What if he forgets I’m his mummy?
‘Please, please find him,’ I call after him.
Chapter Seventeen
Seventeen Days Before
Gemma
I smooth out the piece of A4 paper and stick it to the window nearest the front door. Someone’s bound to want a summer job, aren’t they? If there’s no interest after a couple of days, I’ll have to advertise online.
Half the restaurant is full already and early lunchers are going to start arriving soon. We started offering a breakfast menu up to 11.30 a.m. and it’s become more popular than I expected, probably because of the American-style breakfasts. I pull the stool up to the reception podium. I have to sit sideways now the bump is so big. Looks like we’re going to be packed out until 3 p.m., according to the lunchtime bookings. Can’t complain. I glance up. A couple of girls are standing outside reading my poster. I check the rota then my watch. Simon should be here any minute. I’ve warned him twice this month about lateness. He’s a good worker, so I don’t want to have to let him go. One of the girls is coming in. She bowls straight up to me, no hesitation. There’s an effortless beauty about her, tousled blonde hair, flawless smooth skin, like she’s rolled out of bed looking perfect. I’ve always envied girls like this. Everything seems so easy for them.
‘Hi,’ she smiles at me, ‘I’m really interested in the waitressing job you’re advertising.’ She points to the window.
‘You’re keen, I’ve literally just put that up there.’
‘I am.’ The smile grows wider and it’s hard not to like her.
‘Could you tell me a bit about the job, please?’
‘Yes, of course. Would you like to come through and we can have a chat?’ I take her to one of the back booths and nod at Bonnie to let her know I’m busy. She comes over and takes a coffee order from us.
‘What would you like?’ I ask the girl as she sits opposite me.
‘Cappuccino, please.’ She goes to take her purse out.
‘It’s okay, it’s on the house.’
‘Oh, thanks.’ She puts her bag down.
‘Nasty scratches you’ve got there.’ I point to her hand. They look horribly familiar.
‘That’s my cat, she didn’t like me moving her off the sofa last night.’ She laughs.
‘Ah, what kind is she?’
‘A gorgeous tabby who thinks she’s in charge.’
‘Don’t they all?’ I show her the faded scratches on my arm thanks to Missy. ‘Tried to grab a piece of loose thread in my top. That’ll teach me.’ We laugh.
I tell her about the main duties of the role and she tells me what experience she’s had. She’s so easy to chat to, I almost forget the time. Bonnie comes over and asks to speak to me.
‘Excuse me a moment,’ I say, standing up.
The girl smiles and I follow Bonnie to the till.
‘Simon’s called in sick. He’s hurt his back,’ Bonnie says.
‘Couldn’t he have phoned in sooner?’ I check my watch. ‘He should have been here twenty minutes ago.’ I shake my head.
‘I’m rushed off my feet as it is,’ Bonnie says.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out. You get back.’ I look out at the girl sitting at the table sipping her coffee and wonder if she’d be up for a try-out. I haven’t got any other options right now. She seems experienced enough. Says she’s worked in bars in London.
‘Sorry about that, can I get you another coffee?’ I ask sitting down.
‘I’m good, thanks.’
‘One of my waiters just phoned in sick and I was wondering if you’re interested in a trial straight away?’
‘Oh right, well, yeah, I’m free all afternoon. I’d be happy to.’
‘That’s great, you’d be really helping me out. I must warn you, though, we’re expecting a full house.’
‘Fine with me. I’m up for the challenge.’
‘Excellent, let me show you to the cloakroom and I’ll bring your uniform.’
I point her in the right direction and take a clean tabard out of the store cupboard and a clipboard, info sheet and pen from the drawer. God, I don’t even know the girl’s name, how embarrassing. I can’t blame everything on baby-brain.
‘Here you are, if you could wear this and fill in your contact and bank details.’ I hand them to her. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t ask your name, we were so busy chatting about cats and everything else.’
‘Ha, yes. My name is Rosie.’
Chapter Eighteen
21 July 2018
Scarlett
It’s gone midnight by the time we curl up in our beds. The darkness is interrupted by the flickering streetlight right outside my window. Amy is laid out on the mattress, covered up to her shoulders in a thin sheet. We waited in the pub until last orders, but Cole never turned up.
