‘And now we’re the closest we’ve ever been,’ Maxen was saying. ‘I’d do anything for you, Rory. You’re the best friend a guy could wish for. To the bride and groom,’ he said, raising his glass.
There was a resounding echo of congratulations in the room, as Ava knocked back a full glass of champagne. ‘To the bride and groom,’ she said.
Next, Ava watched on with a pang of envy, as Rory and Gail presented each other with necklaces, and Rory told Gail how much he loved her, that he was the luckiest man in the world to have met her.
The only comfort for Ava was Willow, sitting next to her so well-behaved, throwing her mum looks every so often as if to say, ‘Are you OK, Mummy?’
*
Later, Ava made her way towards Dexter. He was alone at the table now; his mother and Gail’s friends had vanished to the separate bar area. It was that in-between time you get at weddings: the meal had finished, but the evening festivities hadn’t started – although the band had almost set up.
Dexter looked handsome, as he always did, his hair tousled, his eyes on her.
She sat down, and he leaned forward, went to touch her cheek. She batted his hand away. He shot back, as though burnt.
‘Christ, Ava, what’s wrong with you?’ he said, his dark eyes hurt.
‘Who invited you?’ she snapped. Being so close to him sent her body into meltdown. Had he raped her? Had he drugged her? If it wasn’t him, where was he when someone put something in her drink? Why hadn’t he seen someone take her that night? Why hadn’t he protected her?
‘Gail. We go to the same gym. I hadn’t realised she was your sister until today.’
‘So you brought your mum as your plus one?’
‘Yes.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘She’s about somewhere. Probably gossiping.’
‘I need a drink,’ she said, rising, and he followed her through to the bar. ‘Large wine,’ she said to the barman, and turned to Dexter. ‘What about you?’
‘Think I’ll pace myself,’ he said, putting his hand up as though she’d offered him poison. ‘I’ve already had a fair bit.’
‘Fine,’ she said, paying for the wine, and taking a mouthful.
‘I messaged you,’ he said, following her once more into the hall. ‘They said at work you’ve been ill.’
‘Yes. I have. Very ill.’ Her words were clipped. She struggled to stay near him. Stay near anyone.
They sat back down, as the lights dimmed, and the band launched into a Beatles track. Within moments Peter was up on the floor, dancing with Willow and a little boy Ava didn’t recognise.
Dexter and Ava sat in silence until the song ended, and the dance floor cleared.
‘Are you going to speak to me?’ Dexter said, his voice cracking.
She drained her glass. ‘I need another one of these,’ she said, getting up and leaving him. He didn’t follow this time, and as she glanced over her shoulder at him sitting alone, she wanted to cry. She’d liked him. She’d liked him a lot. But the overwhelming fear the attack had left her with had set up home. She knew it would never leave.
At the bar she downed another wine. Dutch courage, that’s what her mother called it. Fake strength. But heading back, she felt unsteady. She dropped down at a table and buried her head in her hands, as the band played a cover of ‘Yesterday’ and Gail’s friends at the bar sang along, out of tune. She lifted her gaze to see them swaying in time with the music – all fascinators, posh frocks and heels – and wished she could remember what it felt like to be that happy. In fact, she wasn’t sure she ever had.
Chapter 39
ROSE
Now
The police visit didn’t take long. I gave a statement to PC Lewis, going over what happened the night on the beach, and mentioned the stalker from last night. But what can they do? Whoever hit me is long gone, and so is the stalker. I asked if there was any news on Willow, and they said they’d checked hospitals, but no news as yet. I hadn’t expected anything else.
‘Fancy something to eat before we go to Rory’s house?’ I ask Becky, as we pull out of the car park, and onto the main road. ‘I’ve set my satnav for 48 Walton Avenue, and it informs me we’re five minutes away.’
‘I’m not fussed,’ she says, tapping her fingers over her phone screen, her black nail varnish chipped.
‘I worry you don’t eat enough, sweetheart,’ I say, as I pull up at a red light and look over at her.
