I find my way to the homewares section. The shop assistant who’s clearly in charge is holding a clipboard and ordering members of the public around. People are crowding around the desk and I spot Grace in the midst of them all wearing a grey leather jacket. She’s perched on a high stool, patting at her hair. She always did that when she was nervous and it makes me happy that I can still recognise how she feels. Not many people know her like I do.
I don’t want her to see me yet, so I loiter behind some shelving, looking for a good vantage point to take photos from. Set to one side and slightly behind Grace seems perfect. I’ve got a good view of her but she can’t see me. The photos will be my surprise, and hopefully she’ll reward me with that lovely smile and maybe more. Just the thought excites me. I keep looking around for her husband but there’s no sign of him. I bet he’s too busy and they hardly ever spend time together. She’s neglected and unhappy, I can tell just by looking at her. I would never treat her like that. She’s too precious.
The man with a camera leaves his bag on one of the chairs at the front and sets up a tripod. All I’ve got is my phone, but it’s the best I can do. I don’t like taking static images, I prefer to roam around my subject, circle in and catch the right mood. He doesn’t see me but I can spy him through the shelves. His face looks familiar, and I imagine he’s one of Grace’s celebrity friends. People like him are fake and shallow; she needs real people like me in her life. She’ll soon realise that I’m a breath of fresh air. That I’m exactly what she needs.
The man sits down and the woman with the clipboard fusses around Grace, checking through the equipment and the ingredients, which are set out on the shiny chrome counter. Grace realigns everything, with tiny movements. She’s discreet but I notice everything she does. She used to do that with her dressing table, arrange bottles and lotions in neat rows. I won’t make my move until she’s begun her talk, catching her at the right moment. I want perfection.
About thirty people make up the audience, shop staff mill around and a security guard hovers in the background, muttering into his radio. He looks at me and I nod. A woman who can’t stop smiling introduces Grace. She’s making a selection of flapjacks and bars which can be eaten on the go, cooked up in large batches and frozen for the week. No sugar in sight. A KitKat is a lot less hassle. Once the demonstration has started, I move around behind the chairs and start snapping.
Grace doesn’t notice me straight away, which bugs me, because my connection to her is so strong I reckon I’d know if she was in a room with me without even seeing her. Her hair is twisted behind her head into a chic knot and covered with a blue mesh net for the demonstration. Gracie even manages to look good in that, she’s so beautiful. Grace, I mean. A memory flashes into my head: Grace, age thirteen, dressed as a vampire for Halloween. A glamorous vampire, of course. It was the first time I’d noticed how boys followed her around, tongues hanging out, but it was the way Grace lapped up their attention that made me scrunch my fists up in my pockets. The photographer guy steps away from his camera for a moment and watches me. I smile at him and he repositions his tripod.
‘The beauty of this recipe is that when all the ingredients are ready, you can pop everything you need in the processor and in a couple of seconds they’re finely chopped.’
If I were making these I’d have to bash them with a wooden spoon in a plastic bowl. Grace whizzes the blender around, stops it then unscrews the top part and holds it up. Our eyes meet. A flash of recognition crosses her face. I raise my phone and capture her looking at me but she doesn’t lose her composure. She’s good, I’ll give her that. It’s a satisfying moment. She’s pressing the mixture into a tray now and putting it in the oven, asking the audience if there are any questions. Pictures stored, I slip away.
On my way home I stop off at the internet cafe in town where my mate Steph works. She’s staring at the laptop screen in front of her. Her cropped pink hair sticks up in tufts.
‘Shit, Molly, you distracted me. I’d just got to level four. What’s up?’
‘Remember that favour you owe me?’
‘You remind me every time I see you. How am I supposed to forget? What do you want?’
‘Can I print some photos?’
‘Sure. Log on to that PC in the window. It’s free until three o’clock.’
Ellis calls as I let myself back into the flat, throwing the windows open to welcome fresh air in. It sounds like she’s at home, I can tell from the television chatter in the background.
