront of her sister’s mind when she’d put the flier together.
Sara’s smile was somewhat patronizing as Becca finished reading. ‘Of course, round here we’re all members of the gym in town, so it’s not really my thing,’ she said, adding with a titter, ‘and I know more than one woman who put it straight in the dustbin before their husbands could read it, if you know what I mean!’
Becca had had enough of this simpering snake. ‘No,’ she said flatly, her patience spent. ‘I don’t know what you mean. What do you mean?’
‘Oh!’ Sara blushed. ‘Nothing bad, of course. Just that Rachel’s a very attractive girl, isn’t she, and . . . well, I’m sure she won’t be single for long, that’s all!’
Becca got to her feet. ‘What, so just because she’s split up with her husband, everyone thinks she’s going to be after theirs? That’s a bit pathetic, isn’t it? What happened to female solidarity, anyway? Aren’t you meant to be her friend?’
Sara’s jaw dropped a fraction in surprise but then she pursed her lips. ‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly call us friends,’ she said stiffly. ‘And I’m not sure I like your tone.’ The skin on her face seemed to tauten like a drumskin, her eyes narrowing, but Becca ignored the warning signs and ploughed right on.
‘Yeah, well, I’m not sure I like yours either. My sister is missing, and all you can do is make snide remarks. I call that rude.’ Bristling, Becca stalked through the house, resisting the urge to slap grubby handprints along the immaculate walls as she went. ‘I’ll let myself out,’ she said, and slammed the door.
Once back in Rachel’s house, Becca sank down onto the oatmeal stairs, gulping in breaths and trying to calm down. She had the horrible feeling she might just have totally overreacted and been pretty rude herself into the bargain – to one of Rachel’s neighbours, no less. Good start, Becca. Catfight in the suburbs klaxon! But come on. The woman was absolutely vile! She couldn’t wait to dig her claws in and start casting gossipy aspersions. I wouldn’t exactly call us friends, she had said – well, good, frankly. Bloody right too. Rachel was better off without a friend like that, as far as Becca could see.
She was still holding the flier, she realized, although it was now crumpled in her hand. Smoothing out the paper, she re-read it, feeling a grudging respect towards her sister – a woman who had been beaten down over the last few months, having lost both her husband and, it seemed, her job too. She must have gone through hell – and yet here she was, picking herself up and trying again with these brightly printed adverts. Can I help you? Good for you, Rach, she thought. Others might have crumbled, but not you, clearly.
In the next moment she experienced a guilty pang that she, by contrast, hadn’t been quite so resilient and go-getting in career terms. Three years before, Becca had shared her flat with a friend called Debbie, and the two of them had started a jewellery business together, selling their designs at various markets around the city and at trade fairs. It had been fun and they’d even been quite successful – right until Debbie had fallen in love with a strapping Aussie hunk called Miles, and emigrated with him to Byron Bay. After Debbie had gone, Becca had taken her eye off the ball, and the burgeoning jewellery business had slid to an abrupt halt. Since then, she’d had a stab at making lampshades on commission (total number of commissions received: zero), scented candles (they served as good Christmas presents for family and friends, even if she didn’t actually sell very many) and knitted socks (don’t ask) until she’d finally given up on any kind of creative career, and ended up with a string of bar and restaurant jobs to show for herself instead. She supposed she’d have to start looking for another one soon.
Walking back into the kitchen, she saw that a light at the base of the telephone was flashing, and the number three was lit in the display – three messages, she thought, lunging for the phone and pressing the Play button with a clammy finger. Oh, Rachel. Are you okay?
Message one, a robotic voice announced, followed by a shrill beep. ‘Hi, this is Adam Holland, it’s ten-thirty and I’m wondering where you are. Your mobile seems to be switched off, so . . . Well, hopefully I’ll see you in a minute but if not, could you call me, please.’ BEEP.
Message two, said the machine. ‘It’s Adam Holland again. Ten-forty now. Look, I’ve rearranged a conference call so that I could meet you, so . . . You know, it’s not ideal for me to be hanging around here waiting. Bit of a waste of my time.
Hope you’re on your way.’
Becca pulled a face, still rattled by her encounter with snobby Sara. ‘Calm down, love,’ she muttered. ‘No need to get your knickers in a twist.’
Message three, said the machine, and Becca felt almost certain she knew who it would be. ‘Adam Holland again,’ came the man’s curt, impatient voice once more. ‘I’m not very impressed with this. We agreed ten-thirty this morning and you’re not here. It’s not exactly confidence-inspiring, is it? So I guess I’ll just go for a run myself, then. Thanks for nothing.’
