by B. A. Paris
‘Someone must have dropped it,’ I say, as casually as I’m able. ‘A child, on her way back from school or something.’
‘I know. It’s just that it reminded me—’ She stops.
‘Yes?’ I prompt, preparing myself mentally, because I know what she’s going to say.
‘Of Layla.’ As always, her name hangs suspended in the air between us. And today, because of Tony’s phone call, it feels heavier than usual.
Ellen laughs suddenly, lightening the moment. ‘At least I have a full set now.’ And of course, I know what she’s referring to.
It was Layla who first told me the story, of how she and Ellen both had a set of Russian dolls, the sort that stack one inside the other and how one day the smallest one from Ellen’s set had gone missing. Ellen had accused Layla of taking it but Layla denied that she had, and it had never been found. Now, thirteen years after I first heard that story, the irony strikes me because, like Ellen’s little Russian doll, Layla went missing and has never been found.
‘Maybe you should put it on the wall outside, like people do with dropped gloves,’ I say. ‘Someone might come looking for it.’
Her face falls and I feel bad, because it’s only a Russian doll. But coming on the back of Tony’s phone call, it feels a bit too much.
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she says.
‘Anyway, I’ll be able to buy you as many Russian dolls as you like now,’ I say, although we both know that isn’t what this is about.
Her eyes grow wide. ‘Do you mean . . .?’
‘Yes,’ I say, lifting her into my arms and spinning her around, noting – not for the first time – how much lighter she is than Layla was. Tendrils of chestnut hair escape her short ponytail and fall around her face. Her hands grip my shoulders.
‘Grant James invested?’ she squeals.
‘He did!’ I say, pushing thoughts of Layla away. I stop spinning and lower her to the ground. Dizzy, she stumbles a little against me and I enclose her in my arms.
‘That’s wonderful! Harry must be over the moon!’ She wriggles out of my embrace. ‘Stay there, I’ll be back in a minute.’
She disappears into the kitchen and I sit down on the sofa to wait. Peggy pushes herself between my legs and I take her head between my hands, noting with a heavy heart how grey she’s getting. I pull her ears gently, as she loves me to do, and tell her how beautiful she is. It’s something I often tell her, too often maybe. But the truth is, Peggy has always represented more than just Peggy to me. And now, because of the Russian doll, it seems wrong.
I feel restless, too full of kinetic energy to sit. I want to go to my office – a bespoke outhouse in the garden – and make sure that my Russian doll, the one Ellen doesn’t know about, is there, in its hiding place. But I force myself to be patient, reminding myself that everything is good in my world. Still, it’s difficult, and I’m about to go and find Ellen when she comes back, a bottle of champagne in one hand, two glasses in the other.
‘Perfect,’ I say, smiling at her.
‘I hid it at the back of the fridge a couple of weeks ago,’ she says, putting the glasses down on the table and holding the bottle out to me.
‘No,’ I say, grasping the bottle and using it to pull her towards me. ‘I mean you.’ I hold her tight for a moment, the champagne trapped between our bodies. ‘Do you know how beautiful you are?’ Uncomfortable with compliments, she drops her head and plants a kiss on my shoulder. ‘How did you know that Grant would come through?’ I go on.
‘I didn’t. But if he hadn’t, the champagne would have been to commiserate.’
‘See what I mean about you being perfect?’ Releasing her with a kiss, I untwist the wire and ease the cork from the bottle. Champagne bubbles out and Ellen quickly grabs the glasses from the table. ‘Guess where I’m taking you tonight?’ I say as I fill them.
‘McDonald’s?’ she teases.
‘The Hideout.’
She looks at me in delight. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. Harry booked it as a thank you.’
Later, while she’s upstairs getting ready, I go out to my office in the garden, sit down at my desk and slide open the top right-hand drawer. It’s a large antique walnut desk and the drawer is so deep I have to reach a long way in to find the wooden pencil box, hidden at the back. I take out the little painted doll nestling there. It looks identical to the one that Ellen found outside the house and as my fingers close around its smooth, varnished body I feel the same uncomfortable tug I always do, a mixture of longing and regret, of desolation and infinite sadness. And gratitude, because without this little wooden doll, I might have been tried for Layla’s murder.
