Stolen

by Tess Stimson

I take the implicit rebuke in my stride.

  Harriet and I haven’t been close since we were children; we love each other, of course, but we’re chalk and cheese. We often go months without speaking, unless there’s a family crisis. Mum’s only fifty-seven, but she’s been in hospital twice in the last three years to have malignant polyps removed from her colon.

  On each occasion, I’ve been the one who’s had to break it to Harriet, who lives up in the Shetland Isles with her husband Mungo, an oil-rig engineer. Despite the wonders of modern technology, I know she often feels very cut off from the family, especially with Mungo frequently away on the rigs. She’s an artist, working from home, so she has plenty of time to feel lonely.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to worry you.’

  ‘It’s all right. False alarm.’

  There’s a slightly awkward pause.

  ‘Lottie must be excited,’ Harriet says, finally.

  My daughter is the one place where Harriet and I meet. She adores Lottie and, even though she and I don’t talk often, Lottie often hijacks my iPad so they can FaceTime.

  I glance at Lottie, who isn’t sitting on the sunlounger as instructed, but weaving in and out of the neat rows of gilt chairs, arms spread as if she’s pretending to be a plane, and getting under the feet of the hotel staff.

  ‘It’s Lottie,’ I say. ‘It’s hard to tell.’

  I’m surprised to hear the sound of a flight announcement in the background of the call. ‘Are you at the airport?’ I ask. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘It’s just the TV,’ Harriet says. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I just wanted to be sure everything was OK. Take lots of photos of Lottie for me, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say.

  I slip my phone back into my shorts and turn back along the beach, and see my daughter talking to a man I’ve never met.

  His hand is on her shoulder and something about the way he’s leaning over her sets every maternal alarm bell ringing. I call Lottie’s name loudly and the man glances in my direction and then briskly walks away. By the time I reach Lottie, he’s already disappearing around the side of the hotel.

  ‘Who was that?’ I demand of my daughter.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What have I told you about talking to strangers?’

  ‘I wasn’t talking to him. He was talking to me.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  She glares at me, clearly irked. ‘He said he couldn’t find his little girl, and asked if I’d seen her.’

  A shiver runs down my spine. Lottie is smart and intelligent, and I’ve drummed into her the dangers posed by strange men, but she’s still not yet four. I was less than fifteen metres away from her; I only took my eyes off her for a few moments.

  I frogmarch her back to the hotel, ignoring her furious yanks on my arm. I should have kept a closer eye on her: Florida has one of the highest numbers of sex offenders of all fifty American states. Its population, which comprises a significant number of tourists and retirees from other states, is transient and in a constant state of flux. There’s little sense of community and it’s an easy place to get lost in the crowd.

  I’m a lawyer. I looked it up.

  As we reach the hotel lobby, Lottie finally breaks free from me and races over to join the cluster of little girls who’ll be bridesmaids with her. I’m about to go after her when Marc’s sister, Zealy, steps out of the hotel lift.

  ‘Alex! I thought it was you! You’ve had your hair cut.’

  Reflexively, I touch the back of my head. I had a good eight inches lopped off my long hair last month, so that it now sits just below my collarbone; I just didn’t have the time to style it properly before. ‘It was driving me mad. Do you like it?’

  ‘I love it. It really suits you.’

  Zealy and I have been friends for years, although we don’t see each other as often as I’d like; my fault, of course. Those friendships that weren’t crushed by my workload fell by the wayside once I had Lottie. Zealy is actually Marc’s half-sister, from his mother’s first marriage to a black South African. The first time Sian met her, she asked if she could touch Zealy’s hair and remarked how wild it was she ‘sounded so white’.

  Zealy loops her arm through mine. ‘Come have a drink with me in the bar,’ she says. ‘Help me drown my sorrows.’

  I don’t let her lure me into the bar, but I do yield to a cocktail by the pool, keeping a close eye on Lottie’s bright platinum head as she and the other little girls dart back and forth around us like dragonflies.

  I’m in two minds about whether to report Lottie’s encounter with the man on the beach to the police, or at least to hotel management. The more I think about it, the odder it seems.