‘What am I going to do about him?’ I ask.
‘You really want him back?’
I nod and turn away, so she doesn’t see that I’m struggling to hold in the hurt burning in my eyes. I wish I had a dad to talk to about these things.
‘What do you know about this wife of his?’ Amy props herself up on an elbow. I love that she doesn’t tell me this is all my problem, that I should sort it out myself. I know I can count on her. She’s the most loyal person I’ve ever known.
‘Nothing. I’ve only seen her once.’ Shadows of passing cars leave light trails along the wall and across the ceiling. ‘You should have seen the smug look on her face. So manipulative and clichéd getting pregnant to win him back. Makes me sick.’
‘So you think she knows about you?’
‘I don’t know.’ I tap my phone and scroll through Cole’s Instagram. He’s not blocked me there yet. Like his Facebook page, he uses the pseudonym Truman Fitzgerald. ‘I wonder what her name is. He’d never tell me the few times I asked. Said I didn’t need to know. If he told me, she’d become a real person in my head.’
‘Look at the comments on his posts, it might give you a clue.’
It could be any of these people. He doesn’t use it much.
‘How does he know it’s his baby anyway?’
‘I’ve actually no idea.’ I sit bolt upright.
‘What if she’s lying to him?’ Amy sits up too and points her finger at me.
‘Oh yes!’
‘Tell me what she looks like.’ Amy crosses her legs.
‘Mousy, plain but covers herself in thick make-up, spray tan, hair extensions, nails, the lot. I don’t know what he sees in her. All that fakery.’ I shudder. ‘Silly cow.’
‘How old is she?’
‘I don’t know, pushing thirty maybe.’
‘So, it’s easy. You’re twenty, beautiful, available. Everything she isn’t. She’s old, pregnant and getting fatter by the day. All we need to do is convince him it’s not his baby, that she’s been seeing someone else.’
There’s a glint in Amy’s eye. It doesn’t appear often. The last time was when she put poison down for Mr Willis’ rats – he called them his pets, but they were filthy vermin coming up from the gutters, terrorizing our lives, attracted by the bird seed and bread crusts he scattered on his lawn every day.
‘We can send him an anonymous letter telling him it’s not his baby.’
‘But if he believes it, won’t he just get a DNA test?’
‘He can’t do that until it’s born, which will buy you time to get him back. Can you imagine the rift it will cause between them? Sorry, honey, I just need to check this is actually my baby, make sure you’re not lying to me about sleeping with someone else.’
‘He knows my handwriting.’
‘We can cut letters out of a newspaper.’
‘You’re joking now, right?’ I stutter a laugh, not quite sure if she’s being serious.
‘No, really.’
‘He will guess it’s me.’ I point out in words of one syllable. She’s being stupid now, saying anything to impress me.
‘Why would he? Anyway, you only
have to deny it.’
I slowly shake my head.
‘We could push her down a flight of stairs?’
‘Amy, don’t be crazy. We can’t do anything like that, okay?’
‘All right.’ She shrugs and goes back to her laptop.
‘There has to be another way. I don’t want him to hate me, I want him to come back to me.’ I’d willingly given myself to him, I was looking forward to our lives together. We agreed we were soul mates, so how can he treat me like this? He said his wife had moved back with her parents. All those times we spent together in fancy hotels. He said he loved me, not her. We planned our future, moving to a farm in the country with two dogs and a horse, maybe children one day. But all that time his wife was already pregnant. What if it really wasn’t his, and she was cheating him?
‘Does he use the same name on all his social media?’ Amy pulls up Facebook and Instagram.
‘Yeah, Truman Fitzgerald.’ I point to the profile picture he uses of the author Truman Capote. ‘That’s him. He’s not blocked you on Facebook then.’