It had belonged to her. It was the smallest one from her set of Russian dolls, the one she’d had as a child, and when Ellen’s had gone missing, Layla had carried this one around with her for fear that Ellen would take it and claim it as hers. She called it her talisman, and in times of stress she would hold it between her thumb and index finger and gently rub the smooth surface. She had been doing exactly that on our journey from Megève, huddled against the car door, and the next morning, when the police returned to the picnic area, they’d found it lying on the ground next to where I’d parked the car, by the rubbish bin. They also found scuff marks, which – as my lawyer pointed out – suggested she’d been dragged from the car and had dropped the doll on purpose, as some kind of clue. As there was insufficient evidence to prove this either way, I was finally allowed to leave France, and to keep the Russian doll.
I put it back in its hiding place and go and find Ellen. But later, when we’re lying in bed, our hunger sated by the exquisite dinner we had at The Hideout, our bodies knotted together, I silently curse the little Russian doll she found earlier. It’s another reminder that no matter how many years go by, we will never be completely free of Layla.
Barely a month goes by when we don’t hear her name – someone called out to in the street, a character in a film or book, a newly opened restaurant, a cocktail, a hotel. At least we don’t have to contend with supposed sightings of Layla any more – Thomas’ yesterday was the first in years. There’d been hundreds after she first disappeared; it seemed that anyone who had red hair was put forward as a possible candidate.
I look down at Ellen, snuggled in the crook of my arm, and wonder if she’s thinking of Layla too. But the steady rise and fall of her chest against me tells me she’s already asleep and I’m glad I didn’t tell her about Tony’s phone call. Everything – all this – would be much easier if Ellen and I had fallen in love with other people instead of each other. It shouldn’t matter that Ellen is Layla’s sister, not when twelve years have passed since Layla disappeared.
But, of course, it does.
TWO
Before
It feels a lifetime ago that I first saw you, Layla. I’m not sure if you even know this but at the time I had a girlfriend, someone so unlike you, someone who was as high-flying in the world of advertising as I was in my city job. Time is an oddity when it comes to memories; I always think of you when I remember Harry and the flat in St Katharine Docks, yet you spent much less time in that world than my ex did. You instigated the end of the life I had. Everything became ‘Before Layla’ and ‘After Layla’.
It must have been just after 7 p.m. on New Year’s Eve 2004. You probably don’t remember that but I know, because Harry had insisted we leave too much time to get to the theatre. I’d felt indifferent to it being a big night but I was indifferent to so many things back then. Until I met you.
As Harry and I went down into the underground station at Liverpool Street, I never thought I was about to fall in love. He needed to top up his Oyster card so while he queued at the machine, I watched everybody rushing to get wherever they were going to celebrate the New Year.
After a few minutes my attention was caught by a flash of colour amongst the greys and blacks of the Londoners, the most beautiful red I’d ever seen. And of course it was you – or rather, your hair
. Do you remember how you stood with your back against the opposite wall, your eyes watching in alarm at everyone surging around you? You looked scared, but back then the simplest things seemed to scare you; crowds, dogs, the dark. You were so terrified of dogs that if you saw one coming towards you, you would cross over to the other side of the street to avoid it, even if you were with me, even if it was on a lead. And that day in the underground station, as you pushed yourself further into the wall to avoid the crowds, your hair caught under the artificial lighting and it seemed to be on fire. With your tiny purple skirt, lace-up ankle boots and curvy figure, you looked so different to the stick-thin women in their smart suits and dark winter coats. Then you raised your head, and our eyes met. I felt embarrassed to be caught staring at you so intensely and tried to look away. But your eyes pulled me towards you and before I knew it, I was striding across the concourse.
‘Do you need help?’ I asked, looking down into your green-brown eyes. Hazel, I learned later. ‘You seem a little lost.’
