Go on, have a look, Will says as Jo takes another sip of her wine. When she looks up again, he’s gone.
‘Hastings,’ she types in the search box, not even remembering which county it’s in. They’d wanted an escape, needed a long weekend away, with Will suggesting the area, telling her that someone had given him the idea. Even though Will hadn’t got the part he’d recently auditioned for and money would be tight for a couple of months, the voucher website had a deal they could just afford. But when they’d finally got round to planning it, the only dates they could manage had been booked up. Instead, they’d made do with a lock-in weekend by their own fire at home. Phones switched off, their favourite food in the fridge, a stack of movies with the wine bottle beside them. They spent most of it on the sofa or in bed… just being.
Now neither of them was being. One gone, one barely existing.
‘Ten sixty-six and all that,’ Jo mutters, remembering, as the search list pops up. ‘Good place for a seamstress, you said,’ she reminds Will, glancing up to where she’d imagined him standing. ‘OK… what have we got here?’ She turns back to the screen, scanning the results. ‘This one’s not bad. Two Labradors need long daily walks,’ Jo reads. ‘And because our house is isolated, we don’t like to leave it empty.’ Jo quickly clicks off the property, perturbed by the bars on the windows, and that it’s set in the middle of nowhere.
A few other properties look vaguely interesting, with one in a village not far from where she and Will had planned to go. ‘This one’s really nice,’ Jo says, clicking on the property.
She reads out the description. ‘Someone caring and kind needed to look after my elderly cat and crazy spaniel. Ten days mid-May. Light housekeeping and some gardening, but feel free to use my home as yours. I travel a lot so I’m quite used to house-sitters. Non-smokers only and a love of houseplants essential!’
Promising, Jo thinks, clicking through the photographs. Fifteen in total. Everything from a close-up of the sleeping cat to the bouncy dog… the kitchen, the garden, the bedrooms, the living room, the garden. The local area.
The living room.
Jo clicks back, freezing. Staring at the picture.
Then she looks up slowly, looking for Will, waiting for her mind to play tricks on her.
When he doesn’t appear, she stares down at her laptop screen again. Blinking.
Her eyes drifting in and out of focus.
The living room.
She looks up again, hardly daring to breathe. Will is back briefly, smiling. Making that silly face of his. What are you waiting for?
Jo turns back to her laptop, her shaking finger accidentally clicking on another photograph – the bedroom with its painted wooden floor and pretty white bed linen.
‘Oh my God…’ she says, panting, breathless, her finger suddenly useless on the mouse as she tries to go back. She shakes her head, knowing she must be seeing things again, that it can’t possibly be real.
‘Living room, living room…’ she mutters, fumbling, clicking back one more picture, then another and another. She leans in closer, zooming in on the mantelpiece.
Photographs. Right there. Three of them. Clear as day.
She clutches her face, pressing her fingers into her cheeks.
She squints. Rubs her eyes in case she’s imagining it.
‘Oh my God…’
Jo turns round, scans her now-empty kitchen. Gets up. Presses her forehead against the wall, hands splayed on the plaster, then pulls at her hair.
She sits down again. Focuses on the screen.
Blinking hard.
On the mantelpiece, in the photograph of the house-sit living room, Jo clearly sees three pictures of Will. She refreshes the image over and over and over, and each time they are still there.
Will. In someone else’s home.
Four
Three adult bridesmaids, three young bridesmaids – one of whom is very young and won’t stand still for more than fifteen seconds as Jo tries to pin her hem. ‘Hey, sweetie,’ she says, her lips pursed from the pin stuck between them. ‘Hold still a few more minutes, then you can see what I’ve got in the cookie jar over there.’ She takes the pin, sliding it into the hem which she’ll hand-stitch later. She’s not been able to concentrate all day.
The kid swings round, grizzling. ‘Don’t, Charlotte darling,’ her mother says. ‘Let the nice lady sort your dress. You want to be a special girl at Aunty Sarah’s wedding, don’t you?’ The kid grizzles again. Jo ignores the ache in her lower back from stooping to the hem, even though little Charlotte is standing on a platform.
