by Natasha Bell
The line was bad again. Marc didn’t know how to ask Caitlin what he wanted to know. He rubbed the scar on his little finger, finally blurted, “Is there a will?”
She was silent on the other end of the phone.
“Do I need to do anything?” Marc asked to fill the silence. “Execute something? Sell the house?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Southwood, but unless your wife has returned I’m not at liberty to discuss such things with you.”
Marc drew in a sharp breath. “Shouldn’t you at least have called me when it happened?”
“I’m sorry you weren’t told, but I’m not responsible for such things,” she replied.
“But someone has to inform the next of kin, don’t they?”
“You’re not next of kin. Your wife is. I believe efforts have been made to contact her, but if she doesn’t come forward then the estate will be divided between the other beneficiaries.”
“Who are?”
“I’m not at liberty to disclose that.”
“Jesus, I’m the father of the woman’s grandchildren. Did you even tell her Alex was missing?”
Caitlin was silent.
Marc hung up the phone and stared at the kitchen counter. He took some deep breaths and finally unclenched his fists. He wondered if he should have asked about the funeral. If he should tell the girls. Hadn’t they been through enough?
* * *
Patrick convinced him they needed a break before term started. He picked them up on Saturday morning and they crawled through the weekend traffic as the kids played I spy.
They arrived in a sprawling converted barn in the Lake District. Thick wooden beams dissected airy living areas and a sweeping staircase led from a long dining area to an elegant sitting room. Marc’s first thought was that I would have loved it. He said it aloud, wanting to establish me as an okay topic of conversation. He’d decided at home that he needed to be my husband this weekend, not some lonely sap everyone had to tiptoe around.
Patrick paused, then said, “She would have, wouldn’t she?” Marc smiled a thank you and they hauled their cases from the trunk.
The others arrived and they sat in the kitchen drinking tea and catching up while the children explored the garden. Barring a few awkward pauses, it felt almost normal. Patrick told them about his recent private sector offer and how torn he felt. Marc interrupted to tease him about their idealistic student days. Susan laughed and said she’d always be overworked and underpaid, so whatever he decided, their marriage would have ethical equilibrium.
“Would come in handy for tuition fees,” Patrick said, nudging Pip, who briefly looked up from her phone.
It might have felt strange or uncomfortable to be alone among couples, but mostly Marc found it a relief to be with those who knew him, who knew us. These were our oldest and best friends; he didn’t need to perform or bluster or tell them he was okay.
Fran suggested they open a bottle. Ollie jumped up and bowed at the waist muttering, “Mi-lady.” Everyone except Fran laughed. Talk turned to the kids. Ollie said they were considering sending Emma to a private tutor for her Year 6 SATs, which launched Susan on a rant about the pointless pressure put on kids at such a young age. Marc’s mind was wandering. He looked around the table and, despite the languid pull of early alcohol and relaxation, felt a jolt at the normalcy of it all. How could they be here? How could they talk about this? How could my absence not be present in every second?
Marc excused himself to check for messages. Fleetingly reassured, he shrugged on his jacket and joined the others for a walk. They headed into the vast green landscape, the girls running ahead with Emma, laughing and shouting. Marc was glad they’d come. They trekked over stiles and through mud puddles, conversation ebbing and flowing as they each traversed their own thought patterns.
Marc found himself at the back of the group with Pip. “How are the applications going?” he said.
“Okay,” she said, glancing at him. “I’ve got three offers.”
“That’s great.”
“Yeah, maybe, I don’t know which I want. Dad says I should put the one with the highest offer down as my first choice, but I don’t know if I liked the art department there.”
“Tricky decision,” Marc said.
“I wish I could talk to Alex about it.”
Marc looked away. He cleared his throat. “She’d have some good advice.”
“Sorry,” Pip said. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay,” Marc said. “It really is.”
“I miss her.”
Marc put his arm awkwardly around Pip’s bony shoulders. “Me too.”
They caught up with the others at the top of a hill, surveying the fields and waters below.
“Alex would have wanted us to roll back down,” he said and crouched as if to inspect the ground for nettles.
“You what?” said Pip.
The others laughed a little unsurely, but Fran of all people replied in her plummy accent, “Why the hell not?” and sat on the grass beside Marc.
He noticed her pink nails and diamond stud earrings as she stretched out and launched herself down the uneven slope. Susan gasped, Pip giggled and Ollie gave a sort of pained yelp as his wife careened toward the fields and hedges below, gaining momentum and collecting bracken in her hair. They heard her shrieks and watched her roll over and over, finally reaching the flatter ground and slowing to a stop just before what looked suspiciously like a cowpat. Marc squinted nervously at the fragile body below until it threw out its arms in a gleeful star shape. The wind carried her laughter back to the top.
“Christ,” said Ollie. “She could have broken her neck.”
“What a legend,” said Pip.
“Chickens!” Fran shouted, scrambling to her feet.
Marc looked at Patrick, who glanced down at Fran, then back to Marc.
“Remember jumping from the bridge during finals?” Patrick said. “This is nothing.”
