Stolen

by Tess Stimson

  No matter how bad things got between us, how vicious the knock-down, drag-out arguments, somehow we always ended up in bed together, our fury and hate acting as an aphrodisiac in a way that mirrored our very first encounter. At the time, I consoled myself with the thought that our marriage couldn’t really be on the rocks, because no couple could be this good in bed if it were.

  What I didn’t realise, until the day I threw him out for yet again breaking his fingers-crossed promise of fidelity, was that we communicated through sex because we had nothing else.

  In the eight months between our separation and Luca’s sudden death, I was celibate, unable to envision ever being with another man. But death has a strange way of recalibrating your perspective. It makes you grasp life, and sex is the ultimate expression of that instinct. I couldn’t live with Luca, but I never expected to have to inhabit a world without him, either.

  I don’t broadcast my after-hours activities, but I refuse to apologise for being a single twenty-nine-year-old with a healthy sexual appetite, either.

  Ian is witty and charming, and I find him attractive. Judging by the level of flirtation between us as the evening deepens, my feelings are reciprocated. His lines aren’t particularly original, and the flattery a little too thick, but I’m not in this for the long term.

  We’ve drifted to the edge of the throng of wedding guests by the time Sian’s father clinks his fork against a champagne glass to signify the start of the speeches. Over Ian’s shoulder, I can see the occasional flash of Lottie’s pink dress as she goes back to the buffet table for second helpings, and then thirds.

  Zealy and Paul are sitting at a table near the gate to the beach, her feet in his lap, an empty bottle of champagne amid the dirty plates in front of them.

  ‘Could you keep an eye on Lottie for a bit?’ I ask.

  ‘No problem,’ she says, casting Ian a knowing glance. ‘Have fun.’

  The drifts of powdery sand are oddly cool beneath my bare feet, and it’s surprisingly dark once we get beyond the immediate penumbra of light from the hotel. The susurration of the waves on the shore is erotic and, when Ian pulls me towards one of the serried ranks of double “honeymoon‘ sunloungers, I don’t hesitate.

  ‘Know anything about stars?’ Ian asks, gazing up at the night sky.

  ‘Ursa Minor,’ I say, pointing. ‘That W? That’s Cassiopeia. And Andromeda, over there, look. The bright star.’

  ‘How d’you know all that?’

  I shrug. ‘It interests me.’

  ‘What’s your star sign, then?’

  ‘Not astrology,’ I say. ‘Astronomy. There’s a difference.’

  The moon has risen higher in the sky while we’ve been on the beach, bathing us in its cool, eerie light. I realise we’ve been gone longer than I’d thought.

  ‘I should be getting back to the hotel,’ I say. ‘I need to get my daughter to bed.’

  ‘I won’t be seeing you again, will I?’

  ‘No,’ I say. It would be an insult to pretend otherwise.

  I’ve become expert at compartmentalising my life, separating out the strand that is a parent from the workaholic lawyer. It’s a safety mechanism. I don’t know if it’s healthy, but I don’t know any other way to be.

  But Ian’s comment stings a little. I’m not the hardened man-eater he seems to think. I can’t afford to get involved; even if I had the time, there’s Lottie to consider. Any man I date is a potential stepfather. The responsibility of choosing the right man for my child is overwhelming, and one I’m not ready to face.

  I show my pink security bracelet to the waiter on attendance at the gate and rejoin the thinning number of wedding guests.

  The speeches have finished; I must have been gone longer than I thought. Zealy and Paul are dancing cheek to cheek by the pool with a few other couples, and I scan the courtyard for my daughter.

  When I fail to find her, I go and tap Zealy on the shoulder.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, not yet frightened. ‘Have you seen Lottie?’

  chapter 08

  alex

  ‘She was just here,’ Zealy says, pulling away from Paul and glancing around the courtyard. ‘We saw her a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Did you see where she went?’

  ‘Sorry. But it can’t have been very far,’ she adds.

  Paul slings his arm around Zealy’s shoulders. ‘She was headed back towards the ice-cream station with some of the other kids,’ he says. ‘It was literally only about three or four minutes ago.’