‘It’s just that I didn’t expect London to be quite so busy,’ you replied, your voice lilting with a Scottish accent. ‘All these people!’
‘It’s New Year’s Eve,’ I explained. ‘They’re on their way out to celebrate.’
‘So it’s not always like this?’
‘Early morning and late afternoon, usually. Did you want to buy a ticket?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where are you going?’
Do you remember your reply?
‘To a youth hostel,’ you said.
‘Where is it?’ I asked.
‘I’m not sure. Near Piccadilly Circus, I think.’
‘Do you have an address?’ You shook your head. ‘On your reservation?’ I persevered.
And then you admitted that you hadn’t reserved a room.
Your naivety both appalled and charmed me. ‘It might be difficult to find a bed on New Year’s Eve,’ I explained.
Your skin paled, heightening the freckles, and that’s when I fell in love with you.
‘Have you got a mobile?’ I asked.
You shook your head again. ‘No.’
To meet someone so unorganised, so unaffected by modern life and the London rush was like a hit of alcohol. If it had been anybody else, I would have walked away quickly before they could ask me how to find a number for a hostel. But I was already realising that I couldn’t walk away from you.
‘How old are you?’ I asked, because suddenly, I needed to know everything there was to know about you.
‘Eighteen. Almost nineteen.’ You raised your chin defiantly. ‘I’m not a runaway, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
I was saved from answering by Harry appearing at my elbow.
‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Didn’t I leave you standing over there?’
My eyes stayed fixed on you. ‘This young lady is looking for a youth hostel near Piccadilly Circus. Do you know it?’ I asked, safe in the knowledge that he wouldn’t, because I was already counting on bringing you back to ours.
‘No, I’m afraid not.’ He looked thoughtfully at you. ‘They must have given you the address when you reserved.’
‘She doesn’t have a reservation.’
His eyes widened. ‘I doubt you’ll find a bed on New Year’s Eve.’
‘Then what should I do?’ you asked, a slight panic creeping into your voice.
Harry scratched his head as he always did when faced with a problem. ‘I have no idea.’
‘We’ll have to think of something,’ I said, my voice low.
He turned to me with that ‘it isn’t our problem’ look in his eyes. And he was right, it wasn’t our problem, it was mine. ‘Look, I’ll help her look for a hostel, or a hotel, or something,’ I told him. ‘We can’t just leave her here.’
‘Well, maybe somebody else can help her. We’re going to the theatre,’ he reminded me.
‘Look, don’t worry, I’ll be fine,’ you said. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time already. It’s my fault, I should have planned ahead. But I never realised London would be so . . . ’ you searched for a word ‘ . . . crazy.’
I reached into my jacket pocket and took out my wallet. ‘Here,’ I said, fishing out my theatre ticket and handing it to Harry. ‘Take Samantha. She wanted to go, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, but—’
I pressed the ticket into his hand. ‘It’s fine. I’ll see you at the party later.’ He tried to catch my eye but I ignored him. ‘Phone Samantha. She can meet you at the theatre.’ And before he could say another word, I took your bag and set off across the concourse. ‘Follow me.’
I headed for the exit, my heart now hammering as it always did when I was on the verge of doing something exhilarating, or dangerous. Worried I would lose you in the crowds that thronged the streets, I reached for your hand.
‘Stay with me!’ I shouted above the noise of the traffic.
Your hand tightened around mine. ‘Don’t worry, I will!’ you called back.
And I hoped that you would, forever.
THREE
Now
It’s Saturday, so Peggy and I go to get fresh bread for breakfast while Ellen has a lie-in. On Sundays, I usually lie-in while Ellen makes bacon and eggs. Ellen says that one day we’ll be too old to lie-in and will be up at dawn, making porridge, unable to stay in bed any longer after being awake half the night with insomnia. She’s probably right.
It’s a short walk to the village where the bakery stands between the newsagent’s and the butcher’s. I buy a granary loaf and a couple of newspapers, and when I go in to say hello to Rob, the butcher, I see a nice leg of lamb for our lunch tomorrow, a little too big for just me and Ellen, but there’s Peggy too.