‘You don’t really do any work, do you? Just sit around and watch TV all day,’ I say, jokingly. I’m in a good mood after earlier.
‘You can talk! What have you been up to today?’
‘Taking some photos.’ Ellis doesn’t need to know what of. ‘I’m going to work on them this afternoon. You were right, having something to do takes my mind off wanting a drink.’
‘Well done, Molly. Only a few days ago I couldn’t imagine you spending time with yourself like this.’ She pauses. ‘I wondered whether you’d like to come to an AA meeting?’
I squirm around on my seat. I tried one once, a musty church hall full of strangers who were nothing like me until they started talking. Sharing things with them would be like opening myself up for an operation.
‘No thanks, I’ll stick to calling you if that’s OK. I’m doing alright, I haven’t had a drink today. Not planning on going down the pub either. Quiet night in, just me and the telly.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ Ellis says and I wonder what I’ve said. ‘I’ve got the news on. That poor girl who’s gone missing. They’re still out searching for her. It’s been a few days, though, not a good sign. That’s what they always say, isn’t it, the first few hours are so important? Oh look, it’s him, your mate Grace’s husband.’
‘Hang on, I’ll switch the TV on.’ I scrabble around for the remote. It’s on the floor under a pair of jeans which should be in the washing basket, and find the channel. Richard Sutherland is standing on a village green, a circle of residents gathered behind him.
Local residents are assisting the police in searching the area. The MP for Fenton North, Richard Sutherland, has been talking to residents in town today.
The husband is seen chatting to an elderly couple while a helpline number scrolls across the screen. An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach. I remember when Dad went into work on the evening of Charlotte’s disappearance to make posters to put around town, but she was found the next morning. I look for Grace whenever the husband is in shot. Maybe she’s in the background, waiting, kept out of the way so as not to steal the limelight. I’m disappointed when I can’t spot her. It’s just him, Mr Smarmy. He always looks so pleased with himself, with his posh accent which grates on my nerves.
‘I hope they find her soon,’ Ellis is saying as the girl’s picture fills the screen and I breathe in sharply. The dainty face and blonde hair, it could almost be Charlotte. That bloody school photo that haunted me for years. I zap the screen off and tune back into Ellis.
‘Don’t you think it’s strange, that he’s there?’
‘Not at all. It’s his constituency. It would be weird if he wasn’t. He’s trying to get as much interest in the case as possible. It’s a good thing. Why would you think otherwise?’
‘No reason.’
‘Hmm,’ Ellis says. She can see right through me.
‘You’re right, I’m just trying to find fault with him.’
‘I like the fact that he’s not attached to any party. He might even get my vote.’
‘See, the publicity isn’t hurting him, is it?’
Ellis laughs. ‘No, but I get what you mean.’
After the phone call I forget the girl’s face and put some music on, spreading the photos out on the table, dancing around as I check them out. My mood is so much better, seeing Grace’s face all over the table. So close, yet so far. I’m convinced she’s not in love with her husband. She looks too uptight, not relaxed and free and blossoming like she us
ed to be. He’s the weak link in this, the husband. If I could find something on him, make her see that she’s chosen the wrong path in life. Then I remember what Ellis said. I’m kidding myself again, I know, but at least it keeps my mind occupied.
I rip the takeaway menus off the cork noticeboard on the wall to make space for a Grace collage. The dark images from outside her flat and the light ones from the brightly lit department store. There’s room for plenty more.
I wonder what she’ll think of my photos. But my collection isn’t ready yet. I want to win her over first before I surprise her with my work and she sees how good it is. I thought she might be in touch after seeing me this morning, but my phone stays silent. I’ll give her a bit more time, and if I don’t hear from her I’ll send another photo to stop her forgetting me. The photo board looks good on the wall, makes the flat feel more like home. Grace’s eyes follow me around the room, warming me inside. The adult Grace has taken over from the teenager who used to live in my head, whose face I was afraid of forgetting. My favourite photo is the one where she looked up and saw me this morning. When our eyes met across the room. I’ve captured the haunted look that flitted across her face.
