‘You know, we’ve driven all the way from Bristol to find her,’ Jess explains. ‘So if you could maybe phone and ask, then . . .’
‘I can’t,’ Nuala says, interrupting her. ‘I’m on pay as you go. I can’t call French numbers. But I can text them for you.’
‘We could use mine,’ I suggest.
Nuala smiles wryly at my offer. ‘Then you’d have wheedled her number out of me,’ she says, raising an imaginary gun and shooting me with it. ‘So I’d have to kill you.’
‘Ha!’ I say. ‘Maybe not, then. Um, you don’t have some sugar for this, do you?’ I raise my mug of horrid green tea.
‘I’ve got honey,’ she offers, putting her mug down and standing. I’m hoping that the honey’s in the kitchen downstairs, because I have a plan. Unfortunately, she just crosses to the dresser, so while her back is turned I mime a person walking from the room by wiggling two fingers at Jess. I point towards the doorway.
Nuala returns with a grubby spoon and a pot of honey, so I smile and sweeten my tea. Jess, I can tell, is still trying to work out what I want.
‘Um, could I use your toilet?’ she asks, looking at me for clues as to whether she’s on the right track. ‘We were driving for hours before we got here.’
‘Sure,’ Nuala tells her. ‘It’s at the end of the corridor, one floor up. Second door on the right. There’s one on this floor but it’s out of order. It’s been out of order for years, actually, ever since the ceiling fell in.’
Jess catches my eye, silently checking that this is what I wanted. I almost imperceptibly tip my head from side to side.
And then she twigs. ‘Oh, could you come with me?’ she asks, sounding utterly fake. ‘I have the worst sense of direction.’
‘Really?’ Nuala asks, unconvinced.
‘She really does,’ I laugh. ‘Jess can get lost in her own bedroom. If you let her loose here, we may never find her again.’
Nuala sighs and stands. ‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Whatever. It’s just down here . . .’
I listen to their voices fading into the distance, and then I put my tea down and scoot across her bedroom to the iMac.
There’s an envelope next to the mouse addressed to Nuala O’Kane. The postal address is the same one we found on the internet, the address that when typed into Google Maps mysteriously led us to the middle of a stretch of main road miles from here.
I pray that Nuala’s computer isn’t password protected, and I’m in luck because as soon as I touch the mouse the swirling screen saver vanishes and is replaced by Nuala’s messy desktop.
I click on the address book icon and type ‘Zoe’ into the search box. When this fails I type ‘Nick’ instead. This time, I’m in luck. There are two Nicks in Nuala’s address book, one in Manchester and one with what looks like a French address. My heart racing at the thought of being caught, I photograph both of these with my iPhone, then close the window and return to the divan.
As soon as I sit down I realise that there’s a problem: the multicoloured screen saver has not come back on. If it’s anything like mine, it will probably be a few minutes before it does so.
Without any particular idea how to solve this, I return to the computer. I think about switching it off entirely, but that will look suspicious, too. And then, just as I hear their voices drifting down the distant staircase, I have another idea, which, though it isn’t much better, is all that I have for now: I open a browser window and Google the route from Portpatrick to Glasgow.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Nuala asks, the second she steps through the doorway. She rushes to my side and pulls the mouse from my hand. ‘Really!’ she says.
‘Sorry!’ I say, feigning cocky arrogance. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind. I was only—’
‘Mind?’ she asks, peering at the screen. ‘What are you doing, anyway?’
‘Jees, I was only looking at Google Maps,’ I tell her. ‘We were thinking of maybe going to Glasgow this afternoon, but it’s a bit of a long way.’
‘Such an entitled generation!’ Nuala says. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to leave. I need to get back to my soup.’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘I’m not upset,’ Nuala says. ‘I’m annoyed. They’re entirely different emotions.’
‘Um, will you still help us get in touch with Zoe?’ Jess asks. ‘Please? It’s ever so important.’
‘You can give me your number,’ Nuala says, speaking through a weary sigh. ‘I’ll text it to them. And then it’s up to Zoe what she does.’
