by C. A. Larmer
Then he walked swiftly inside, his heart thumping, his pride too strong to ask her what the hell she was on about.
EVE
*SOS Rule 5: Call, call, call for help! If you have a mobile handy, use it!
No shit, Sherlock, Monty thought as she attempted to squeeze the extralong subtitle into the given space in the layout on her screen. I thought you just handed your phone over and asked him to film it.
She was in a bad mood, and this inane article wasn’t helping. It was now Friday morning, and Monty’s head was punishing her for too much Prosecco, too little sleep, and a decade of guilt.
Why hadn’t she told Amelia about her fling with Angus all those years ago? In the scheme of things, what did it even matter? Why should anyone care? Yet it did matter, Monty knew that. She knew she had stuffed up.
It mattered not because of the action—first just a clumsy fumble on a dark Santorini night. She hadn’t even enjoyed it, if truth be told, and he had seemed distracted. She wondered now if he was thinking of Millie and tried to shake the thought away. It mattered because of everything that had come later, how she had not done as she should have done and backtracked to Sarisi to look for her friend. How she let Angus talk her into travelling on to London, where their relationship quickly soured, Angus hooking up with an English girl faster than she could say “Cad!” How she had been so crestfallen she’d ditched the whole idea of staying longer and working in a pub—a dream she had once shared with Millie—and simply caught the first plane home without so much as a glance towards the Mediterranean. And then taken the first job that came along. The job at Eve.
Yet none of this was ever broached. Long after Millie also returned, the conversation never came up. Even as Millie morphed from a broken bird into Queen Amelia, Monty had had her opportunity; she’d had her chance.
Hadn’t they watched Angus’s star rise together? Hadn’t they sniggered and giggled and flirted with the idea of getting back in touch? Her stomach clenched, remembering how often she had put Amelia off, how time and again she had urged her not to phone him.
“You’re so much better than him,” Monty had said, her message couched in concern. “He’s a player, babe. He’ll break your heart.”
Like he broke mine, she should have added, could easily have said.
And yet she never did.
Monty remembered that fateful ferry ride now. The moment of no return.
She remembered their startled expressions as Amelia—Silly Millie back then—grabbed her backpack and ran for the gangway, stopping for just a moment to look back, a sliver of something on her face—was it excitement? Exhilaration? Terror?—before she vanished, off the boat and into the darkest chapter of her life, while they all just watched her go.
They let her dash towards her fate.
“What the fuck?” Angus had said, staring hard at Thomas then.
“She’ll be back,” Thomas assured him. But how could he know that? They’d only known each other a week.
Monty had said nothing at first. Speechless. Gobsmacked. Eventually she found her feet and raced for the railing to watch as her friend skipped down the gangway and towards the guy she had spotted her flirting with earlier.
What the hell, Millie? What are you doing? Was her first thought, but there was another thought too. She knew it even then. Good. Keep going.
There was still a chance, just a few frozen minutes, when she could have called out or, better yet, grabbed her own pack and raced to catch her friend, but she didn’t do that. She just watched as Amelia strode along the deck towards a complete stranger and then away. She kept watching as a whistle pierced the air, and the ferrymen began flinging ropes and the ship began churning, and the island began moving swiftly out of focus.
When she finally returned to where they had been sitting, Sarisi simply a blot on the hot horizon again, she gave the guys a shrug and sat back down. But this time she didn’t place her head in Thomas’s lap. She sat between them and pointed her feet towards his best friend.
A soft ding brought Monty back to the present, and she glanced at the top of her screen. A message from Alex: How’s SOS coming along? You’ve been at it for days!!! She grimaced and glanced back at the layout.
Maybe it was the subject matter, maybe it was the timing, or perhaps it was the flippant way in which it was being discussed, but Monty couldn’t make the self-defence story work. She stared at the accompanying image. The model looked a little determined, a little annoyed, like overcoming her attacker was just one of many things on her to-do list. Perhaps Monty should ditch the picture and find a bright mobile phone shot instead.
If only they’d had mobile phones back then, she thought, her mind wandering again. This was before they became commonplace, back before international roaming and text messages.
She sat back, her head racing. Phone… messages… Wilkins… Wilson…
She pulled herself up and headed for the editorial assistant.
“Brianna, you said something the other day about Amelia’s phone calls. You mentioned someone called Wilson.”
“Hey? What?”
Brianna was tapping away at her keyboard, adding what looked like yet another Facebook post. How much social media did they need to do? Monty wondered, before clicking her fingers impatiently. It was something Amelia would do. She stopped, thrust her hands into her pockets.
“Last Friday. You said Amelia got a bunch of calls, right? From her mum and that Amanda woman, and some guy, you said his name was Wilkins or Wilson.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, which one was it? Wilkins or Wilson?”
“I can’t remember, sorry. I think it might have been Wilson.”
Brianna reached for a spike with a stack of yellow stickies and white note pages attached and began flicking through them.
“Did he at least leave a first name?”
She continued wading. “Not sure, give me a minute!” Then, sensing the urgency, she stopped and looked up at her. “Why? Is it the guy in the high-viz vest?”