I won’t stop haunting her until she gives me what I want.
Grace’s Diary
Monday 15th December 2003
Aunt Caroline, Molly’s mum, came to visit me today. I didn’t expect to see her after the trial ended last week. At first I was relieved – Dad had said we wouldn’t be seeing them any more – I love it when he’s wrong, but oh my goodness was he right.
She was alright at first, asked how I was, but I could tell something was wrong. She didn’t give me a hug and wouldn’t have tea and cake, and she even kept her coat on, as if she couldn’t wait to get away. I asked how Molly was and it was as if I’d lit a bonfire. She exploded. She was always firm but I’ve never known her lose it before. That’s Dad’s speciality. Said she’d been watching me during the trial and she knew what was going on between me and Molly. I pointed out that I had a boyfriend, but she told me to be quiet and listen. She said Molly had always confided in her and was a different person now, wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t eat, keeps asking when she can see me again. Caroline – because she’s not my ‘aunt’ any more, never was, really – stood up at this point and hovered over me, trying to frighten me, but I wasn’t scared. She said I was to leave Molly alone, never contact any of them again. Caroline said she was glad Michael was sending me away, which made me panic but I didn’t let her see it. I made sure to look serious and nodded at everything she said, but all the time I was stroking the scar on my hand. Me and Molly made a promise and nobody can break us apart. I know Molly – it’s only a matter of time before she contacts me. Whatever it takes.
Fifteen
GRACE
A moth flutters onto the bedside table and I squash it with my thumb. If only Molly could be dealt with so easily. The little sleep I managed was broken with bursts of worry. Richard stirs and I shift onto my side and look down at him. His eyes are barely open, and I place a kiss on his forehead.
‘What day is it?’
‘Saturday. We’re visiting your parents this afternoon, remember.’
Ordinarily it’s my favourite day of the week when Richard is free. No alarms, no deadlines, just the two of us having some much-needed time together. But Angela’s call has unsettled me. I’ll have to see Michael before I do anything else, find out what Molly said. If he’s making any sense, that is. It’s only recently that his carer has had to call us to go over more often, concerned about his fading memory. It’s hard to believe he used to stand up in church, giving sermons which took him no time at all to learn, his memory almost photographic. He gave a service the weekend after the body was found, when everyone was reeling from the news. He stood in the pulpit, a tall figure, formidable in black, and his eyes appeared to be focused on me, addressing every single word for my individual attention, his thin arms waving in the air making him look like a crow. Molly’s leg was pressed against mine, trembling, as he talked about the power of forgiveness and how Charlotte was in a different place, taken for a reason. Molly rocked to and fro when he said that, and I held onto her arm, stroked inside her elbow. I had to stop her making a dash for the exit and giving herself away.
‘You were restless again,’ Richard says, as I snuggle into the crook of his arm.
‘I was thinking about what Angela said. I might have to go over to check on Michael this morning.’
‘Do you want me to come?’
‘No, it’s fine. It’s easier if I go on my own.’
Richard looks surprised. He finds Michael easier to deal with than I do; they slip into football banter, and it makes it less stressful for me to be in his company. But I can’t have him there today. I pull him towards me, kissing him. ‘Thank you, though.’
I choose a pale blue skirt and a matching jacket. I put my hair up, along with a full face of make-up, ready to deal with whatever Angela has to tell me.
Downstairs, Richard is tying the laces on his trainers.
‘Thought I’d squeeze in a quick run, it’s the only chance I'm going to get this week.’
‘Are you still planning on running the marathon?’
He pulls a face. ‘I think I’m going to have to defer my place. There just aren’t enough hours in the day. I won’t run if I’m not properly trained, I can’t make a show of myself.’