I pull out my wallet and hand her one of my business cards. ‘Jude Fuller,’ she says, reading out loud. ‘At least the name matches up.’
‘Oh, he’s her brother all right,’ Jess says.
‘Fine,’ Nuala says, sliding the card under her keyboard. ‘Well, I promise I’ll let her know. I can do no more.’
She escorts us back past the reading man and on through the house to the front door. Outside we see two more women of a similar age to Nuala, identically dressed in jeans, boots and multiple layers of jumpers. They look pretty miserable and are alternately carrying and dragging a hefty wooden pallet towards the house, which might explain why. Neither of them acknowledges our presence or even the fact that Nuala is there.
‘Can I give you a hand with that?’ I offer, but they both reply with thin-lipped shakes of the head.
‘A bit cold for open-top cruising, isn’t it?’ Nuala comments, when we reach the car.
‘It is,’ I agree. ‘But when the lady wants something, the safest thing is to agree.’
‘The lady,’ Nuala says. ‘Huh.’ And then she turns and walks back towards the house.
‘I can’t believe you did that,’ Jess says. ‘That was so rude.’
‘Calling you a lady?’
‘No!’ she says. ‘Using her computer like that! I’m not surprised she kicked us—’
‘Jess!’ I interrupt. ‘I got the address. And the phone number.’
Jess wide-eyes me in astonishment. ‘Really?’
‘Yep. They were in the address book on her Mac.’
‘Really?’ Jess says again. ‘But that’s . . .’
‘Brilliant?’
‘It’s also very naughty.’
‘Sure. But admit that it’s also quite James Bond-y.’
‘OK, perhaps,’ she acknowledges reluctantly. ‘Just a bit.’
I start the engine and hit the button to close the roof. ‘That’s the good news,’ I tell her. ‘The bad news is that it looks like she may really be in France.’
As we bump back down the driveway, and as the house recedes in the rear-view mirror, I ask Jess if she’s certain she doesn’t want to stay behind. ‘You did say you might join the commune,’ I remind her facetiously.
‘If they’re not allowed to moisturise, it’s definitely not for me,’ Jess says.
‘I’m sorry?’ I laugh.
‘Did you see those women’s faces?’ Jess asks.
‘I thought Nuala looked pretty good,’ I say.
‘Yeah, OK. She did. But what about the other two?’ Jess says. ‘I mean, I get the whole no-make-up thing. I even get the baggy jumpers, though personally, if I was spending my days in those temperatures, I’d probably shell out for a decent parka . . . But I’m not having alligator skin for anyone.’
‘Wow,’ I say, through my grin. ‘A woman of principles. Who knew lack of moisturiser would be the downfall of the revolution?’
‘I am joking,’ Jess says. ‘Well, in a way I am. Then again, the lack of moisturiser is kind of symbolic of everything else, isn’t it?’
‘No heating, no sugar, no moisturiser?’ I say, checking left and right and pulling back out on to the main road.
‘No joy,’ Jess says. ‘That’s the main thing that seemed to be missing.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘They seemed a bit miserable, didn’t they? But I suppose that living in minus five will do that to you.’
‘T
hey didn’t seem to like each other much either, did they?’ Jess says. ‘That was the vibe I got, anyway.’
‘Not much of a hippy love-in going on there, no.’
‘Good on Zoe for moving out,’ Jess says. ‘Imagine staying there. How long do you think Nuala’s been there? Or Gunter, for that matter?’
‘Forever,’ I say. ‘Maybe they’re all dead. Actually, that could be it! Maybe they’re all ghosts.’
‘That would at least explain the dry skin,’ Jess says.
I drive back to the centre of Portpatrick and park in the same spot on the seafront. The sky is clouding over again, and with it, the temperature is dropping fast. Even with the car heater on full blast I’m unable to get the Hill House chill from my bones.
We lunch in the first place we find, a seafront pub called the Waterfront.
It has a wood stove in one corner, radiating so much heat we actually can’t sit next to it, but it’s a cosy surprise after the chill of outdoors and I finally stop shivering.
