I laughed at this. ‘Ian,’ I said. ‘We’ve been separated for over four years. We’ve been divorced for almost two. Why would it be hard for me?’
He looked vaguely disappointed at this, and I realised that my laughter had been harsh. But I’d given up massaging Ian’s ego many years before and I wasn’t going to start again, now.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘So, how about Zoe’s birthday? Maybe we could organise a big party for her sixteenth? All together?’
So that’s what we decided to do.
Linda seemed OK. She was a little too crystals-and-auras for us ever to be best mates, but I liked her well enough. She seemed jolly and energetic and ready to throw herself into our first joint endeavour.
We held planning meetings in Costa, just the two of us. I’d have a cappuccino and Linda would choose green tea. I wondered how she’d come to stack on the kilos, because though I’d invariably crack for a lump of carrot cake, I never once saw her eat anything. The answer was eventually revealed, though, because Linda was an expert baker. In my experience, you simply can’t enjoy baking and be thin.
We agreed to hold the surprise party at our house so that Zoe would walk in on it after school. Though I warned her that Zoe wouldn’t touch them, Linda said she’d bake multiple birthday cakes, and her girls would blow up the balloons. I would provide a fake shepherd’s pie for Zoe and, because Linda wouldn’t give her kids Quorn, which she considered to be a Frankenfood, organic chicken for everyone else. Ian, for his part, had promised to buy Zoe a new mobile phone, a gift she’d apparently been badgering him for since the summer.
With Jude’s help I invited three of Zoe’s schoolfriends (Britney, Sinead and Vanessa – all sworn to secrecy), plus Jude’s best mate, Gary Mason.
We would fill the room with balloons and launch streamers and shout ‘Surprise!’ And everyone would be happy. That was the plan, at any rate.
On the morning of Zoe’s birthday, I got up early.
Though I was pretty happy about the party we’d planned, I also wanted a moment of intimacy with my daughter. It had been such a hard year, after all.
I wrapped up a charm bracelet I’d bought her and wrote some heartfelt words in a musical birthday card I knew she’d sneer at. I made her a sausage sandwich for breakfast, and added a flower from the garden to the tray.
When I reached her door, I rested the tray on my knee and pushed the door open before tiptoeing across the rubbish-strewn floor to her bedside.
I glanced around at the mess and decided that today, just this once, I wouldn’t moan about it. Instead, I’d tidy while she was at school. I’d make her bedroom look beautiful.
I gasped when I pulled back the covers. Because the only thing in Zoe’s bed was her ancient jumbo teddy bear. I laid my cheek to the mattress to test for any residual heat, but it was cold. Wherever Zoe had gone, she’d slipped out some time ago.
I sat on the edge of her bed and ran one hand through my hair. And then I sighed, reached for her sandwich and took a bite.
Ten
Jude
‘There’s a lodge cabin that looks OK,’ Jess says. ‘Forty-five quid a night.’
I’m driving up the M6 towards Scotland and, when mobile reception permits, Jess is hunting on her phone for somewhere to stay.
‘Sure, a log cabin could be fun, as long as it’s heated OK,’ I comment.
‘A lodge cabin,’ Jess corrects me.
‘What the hell’s a lodge cabin?’ I ask.
‘I’m not sure,’ she says, then, ‘Oh, so it’s basically a mobile home. I think you’re actually supposed to misread lodge for log. It’s intentional trickery to get people interested.’
‘Then maybe not,’ I say.
‘Nice view, though.’
‘Have you switched on the instant-booking filter?’ I ask, and when Jess pulls a face I explain what this is.
‘But how do I do that?’ she asks, pointing the phone at me.
‘Sorry, Jess,’ I say. ‘I’m driving. It’s in the options there somewhere.’
‘It’s OK, I’ll find it,’ she says, returning to fiddling with her phone.
A minute or so later, she says, ‘Got it. Oh, that’s made most of them vanish from the list, though.’
‘Because they weren’t definitely available for tonight,’ I say.
‘OK,’ Jess says. ‘Fair enough.’
