by Clare Boyd
‘Upstairs,’ she said.
‘Get them.’
She climbed the stairs. There were remnants of Blu-Tack on the front of her door, where she had pinned her ‘Keep Out’ signs as a teenager. Her single bed was in the same place, with that same red and grey zigzag-patterned duvet set she had used at university.
She sat down on the bed, and traced her fingers under the sheet to the opening she had torn, enjoying the softness of its insides. Her heartbeat sped ferociously when she pulled out the stack of brittle cuttings. The wooden frame of the bed dug into her thighs.
The face in the photograph stared at her from the fading poster. She knew the words that were written under the photograph off by heart:
* * *
MISSING PERSON
* * *
JASON PARKER
* * *
Missing from: Exeter
Date missing: July 19th, 1999
Age: 22 years old
Sex: Male
Height: 6’ 2”
Build: Thin
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Wavy, blond
Race: Caucasian
* * *
Clothing: On the night Jason disappeared, he was carrying a black umbrella and wearing a black denim jacket, black t-shirt, dark blue jeans and white sneakers.
* * *
Circumstances: Unknown. On Saturday 19th July, Jason Parker was seen at an Exeter University student party at the Stoke Cannon Inn on Stoke Road, Exeter. He told a fellow student that he was leaving early in a taxi.
* * *
If you have any information about Jason Parker, or remember seeing him that night, please call the Devon and Cornwall Police on 222 444.
She crossed her legs and slumped over the photograph, staring at Jason Parker’s face as though he were a lost love. She shuffled through the five newspaper cuttings, feeling the rough paper under her fingertips as she brushed over his face. The same photograph was used in three of the articles, in different sizes, black and white or colour, but always the same sullen expression, in a blue t-shirt with his greasy hair flopping either side of his long face. The local journalists had not cared enough about this young man to seek out more interesting or revealing shots of him from his family. His story had not been interesting enough to hit the headlines of the national newspapers.
Clutching them to her chest, she returned downstairs to her grandfather.
‘You really think I should show Naomi these?’
‘Yes, Sophie, I think so.’
‘What if she does something stupid?’
‘You think she wants to go to prison?’
‘No.’
‘You’re safe, you see?’
‘I understand.’
And she did understand, sort of. But she wanted to give Naomi another chance.
She kissed her grandfather goodbye and typed a text to Naomi on her way out.
* * *
Outside in the cold, damp night, she became aware of the Alfa Giulia sitting nearby in the garage, as though its engine breathed. She toyed with the idea of paying it a visit, like it might be alive and in need of attention. The pathway from Deda’s doorstep cut through the narrow strip of lawn and pointed directly at the shack, whose windows glowed, but she detoured, trailing her fingers along the stucco frontage of the cottage, across the weedy path, along the groove in the rusted corrugated garage door. The bloom of red rhododendron bushes left droplets of rain across her left shoulder, and she shot sharply away. Suddenly, she did not want to see the car.
Back inside the shack, while she waited for Naomi’s reply, it became stifling in the small space. And too quiet. The muffled, tinny sounds emanating from Adam’s earphones upstairs in his galley room reminded her of how much distance there was between them. When she thought of him leaving, physically, her mind teetered on the edge of a precipice. She felt invisible, powerless, desperate. She was that baby again, the baby that Suzanne had not loved. She was the eight-year-old girl, with white eyelashes and long legs, whom Suzanne had walked out on.
She typed another text to Naomi.
The wood burner glowed hot and angry. Her hangover was worsening by the minute, until she felt quite panicky indoors with nobody but Dylan to talk to.
She sent another text, and another.
With every passing minute that Naomi didn’t respond, her need to see her, to tell her everything, to hold her close, increased. She couldn’t bear the wait. She would have to find her.
Chapter Five
Hi Naomi – fun night. Thanks for the invite. But I was hurt there weren’t any pictures of me on your blog post. It was a bit of a slap in the face, if I’m honest. And humiliating if I meet those women again. Could you post one of me? I know you took loads. Sx
A hot flush crossed my cheeks, regretful and incredulous. I was astounded that she was not acknowledging her behaviour, that she had not taken responsibility for her goofing around. But I regretted my decision to post my article before talking to her.
Earlier this morning, while everyone slept, I had crept down to the kitchen, let Harley out of the laundry room, made myself a strong coffee and sat down at my laptop. At the weekends, I enjoyed writing my blog in this peaceful slot, before the girls’ demands crowded my thoughts. My article, titled ‘How to Host Your Own Wine-tasting’, was aimed at the kind of woman who had come last night: interested in drinking good, affordable wine, but clueless about how to choose it. Thanks to five years working as a wine buyer, I was not clueless. But when choosing the photographs to accompany the article, I had felt utterly clueless. Clueless about what to do about Sophie’s sabotage. Without exception, she was sneering or pulling a face or being rude behind someone’s back in every single shot. Editing them down to six, I had accepted that none of the images would feature her. Hoping that she would be grateful that I had saved her from total mortification, risking that she might be offended about being excluded, I had posted my piece with a nervous click.