  I thank them and head over to the buffet tables. As Zealy said, Lottie can’t have got very far in a couple of minutes. I’d have seen her as I came in if she was anywhere near the ocean side of the courtyard.

  I must have just missed her at the ice-cream station. The waiter manning it shrugs when I ask after Lottie, and a quick recce along the buffet tables tells me she’s not helping herself to wedding profiteroles or softening tortilla chips either.

  I turn back to the courtyard, wondering where she can have got to, and catch a glimpse of pink skirts disappearing around the corner. There’s a small section in the rear of the courtyard devoted to kids’ games: air hockey, a pool table, a pinball machine and whack-a-mole. Lottie spent an hour here yesterday, before I ran out of American quarter coins and had to drag her away. No doubt she’s begged or borrowed some more money from Marc or another guest, which is slightly embarrassing. Clearly, I need to set firmer boundaries.

  But when I round the corner, there’s no sign of Lottie. One of the pre-teen bridesmaids is setting up a rack of balls on the pool table; it must have been her skirts I saw.

  ‘Have you seen Lottie?’ I ask.

  She looks at me blankly.

  ‘The little flower girl. The one with the blonde hair.’

  ‘Oh, the fat one?’

  The smart one, you buck-toothed human haemorrhoid. ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Nah. Not for ages.’

  A faint wisp of anxiety curdles my stomach. We’re probably just missing each other in the crowd, that’s all. But it’s a lot less busy than it was; quite a few people have already left the reception, and waiters are beginning to clear plates away.

  I scan the courtyard for a glimpse of blonde hair. Lottie must be here somewhere. She can’t have got out to the beach; there’s a waiter on duty at the exit gate checking security bracelets, and anyway, I’d have seen her as I came in that way myself.

  I skirt the pool, refusing to acknowledge the depth of my relief when I verify its turquoise waters are undisturbed, and then go inside the hotel. There are three receptionists behind the desk and a doorman at the front entrance; one of them would have noticed if a three-year-old wandered out of the hotel on her own.

  But when I ask if anyone’s seen her, they all shake their heads. One of the receptionists offers to look for her with me, but I decline. Escalating the search would be admitting something is wrong. And everything’s fine.

  I just can’t find my daughter, that’s all.

  comments

  share what you think

  407 comments

  ButterFly57, Florida, USA

  I can’t imagine what that poor woman is going through. God bless that beautiful little girl. Hope and pray she comes home safely.

  Fizz_for_fuzz, Devon, UK

  Why would anyone leave their kid alone just coz they’re on holiday? Why??

  Happysmile, Edinburgh, UK

  If this was my child I would be searching with my bare hands until they were down to the bone …

  Fair-minded, Brittany, France

  This poor woman, she must be out of her mind with worry. She was at a wedding, her child should of been safe.

  sharpcat21, London, UK

  Good parenting is not leaving a 3 yr old unsupervised at night.

  WideAwake @sharpcat21

  She wasn’t unsupervised, she was at a wedding with friends. Where’s your compassion?

  Nothing_To_See_Here, Greater Manchester, UK

  Why d
oes this snoozepaper feel the need to tell us how much her flat is worth? Her child is missing for God’s sake.

  chocciegirl, Florida, USA

  I sure hope this little girl is found safe and well. How can a child disappear in the middle of a wedding???

  BriarRose @chocciegirl

  It’s like nowhere’s safe anymore.

  chapter 09

  alex

  The panic doesn’t strike immediately. I make another circuit of the courtyard, checking every inch. Once I’m certain Lottie isn’t there, I go back into the hotel and search all the public areas leading from the lobby, including the dining room – always Lottie’s first port of call – and toilets. I go upstairs and check she hasn’t returned to our room, although she doesn’t have a keycard, so she wouldn’t be able to get in. She is nowhere to be seen.

  I’m suddenly very sober.

  ‘Think,’ I tell myself out loud. ‘Don’t panic.’