‘Oh boo-hoo, Adam,’ Becca said sarcastically to the empty room. ‘You big cry-baby.’ But then she remembered that this must be connected to her sister’s fledgling business, Rachel’s all-new attempt
to stand on her own two feet. And how many customers did she even have at the moment anyway? What if he was one of her first clients – whom she was about to lose almost at once?
Becca hesitated. She didn’t like the sound of this self-important Adam Holland twerp one bit, but if her sister was receiving red utility bills, she probably needed every job she could get, idiot customers or not. Maybe Becca could smooth things over in the meantime.
She pressed in the code to find the last number received and dialled. After three rings, the man himself answered, sounding somewhat out of breath. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, is that Adam? I’m Rachel Jackson’s sister, Becca. I’m so sorry about the mix-up this morning, that shouldn’t have happened. Unfortunately, Rachel—’ She racked her brain, trying to come up with something plausible. ‘Rachel is unwell right now. She asked me to ring you first thing, and I’m afraid I’ve only just got her message.’ Crossing her fingers as she spoke, she found herself remembering how badly it had gone last time she tried telling such fibs, to her now ex-boss, Jeff at the pub. Please let Adam Holland be more gullible, she thought.
‘Right,’ he said, not sounding very happy. ‘Well, how about tomorrow, then? Will she be better by then? I could rejig a meeting . . . let me see.’ Becca could hear him clicking through something on the phone, and then he was back on the line, sounding terrifyingly authoritative. ‘I could do ten o’clock tomorrow morning instead?’
Becca hesitated. What was she supposed to say? The thing is, Adam, my sister has disappeared and nobody knows where she is. Fun times! ‘Er . . .’ she mumbled, stalling while she tried to think. Surely Rachel would be back tomorrow? She had to be! In which case, Becca could take a punt on her being free for this appointment. ‘Er . . . hopefully, yes,’ she said uncertainly in the end.
‘Hopefully yes?’ Adam parroted back at her. He sounded impatient. ‘Does that mean yes or no? Look, I’m really busy. I don’t have time for hopefully yes.’
‘Yes, then. Yes. All right?’ Becca blurted out. ‘Tomorrow, at ten. That’s fine.’ And then, because the man seemed so bossy and demanding, she found herself trying to appease him by saying impulsively, ‘And if by any chance Rachel isn’t completely fighting fit, then I’ll come along to do the session myself. One of us will be there. Okay?’
Adam sounded suspicious but agreed reluctantly, and they went on to make arrangements. Afterwards, Becca put the phone down feeling as if she had made a terrible mistake. Why had she gone and said that? She knew nothing about fitness coaching. If Rachel was still missing and she had to turn up tomorrow as promised, this guy would take one look at her lardy unfit self and laugh her all the way into the nearest gym. But what else could she do? She could hardly bin off all her sister’s clients, especially when he’d made a point of telling her, at the end of the call, that he had signed up for a six-week intensive programme with Rachel, and already handed over the money.
Becca gazed at the phone wretchedly, wishing someone would just ring and put her out of her misery. Rachel herself, preferably, with the good news that she was on her way home. You’ll never believe what happened!
But there was nothing except the gentle humming of the fridge to break the silence, and then a text from Wendy showing the full English breakfast she was presumably tucking in to. Well, I AM on holiday, the text read unapologetically. Right?
Becca could feel the beginning of a serious panic starting to grip her. She wasn’t sure there were any reasonable explanations or good outcomes left as to what had happened to Rachel, and she was running out of options. Where was she? How much longer would they have to wait for news? The prospect of seeing the children’s hopeful faces after school – Is she back? Is she home? – and having to shake her head regretfully made her feel sick.
She thought back to the last few times she’d seen her stepsister and realized they’d always been surrounded by lots of other people. They’d barely exchanged more than a few sentences at the funeral, and then the Christmas before in Birmingham had been noisy and busy, a frenzy of present-unwrapping, the children rushing in and out of rooms trying to snaffle as much chocolate as was possible. Rachel was annoyed with her, that was right, because Becca had given the children Nerf guns and massive German selection boxes she’d picked up for a bargain in Aldi. Okay, so even as she had been at the check-out, handing over the money for them, she’d known it would wind her sister up; but come on, the kids had fallen on their gifts like wolves. And it was Christmas!