‘I never comment, so he’s probably forgotten I’m there.’ Amy twists her laptop around to face me. ‘And I think this is her. She’s on Facebook and Instagram.’ She points to an Instagram page called @HappyWife. The posts are all perfect images. Pastel-coloured lights draped outside a summerhouse, the door teasingly pushed open to show a chaise longue and a pom-pom throw carefully angled across it. There are a few selfies, one’s a side-view of her looking down at her bump, posted a week ago.
‘Yeah, that’s her. Mousy without all the make-up on.’
‘She’s liked every single one of Cole’s posts and always comments something anodyne like, How lovely! Ooh my favourite! Can’t wait to see this. Didn’t we have the best day ever?
‘Happy wife, eh? Is that meant to be funny?’
‘So the first part of the plan is trolling her on social media.’
‘Nice.’
‘Don’t use your own account to comment, obvs,’ Amy says, opening a new window, ‘set up a new one with different made-up names every couple of days. And if you switch to different devices, she won’t have a clue who you are or how to trace you.’
‘Genius. Thanks, Amy.’ It’s so nice that she’s looking out for me. Was always the other way round back in the day. But when the bullies realized she was with me, they soon kept their distance, even Chantelle stopped pranking her. That poster thing she did of superimposing Amy’s face on a squirrel was so low. But Chantelle’s Mummy and Daddy were not best pleased to find out their little angel was a serial bully, especially as Mummy dear had been one of the school governors.
Amy sets an account up straight away and I drop a few choice remarks. Now I’ve regained some control I dial Cole’s number on my mobile yet again, but it goes to answerphone. His smooth deep voice invites me to leave him a message, so I do.
‘Call me. I need to talk to you.’ I need to play this carefully if I want to get back at him and break them up, without him hating me as a result. I’ll show him I’m the one he wants – that he can have the perfect life with me, not her.
Chapter Nineteen
Monday 13 August 2018
Gemma
The police take us home. For the first few minutes of the journey I keep picturing Thomas’s empty baby seat in my car. I bat away my tears and runny nose with the back of my hand, hoping he will miraculously appear next to me and prove this is all a nightmare I’m about to wake up from.
What is left for me at home without Thomas? I draw in a sharp breath at how angry Nick will be with me once we’re on our own. I’m not sure how much longer I can carry on living this life. But I have to go back, I need to be there for when Thomas is found. I can’t abandon my business, everything I’ve worked for. My staff don’t deserve it.
We finally turn into the road that leads to our new estate. I take out my phone. I should call Mum and Dad, let them know about Thomas before they see it on the news. But what do I say? They’ll be worried sick. I’m not ready for all their questions. I could start by telling them how well my little pizza place is thriving and thank them a million more times for the money they gave me to get it started. How focusing on it has kept me going, given me a bit of independence to keep me sane. I’ll promise to take Thomas to see them, as soon as he’s found. I can explain exactly what happened. They’ll understand. I’ll tell them all about Rosie, how kind she’s been, what a lovely girl she is, and why I trusted her. She meant to bring him back to me, I know she did, but something must have happened, and she can’t contact me. Maybe if I tell them the whole truth, they’ll help me. But what if they don’t? What do I do then?
I look up and see part of my face in the rear-view mirror. My eyes are puffy and red. They might think it’s all my fault, that it’s because I’m not a good wife, I should have tried harder and now I’ve proved I’m a terrible mother too. They’ll be so ashamed of me. And I can’t… I can’t let them down again. The phone drops from my hand into my lap. I lean forward and let the tears come again.
The police pull up right outside our house.
There’s a reporter across the road speaking into a camera.
We get out and Nick unlocks the front door. He turns away down the hall, leaving the door wide open for me, an invitation into its hungry mouth, ready to swallow me whole once more.
As soon as the front door clicks shut, he’s right behind me, breathing on me, pulling me round to face him. His hand goes to my throat, pushing my head back, slamming me up against the door. I can’t swallow. My eyes flicker at the spotless white ceiling.
‘You’re a useless little bitch,’ he growls, centimetres from my face, his spit landing on my cheek. He punches my side and when he lets go of me, I fall in a heap at his feet, curling into a ball, trying to catch my breath at the pain on top of the bruising from giving birth. He grabs my hair and drags me up the stairs. I stumble all the way, grazing my knees on the carpet. I want to scream at him to stop but it will only make it worse. He throws me on the bed and slams the door shut.