Though we’re the only customers, they inform us that they have everything on their extensive menu. I choose the sea bass in lemon and butter, which is delicious, while Jess plumps for the mushroom bruschetta, which, judging by her expression, is somewhat less successful.
We eat in thoughtful silence, both thinking, I reckon, about the commune, and when we’ve finished, we order coffees. While we wait for these I show Jess the two addresses I photographed, and she punches the first number into her phone.
‘Do you want to call?’ she asks. ‘Or shall I?’
‘I’m worried she’ll just hang up on me,’ I say. ‘And then she’ll know I’m on to her, won’t she? It might make it harder to track her down. I need to think a bit more before I do that.’
‘I could do it and just ask to speak to Zoe, and hang up or something.’
‘You could see if she’s there and then just pretend you can’t hear her,’ I suggest. ‘Pretend it’s a bad line. That might seem less suspicious.’
‘OK,’ Jessica says. ‘I’ll do that.’
The first number, corresponding to the address in Manchester, answers immediately. But when Jess asks to speak to Zoe, the Nick on the end of the line denies knowing anyone of that name. As for the French number, it repeatedly connects to a weird semi-continuous tone that neither of us has ever come across before.
‘Number disconnected, but in French?’ I suggest when Jess holds the handset to my ear.
‘Lost in translation, whatever it is,’ Jess says, with a shrug. ‘Shall we send a text?’
‘Saying what, though?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know,’ Jess says. ‘Ask her to call you back, maybe?’
‘I just . . . I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I somehow don’t think a phone call is the way. I think she’ll just hang up and vanish all over again.’
‘But that will happen anyway, won’t it?’ Jess says. ‘Because Nuala is going to text her.’
‘Only she doesn’t know we have the address. So she’s not going to know that we can find her.’
‘True,’ Jess says. ‘So what you’re saying is, we need to go and surprise her.’
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘Maybe we do, one day.’
‘Let me look,’ Jess says, turning to her phone again. ‘Hang on.’
‘Look for what?’ I ask.
‘Well, where Villeneuve-Loubet is, for a start.’
I laugh at this. ‘We’re not going to France,’ I tell her. ‘Not now.’
‘It’s right down south, near the coast,’ she announces.
‘Even more reason,’ I tell her. ‘It would take us all week just to get there, Jess. And the cost would be astronomical.’
‘There are flights,’ she says. ‘Actually, the nearest airport is Nice, so there are masses of flights.’
‘Jess,’ I say. ‘Just stop.’
‘. . . not too expensive either,’ she continues, still tapping away at her phone. ‘All things considered, that’s quite reasonable.’
I reach out and place my fingers over the screen of her phone. ‘Please stop.’
She puts the phone down with a sigh, and then flips it over so that it’s face-down. ‘Am I becoming obsessive?’ she asks.
‘Just a bit,’ I tell her gently. ‘We’ve only got a week left, so let’s just get the car back down to Gatwick and go home and relax, shall we? Let’s do some fun stuff in London and have a break from chasing Zoe around. I need to think about what to do next. Or if I want to continue at all.’
‘OK,’ Jess says. ‘I mean, she’s your sister, so, OK, fine.’
The waitress brings us our coffees, and by the time she leaves the table, Jess is fiddling anew with her Samsung.
‘What are you doing now?’ I ask, frustratedly. I’m starting to feel like Jessica’s phone is a third person taking part in our holiday. She breaks into a grin, and then turns the phone to face me so that I can see what’s onscreen. The headline reads ‘Nice, France’, and below it is a weather forecast comprising a row of little orange sunshine icons. Next to each of these it says, Max 18, Min 7.
‘Jess!’ I protest. ‘No. Just, no!’
‘Hey, I’m just saying,’ Jess laughs, putting the phone down and sliding it across the table towards me with one finger. She raises her hands in surrender, then adds, ‘I mean, personally, I like snow. I have no problem with snow whatsoever. I’m merely pointing out that there are other weather systems out there, if one were to so desire.’
‘If one were to so desire?’ I repeat, laughing. ‘Did you just say “if one were to so desire”?’