By the time we pass Carlisle, she’s found and booked what the owners call a gardener’s cottage. ‘It looks lovely,’ Jess tells me. ‘It looks amazing.’
At Gretna Green, we see the first traces of snow at the side of the road, and by Dumfries a few flakes are hitting the windscreen.
‘D’you want the top down?’ I ask.
‘Funny boy,’ Jess retorts. ‘Don’t tempt me. Next to driving an open-top car in the sunshine, driving an open-top car in the snow is my second-favourite thing.’
Just after Gatehouse of Fleet, we catch our first sightings of the sea. This puts Jess into shrieky mode. ‘The sea! The sea!’ she shouts. ‘I can see the sea!’
‘We only left the sea a couple of hours ago,’ I point out.
Jess groans. ‘Why do you have to be so . . .’ she says, waving one hand vaguely instead of finishing her phrase.
‘So what?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know,’ Jess says. ‘So . . . dour. There you go. That’s a good Scottish word.’
‘I’m not dour,’ I say. ‘Am I? Am I dour, do you think?’
But Jess, who has turned to look out of her side window and is now humming a tune, doesn’t answer. She’s thinking about putting some music on, I can tell. She always hums a bit before that happens. I’m slowly learning to read her on this trip.
I can’t help but grin when less than a minute later she plugs her phone into the car stereo and hits play. Cat Empire starts to drift from the speakers, though thankfully not too loud.
I think about the word ‘dour’, about what a strange word it is. And then, as I drive, I ask myself if it describes me.
On reflection, I don’t think that ‘dour’ is fair to me. I’m more restrained than Jess, it’s true. I’m far less likely to shriek, ‘Helloooo, bonnie Scotland!’ as we drive across the border. But that’s got more to do with being nervous about appearing silly, or naff, or terminally uncool than being dour per se.
I scan my body to try to work out how I’m feeling, and I realise that this morning, tense far better describes it.
This trip is, unsurprisingly I suppose, dredging up lots of old memories. I’ve been thinking about Zoe a lot, obviously, but also about Dad and how I felt when he left, and how depressed Mum was after Scott went, too. I even had a dream about them all last night. Dad, Scott and I had all been in a boat. And we’d dragged Zoe’s body from the lake. Only, when we got her back to land and rolled her over, it hadn’t been Zoe at all. It had been Jess, who was lifelessly looking up at us, a bit of seaweed coming out of her mouth like an image from a horror film. And then Scott had slipped one hand up her dress and said, ‘Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about,’ and I’d woken in a panic, trying with all my might, but failing, to scream.
‘You OK?’ Jess asks me, unexpectedly.
So I tell her everything except her part in my dream. No one wants to hear about being dragged lifeless from a river, after all. Not even shrinky-dinky Jess.
‘Well, it’s bound to bring up lots of memories,’ Jess says, once I’ve finished. ‘You’re looking for your long-lost sister, after all.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘But I feel like I shouldn’t be feeling stressed about it, you know? I mean, there’s no reason to feel stressed, really, is there?’
‘Just let yourself feel what you’re feeling,’ Jess says. ‘Don’t suffer over your suffering.’
Partly because I’m interested, but mainly because she loves explaining this stuff, I ask her what she means by that.
‘Oh, it’s a thing a Buddhist friend told me,’ she says. ‘It’s like, if you’re upset but you think you
shouldn’t be. So you feel guilty about being upset. Or upset about feeling guilty, or whatever. Well, that’s suffering over your suffering.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘And the answer is?’
‘Just to own it,’ Jess says. ‘Say, this is making me feel stressed, and that’s OK.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Got it.’
‘Do you think about her all the time?’ Jess asks.
‘Zoe?’
‘No, the Queen.’ Jess laughs. ‘Of course, Zoe.’
‘You mean today, or . . .’
‘No, in general. Have you been thinking obsessively about her ever since she vanished?’
‘Um, not so much, actually,’ I say, feeling vaguely embarrassed about how true this is. ‘I suppose I should worry about her more, really, but . . .’
‘I think we’ve established there are no shoulds about these things,’ Jess says.
‘No,’ I say. ‘OK. I mean, I did when she first left. But once I went to college I just forgot about her, really.’
