by Lucy Diamond
Lawrence. She couldn’t help remembering that awful night in Birmingham when she’d seen him last, back in early November. She’d been waitressing, contract catering work through an agency, and working a shift at the Copthorne, some hot noisy sales conference dinner that seemed to be populated entirely by braying white men in suits. Every waitress’s favourite – not. She had already had to make several sharp swerves that evening, dodging the wandering hands; matters not helped by the short black dress they’d given her as uniform that clung to her boobs and bum like a second skin. And then there he was, across the room, his eyes fastening on her with interest. She had smiled briefly, professionally, Hi, and went on pouring wine for a group of men who didn’t seem to have learned the phrase ‘thank you’, but only minutes later he had come over to her, standing that little bit too close as always, a proprietorial hand on her back. ‘Well, hello there,’ he had murmured, low and suggestive in her ear.
She shuddered at the memory now. It felt like a betrayal to even be thinking about it, sat here in Rachel’s smart living room.
Her phone pinged and she scrabbled to open the text, but it was just a photo from her mum, who was on her first ever girls’ holiday in Crete. Mackerel for dinner, v healthy!, the text read. And chips. And mojitos!!!
Wendy, the eternal dieter, thought that by ’fessing up to every calorific crime by text she was somehow atoning for her sins. Who could say what warped reasoning kept prompting her to do this, but do it she did – every day, generally. Barely registering the sun-drenched table of food in today’s photo, Becca began typing a reply.
Mum, something weird has happened. Am at Rachel’s. She
But she changed her mind almost immediately and deleted the message, not wanting to worry her mum. Wendy had slogged out the first year of widowhood with heartbreak in her eyes throughout; this was the first time she’d done anything nice for herself since Dad had died. (‘I’ve bought a new cozzy and everything,’ she had twittered the night before leaving. ‘And three new lipsticks!’) Becca could not, would not spoil her holiday and give her an excuse to come home early.
God, though. This was all too awful and strange for words. She couldn’t work it out. Had Rachel maybe gone to meet a secret lover and lost track of time? Met up with Lawrence for some kind of showdown? Perhaps they were drunk and at each other’s throats by now. Perhaps . . . well, who knew? Anything might be happening.
The rain was falling harder, beating against the windows, the wind swirling in the chimney. For the hundredth time Becca tried her sister’s mobile, but it rang and rang. Maybe she should try to get hold of Lawrence sooner rather than later to see what he knew, she thought, uncertain of how amicable – or not – the break-up had been. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to ask the girls directly, but looking round the room, she could see that there were no photos of him anywhere, not one. It was as if he’d been deleted from the family, stripped right out. What had gone wrong between the two of them, anyway?
There were no photos of her or Wendy either, Becca noticed, feeling sad, although lots of Rachel and Terry back when it was just the two of them – on beaches, in front of Big Ben, in lush green countryside with their bicycles, both pink in the cheeks as if they’d cycled a long way together. Look how happy we were, the photos said. We didn’t need anybody else, thank you very much! He was mine first!
A memory swam into Becca’s head, of when she was about six, and fifteen-year-old Rachel had brought back friends from school: exotic creatures to Becca, all long swishy hair, short skirts and high-pitched laughter.
‘Oh my God, is this your sister?’ cried Amanda, one of the girls, seeing Becca playing with her Sylvanian Families in the living room. ‘Too cute. You never said you had a sister!’
Becca had smiled shyly up at her, dazzled by the girl’s white-blonde hair and glittery fingernails, but Rachel was already pulling her friends away.
‘Stepsister,’ she had said, hustling them upstairs. ‘We’re not related.’
There had been a lot of that. Together under duress, as Rachel was always so keen to point out. Not my choice.
Becca trudged upstairs to brush her teeth and wash her face, remembering how it had always hurt when Rachel said such things. Nobody liked being rejected, least of all by someone you looked up to. How she had hoped, little Becca, that her big sister would one day change her mind and love her, just a tiny bit. And how she had gone on hoping and hoping, until she had finally given up. That had hurt too.