Monty ignored the question and waved her on. “You must remember why he was calling; he must have left a message.”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“How do you not know? Aren’t you her assistant? Why didn’t you ask?”
Brianna bristled at that. “He was returning her call!”
That stopped Monty in her tracks. “Really?”
Why in God’s name would Amelia have called Thomas Wilson?
“Really. Aha! Here it is!” She pulled a message slip from the spike and waved it at the designer as if it were the proverbial Golden Ticket.
Monty snatched it from her and read the details. Tom Wilson, returning call 10:33 a.m. Friday. There was a number scribbled at the bottom.
Montana tapped the paper against her lips. Why would Amelia call Thomas after all these years? What did she want with him? Unless it was a different Tom Wilson? She shook her head. It had to be the same guy. It was too much of a coincidence.
First Angus, now Thomas.
What the hell was going on?
TOM
Tom hadn’t enjoyed a day at work more in a long while. It was Friday morning. His wife had been missing five days now, but his boss, Jimbo, simply issued orders like he normally did, then returned to the converted shipping container that doubled as the headquarters of Shepperdin Building Supplies. As if he didn’t care. As if everything was hunky-dory.
It was such a blessed relief, not being treated like a criminal or, worse, a bad husband, and Tom enjoyed the physical toil, the shearing of timber, the oiling of giant slabs, the shifting of rocks and gravel. It helped to feel normal again, to feel physically weary, to forget if only briefly that his life had just fallen apart.
The only indication that things were different now was Jimbo’s casual nod when Tom tapped on his door that afternoon and asked to knock off early.
“Gotta get my kid at two today,” he explained. “He’s got a thing—”
&nbs
p; “No worries.”
Jimbo didn’t want to hear it, and this left Tom frowning. A week ago the older man would’ve snorted at Tom and told him he was whipped. Today he added, “Take all the time you need,” ruining Tom’s buzz.
Two hours later, his buzz now back, Tom pulled up outside his home and sat in his truck for a moment, not willing to get out, not willing to face his empty house.
“Thomas Bloody Wilson,” came a voice through the open window, and he jumped, nearly hitting his head on the roof of the vehicle.
“Jesus!” he said, holding on to his chest, then he looked out and up towards the familiar figure that was leaning in. “Jesus,” he said again and flung the door open. “Angus Bloody Tower, what the hell are you doing out here in the sticks?”
“Good to see you too, mate,” Angus said, holding out a hand and pulling him in for a hug. “Been to the beach, mate?”
“What?”
Angus pointed to a smattering of leaves and other debris caught in Tom’s red curls, then looked past him and back into his truck.
“Where’s young Phillip then?”
Tom shook his fringe out and said, “Went home with a mate. Kid’s got a better social life than the Kardashians. Nothing like a missing mum to bring out the leeches.”
Angus had a feeling Tom was referring to him but let it slide.
“I heard about Millie. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, it’s Amy we’re worried about.”
“Of course. Amy… yeah, Amy.” He said her name slowly as if still trying to get used to the idea. “And how’s Phillip, is he…”
“My son is fine.” His smile had deflated. “We’re both fine in fact. Seriously, you needn’t have come. Haven’t you got your millions to count? Heard business is booming, you’re a bigwig these days, quite the digital star.”
“Yeah, well, I gave myself a hall pass.” He offered an apologetic smile. “Besides, it’s your face I’m seeing all over the news. You and Mil… Amy.”
Tom shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away.
“I’m here to help, Tommo. Last night’s news gave me quite a shock. Is it true? She’s vanished into thin air?”
Tom nodded, felt the shame of it suddenly, slumping back against his car while Angus reached out and squeezed his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, man. You want to go inside? Talk about it?” He waved towards the house, but Tom was shaking his head.
“Let’s head to the pub, hey? Like old times?”
“Sure. Whatever works. How about I drive?”
He clicked a set of keys, and Tom saw a silver sports car come to life, just on the edge of Harry’s driveway, parked there as if he’d mistaken the house. The vehicle looked fancy, like a Maserati perhaps, but then what would Tom know. He’d never got past the used car lot.
He frowned momentarily, then shook his head again. “I need to clean up first. I’ll meet you there. You know the one? The pub on the corner, near the bank.”
Angus nodded, went to laugh remembering a few too many beers there one very long night, but decided against it. This wasn’t the time for laughter.
“This isn’t a courtesy visit is it?” Tom said half an hour later as he plonked two schooner glasses on the table in front of his old friend, who had the remains of a glass of red wine in front of him.
Angus shrugged and reached for the beer. “Told you, I’m worried about you. You and Phillip.”
“That’s the third time you’ve mentioned him, Angus.” Tom’s tone had a very slight chill at the edges. “What’s going on?”
Angus held a palm up. “Just asking.”
“Phil’s fine. Great, in fact. Never better.”
“Really? Even though his mum’s gone missing?”
Tom ignored this.
“I’m just looking in on him, seeing if there’s anything I can do to help. He’s a good kid. Got a good head on his shoulders that one.”
“And how would you know—” He stopped. “Oh stupid, stupid me.” He felt like a complete fool. “So when did you meet him?”