  But I’ve nothing concrete to offer them. If every mother who ever had a ‘bad feeling’ filed a police report, they’d be drowning in paperwork.

  I accept a second martini when Zealy presses me, and put the incident to the back of my mind.

  twenty-four hours before the wedding

  chapter 05

  alex

  Lottie upends my expectations and performs perfectly at the wedding rehearsal, which makes me fear for tomorrow. Her genius is in the art of bait-and-switch.

  Marc and Sian run through their vows three times before the blushing bride is satisfied. The young bridesmaids fidget on their gilt chairs, clearly bored, nudging each other in the ribs and pulling faces. Only Lottie behaves, hands folded primly in her lap. It’s a bad sign.

  Finally Sian is happy, and she and Marc process back down the sandy aisle.

  Zealy and Catherine corral the bridesmaids and they all fall into step behind Marc and Sian, with Lottie bringing up the rear.

  As soon as the bridal party reaches the gate from the beach to the private courtyard by the hotel pool, where the reception will take place, the five little girls break ranks and hurtle towards their parents.

  Lottie crashes into my legs, glowing with pride.

  ‘Did I do good, Mummy?’

  ‘You were perfect,’ I say, ruffling her curls and trying not to sound too surprised. ‘I hope you’ll be just like that tomorrow. I won’t be with you, so I’m trusting you, Lottie. Best behaviour.’

  ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘Just behind you, over there.’ I point to my reserved seat a couple of rows behind the bridesmaids’ chairs, along with the other parents. ‘I’ll see you as soon as we get back to the party at the hotel.’

  ‘Just follow me, Lottie, and stay with the other girls,’ Zealy says, as she joins us. ‘Mummy will be right behind you, with everyone else.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Lottie says.

  ‘Lottie,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t envy you the teenage years,’ Zealy says.

  Lottie tugs on my arm. ‘Can I have some ice-cream now?’

  ‘May I. After dinner.’

  Her eyes narrow. ‘You said I could have as much ice-cream as I wanted if I behaved.’

  She has me over a barrel, and she knows it.

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘But you’d better eat all your dinner, Lottie.’

  We leave the courtyard and pass through the Palm Court dining room, where a long table has been set up for the rehearsal dinner, then into the main hotel lobby. There’s a small shop near the entrance selling the usual tourist tat: postcards, T-shirts, shot glasses bearing the name of the hotel. It has an ice-cream freezer Lottie scoped out as soon as we came downstairs this morning.

  I lift her up to the freezer so she can pick out what she wants. She selects an ice-cream cookie the size of a wheel and Zealy and I sit on a bench in the lobby while she eats it.

  By the time she’s finished, and I’ve cleaned her face and sticky fingers, the rest of the wedding party has assembled in the Palm Court for dinner.

  We take the last three free seats at the crowded table next to Marc. Lottie immediately grabs both her bread roll and mine, devouring them in a couple of greedy bites.

  ‘Where does she put it
all?’ Zealy asks, as Lottie reaches down the table to help herself to Zealy’s roll.

  ‘She’ll eat herself sick just to spite me,’ I say.

  Marc’s college roommate and best man, Paul Harding, leans across the table and gives Lottie his own roll.

  ‘I like a girl with an appetite,’ he says, giving her a wink. ‘I’m always hungry at weddings, too. They never feed you properly.’

  Zealy and Paul have hooked up a couple of times over the years but, although I know Zealy would like to make the arrangement more formal, I don’t think Paul’s the kind to settle down. An international art consultant, he’s dark-haired and at least six foot five, his large nose leavening otherwise glossy good looks. They’d make an attractive couple.

  Flic Everett, the mother of one of the other bridesmaids, Olivia, signals to a waiter for another cocktail. ‘Are you sure you don’t want Lottie to eat with Olivia and the other girls upstairs?’ she asks me. ‘I’m sure it’d be more fun for her.’

  ‘I’m not letting her out of my sight,’ I say.

  ‘My eldest, Betty, is babysitting. Lottie would be fine, I promise—’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  Flic gives me an odd look, and then turns to Marc’s father, Eric, who’s seated on her other side.