‘Nearly there,’ she says, knowing that at least the ten-year-old twins will stay still as she works. Finally, she stands back, asking the mum to slowly turn her daughter around as she inspects the length. ‘Good, I think that’s it.’ Jo checks the fit of the waist, the give on the shoulders of the pink, puff-sleeved dress. The wedding isn’t for another month yet but a three-year-old can grow a lot in that time.
‘There,’ she says fifteen minutes later after she’s pinned up the twins’ hems. ‘If you all slip out of the gowns now, I’ll have them done by the end of the day. Now we know you’re in silk pumps, there won’t be any more alterations necessary.’ Jo smiles and stands up, watching as the three women and the children retreat into the changing area. ‘Just watch you don’t knock the pins out when you undress,’ she calls out. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
Jo knows their bridal clients like to make a thing out of the fittings – it’s a social event for them as much as anything. ‘You happy?’ she asks Sarah, the bride-to-be as she watches on from the armchair, her fitting already taken care of. Her hands are resting on her burgeoning belly and Jo is happy she’s allowed enough room in her dress for an extra month’s baby growth. She stares at it for a beat too long – long enough for Sarah to look uncomfortable.
‘Very,’ Sarah smiles warmly. ‘I just love what you’ve done with my dress. I was so worried I was going to look like a tent. Or, you know, one of those floaty summer gazebo things. But I don’t. Gary’s going to pass out when he sees me.’
‘Good, that’s good,’ Jo says, filling the kettle in the kitchen area of the bridal room. She and Margot redid the interior themselves a year ago, painting the walls a soft and calming shade of grey with swathes of white brocade and voile at the French doors for privacy, even though they look out over a private courtyard. For summer fittings, they open it up, serve Prosecco if the bride wants.
‘Here, help yourself to cupcakes,’ Jo says, checking the dresses are all hung up and well out of the way. The little girl dives in, her mother rescuing the cake from the grip of her eager fingers, sitting her on her knee and popping pieces into her mouth.
‘Do you have children, Jo?’ Sarah asks, adjusting her stretchy top over her belly.
‘Nooo,’ Jo laughs too loudly, too self-consciously. ‘No, no I don’t,’ she adds. ‘None at all.’ She smiles, checking everyone has a cup of tea. ‘No.’
And then Will is on her mind again – more than on her mind. She swears she sees him standing in the corner, watching her, grinning, arms folded in that way of his with one foot crossed over the other, head tilted.
You shouldn’t be in here, she thinks. There are women changing.
Don’t worry, I waited until everyone was decent, he replies in her head.
‘Decent,’ Jo says wistfully, holding the plate of cakes.
‘Totally,’ Sarah says. ‘Such a nice idea to have afternoon tea as well. It’s so exciting that…’ But Sarah’s voice fades away as Jo stands there, staring at the pale grey wall that just a moment ago was the backdrop to Will.
And then the house-sitting website is on her mind again. It’s barely left her thoughts all day.
When the clients have drained the tea and eaten the cakes, and arrangements have been made for delivery of the dresses, Jo flops down into the armchair, still warm from Sarah and her bump.
‘Hi Lou,’ Jo says a moment later, answering her
phone. Her mouth is dry. She can’t explain to Louise, to anyone, what she saw on that website. Doesn’t want to explain it to herself, even.
Will. Photos of him. In someone else’s house.
‘So?’ Louise says. ‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘Did you apply for a house-sit? For a holiday? I’m worried about you.’
Jo makes a face. ‘Why are you so keen for me to get away?’
‘Do I even need to answer that, Jo-jo?’
Jo winces a little. Only Will’s ever called her that. But she knows Louise is only trying to make her feel OK, to keep the familiar alive. And she’s right, she does need a holiday. But what she saw has changed everything.
‘There was… there was one property that looked interesting.’
‘Good. Where?’
‘Near the South Coast.’
‘Nice,’ Louise says. ‘Much of a menagerie, or house care only? What made you choose the south?’