Marc snorted. But recalling the foolhardy things they’d subjected their bodies to in their twenties, he zipped his jacket and lay down. The women giggled as Patrick followed suit and they launched themselves down the hill, slightly out of sync, cries of terror and elation tangling in the churned air. Halfway down, the world spinning from ground to sky and back again, Marc heard cries of a higher pitch and realized Pip and Susan were behind them. Marc imagined serious walkers seeking tranquil escapes looking over and seeing their multicolored coats avalanching down the opposite hill.
Hearing the adults’ screams, the children sprinted back to leap on them.
“Daddy, can I have a go?” asked Char, jumping on Marc’s stomach.
He shook his head and watched her screw up her forehead and thrust out her bottom lip. She always looked so adorable when she did that; half the time I’d relent and give her what she wanted. Marc just smiled at her, though, his heart beating in his ears. He heard Emma complaining to his left that she was almost an adult, so she should be allowed. Ollie, who’d walked down behind them, told her to be quiet. Amidst parental refusals, Marc heard infectious giggles and deep, contented sighs.
They were finally encouraged by the disappointed children to heave themselves from the ground. As they paced back over fields and through metal gates, they reminisced about other daring exploits. Marc blushed as Patrick described his running from campus security guards with a traffic sign under his arm.
Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, someone mentioned me. They remembered my midnight run through the snow to the Jacuzzi in Austria, the precarious pose I struck for a goofy photograph on a jutting rock halfway up Arthur’s Seat, and the time I insisted they all take part in a flash mob slurping coffee conspicuously loudly in Betty’s. Laughing with friends and talking about me as if I were just not able to make this weekend, as if I’d be home to welcome Marc
on Sunday and we might all go out for a meal next Thursday, felt like the universe slotting back into place for a moment.
“A while ago,” Pip said, “she told me she’d had an idea for something big.”
“Like what?” Patrick said.
Pip shook her head. “She wouldn’t say, said she was still planning it, but that she’d need all of our help with it.”
Fran turned to Pip. “What do you think it was?”
Pip shrugged.
“Something fabulous, no doubt,” Susan said.
Back at the house, Marc headed to his room. He lay on top of the floral quilt and spoke aloud to me, his words coming breathlessly between hot tears. “Come back to me. Please. Please come back.” He chanted uninspired prayers, whisking his pain into thick, fluffy egg-white peaks.
He fell asleep and woke with aches in his back and legs. He splashed his face with water, then headed toward the kitchen, pausing as he heard voices.
“—it’s the not knowing that’s tearing him apart. It’s not good for the girls either.”
“Yeah, I mean, I don’t want to admit she’s gone either, but I think it’s pretty obvious—”
“They need to find a body, then he can start dealing with it.”
Marc stepped back into the shadowy hallway. They’re only concerned for you, he heard my voice in his ear. He closed his eyes and felt my arms around him, my lips on his neck.
Ollie took charge of the meal, which they devoured, making appreciative noises and repeating that he should go on Masterchef or open his own restaurant. Conversation remained light, meandering through work, the news, local politics, books, and landing as so often on TV and film.
“We went to see the new Woody Allen last week,” Ollie said.
“Any good?” Marc said.
“How can you justify watching anything that man does?” Susan said, her cheeks pink from the wine.
“Oh come on,” Ollie said. “You can’t dismiss his entire work because of a scandal. It’s not like he’s been convicted of anything.”
“Neither has Polanski,” Patrick said.
“And they’re both great filmmakers,” Ollie persisted. “Did you see Carnage?”
Susan shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. We shouldn’t be supporting these men making money and collecting awards.”
“I sort of agree with you,” Fran said. “But I remember having a conversation with Alex about this kind of stuff, and she had a pretty good argument for why it’s all much less black and white. Marc, you can probably explain this better than me. She started talking about Kant, I think, which I didn’t really follow, but it was something about it being okay to assess things differently on different levels.”
Marc nodded. He’d heard me repeat myself often enough. “The idea is that aesthetic value and moral value are distinct but interlinked. You can have different opinions about both, but if you prioritize one over the other you’re heading toward absolutism.”
“Does anyone have a clue what he just said?” Patrick poured himself another glass of wine. “We’re not in the classroom, you know, buddy, you can speak in English.”
“Can I not just be absolutely disgusted?” Susan said, ignoring her husband.
Marc laughed. “Of course, but Al would argue that by doing so you’re failing to engage with the work and thus failing to have a proper stance. To really protest the sexism of Hollywood or whatever it is, you need to engage with these films on both a moral and an aesthetic level. Al would say you need to see them to critique them.”
“And do you agree?” Patrick asked.
Marc pinched the stem of his glass. “Um—”
“Ha! See?” said Patrick. “Even you have to admit, Alex talked some weird shit sometimes.”
Marc looked at his friend, the muscles in his neck tensing.
“I don’t think any of that’s shit,” said Pip. “It makes sense.”
“That’s what worries me,” Patrick said, throwing his arm around his daughter. Marc was still staring at Patrick. He finally met his gaze. “What’s up?”
Marc took a breath. His voice was soft and controlled. “Please don’t speak about my wife in the past tense.”