The bathroom was gorgeous, of course – smooth pebble-grey tiles, a huge mirror lit with spotlights, and a long, deep bath. The shower was in a separate corner unit, with an enormous monsoon head, the towels were white and fluffy, and the overall effect – if you ignored the children’s strawberry tangle-tackler shampoo and the Playmobil pirates standing guard around the bath – was one of sleek, stylish luxury.
All right for some, thought Becca, trying not to compare it with the cramped, mould-smelling bathroom back home, with the shower that leaked if you stayed in it for longer than three minutes. Then she brushed her teeth, frowning at her foam-mouthed reflection the whole while. Where was Rachel? Who had she gone to meet? Was she hurt or lost or stranded by the side of the road with a flat tyre . . . or had something far worse happened?
Her skin tingled all over with premonition. It was bad, she felt certain. Something really bad. And those three worried children were now depending on her, Becca the screw-up, to somehow make everything all right. Christ. She hoped she was up to the job.
Chapter Six
‘Good morning! And how are we today?’
Rachel blinked out of her doze to see that a nurse had appeared by her bedside, a different one today, with high Slavic cheekbones and pale blue eyes. It took her brain a few foggy moments to catch up with everything. Pain. A hospital bed. Manchester. Oh God, yes – and the children. Where were they waking up this morning? Who was looking after them? She hoped Sara had helped out. She hoped even more that Mabel hadn’t taken it upon herself to assume responsibility. Aged thirteen, she thought she knew everything about the world but was still such a child in reality.
The nurse’s gaze was expectant, so Rachel croaked out an ‘Okay’, even if it wasn’t true. Really, she was very far from okay – she had barely slept, she had the mother of all thumping headaches and she was dreading the operations that loomed ahead of her that day. Not to mention the fact that she had palpitations every time she thought about her kids, and how they might be managing without her. They must be completely freaked out by now. She had never done anything like this before, never dropped out of their world without warning. With the ripples from the divorce still ongoing, she had done her damnedest throughout to be the constant in their life, the linchpin who kept everything together. Until now, when a whole afternoon, evening and night had passed, and they would have woken up without her. I’m sorry, she thought despairingly. I’ve let you all down, haven’t I? I’m sorry.
That was the scariest thing about being a single mum – that it all came down to you. Homework, arguments, bedtime, nits, dinner money, basic hygiene: she was the one who had to deliver day in, day out, to love them, feed them, keep them clean and safe. But here she was, miles away, having failed to come home and do any of those things. She could already imagine someone from social services knocking on the door, stern-faced. ‘Mrs Jackson?’
Wait. There it was! Her name – Jackson, that was it. Mrs Rachel Jackson. Rachel and Lawrence Jackson. Except they weren’t together any more, of course. ‘Jackson,’ she said, her jaw aching as she formed the word. She struggled to sit up, feeling desperate to impart this new knowledge. ‘Jackson. My name. Rachel. Jackson.’
‘Rachel Jackson – that’s your name?’ the nurse said warmly. ‘Fantastic, Rachel. Great. That gives us something to go on. Has anything else come back to you? A city, or town? A telephone number?’
She frowned, probing around inside her mind as if searching a dark warehouse. A city or town. An ima
ge of a house swam up through the murk; a grey house – home. Yes, there was the hall with the coats hanging up, there was the living room painted a lovely soft biscuit colour. Her huge wide bed upstairs, big enough to make her feel lonely sometimes. And the name of her street was . . .
Nothing. It had gone. She mentally paced through the rooms she could remember, recounting the details: the heavy oatmeal curtains at the living-room window. The view outside onto the street. Her car. The front wall where Mabel sometimes sat with friends, getting moss on her grey school skirt. I live in . . . she prompted herself, but still no answer appeared.
Then a name came to her. ‘Birmingham?’ she said tentatively. Birmingham, she repeated in her mind. There was definitely some connection with Birmingham, she was sure. Good old Brum!, she could hear her dad saying. But did she live there? Oh, this was awful. Everything kept jumbling up in her mind, the details slipping out of reach.
‘Birmingham, okay,’ the nurse was saying, though, before Rachel could voice her doubts. ‘Rachel Jackson, Birmingham. Let me pass that on to the police, see if we get anywhere. Try and rest now though, okay?’