‘Cat and dog. And… and…’ She pauses, thinking.
If she and Will hadn’t planned that romantic weekend near Hastings, had she not wanted to somehow feel close to him, imagining what it would have been like for the pair of them if they actually had gone away, then she’d never have thought to search for a house-sit in East Sussex. She can’t fully remember where the idea of Hastings came from, though she thinks Will mentioned a colleague at work recommended it, but she’s not sure if it was at the school or the theatre. Maybe another teacher, she thinks. And then she’d spotted the B & B doing a special deal on the voucher website.
‘I was wondering,’ Louise says. ‘Maybe we could go together. You know, a girls’ break. It would do us both good.’
‘Oh. No,’ Jo says back too quickly. Her heart thumps. She doesn’t even know if she’s going herself yet, hasn’t applied, may not even get accepted. The thought of reaching out to a stranger who has photos of her missing husband on the mantelpiece makes her feel nauseous. Especially as she should really be getting in touch with the police, telling them what she saw. But she can’t. She absolutely can’t. Just in case… And certainly not until she’s found out more for herself.
Besides, she hasn’t absorbed it properly yet. Still wonders if it’s her imagination playing tricks. She keeps checking the screenshots she took of the website on her phone, zooming in, looking at them in different lights. There’s no mistaking it’s Will – especially on the close-up photo of the cosy log burner, flames burning bright, the fat oak beam above it bedecked with fairy lights and candles. And the three large photographs of Will, leaning against the bare brickwork of the chimney as if he were part of a shrine.
‘You can’t come, Lou,’ Jo says, not meaning to sound abrupt. ‘It’s too close to your due date. You need to stay near the hospital. Near Archie. Near everything familiar.’
‘Guess you’re right,’ Louise says flatly, instinctively knowing not to crow too much about Speck’s imminent arrival. Jo is happy for her friends, of course – knows they are ecstatic about their baby, too – but she also knows that Louise has played down her pregnancy, almost been reserved about it, despite Jo insisting she should just act normally, that if she and Will were meant to have conceived then… he wouldn’t have disappeared, would he?
‘Anyway, it’s probably best I take the time to be alone. You know. To reflect. On stuff.’
‘I understand,’ Louise says, pausing for a moment. ‘Have you applied?’
‘No, no, I haven’t yet,’ Jo says, suddenly feeling light-headed at the thought. ‘I’m still thinking about it. Anyway, I’ve got to go, Lou.’ And the two women say their goodbyes.
Oh, Christ… she thinks. What the hell am I supposed to do?
Jo opens up the screenshots on her phone again, shaking her head slowly, biting her lip. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen these photos before,’ she whispers to herself. ‘I think I probably took them.’ She stares at them a moment longer before pulling up the contact number of the family liaison officer she was assigned at Warwickshire Police. PC Janine Daniels. A pleasant woman, Jo thinks, remembering her visits in the early days. But they soon fell away as the police enquiries scaled down after several months.
‘People go missing,’ the officer in charge of the case had told her when they’d run out of leads and, most likely, resources to keep the search going. ‘And what you have to remember is that sometimes they don’t want to be found.’
Jo tucks her phone back in her bag, staring out of the window, not knowing what to do.
Five
Then
The first time I met Will Carter, I was down on bended knee.
‘Shouldn’t it be the other way around?’ were his first words to me as I stooped beneath him.
And ‘Oh Christ, I’m so sorry!’ were my first words to him. I’d managed to stick myself in the cheek with the same pin that I’d just jabbed into Will’s thigh, unable to help the squeak.
‘Blood brothers now,’ Will said from above. I looked up. My smile matched his.
‘I’m so, so sorry. I… I’m not usually this chaotic.’ My hand shook as I reached for another pin from the pot on the floor. ‘Well, actually,’ I said, pausing. ‘Some would argue with that.’ I laughed nervously.
‘I wouldn’t argue with you about anything,’ Will said calmly in that deep voice of his that I would come to love so much.