I take Peggy for a detour along the river on the way home, hoping I won’t bump into Ruby, the owner of our local pub, The Jackdaw. She often walks her Airedale in the mornings and it’s still a bit awkward when we meet. I first got together with Ruby back in 2014, about a year after a small memorial ceremony we’d had for Layla, where I met Ellen for the first time. Until then, nobody in Simonsbridge knew I was the ex-partner of the young woman who’d gone missing in France. When my true identity was revealed in a newspaper article, not long after the ceremony, it didn’t give anyone cause for concern, as I’d been living peacefully among them for six years. People were interested, rather than frightened, about having a possible murderer in their midst. This gave me the confidence to stop hiding myself away and I began to mix with the locals in a way I hadn’t before. If people asked me about my past, I spoke truthfully – well, with as much truth as I wanted them to know.
In a strange twist of fate, the journalist who traced me to Devon and ‘outed’ me was a cousin of Ruby’s. She felt bad about the role he’d played and made it up to me in more ways than one. I enjoyed being with Ruby; she was vivacious and easy-going. When Harry persuaded me to go back to work, I would stay at the flat in London during the week and return to Simonsbridge at the weekends to see Ruby, and Peggy, who would stay at The Jackdaw while I was away. As far as I was concerned our relationship was a casual thing, something that could be dropped on a Monday morning when I left for London and picked up again when I returned to Simonsbridge on the Friday evening.
I knew from Harry, who had kept in touch with Ellen since the memorial ceremony, that she was trying to make herself a career as an illustrator. When she finally found herself an agent, and had to come to London for meetings, Harry would invite her to stay at the flat. At first, I kept my distance, leaving her and Harry to have dinner together, wondering if there was something between them. As her career took off, she started coming to London more often and I found myself looking forward to her visits. Sometimes our eyes would meet across the table, and I would look away, determined not to get involved. But then I began inviting her to join me in Simonsbridge at weekends. And relaxing in front of a log-fire one evening, she leaned over and kissed me, and we ended up in bed.
It hadn�
�t been my intention to lie to Ruby when she asked me about Ellen, it was more that I was uncomfortable about who Ellen was. I don’t blame Ruby for feeling sore when Ellen moved in with me last year. Unfairly perhaps, I’ve always suspected Ruby of being behind the ‘Partner of Missing Woman Moves Sister In’ headline which appeared in the paper shortly after. And because Ellen and I are now getting married, I’d like to delay the conversation – the one where Ruby tells me she’s very happy for me while throwing me daggers – until I’ve had time to get used to the idea myself.
We haven’t been to The Jackdaw since the wedding announcement appeared in the local paper a couple of weeks ago. Ellen insisted on placing it because she felt that everyone, especially Ruby, should know that she’s here to stay. I think she was hoping to silence those who whispered that we shouldn’t be in a relationship, as there are some who disapprove that I’m marrying Layla’s sister. They don’t come right out and say it but I can see it in their eyes and hear it in their voices as they congratulate us.
I call Peggy out from the river, and after she’s shaken the water off her and onto me, I take the path back up to the road, glad that I’ve managed to avoid Ruby. As I approach the house, I see something standing on the stone wall that borders the front garden and recognise the little Russian doll that Ellen found last week. The fact that she kept it for so long before putting it back where she found it tells me how much it means to her and I feel guilty all over again for saying she shouldn’t keep it, because I doubt the owner is going to come looking for it. But I also feel guilty for another reason. It’s more proof that Ellen never goes against what I tell her, never disobeys me, and although it makes for a peaceful life, I find it perplexing.
I put the doll into my jeans pocket and go into the house. I expect to find her in the kitchen but she calls down to me from upstairs. I send Peggy to fetch her while I check the markets on my phone. A couple of minutes later Ellen comes into the kitchen, looking so desirable in her skimpy pyjamas that I want to scoop her into my arms and carry her back to bed.