  Lottie is not in the courtyard. She’s not sitting outside our room, or in any of the public areas of the hotel. She’d never have gone to the beach without me, and even if she had, the hotel staff manning the gate are under specific instructions not to allow children to leave on their own. That leaves only one logical option: she must have gone off to play with one of the other bridesmaids in their room.

  Actually, it leaves two options, but I refuse to put the second on the table.

  I return to the reception desk and ask the helpful girl behind it for the room numbers of the four other bridesmaids.

  ‘I can’t give you those,’ she says, ‘but I can call them, if you’d like?’

  Lottie is not in any of the other families’ rooms.

  It’s twenty minutes now since I came back from the beach; twenty-three or twenty-four minutes since Zealy and Paul saw Lottie. I imagine that pinprick of certainty – she was headed back towards the ice-cream station with some of the other kids – as the glowing blue dot in the centre of a circle. With every second that passes, the radius of possibility widens.

  How far can a three-year-old go in five minutes? In ten? In twenty?

  What if she’s not alone?

  I can’t ignore the second option any longer. I run back to the courtyard, consumed by fear. She’s hiding, I tell myself. She must be hiding.

  I know she’s not here, but I check again: under the tables and behind large concrete bougainvillea planters, not caring that I’m starting to attract attention. I feel dizzy, as if I have vertigo. My eyes ache and my throat is dry. I know, already, that my search has somehow shifted.

  This will be the moment I come back to, again and again. The decisions I make now, whether I go down to the beach, even though I’m sure she’s not there, or out into the car park in front of the hotel in case she slipped past the doorman; whether I draft other guests to help in the search, risking chaos or confusion, or keep looking by myself. What I do next will be something I live with forever.

  ‘You still haven’t found her?’ Zealy asks, as I make my third circuit of the buffet tables.

  ‘She can’t have got far,’ I repeat.

  Except that’s not true any more. In half an hour, Lottie can walk a mile. And that’s assuming she’s moving under her own steam. I picture a hand clamping over her mouth, a strong arm scooping her up, and struggle not to vomit.

  Zealy hitches up her ridiculous pink skirts and strides over to the DJ managing the music. A moment later, Elton John falls quiet, and people turn in surprise.

  ‘Listen up, everybody,’ Zealy says, clapping her hands for attention. ‘We seem to have lost one of our little bridesmaids. There’s no need to worry, but if everyone could help us track her down, we’d all be grateful.’

  She strikes just the right note of contained concern. As wedding guests start to look about them, Zealy marshals a couple of hotel staff and sends them down onto the beach, just in case.

  Part of me is sure that in a few minutes, when Lottie has been discovered hiding behind a rack of postcards or fast asleep in the lobby, I’m going to wish Zealy hadn’t raised the alarm prematurely. Lottie’s just gone upstairs looking for our room and got lost. She’s probably stuck in the lift, or sitting on the stairs, waiting for someone to find her.

  ‘She’d never go near the sea,’ I tell Zealy. ‘I don’t want to waste time looking for her there.’

  ‘She might if she thought that’s where you were.’

  If she saw me leave with Ian.

  The beach is the only place I haven’t looked. Zealy and I run down there now, and I’m not even pretending to be calm any longer.

  I yell Lottie’s name, shouting myself hoarse, as we turn and run in opposite directions. The sand, which seemed so beautiful just hours ago, is now a treacherous bog serving only to slow me down. It’s like one of those hideous nightmares in which you try to run but find yourself trapped in quicksand, your limbs moving in slow motion as a faceless pursuer hunts you down.

  The sound of the sea is louder in the darkness. I shine the torch from my phone between the sunloungers, in case Lottie is hiding there, too afraid to move. She must be so scared. For all her bravura, she is still a three-year-old child alone in the dark.

  I don’t know how far down the beach I should go. Panic clutches my heart. Suppose this is the wrong direction? Suppose I am moving further away from Lottie, instead of closer?