Of course Rachel had gone on to get her back, though, by making snide dig after dig about Becca’s boyfriend, who was also there. Who had she even been with that Christmas? Dazza the sexy mechanic? No, wait, maybe it was Jed, all floppy hair and doe eyes, but with very little brain. Yes, it was Jed, because she remembered Rachel sniggering about him in the kitchen to their dad. Gorgeous but thick – like a Labrador, she’d said. Spiteful cow, Becca had thought at the time. Just because she was smug and settled down while Becca was young and carefree and got to go around having fun with lots of lovely men. She had reacted by getting plastered on Baileys after that, and made a point of snogging Jed loudly and sloppily whenever she was in her sister’s presence. So what if he’s thick? I’m getting loads here. Are you?
Propping her chin in her hand as she gazed out of the back window, she recalled how Meredith had been surprised to discover that Becca even had a sister. ‘I can’t believe you’ve never even mentioned her,’ she’d cried. ‘And I’ve lived with you – what, nearly a year? Have you really not seen her that whole time?’
No, she really had not. It had felt bad to see Meredith’s shocked face, that look in her eyes that said, What is wrong with you?
Guilt pierced Becca. Maybe she should have tried harder to stay in touch, to cling on to the slender thread of relationship that had been left after the funeral. Maybe the two of them could have been less gladiatorial in how they went about things; met halfway and laughed about their differences, rather than locking in endless combat. Because now, here she was on her own in Rachel’s house, with all these unanswered questions and not a clue what to do next. ‘I will try harder,’ she said aloud, into the empty room. ‘I promise I will, if you just come back now, all right?’ Her voice cracked on the words. ‘Please, Rach. You’re scaring me. What’s happened?’
Chapter Twelve
Rachel came round after her operation feeling groggy and nauseous. Still alive, was her first woozy thought as she registered the noises of the recovery room: the quiet beeping from monitors, nurses soothing patients in low voices, the occasional bang-swish of doors opening, beds wheeling along nearby. Still alive.
Some careful probing of her tongue revealed that her mouth had been wired into a fixed position, and that there were stitches in her gums as well as in a neat line down her chin where it had split open. Her right wrist was now encased in smooth new plaster and felt heavy and sore, and there were, according to the consultant, who came to inform her that the procedure had been successful, umpteen small metal plates and screws keeping her jaw bolted together. ‘Airport security are going to love you,’ he joked, and she managed a wan smile for all of two seconds before she realized how painful it was to make any kind of facial movement.
This must have been how Frankenstein’s monster felt when first jolted into life, she thought, only with blood in the mouth and cracked swollen lips. Hello, world. You feel . . . uncomfortable.
The doctors had given her industrial-strength painkillers to keep the worst of the agony at bay and an ice pack to reduce the swelling, but a dull ache still throbbed through her jaw, and she was queasy from the anaesthetic. She swallowed experimentally, and winced at how raw her throat felt. ‘I hope you like soup,’ the blonde-haired nurse said, walking alongside her bed as a porter eventually wheeled her back to the ward. ‘You’ll have to stick to a liquid diet for six weeks, I’m afraid. No chewing allowed. But you can whizz up all sorts in a blender, it’s not as bad as it sounds.’
Rachel thought longin
gly of how she’d always loved biting into a crisp apple, chowing down on a juicy steak, crunching through a baguette, and gave a little whimper. Six weeks without proper food? She didn’t even like soup.
‘By the way,’ the nurse said when they reached the ward and the bed was finally wheeled to a stop, ‘I’m sorry, love, but that phone number you gave me was the wrong one. I tried a couple of times in case I’d made a mistake but it just went through to some sports company, it wasn’t a home number.’
Rachel’s breath caught in her throat. Oh God. What a fool! Had she really given them the GoActive number? What did it say about her, that that had been the first number to float into her consciousness? You’ve always been married to your work, Lawrence had snapped at her more than once, when things started getting nasty. You love that place more than your own sodding family!
Of course I don’t, she’d cried in reply – but maybe there had been some truth in his words after all. Why else would her old office number spring to mind before any others?
‘Oh, and that’s the other thing,’ the nurse was saying, peering at her notes. ‘I’ve got down here that you live in Birmingham, but the number you gave me was a Hereford one.’
Hereford. That was it. Yes. And just like that, it was all back in her head: her beautiful house, the cathedral, the river, the surrounding countryside. They had bought the house when she was pregnant with Scarlet, deciding to make the move out of London, where they’d lived for their first few married years. Hereford, that was right: because it was between Dad’s place in Birmingham, and the cottage Lawrence’s parents had just moved to in Wales. Another piece in the jigsaw.