‘Wow,’ Jess says. ‘The power of the mind.’
‘But then I’d see, say, a pack of Quorn sausages and think about her. That was all she ate for years: Quorn sausage sandwiches. Or on her birthday, I’d wonder if she was OK – stuff like that. But not all the time. Not even that much, if I’m being honest.’
‘So why now?’ Jess asks.
‘Why am I thinking about her?’
‘No, why do you want to find her?’
‘I don’t know,’ I tell her honestly. ‘Perhaps just because your computer thing made it possible.’
‘Maybe possible,’ Jess corrects me.
‘OK, maybe possible. Why did you look up her address for me? I mean, you said you could lose your job over it.’
‘It’s true,’ Jess says. ‘So there was no way I could help you until I trusted you enough. I had to be totally sure that no one was ever going to find out.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Of course.’
‘Plus, I’ve come to see how much it’s affected you. So I’d like to help with that, if I can.’
‘Has it?’ I say. ‘Has it affected me, do you think?’
‘Well, of course it has,’ Jess says.
I think about this for a moment, wondering if Jess can maybe see me better than I see myself. ‘How, specifically?’ I finally dare to ask.
‘How has it affected you?’ Jess asks.
‘Yeah.’
She shrugs. ‘I don’t know, really,’ she says. ‘But it’s bound to have, isn’t it? I bet that half of your relationship issues stem from being abandoned by your father, your stepfather and your sister, don’t you?’
‘They didn’t abandon me,’ I tell her.
‘No,’ she says. ‘Sorry. Of course they didn’t. But you know what I mean.’
I frown at this but feel reluctant to push the subject any further. The whole thing is making me feel a bit queasy, so I’m relieved when Jess asks, ‘Anyway, how far is it now?’
I glance at Google Maps on my phone and tell her it’s about an hour.
‘Can we stop and get something to eat, then?’ Jess asks. ‘I’m starving.’
We stop in the strangest store imaginable. It’s a huge hangar filled with clothes and lawnmowers and groceries, all mixed up. The coffee shop is at the rear, so we walk along a vast aisle containing some rather nice tartan ties and jackets, some reduced-to-clear Christmas lights and tins of colostrum booster for ewes.
‘Oh, I’ve been meaning to pick up some colostrum booster for ages,’ Jess mugs, grabbing a tin and then putting it down. ‘Later, maybe.’
There are no vegan options in the café so Jess settles, without complaint, for a cheese sandwich, while I plump for tuna mayo. We’re only in the hangar for twenty minutes, but by the time we step back out into the car park it’s snowing properly.
‘Snow!’ Jess says, dancing around like a loon in the midst of our personal snow-globe. ‘It’s snowing! I love snow!’
‘I hope we don’t get stuck in it,’ I say.
‘You see?’ Jess says. ‘Dour!’
As the first signs for Portpatrick appear, Jess asks me if I want to head for the commune or our rental.
‘I’m not sure,’ I reply. ‘Which one’s closest? Is one on the way to the other? Can you look?’
‘I think it’s going to be the commune,’ Jess says. ‘Our rental is right on the coast.’
‘So shall we go straight there?’ I ask. ‘See if anyone’s home before we get snowed in.’
‘See if Zoe’s home, more like it,’ Jess says. ‘And we’re not going to get snowed in. The forecast for tomorrow is sunshine.’
‘I feel sick,’ I tell her. ‘I feel, you know, really, seriously pukey.’
‘It’s normal,’ Jess says. ‘It’s your body getting you ready for a shock. Because deep down it knows that she’s going to be there.’
‘Don’t say that,’ I say, a little more sharply than I intended. ‘You don’t know that. We don’t know that at all. And deep down, I can assure you, my body knows nothing at all.’
About twenty minutes from Portpatrick, Jess’s phone pings with a rare text from her mother.
‘She wants to know why we didn’t go to Uncle Will’s,’ Jess tells me. ‘He must have phoned her. I’d better answer her or she’ll be worried.’
‘You did tell him, though, didn’t you?’ I ask.