* * *
Later, I’m hunched over my drawn-up knees in the bath, rocking backwards and forwards, letting the hot tap run beneath me to wash away the blood and its offensive iron smell. The gushing water hides the sound of me weeping. My hand is shaking as I push the plug in and add a scoop of bath crystals. They slowly melt and give off a healing sea-salt aroma. The water is scalding hot like a smack on my bare skin. Steam billows in my face. I switch to cold and when the level is past halfway, I turn the taps off and submerge.
The last time I had a bath rather than a shower was two days after we arrived in Vegas. Nick ran it for me on the morning of my eighteenth birthday. He’d scattered rose petals on the warm foamy water and told me it was my special day. He said he wanted me to feel like a princess. Breakfast was brought in on a trolley to the lounge-bar area of our penthouse suite at the Imperial Palace hotel. A waiter opened a bottle of champagne and poured two glasses. Two waitresses brought in platters of fruit freshly cut and displayed like jewels, warm sweet-smelling pastries, pancakes with maple syrup and a hot trolley of eggs, bacon, chipolata sausages, fried bread, hash browns and sides of thick white toast saturated with melted butter. I couldn’t believe he had arranged all of this for me. No one had ever made me feel so special.
After breakfast, a hairdresser arrived and blow-dried and curled my hair. A manicurist shaped and painted my nails and Nick presented me with a pile of presents – a chic cream shift dress in shot silk, strappy heels to match and a single diamond on a gold chain.
‘You look incredible,’ he’d told me, taking my hand and spinning me round to see the full look. ‘Are you ready to go?’
‘Where are we going?’ I’d laughed nervously wondering if we were going to an upmarket function where I’d have to hold serious grown-up conversations. If my friends could have seen me, they’d have been amazed at the transformation.
‘I’ve got so many surprises planned for yo
u today, are you excited?’ The lift doors closed and we saw ourselves reflected back from the mirrored doors.
‘Yes, of course, it’s just that…’
Nick, almost half a head taller than me, had his arm around me, holding me close to him.
‘What? Have I forgotten something?’ He’d given that hangdog look I’ve come to know so well.
I wriggled away from him and looked at him full on.
‘Could I have my phone, please, just for five minutes, so I can call my parents?’
‘Oh Gemma, really? And spoil everything?’
‘But they don’t even know where I am. They’ll be worried.’ I concentrated on my shoes, not wanting to see his disappointment.
‘How about later? This evening. Then you can tell them what an amazing day you’ve had. Assuming you do.’ He smiled.
I pouted and pulled a face. He stroked my chin with one finger.
‘I promise, okay?’
I nodded and let him lead me out of the lift. Waiting outside was a shiny white limo. The chauffeur climbed out and opened a door for us, his arm inviting us to get in. My eyes widened, not quite sure if this was a joke but when Nick nodded, grinning hard, I’d squealed with delight, clapping my hands together. This was for us? For me? This was incredible. Nick was incredible. He must love me so much. My friends and parents at home were forgotten in an instant. I’d fallen further under Nick’s spell and no one had any idea where to find me.
The doorbell rings bringing me back. I look at the clock. It’s almost two hours since Thomas was taken. I hear Nick speak in his friendly voice, inviting someone in. I pull the plug out and drag myself out of the bath. After a few moments, Nick’s tapping on the bathroom door.
‘Clean yourself up, the Liaison Officer is here,’ he says in a low voice.
A few minutes later I come downstairs. I’m greeted by a man with a friendly face who shakes my hand and introduces himself as Greg Clark, Liaison Officer. Nick is noticeably shorter and older standing next to him. There are mugs of tea on a tray and a packet of Bourbon biscuits. There are ‘New Baby’ congratulations cards and flowers on every surface. But the house looks too tidy. Becca always says midwives can spot something isn’t right when the mother seems to be concentrating on keeping the house in order instead of looking after the baby. In these circumstances, a woman would have noticed that.
The Face At the Window Page 7