  Lottie takes yet another roll. I realise she’s not actually eating them, but slipping them into the pockets of her cardigan. ‘What are you doing?’ I say.

  ‘They’re for my blue mummy,’ she says.

  That’s the second time she’s mentioned her ‘blue mummy’. Before I can ask her what she means, there’s a disruption at the other end of the table.

  A good-looking man I don’t recognise has entered the restaurant, and Sian rises to her feet to greet him. He’s clearly part of the wedding group; he must be one of the ushers. But there isn’t a free place for him at the table, and I realise my daughter has probably taken his seat.

  ‘Lottie shouldn’t be here,’ Sian says to me. ‘It’s just adults. We’ve only paid for twelve people.’

  ‘I’m happy to—’

  ‘She’s only a kid,’ Marc says. ‘It’s not like she’s going to eat much.’

  I don’t hold Sian’s sceptical expression against her.

  David Williams, Sian’s father, touches his daughter’s bare arm. ‘It’s all right, love. I’ll sort it out with the hotel afterwards.’

  ‘There isn’t room,’ Sian says.

  Catherine pushes her chair back slightly from the table and pats her lap. ‘She can sit on my knee, if she wants?’

  ‘Why don’t we all just move our chairs down a bit?’ Sian’s mother, Penny, says. ‘We can squeeze together, and make space for Ian.’

  Sian looks like she wants to object, but she reads the table and subsides. Marc beckons to a waiter and another chair is produced, and everyone shuffles along to make room.

  ‘Who’s he?’ I ask Zealy.

  ‘Ian Dutton,’ she says. ‘He’s one of Marc’s friends. He was a professional tennis player for a bit, though I think he’s retired now. He used to coach Marc, that’s how they met.’

  He certainly looks the part, his linen shirt failing to hide a rippling six-pack.

  ‘Sorry I missed the wedding rehearsal,’ Ian says, sitting down. ‘My flight was delayed and I only just got in. Anything special I need to know?’

  ‘Not really. Paul can fill you in,’ Marc says.

  ‘It’s more for the little ones,’ Penny adds. ‘And Lottie did a lovely job, didn’t she, Sian?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sian says, grudgingly.

  Two waiters serve our appetisers; Lottie has picked mussels in white wine. Not the choice of most three-year-olds, but then my daughter isn’t most children.

  ‘Good for her,’ Paul says, admiringly.

  ‘I don’t know how she can eat those things,’ Sian says, with a shudder. She toys with her rocket salad, no dressing, no almonds, hold the shaved parmesan.

  One of the mussels suddenly shoots out of Lottie’s hand, spraying white wine everywhere, and skids along the table, landing neatly in front of Sian’s plate.

  An accident, obviously.

  Lottie giggles and then claps two starfish hands over her mouth.

  Ian roars with laughter. ‘Slippery little buggers,’ he says. ‘Here. Let me winkle a few out for you, kid.’

  Lottie, normally reluctant to part with her food, hands him her bowl of mussels without complaint. Ian swiftly finesses half-a-dozen and returns it. ‘There you go. Don’t bother with a fork for the rest; just use your fingers.’

  Catherine leans forward. ‘I’ve just realised,’ she says, in a breathy whisper. ‘Now Ian’s here, there’s thirteen of us. Isn’t that unlucky?’

  ‘I don’t believe in luck,’ I say.

  chapter 06

  From my hidden vantage point, I watch the little girl run down the beach, her white-blonde hair streaming like a bleached flag behind her. She’s pretending to be a plane, or a bird perhaps: her arms are stretched wide as she swoops and dives across the sand.

  No one is with her. No one is watching her.

  Except me.

  The little girl stops suddenly, plopping down on her fat bottom in the sand. She tugs off her sandals and flings them into the sea, laughing with delight as the tide quickly whips them away. It’s hard not to smile, watching her. She is still young enough to be unfettered by should and ought. She’s impulsive, living in the moment. She skips joyfully along the beach in her bare feet, her skirts flapping wetly around her calves, and I wonder briefly at what age we stop skipping and surrender to the pedestrian discipline of walking and running.