“She didn’t tell you any of this?”
“Nah, she likes her secrets, my wife. Big on secrets. So come on, spill.”
“Just a few times, when she came to Sydney.”
“Sydney?”
“You knew she came to Sydney?”
Tom felt a prickle of heat, tried to douse it down. Yes, of course he knew his wife went to Sydney. But he thought it was to see her folks not buddy up with an old boyfriend. Another one of Amy’s secrets.
“She wanted us to get to know each other, that’s all, mate. She said Phillip had a right—”
“A right?”
Angus felt a blush creep up. Why was Tom making this so difficult? “Mate, we’re all adults now, can we just talk about this?”
“Nothing to talk about.”
“He could be mine.”
“He’s not.”
“But he could. She said—”
“She’s full of shit.”
He smacked his lips together, took a big gulp of his beer. “Listen, I’m not here to cause trouble. I know you’ve been a good dad.”
“A bloody good dad.”
“Yes, she said that. But I need you to know I can help now that… well, if she doesn’t come back.”
“She’s coming back.”
“Of course, right.” He shook his head, pushed his beer away. “Listen, this is all coming out wrong. I know she wanted me to have some input.”
“What input?”
“What? No, um, I’m just saying, I know she wanted me to have some involvement—”
“How could you possibly have some involvement? You live two hours away! What are you going to do? Come up and take him out for cosy play days? This late in the game?” He took deep, calming breaths. “Why should you anyway? What right do you have?”
“I’m talking financially, that’s all. I can help Phillip out. And, you know, if he ever wants to come to Sydney, maybe for his education or something…”
“His education? What are you talking about? Why would he want to do that? There’s schools here; his mates are here. Jesus, Angus.”
“Okay, sorry, just trying to—”
“We don’t need your help. You weren’t there for Amy when you knocked her up, and you weren’t there for her when she vanished.”
He smiled suddenly. “So you agree it was me who knocked her up then?”
Tom felt an urge to reach across the table and smack the smile right off his face. “Don’t look so proud of yourself. You treated her like garbage. You slept with her and then you moved on to her mate. I was there when she found out, when she considered aborting. I was the one who saved that kid. He might hate my guts, so might she, they might both treat me like a piece of crap, but I saved them both. Not you. So you don’t get to ride in on your fancy fucking charger and save the day, right?”
Angus seemed stunned by the outburst, which had caused a few patrons to look up, but he was also embarrassed. Tom was right. He was a bigwig these days. He did have a reputation to uphold, a certain image to maintain, and he didn’t need strangers going around saying he was a deadbeat dad.
He leaned towards Tom and lowered his voice. “Let’s leave the past in the past, shall we, mate? I’m only here to offer some help and do the right thing. That’s all this is.”
“You’re thirteen years too late. Mate.”
Then Tom stood up, pushed his beer so hard half of it slopped across the table, and he walked out.
The man in the corner had seen it all. It was just good luck that Geoff was at the pub so early that Friday. Just good luck that he’d taken the afternoon off and headed straight home where he promptly had a fight with the missus. She reckoned he’d never quite got over her “little fling” with Tom, as she dubbed it this arvo, and told him to stop holding that against the poor bloke, to be more objective. She clearly still believed in the man’s innocence, but Geoff was beginning to wonder about that, was
beginning to buy into what she called “salacious, small-town gossip.” It seemed like half the town adored the guy and the other half wanted to string him up. And Geoff didn’t know what to think. As a friend, there was no one more loyal than Tom. As an enemy he could be, frankly, terrifying.
They’d bickered about it while Jenny started making dinner. Went frosty well before she’d finished, so he’d cleared out to give her a chance to warm back up. The roast lamb she was preparing looked delicious, and he didn’t want to risk going hungry tonight.
Spotting Tom deep in conversation with a stranger had been a lucky coincidence, and he was even luckier that the normally hyperalert local hadn’t spotted him slink in and steal a seat on the other side of the bar. From there he couldn’t see Tom’s face, but he could see his drinking buddy clear as day. The guy looked vaguely familiar and completely out of place. Like Cary Grant had stumbled onto the set of a Wild West film and needed to return to wardrobe pronto. His suit was too fancy, his hair too coiffed, and he looked increasingly uncomfortable as the conversation progressed.
Geoff couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the body language spoke volumes and he thought they would to come to blows at one point, had considered intervening. But then Tom spilt his beer and stormed out, so he waited a few beats, then pushed his own beer aside and made his way across.
“Geoff Pinter, Local Area Commander,” he said, indicating a chair. “Mind if I?”
The other man looked surprised for a moment, then nodded. Geoff could smell expensive aftershave, and too much of it.
“You’re a friend of Tom’s?”
The man held out his hand to shake, showing off a gleaming gold watch. “Angus Tower. I was. A friend, that is. I’m not sure he’s too fond of me right about now.”
“Mind telling me what’s going on?”
The other man hesitated. “Is this an interrogation?”
“Just asking that’s all. Nothing official. I went to school with Tom. I know his wife.”
“Got any idea yet where she is?”
He shook his head. “We’re concerned though. You knew Amy?”