On the way up the stairs to tell Charlie, probably to wake him, another text from Sophie came through:
Want to meet today? Quite like to talk about last night. Sx
‘Charlie. Are you awake?’
‘I am now,’ he groaned.
‘I think I’ve screwed up. Big time.’
I pulled the curtains open and he sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes.
‘What have you done?’
I climbed back into the warm bed next to him, and pulled up the photographs of Sophie behaving badly.
‘Look at these. I didn’t add any of them on my blog post because they’re…’
‘Bloody awful?’ Charlie said, finishing my sentence.
‘But now she’s sent me a text saying how upset she is.’
‘Why not just post some now then?’
‘Which one, though?’ I said, sticking the phone closer to his face.
He put on his glasses and flicked through them. ‘Oh dear. Bloody hell. Crikey. She looks totally smashed in every single one. It looks like she’s taking the piss out of the event.’
‘She was.’
‘I hope you got a cab home.’
‘There weren’t any. We had to walk.’
Charlie choked. ‘You walked?’
‘It was fine,’ I said, remembering our high jinks on the road with a smear of guilt. ‘Seriously, though, I couldn’t have posted any of those photos of her on my blog, could I?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Oh my god, she’s texted me again!’
Naomi – could you text me back? I’m not sure you’re getting these. Sx
‘Read this,’ I said, handing the phone to Charlie.
He read for longer than it should have taken, and then handed the phone back to me.
‘Don’t reply.’
‘Don’t reply at all?’
‘It’s not worth it.’
‘I think I should take the whole post down. You know what she can be like.’
‘Don’t you even think abo
ut it! Sophie needs to understand that it’s nothing personal. It’s just work. If you post pissheads on your blog, it undermines the whole concept of drinking well.’
Both on my blog and in my weekly column in Sky magazine, I rammed the idea of moderate drinking down my readers’ and followers’ throats as often as I did the wines. I wrote about how drinking well could connect people. How it unlocked tears and laughter; how it broke down barriers and bonded us; how we celebrated with it and commiserated with it. The blog posts and articles were not about getting obliterated, offending your friends and playing chicken in front of oncoming cars.
‘God. She was so embarrassing last night.’ I sat forward. The pads of my fingers pressed those of the other hand in rhythmic succession, like a pianist’s scale practice.
Charlie grabbed my hands and held them still. ‘Stop,’ he said gently.
Another text came through:
Why are you ignoring me? It’s so cruel. Is it because you know you’re in the wrong?
In a flash of anger, I ruffled my curls, getting my fingers caught in the knots, and blurted out, ‘Maybe I will send those bloody photos to her and ask her to try and pick one herself.’
‘It won’t do her any harm.’
‘I am going to send them right now,’ I stated angrily. I did not show Charlie her latest text. As I selected an image to attach into a text, I stopped. ‘I can’t do it. It feels too mean. She only got that pissed because of Adam. If you were having an affair, I’d have probably got that pissed, too.’
‘How do you know I’m not?’
I chuckled. ‘Are you?’
‘No. As it happens. But thanks for asking.’
We laughed, and he kissed me on the lips. ‘There’s that dimple I fell in love with,’ he said, kissing my cheek. But I could smell mint on his breath and I recoiled. ‘You’ve brushed your teeth.’
He mock-slammed his palm into his forehead. ‘I’m such an idiot. Can’t we break the rule, just once?’
There was a nasty tug deep in my abdomen. I brushed his hand off my thigh. ‘Inviting Sophie last night was a bad idea.’
He sighed. ‘It is not your fault she got drunk.’
‘I just feel it’s all backfired. I wanted to make her feel good about herself, and now I’ve actually managed to make her feel worse.’
Charlie jumped out of bed, abruptly.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Downstairs, for a coffee.’
‘But what am I going to do?’
As he walked towards the door in his rumpled pyjamas, he rubbed his hands underneath his glasses. ‘Do I really have a say in it?’
‘Of course!’
‘Then tell her to grow up.’
I flipped the phone between my hands, knowing that I would not be telling her that, knowing that Charlie had a say in most things in my life, but rarely about Sophie.
When he had gone, another text from her came through:
I’m such a dick. I’m so sorry. We’ve been through a lot together ; ) Don’t give up on me. Sx
‘Oh, Sophie!’ I cried to myself, exasperated.
I flopped onto my back and undid my blog post, taking down the article, regretting the wasted work, wanting to weep over it. A whole event wasted.
I texted her back:
Hi Sophie – stop being mad! I’ve taken the post down. Sorry for being insensitive. See you soon. Naomi xxxx
Trying not to dwell on my worries about Sophie, I got dressed and went downstairs to rally the girls for a walk.
‘Who’s coming for a walk with Harley and me?’
It was a rhetorical question. The girls were going to come on a walk with Harley and me whether they liked it or not. My stewing thoughts would be dispelled in the fresh air.
‘Nooo, Mummy, not now!’ Diana moaned. Cornflour puffed up into Izzy’s face as she poured it into the metal bowl.
‘What are you two doing?’
‘Making something.’
‘Please, no more slime, darlings.’