  I’m glad she’s having fun now, because I know she’ll be frightened when I take her. I can’t help that, but I’ll make sure it’s all over as quickly as I can.

  The child veers closer to the shoreline, oblivious to my presence as I emerge from the rocks behind her, and I quell my instinct to pull her back from the water’s edge and tell her to be careful, that the tide is stronger than it looks. Life is dangerous. If she doesn’t know that by now, she soon will.

  And the biggest threat to her doesn’t come from the sea.

  It comes from me.

  the wedding day

  chapter 07

  alex

  As predicted, Lottie literally eats herself sick at the wedding rehearsal dinner. I’m up three times in the night with her and, as a consequence, we both sleep in until after nine.

  She seems fine when she wakes up, but I’m not taking any chances. We spend a quiet morning in our room, skipping the bridal party lunch, though I let Lottie order chicken soup from room service when she complains she’s hungry. She’s uncharacteristically cooperative and watches cartoons on my iPad while I get some work done. By the time the hairdresser needs her mid-afternoon, her colour has returned and she’s back to her old self.

  As soon as the stylist has finished plaiting her hair in a striking fishtail braid, I take her down to Zealy’s room, where the little bridesmaids are getting ready.

  Even though her last dress fitting was just three weeks ago, it takes some serious tugs on the zip to get her pouffy pink dress done up. But there’s a lump in my throat when she finally does a twirl. She may not be the world’s idea of a beauty, but she’s never looked lovelier to me.

  I warn Zealy to keep a plastic bag handy, just in case Lottie’s sick again, and go down to the beach to take my seat with the rest of the wedding guests.

  Ten minutes later, Zealy texts me a photo of my daughter, arms folded, scowling at the camera. I laugh out loud. It’s so very much the essence of Lottie I immediately make it my screensaver.

  Sian follows the American custom of having the bridesmaids precede her down the sandy aisle. I’m so proud of Lottie as she leads the way, scattering fistfuls of pink rose petals with a wild, joyous abandon that draws smiles from more than a few wedding guests and elicits a snort from Marc.

  I watch my daughter take her place at the end of the front row o
f gilt chairs beside the other bridesmaids, facing down the ocean with determination. I wish I was close enough to tell her how beautiful she is.

  The ceremony is brief and picturesque. Marc is visibly moved as Sian comes down the petal-strewn aisle in her ivory Vera Wang dress, her cold beauty warmed by the genuine glow in her eyes. The sun sinks photogenically into the sea as they complete their vows and a scattering of tourists, hovering at a polite distance along the water’s edge to watch, claps sentimentally.

  The release of two white doves as Sian and Marc walk back up the aisle together isn’t to my taste, but it brings us closer to my first glass of champagne, which most assuredly is.

  I join the stream of wedding guests following the bridal party back to the hotel for the reception. We’re all given pink wristbands before being permitted through a small gate into the private courtyard adjacent to the pool, where waiters are circulating.

  Taking a glass from one, I locate Zealy and Paul.

  ‘Didn’t Lottie do well?’ Zealy says. ‘Although I thought she was going to take someone’s eye out with her flower basket.’

  ‘Talking of,’ I say, glancing around.

  ‘She’s over by the ice-cream station with the other bridesmaids,’ Paul says, pointing to a knot of pink taffeta skirts just visible through the throng. ‘I saw her a few minutes ago tucking into the chocolate fudge brownie.’

  ‘In that case, let’s hope Sian’s not planning to recycle the dresses.’

  ‘Jesus, aren’t they hideous?’ Zealy exclaims, plucking at her own. ‘Pink, for God’s sake. I look like an uncooked sausage.’

  The good-looking tennis player comes over to join us, his rippling muscles somehow enhanced by his formal attire. I didn’t get a chance to talk to Ian Dutton last night, since he was seated at the far end of the table, but that’s something I intend to rectify now.

  I collect a second glass of champagne from a passing waiter. I don’t have time for relationships, but sex is a different matter.

  In most failing marriages, sex is the first thing to go. With Luca and me, it was the last.