Ollie stopped stacking the plates and Susan held her glass before her mouth.
“Oh Marc, buddy, I’m—”
“No,” Marc cut him off. He looked around at the faces of our friends. “I heard you all earlier. I know what you think, but you’re wrong. I can’t just move on and pretend Al’s dead. I know what it looks like, I know what the evidence suggests and maybe I even accept that if I was my friend I’d think the same as you. But deep down I know she’s out there. I know she’s in trouble and she needs us to find her.”
A hush drifted over the table. Marc sensed the words “It’ll be okay,” dancing on our friends’ lips. Thankfully no one was crass enough to utter them. Eventually Susan suggested they adjourn to the sitting room for a nightcap.
An hour or so later, heading toward the bathroom with his toothbrush, Marc bumped into Pip. Her bedroom was at the other end of the barn and he wondered if she’d been waiting for him.
“Hey,” Marc said.
“Hey,” she said.
“You okay?”
Pip nodded.
“Do you need anything?”
She shook her head. “No, I just, I was thinking about my coursework and—it doesn’t matter.” She turned to go.
“Do you want a chat?” Marc said and she turned back to face him.
He led her into his room. There was nowhere to sit but the twin beds, so they each took one, facing one another awkwardly.
“What’s up?” Marc said.
Pip twisted the end of her sleeve. “I just, I wish I could talk to Alex.”
Marc swallowed. “About your schoolwork?”
She nodded.
“Might I do?”
She shrugged.
“Go on, try me. I might be able to help.”
She looked at him for a moment before speaking. “Do you think artists can ever have a right to be cruel?”
Marc frowned. “Um, no,” he said. “Artists have the same responsibilities as everyone else. No one has a right to be cruel.”
Pip wrinkled her nose. “Never mind.” She went to stand up.
“Wait,” Marc said, realizing she was looking for me and he’d just sounded like her dad. “That’s only my opinion. Al would have liked the question. Is this about the films we were talking about?”
Pip sat back down. “Not really. I just, I’m wondering if an end can ever justify the means.” She picked at her nail polish. “I mean, what if an artist truly felt the work they needed to do involved hurting someone else? Then perhaps their responsibility to their art would outweigh the responsibility they had to an individual.”
“That doesn’t sound terribly ethical,” Marc said.
“But,” Pip said, gesturing with her hands and reminding him of me when I got passionate about something, “if you look at the world as a whole and all the suffering and prejudice and cruelty in it, then you can’t feel sentimental about the pain of just one individual, can you? Especially if his or her suffering serves a higher purpose.”
“What sort of higher purpose?” Marc said.
“I don’t know. Maybe if it’s used to highlight an issue or make a statement. Like if you sacrifice one person to save many.”
“Is this really for school?” Marc said, wondering if he shouldn’t have encouraged this conversation after all. “What sort of project are you working on?”
Pip chewed her lip. “I just, I dunno. I was thinking, what if a murderer killed someone as an aesthetic act?”
“Excuse me?” Marc said, his voice raised.
Pip blinked, but decided to go on. “Alex and I used to talk about this kind of thin
g and I know you want to believe she’s out there, but I just thought—”
“Alex is an academic, Pip,” Marc said, cutting her off. He stood up, towering over the teenager. “She talks and thinks about all sorts of things. She likes playing devil’s advocate.”
“I know,” Pip said, looking up into his face, her eyes wide. “It’s just, what if…” She trailed off.
“What if what?” Marc challenged, his face growing red. “What are you suggesting? That she was some sort of sacrificial lamb?”
“No,” Pip said, looking hurt. “I don’t know. I just wondered if there was a connection.”
Marc shook his head. “This is ridiculous. There’s a difference between the art world and the real one, Pip. It’s interesting to think about this stuff, to debate whether to go and see a film or not, but when you’re older you’ll understand there are much more important things in life.”
He walked around the beds and held the door open for her. “You should be asleep,” he said, as if telling off a child.
* * *
He came today. It’s been almost a week. He stood over me, arms folded, and asked why I wasn’t eating. I don’t know why, but I burst into tears.
He watched me for a while, then said, “I know this is difficult for you.”
I wanted to hate him, to spit on him or scream at him. But I was so weak. My arms were covered in goose bumps. My stomach had been cramping all night. When I slept, my dreams were about food.
He pulled a little plastic-wrapped packet of tissues from his pocket and held one out for me. I stared at it and then him, trying to put together a thought. Why was he being nice? What did he want? My mind kept flicking. I couldn’t concentrate, even on hating him.
“Take it,” he said, and I heard the familiar frustration in his voice. A part of me wished he would hit me.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the tissue. I wiped my tears, blew my nose. On the backs of my eyelids I saw Ann Moore, the Fasting Woman of Tutbury, shaking her head at me from the nineteenth century. I saw Kafka’s hunger artist and the paying crowd gawping at his forty-day stamina all folding their arms in disgust at my failure. It had only been a week, but it was such a relief to see him. To hear his voice. He pulled up the plastic chair, sat down facing me. I lay back against the lumpy pillow. I had an urge to fall asleep while he watched.