‘Oh, shut up!’ Jess says. ‘And stop being so . . . you know! Just stop it.’
Eleven
Mandy
Even as we prepared Zoe’s surprise party, we did all the usual things. We phoned around her friends to see if she had stayed with them, and we got them to call others in case someone somewhere had seen her.
The few close friends who’d been invited seemed genuinely surprised at her vanishing act and asked if the party was still happening. Her best friend, Vanessa, reassured us, insisting that Zoe would definitely turn up. ‘She thinks she’s getting an iPhone 4 for her birthday,’ she said. ‘She wouldn’t miss that for nothing.’
I had no idea how Zoe had found out about the gift, but ultimately I was glad she had. At least she had an extra reason to turn up.
I called her a few times during the day, but her old Blackberry was either switched off or the battery was flat. As neither of these was particularly unusual, I honestly didn’t worry too much.
The party that evening was bizarre.
Having Linda helping me set up with her girls running around our feet, and Ian in the house cooking chicken – well, that was all strange enough. But when the moment that Zoe was supposed to arrive came and went and we had to start the party without her, it all started to feel rather surreal.
Zoe’s friends abandoned ship pretty early on, and once Jude understood that there was no chance we were going to give him the iPhone in Zoe’s absence, he and his mate did the same.
I was left entertaining my ex-husband’s new family amid a colourful decor of pointless balloons and excellent home-made birthday cake.
‘Are you worried?’ Linda asked me, at one point.
Ian answered on my behalf, an old habit of his that had always annoyed me. ‘Of course she’s not,’ he said. ‘Zoe’s done this thousands of times.’
‘I’m not sure about thousands,’ I said. ‘But yes, she’s certainly done it before.’
And it was true. Though I could sense a fairly consequential groundswell of anger rising within me, I still hadn’t felt the first twinge of fear.
The following morning, when I got up, I went straight to her bedroom. I sat on her empty bed for a few minutes staring out at the grey morning light, and then went downstairs to pop all the damned balloons.
On Sunday, there was no news, but I didn’t worry overly. Even on Monday, as I headed to work, I was still feeling more fury
than fear. Sure, there was a vague frisson of concern starting to take seed within me, but it wasn’t until that evening, when I called her friends, that I chose to acknowledge the sensation. Zoe had not been to school that day. Still no one had heard anything from her.
On Tuesday morning, before work, I dropped into the police station. Again, because it had happened so often before, they told me not to worry. But by dusk I was scared. The completely sleep-free night that followed left me feeling panicky and febrile.
I managed to take Thursday off work and used it to visit the school, where I interviewed each of her friends. The police had, the kids informed me, asked exactly the same questions the previous day. Through Sinead, I met Zoe’s once-upon-a-time boyfriend Gareth. This was something of a shock, as neither Ian, Jude nor myself had ever heard the slightest mention of his existence – I wondered what else we didn’t know. But neither Gareth, nor Sinead, nor anyone else had the slightest clue as to where my daughter was hiding, and by the time I got home that evening I was frantic with worry, a horrific state in which time without news seemed to stretch, so that minutes felt like days and days felt like weeks. The worst, though, were the nights. I’d lie in bed listening to the rain and wonder if my darling daughter was sleeping under a bridge, or dying in a ditch, or being raped somewhere. I struggled to avoid thinking about the possibility that just maybe she was already dead.
The following Monday morning a policewoman turned up at my workplace. She looked, and spoke, exactly like Olivia Colman.
As our offices were all open plan, I led her to the meeting room. Because all four walls were made of glass, we called it the goldfish bowl, but at least it was relatively soundproof.
I was convinced, as I entered, that she was about to tell me that my daughter was dead, so I lowered the semi-transparent blinds before turning to face her.
‘We’ve found Zoe,’ the policewoman told me. ‘Your daughter’s fine. That’s the first thing I have to tell you.’
I doubled up at the news. I thought I was about to be sick. ‘Thank God,’ I breathed, as the tears streamed down my cheeks. The policewoman crossed the room to my side and gently stroked my back.
The Road to Zoe Page 18