I glanced up again, my left hand folding in the brocade fabric of his split breeches while the fingers of my right hand carefully slid the pin in place so I knew where to stitch it to prevent the same thing happening again – a large split seam where there really shouldn’t have been one. Apparently there had been complaints. There were schoolchildren in the audience.
‘I didn’t see a problem with it, actually,’ Will added, a wry smile breaking. ‘I was wearing full hose beneath.’
I kept my eyes firmly focused on the fabric, trying to stop the smile, choking back the nervous laughs. ‘I don’t think it’s your hose that was the problem,’ I said, daring a quick glance up. ‘Right, that should do it. Keeps the feel of the costume without being too—’
‘Revealing?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, nice work, Mrs…?’ Will raised one eyebrow, another little trait I’d come to love over the following months. The following years.
‘Oh, it’s not Mrs,’ I said immediately. ‘It’s Miss. Miss Langham, and pleased to meet you… Mr Carter.’ I stood up, trying to be graceful except I lost my balance and my foot caught the pot of pins as I staggered, upending them everywhere. I froze, my shoulders dropping briefly, my head shaking, as I bent down to pick them up. Before I could protest, Will was down on his hands and knees helping me.
Cast and crew members were bustling around as some of the actors were called to rehearse a specific scene. Aside from breeches splitting and a few other costume glitches, there had been some technical issues that needed ironing out. The play had only been running a week and had garnered some pleasing national reviews.
‘’Scuse me there,’ a prop hand said, wheeling part of the set past, ushering Will and me aside. He ran over the remaining pins.
‘I’m not needed for a while,’ Will said, standing up and squeezing close to me as the backstage bustle took hold. ‘I shall change out of my breeches in order that you may stitch them up before it is time, once again, for me to tread the boards.’
I laughed at his silly, overstated voice and hand flourishes, giving a quick salute in return. ‘I’ll be right here, with my needle and thread awaiting said breeches.’ My eyes locked onto his for a second. Then I shook my head. ‘It won’t take me long,’ I added. ‘To… to stitch them up. I’ll have you put back together in no time.’
Will walked off, his gaze lingering on mine as he glanced back before heading down to his dressing room.
Meantime, I busied myself with tweaks and tidy-ups on other costumes that had already suffered the ravages of the first week after opening. Margot and I worked tirelessly keeping the garments pristi
ne, organising both the laundering and dry-cleaning as well as general repairs. There were always buttons to be sewn back, rips to stitch up, embellishments to replace and alterations if a cast member either felt uncomfortable or had put on or lost a few pounds.
Having been through college together, Margot and I were a dedicated team with big plans. One day, we swore, we’d have our own business premises – we’d already chosen the name. Sew Perfect was going to be the go-to place in the county for unique designs and professional alterations, with an emphasis on bridal. We’d been trained by the best in London, but had moved back to the Midlands when we couldn’t afford the rent in the south. But for now, what we were doing – ducking and diving from one job to another – sufficed. We were still young – in our mid-twenties – and, compared to many our age, already living the dream. Albeit in a shared studio flat with piecemeal dressmaking work, stints waitressing or working behind a bar, and a few weeks here and there signing on when necessary. But mainly, we were loving life.
‘I saw him looking at you,’ Margot said, her prominent jaw jutting, her eyes twinkling. ‘Othello.’ She swung her legs back and forth, perched on a couple of stacked crates backstage.
‘Oh, stop it,’ I said, glancing towards the door that led down to the dressing rooms. ‘He’s hot, though,’ I admitted. ‘And I really didn’t mind pinning up his breeches.’
‘Need more room, did he?’
I took a playful swipe at Margot just as Will re-emerged wearing jeans and a T-shirt that clung to his broad chest. He approached us as we sat side by side sipping from cans of Coke.
‘I wouldn’t trust anyone else with my breeches, Miss Langham,’ Will said, holding them out to me.
‘Just so you know, it wasn’t me who made them in the first place. Had I sewn these beauties from scratch, you would have had no embarrassing splits onstage.’
The Happy Couple: An absolutely unputdownable and gripping psychological thriller Page 3