  Ahead of me, a beached catamaran looms out of the darkness. I run towards it. In my mind’s eye, I picture Lottie crouched down behind it, lost and frightened, her knees pulled into her chest, her blonde hair tangled by the wind. The vision is so real that when I draw level with the fibreglass pontoons, I am fully expecting Lottie to be there.

  The shout that I have found her! dies on my lips. My disappointment is so visceral I lean on the catamaran and vomit onto the sand.

  I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth and circle around the catamaran. There are so many places she could be, so many directions she could have gone. To my right is the inky sea; to my left, the bright lights of the St Pete Beach strip. Ahead of and behind me are miles of shadowed, dimpled sand. I spin in circles, panic choking me. She could be anywhere.

  With anyone.

  A voice calls my name. Marc is jogging down the beach towards me.

  ‘Have you found her?’ he calls.

  ‘Where is she, Marc?’

  He draws level with me and squeezes my shoulders. ‘We’ll find her. She can’t have got far.’

  ‘There was a man,’ I say, suddenly remembering.

  ‘What man?’

  I can’t believe this slipped my mind. ‘Yesterday afternoon, when we were down on the beach. I saw him talking to Lottie. He had his hand on her shoulder.’ I frown, trying to remember the details. ‘Mid-forties, receding hair. Thin. Smartly dressed – too smart for the beach. There was something off about him.’

  ‘We need to call the police,’ Marc says.

  Calling the police will mean this is real. My daughter isn’t just lost or hiding from me. She’s missing.

  ‘Better safe than sorry,’ he adds. ‘By the time they get here, I’m sure we’ll have found her.’

  There are people scattered all over the beach now, calling Lottie’s name. The atmosphere at the hotel has changed when Marc and I return, desperate for news. Floodlights have been turned on in the courtyard, tables pushed back. The hotel manager is addressing staff clustered in a small knot beside the desk in reception. They’re instructed to check inside anywhere a child could crawl or hide and possibly be asleep or unable to get out: cupboards, piles of laundry, large appliances, outbuildings and crawl spaces.

  A child is missing. Everything is to be put on hold until she’s located.

  Marc talks to the hotel manager. It’s been an hour already. If she was in the hotel, she would have been found. The police are being called. Already my world is splintering into before and after.

  I know – we all know – that in the case of a missing person, the first seventy-two hours are crucial. Of
those precious hours, the first is the most vital of all. We’ve already wasted that. Every moment that passes takes my daughter further from me. The chances of her safe return will shrink hour by hour, minute by minute, until I’m left hoping for a miracle.

  Luca and I used to joke about Lottie being abducted. If anyone takes her, we used to say, they’d soon bring her back.

  Zealy reaches for my hand and doesn’t let go. We sit on the sofa in the hotel lobby, waiting for the police to arrive. This is America, I tell myself. The police know what they’re doing here. They have the FBI and the most sophisticated technology in the world. If someone has taken my daughter, they’ll track them down.

  There’s a sudden shout from the corridor. ‘I’ve found her!’ Paul cries.

  We leap up. Everyone is running towards him.

  He’s holding a bundle of pink taffeta in his arms. A little girl’s blonde head lolls against his shoulder.

  It’s impossible to tell if she’s alive.

  chapter 10

  alex

  The child Paul has found is not Lottie.

  It turns out he has confused my daughter with one of the other bridesmaids, five-year-old Olivia Everett, who’d fallen asleep in the hotel recreation room. It takes a moment for the significance of his mistake to register and, when it does, I feel as if an abyss has opened at my feet.

  ‘Was it you or Paul who saw Lottie at the ice-cream station, just before I came back from the beach?’ I ask Zealy urgently.

  She looks at him and then back at me as she, too, realises the seriousness of the error. ‘It was Paul.’

  Paul, who has mistaken Olivia for Lottie. He’s been muddling them all night. They don’t look alike: Olivia’s hair is much darker, a dirty blonde close to mouse, and she’s far skinnier than Lottie. But to a childless man in his thirties, one fair-haired little girl in a pink dress is much like another.

  Which means it wasn’t my daughter he saw headed back towards the ice-cream station with some of the other kids an hour and ten minutes ago.