‘I guess you’ll have to decide which you want more – London Mayor, or…’
He grins and kisses me. ‘No contest. And there are plenty of years ahead to run the marathon in.’
‘Good,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait to be the Mayor’s wife.’
Michael’s house is the last in a row of bungalows, all with tiny front gardens and colourful front doors. Angela’s Mini Cooper is parked on the street outside. The door swings opens before I reach it and Angela twists a tea towel between her hands as she ushers me in.
Michael is in the living room, sitting in his usual chair. It still shocks me how diminished he seems. Always so tall and towering, but now he’s lost height, no longer the commanding presence he used to be. He can’t hurt me physically any more, but I still hesitate. I fuss about with my hair, making sure it’s in place.
The kitchen is barely big enough for the two of us, so different from the grand vicarage kitchen we grew up in, open to a constant flow of parishioners wanting Michael’s advice. It’s so lonely here by comparison. Angela sets out cups and saucers on a tray, adds a blue-and-white jug of milk and empties a packet of jam tarts onto a plate.
‘His favourite,’ she says. ‘Not ideal for his teeth, but…’ She shrugs and we both know it’s not worth putting him in a bad mood.
‘I’m sorry to drag you down here on a Saturday, but he’s been so unsettled this week. He accused me of hiding his things, and I want you to know that I would never do that. I’m fond of him. He’s always been difficult, but lately…’ Angela’s movements are fast, nervy. ‘And then that woman who said she was his niece, I feel awful about that.’
‘Don’t. She’s a bit of a crazed fan, someone I used to know. Did you hear any of their conversation?’
‘No, but she showed him a photograph, that’s what may have upset him.’
I draw in a sharp breath.
‘Does he remember anything about it?’
‘It’s hard to tell. You must have seen the missing girl story in the news, it’s been upsetting him. It’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. Do you have any idea why?’
The milk that I am passing to Angela almost slips from my hands.
‘No.’
‘It’s strange. He gets agitated every time it’s on. I tried to switch channels but he made such a fuss.’
The photograph. He’s seen the likeness too.
‘Well, you know how he is with me, but I’ll do my best.’
She puts everything on a tray, an embarrassed smile on her face.
‘Angela’s made us
some tea,’ I say, too brightly, as we go into the living room.
‘Where’s Richard?’
‘He’s out running this morning. Training for the marathon.’
‘I don’t know where he finds the energy,’ Angela says.
‘He’s always wanted to run a sub-three-hour marathon, but I’m not sure he’ll manage it this year. He won’t do it if he can’t get a good time.’
The copy of my recipe book I sent to Michael sits on the table.
‘Did you like my book?’
‘I don’t see the point in you giving it to me when I don’t cook.’
I feel the sting of rejection, so familiar with my father. Mum used to cook when I was little, before illness took her away. I’d stand on a chair and she’d guide my hand to stir the gooey mixture, sharing my excitement at the resulting tray of cupcakes. Baking magic, she called it. I almost made that the title of my book, but the memory wasn’t entirely a happy one. I don’t have many that are.
Cups clatter as Angela pours the tea into small china cups with matching saucers. She takes the tray back to the kitchen. As soon as she’s gone Michael picks up the remote and switches the television off.
‘I don’t remember everything, but I’m not stupid.’ He jabs his finger in the direction of the kitchen. ‘She hides my things, I know she does.’ The last words are a splutter as he coughs a deep, rumbling cough.
‘She’s only trying to help you by tidying up.’ I move closer to him. ‘I need to talk to you. Do you remember the visitor you had the other day?’
‘Of course I do, I told you, I’m not an idiot. She showed me a photo to remind me. As if I’d forget her after what she did.’
Fear grips me. ‘What photo?’
‘Of you and her.’ His mouth curls into a sneer. ‘You’re not supposed to see her any more. Why don’t you ever do what you’re told? Stupid girl.’ I clench my fists in my pockets, familiar rage bubbling.
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