Chapter Seven
After much tossing and turning Becca eventually drifted into a light, uncomfortable sleep on the sofa, jerking awake every time the wind howled in the chimney before her eyes finally cracked open with the sunrise around six o’clock. It took a moment to orient herself – cold, sofa, living room – and then the truth pressed down on her, heavy and unpleasant. She was in Rachel’s house – without Rachel. Still without Rachel. She had slept so fitfully that she was certain the sound of a car outside or the front door opening would have woken her. So where could her sister be?
Fear slithered into the pit of her stomach as an image appeared in her mind: Rachel’s eyes, glassy and still, her body mangled at the side of the road, blood and shattered glass and . . .
Stop. Stop, Becca. Not helping. She ran a hand through her hair and heaved herself up, feeling stiff and achey. No. She mustn’t think that way. They had to hope for the best and try not to dwell on other, worse explanations. For the sake of the children, she had to stay positive.
Talking of the children . . . She became aware of light footsteps outside on the stairs and she yawned and rubbed her eyes, trying to pull herself together. Then Luke’s head poked cautiously around the door. ‘Mummy isn’t here,’ he said.
‘I know, sweetheart,’ Becca replied helplessly. It crossed her mind that she could make up some story to stop him worrying, but she rejected the idea almost immediately. The girls, older and smarter, would see through any fabrications in five seconds. Then they’d never trust her again.
‘Come here,’ she said, patting the sofa cushion beside her. ‘You look like you need a cuddle. And I think your Aunty Becca does too, you know.’
He was such a solemn little thing, she thought, as he slid into the room, all big eyes and wariness. He was rigid in her arms at first, tentative, but then he leaned against her and she felt his warmth and smelled his boy smell. He was clutching a small Lego spaceship in one hand and for some reason, the sight of it gave her a lump in her throat. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said into his soft dark hair. ‘I’m going to make sure everything’s all right. I promise.’ She hoped he didn’t clock that she was crossing her fingers behind her back.
Becca made Luke some breakfast and herself a coffee then padded upstairs to the shower, feeling skanky and ripe after sleeping in her T-shirt and jeans all night. She wished now she’d thought to bring a change of clothes, a clean bra, deodorant and a hairbrush, but she had been so convinced that she’d arrive here to find Rachel already back – and worse, annoyed with Becca for coming out at all – that she had literally only brought knickers and a toothbrush with her. In a carrier bag, because she was that classy. Well, she would just have to borrow something of her sister’s for today – end of story. She was pretty sure even Rachel couldn’t get too arsey about that, given her vanishing act of the night before.
Once clean, she swathed herself in towels and tiptoed into her sister’s room, feeling like an intruder. Rachel had guarded her privacy zealously when they were growing up, seeming to know instantly if Becca had moved or touched any of her belongings left around the house. Twenty years later, Becca still felt the same shiftiness at being in her sister’s space without written permission, as if expecting to be bawled out for it any second. But she could hardly walk the children to school in yesterday’s smelly clothes like a total scuzzer. Well, hello there, just call me Aunty Hobo . . . No. She might be several divisions down the Glamour League from her sister, but she wasn’t that much of a loser. So tough luck, Rach. I’m here, and I’m going to take my pick of your wardrobe for one morning only. If I can find any of your clothes big enough to fit me, that is.
The bedroom was as stylish as the rest of the house: cream walls, glossy white cupboards with opaque glass doors, everything tidied away, bedcovers smooth. It was like being in a hotel room or a display area of The White Company: clean, minimalist, chic. Becca’s room back home, in comparison, was a jumble of scarves and jewellery, nail varnish pots crowding the mantelpiece, photos and postcards stuck around the big mirror, mismatched cushions heaped on the bed, various half-finished craft projects jumbled together on her desk.
An alarm clock began beeping elsewhere in the house and then a radio blared into life – the girls waking up, she presumed – so she hastily pulled open the wardrobe doors. Blouses, skirts, jackets . . . the contents were all very stylish and pretty, and so not her thing – and unfortunately she could tell from a quick rifle through that none of it was over a size 10 either. Wardrobe Says No.