‘It’s not slime, it’s putty.’
‘Put it away and let’s take Harley out.’
Harley barked in agreement.
The stones underfoot were loose as we wove down into the bowl of the purple valley. A layer of frost shone from the heather and a low fog hugged the fir trees, muting the sunlight, pale and pretty.
‘Aren’t we going to the Devil’s Lunchbox, Mum?’ Izzy asked, noticing we had turned left instead of right out of our garden gate onto the heathland.
‘Devil’s Punchbowl, you ding-dong,’ Diana giggled.
‘No, darling. We’re not going today.’
Harley ran off to the left. I whistled to him, and he scampered back and disappeared through the fern.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t want to bump into anyone at the café.’
On Saturday mornings, Sophie and Dylan went to the Devil’s Punchbowl café to drink marshmallow-and-cream hot chocolates after their ten-minute stroll. The last person on earth I wanted to bump into was Sophie and her reproach. The awkwardness about the photographs would be fresh between us. A few days for it to settle would be better. I did not want to see the accusation in her eyes, nor did I want her to see it in mine.
I inhaled heavily, sucking in the damp, earthy aromas, luxuriating in the emptiness of our trail. The girls ran off ahead, chasing Harley. Outdoors, I could breathe. I would try to stop worrying about Sophie.
After ten minutes of tramping along the sandy pathways, I heard loud barking from Harley. Diana appeared in front of me, out of breath and bright-eyed, holding a long stick.
‘Dylan’s here!’
For a second, I didn’t click. It was slowness borne of denial. I wished it weren’t true. It was miles out of Sophie’s way, an hour on foot from the Devil’s Punchbowl car park. Butterflies battled in my stomach.
‘Is he with Sophie? Or Adam?’ I asked Diana, taking hold of her hand, hoping my ten-year-old might protect me from Sophie’s rebukes.
‘He’s with Sophie.’
As she answered, I noticed a pink fleck of a sticky substance on her cheek.
‘Have you been eating sweeties?’
Her little face turned up to mine. ‘No.’
I laughed, wiping it away. ‘Don’t fib, you little minx.’
So, sweeties had coaxed Dylan so far away from his hot chocolate. Bracing myself, I turned the corner, putting huge effort into the brightest smile I could muster, expecting three different responses from Sophie: either she would avoid eye contact or come out with a catty remark or enforce the silent treatment.
When I saw her, she was bent down to Harley, whose tail was wagging as she kissed his head. Her tortoiseshell bangles rattled as she ruffled his fur. He jumped up onto her legs as she stood. A smile formed on her pale lips. She looked like a nervous child lost in the woods, blue eyes darting around, a long wisp of hair twisted into her fingers.
‘Hi!’ I called out, with much enthusiasm.
‘How strange,’ Sophie said quietly, as though it really were a mystery.
‘Have you come all the way from the car park?’ I asked.
She ignored me. ‘They ran on ahead.’
‘Let’s follow them,’ I suggested. An offer of a walk, an olive branch.
We fell into step with one another.
‘This fresh air will help my hangover.’
I glanced at her and smiled, a little sheepishly. ‘Right. Yes.’
‘I looked awful in all the pictures, didn’t I?’
‘Nooo.’
‘Come on. You can tell me.’
‘Just a bit tipsy, that’s all.’
‘Can I see?’
‘No.’
‘Please,’ she begged.
Reluctantly, I gave her my phone.
She was quiet for a long time. The rustle of the undergrowth and the distant echo of the children were the only sounds. Then she handed it back, biting her lip. She said, ‘No wonder you couldn’t post them.’
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‘I didn’t think you’d thank me if I did. I’ve taken the article down now, anyway.’
‘I’m such a bitch.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘I shouldn’t have sent you that text. I’m so sorry.’
Sophie’s apology prompted mine.
‘No. I was totally in the wrong to have posted those photos of the others without explaining first.’
For a few steps, we walked in companionable silence, until Sophie said, ‘I wanted to talk to you about something…’
‘Yes?’ But I noticed that Harley was sniffing at the stagnant pond. ‘No! Harley! No!’ I shouted. Harley darted away, sniffing the ground. ‘Sorry about that. What did you want to talk to me about?’
She held my gaze and tightened her hold on me.
‘What is it, Sophie?’ I asked, unsettled by the fear in her eyes.
Then she blinked it away. ‘It’s so weird between Adam and I. One minute we’re fighting and the next we’re having sex.’
Relieved, a little ruffled, I recalibrated my thoughts. ‘You’re still having sex? But I thought—’
She started walking again. ‘We did last night. It’s like splitting up has been an aphrodisiac. But then he said, in front of Dylan, “I don’t know why I care any more”, and then he kept going on about the properties he was looking at for him and Natalie.’
‘Talk about mixed messages,’ I replied.
‘It’s hard facing up to the fact that he is going to leave me. I don’t think I wanted to confront it. That’s why I drank so much last night.’
‘Poor you. Honestly, I totally understand. I don’t know how you’re coping,’ I said, sensing the ease between us returning.
Harley charged at our ankles and across the path in front of us, tripping us up.