‘You know I did,’ Jess says, sounding vaguely tetchy. ‘I texted him as we were leaving Bristol.’
I frown at the fact that I have absolutely no recollection of her telling me this, but say nothing. She may well have said it while I was thinking about something else – I’ve been pretty distracted these last few days. Plus, the tetchiness is more, I suspect, to do with the fact that she’s thinking about her family.
Jess, who is famed for her endless text messages, taps away at the screen for a while before asking me, ‘What’s that place we stayed in called? I’m wanting to say Hailsham again, but I know that’s not right.’
‘Heysham,’ I say. ‘Hailsham’s the one near Eastbourne.’
‘That’s it,’ Jess says, spelling it out as she types. ‘H, E, Y, S . . . Even the phone wants to correct it to Hailsham. Is Hailsham famous or something?’
I shrug. ‘I doubt it. I only know it because it’s one of the places Zoe sent a postcard from. So I looked it up to see where it was.’
‘God, the postcards,’ Jess says, glancing up from her phone. ‘I’d forgotten about those. Do you think she lived there, then? Before Bristol, maybe?’
‘No, I’m pretty certain she never sent the postcards from anywhere she lived,’ I explain. ‘They were always from little villages in the middle of nowhere, I assume so she couldn’t be found.’
The postcards had started about a month after her disappearance. They’d arrived quite regularly at first, sometimes just a week or two apart. But as time went by they became less and less frequent, until, towards the end, they only ever came on my birthday.
They were sent not to our house but to my friend Gary Mason’s place. He lived just around the corner from us, and Gary would bring them into school for me.
Zoe never said much in them, except that she was fine, that I shouldn’t worry, and, in the early ones at least, that I shouldn’t tell Mum she was writing to me.
The secrecy part of it was challenging, because Mum was worried sick about Zoe. And I mean that quite literally. She wasn’t sleeping, and she wasn’t eating much either, which was unusual. In the past, Mum had always reacted to stress by pigging out, but this time she looked so pale and thin that one of my schoolfriends assumed she had cancer. So I felt torn between Zoe, who’d made me feel quite special by choosing to secretly send the postcards to me, and Mum, who desperately needed good news.
In the end, it worried me so much that I texted Scott to ask him to call me. It was the first time I’d communicated with him since he’d left, so we chatted for a while, just like old times, and then I explained my dilemma.
>
He asked me how often Mum made my bed. Though it was a strange question, I assumed he had a plan – Scott always had a plan – and so I told him that she straightened the covers most days and changed the sheets about once every two weeks.
‘Hide them under your pillow for a couple of weeks,’ he told me. ‘And then stick ’em under your mattress. That way she’ll find them, but it won’t be your fault.’
So that’s exactly what I chose to do.
Mum stopped making my bed around then. She even told me, in a fake pique of anger, that she was sick of doing everything and that it was time I made my bed for myself. I was pretty certain that this meant she’d found the postcards, and wanted to continue finding them but without me realising she had. Just to make sure, I arranged them in a specific way and took a photo with my camera so that I could see if they’d moved even the tiniest bit. By the time I got home that night, she’d been at them.
Mum seemed happier, or at least less unhappy, after that, and I got to kind of respect Zoe’s wishes. I’d also opened a communications channel with Scott, and I was grateful, now it had happened, to have had such a good excuse to do so. Because chatting to Scott really cheered me up.
About a year after I started college, Gary Mason’s family moved to Altrincham, and that was the end of my postcard delivery service.
I went back to his old house just once, a few weeks after my twenty-first birthday. I was visiting Mum and wanted to see if the new owners had received anything for me from Zoe.
A really dodgy skinhead guy opened the door. He had tattoos all up his neck, and more piercings in his nose and ears than I had ever seen on anyone before. As I’d never lived there, I struggled to explain why I thought he might have letters waiting for me, and he didn’t seem interested enough to take the time to comprehend what I was saying. He told me there had been ‘nowt for no one’, and because he was having trouble restraining his equally scary pit bull, I took him at his word; and, feeling a bit like I’d lost my sister all over again, I ran away as fast as I could.
The Road to Zoe Page 15