Chest of drawers, then. The pickings were better there at least – lots of sportswear and a couple of baggy tops. Becca pulled on a soft grey T-shirt and some drawstring yoga pants, not caring how daft she might look, dried her hair and dabbed on some of Rachel’s Clinique moisturizer. (Nice.) Then, with a jolt, she realized that the phone was ringing downstairs, so she turned and sprinted out of the room.
Oh my God. Here we go, news at last. Some kind of update. She almost broke her neck skidding on the bottom stair in her haste to reach the kitchen in time, adrenalin pumping. Please don’t let it be bad news. Please let it be Rachel to say everything’s all right.
‘Hello?’ She could hardly breathe as she snatched up the receiver. Please, please, please.
‘Oh, Rachel, hello dear, it’s Rita. Rita Blackwell? I’m meant to be seeing you tomorrow but I’m ever so sorry, I’ve got a doctor’s appointment for the same time, so I won’t be able to come along.’
Disappointment slammed the breath from her lungs and Becca leaned against the cool painted wall as her heart rate adjusted. ‘Oh,’ was all she managed to say faintly.
Mabel must have heard the ringing phone too because she had appeared in the kitchen, panda-eyed with yesterday’s make-up, hair all over the place, tugging a cherry-print kimono dressing gown around herself. Her expression was urgent, impatient, a thousand questions in her eyes. What’s happening? Is it Mum? When will she be home?
Becca shook her head dumbly. No news. Not her. I don’t know.
‘Hello?’ The woman’s voice from the receiver was that of an older lady, tremulous and hesitant, and Becca pulled herself together with an enormous effort.
‘Sorry,’ she managed to say. ‘Rachel’s not here right now. Can I give her a message?’
‘Yes, dear, of course. It’s Mrs Blackwell. Rita, tell her. I can’t see her tomorrow, I’m afraid. Doctor’s appointment. Ever so sorry.’
‘Not to worry,’ Becca said, grabbing an envelope and pen from the worktop nearby and scribbling down the details.
‘Okay, I’ll let her know,’ she said, hoping she hadn’t just tempted fate in the worst sort of way. If I hear from her, that is. If it’s not already too late. ‘Thanks, then. Bye.’
Mabel seemed to have shrunk in size with the anticlimax. ‘Was that one of her clients?’ she asked dully. Then she glanced over a
t the envelope, deciphering Becca’s scrawls to answer her own question. ‘Oh, right, Mrs Blackwell. She’s always cancelling.’
Becca couldn’t get terribly excited about Mrs Blackwell and her cancellations, but it was better than dwelling on Rachel still being missing, she supposed. ‘Is she someone your mum works with?’ she guessed.
‘Not really with,’ Mabel replied. ‘She’s one of Mum’s fitness clients? You know, her boot camps and that?’
Becca didn’t know what she meant. The last she’d heard, Rachel was an area manager for GoActive, a large chain of leisure complexes that seemed to be springing up in every town and city. Becca had only really been hazily aware of what this entailed but she had the impression Rachel was suited and booted for the job, driving around and making sure everyone was doing what they were supposed to, rather than taking on personal clients. But Mabel had already heaved a gusty sigh and gone off back upstairs, yelling, ‘False alarm. Not Mum,’ to the other two.
She attached the scribbled-on envelope to the fridge with a Doctor Who magnet, hoping fervently that she would be in a position to pass on the message at some point to her sister. Today, preferably. As soon as possible.
Then she noticed the letter that the envelope had been covering. A red electricity bill, with FINAL DEMAND written across the top – the sort of bill that frequently arrived for Becca and Meredith, but one she was surprised to see here in serene suburbia. An alarm bell rang inside her head. Was Rachel having money troubles on top of everything else?
Becca bit her lip. Clearly things had been difficult for Rachel recently. She was probably still missing Dad very much too, like Becca did. And to undergo that grief on top of divorce and financial problems . . . Well, it could all get too much for a person, couldn’t it? What if . . .?
She swallowed, not wanting to put the awful thought into words, to crystallize it within a sentence, but the question refused to budge. Sometimes people felt that they just couldn’t go on, children or not, didn’t they? Sometimes things seemed so desperate that there was only one way out . . .