‘Not this again, Mother.’ Her fingers freeze on her phone, eyes on me. ‘Stop worrying, I’m fine. I like to look after myself, is all.’
‘By not eating?’
‘I eat. For God’s sake stop hassling me.’ I can hear by her voice she’s getting upset. I know this isn’t the right way to deal with it.
I pull into Walton Avenue, where beautiful Edwardian detached houses sit either side of the tree-lined road. I park up, and we climb out.
‘We’re looking for number 48.’ I press my key to lock the car, as we walk down the road. ‘These houses are stunning,’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ Becky says. ‘Rory must have loads of money.’
We find the house, with its sweeping drive leading to the front door, and large bay-fronted windows, and stand at the gate. I rummage in my bag for the photograph of Rory, just to remind myself of what he looks like.
‘Come on,’ Becky says, opening the gate, and I follow her up the drive, pebbles crunching under our shoes.
We ring the bell, and the door swings open. A blonde woman in her early twenties, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, raises a perfect eyebrow. ‘If you’re going to try to sell me something, I’m not interested.’
‘No, sorry,’ I say. ‘My name is Rose, and this is my daughter, Becky. We’re looking for Rory Thompson.’
She shrugs. ‘And?’
‘We believe he lives here.’
‘Nope! Never heard of him.’ She crosses her arms.
‘He’s probably moved, Mum,’ Becky says, looking at me. ‘It’s been a long time.’
‘Have you lived here long?’ I persist.
‘Dad’s been here for five years,’ she says. ‘Not that that’s any of your business.’
‘Who is it, Jess?’ A man of around forty appears behind the woman.
‘Oh, hi,’ I say, raising a hand. ‘We were wondering if you’ve heard of Rory Thompson. He used to live here.’
‘Yes, I know Rory,’ he says, grazing his chin with his hand. ‘He owns the place. I rent from him. Although I rarely see him – he lives in Italy, so we mainly deal with the estate agent. Nice chap though. I can give you his email address if you need to get in touch. Hang on!’ He disappears, returning with a little card. ‘Here, have this. It’s his card. I’ve got a couple.’
*
‘Will you email Rory Thompson?’ Becky asks.
‘I guess so. Although I’m not sure he’ll be able to help with Willow’s disappearance, but you never know. It’s got to be worth a try. He was in the box after all.’
‘Mmm,’ she says.
We drive in silence for some time before she says, ‘Let’s go to the house.’
‘House?’
‘Cottage. Floral something-or-other. You know, the place on the other side of the bay, we said we would go there, remember? See if the owners saw anything the night you were attacked.’
‘Maybe we should leave it to the police, Becky.’
‘You’re not scared, are you?’
‘Yes. I suppose. A bit. And you should be too. This whole situation is getting out of hand.’
‘Oh go on,’ she says. ‘At least then we can rule it out.’
Becky’s right, we should ask the owners if they saw or heard anything the night I was attacked. But there’s truth in my words. I am scared – scared for Willow’s safety. Scared for ours. In the end I drive towards the house, my desire to know outweighing the dangers.
Becky doesn’t notice which way I’m going, her eyes closed as she listens to her music, so when I reach the house, and pul
l onto the cobbled drive, she looks surprised when she opens her eyes.
‘Oh my God,’ she says, pulling out her earbuds.
‘It’s so pretty, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘I wonder who lives here.’
We get out of the car. There are no other vehicles on the drive, and the house is quiet, looks deserted. But there’s no doubt someone lives here. The garden is immaculate. Rose bushes are in full bloom, and the grass is plush green, a sprinkler on, showering the lawn and surrounding shrubs and flowers.
‘Shall we knock?’ Becky says, heading for the door, which is art deco, and doesn’t quite match the rest of the house. The brickwork is painted pale green, the roof thatched. It’s much bigger than I’d first thought, with views on every side of open countryside. It’s perfect – a dream house.
I follow Becky, noticing a bell situated inside a pitch-roofed porch, the kind that might be used to ring last orders in a pub. ‘Maybe try that,’ I say, pointing it out, the aroma of the roses around the door bombarding my senses.
She’s on it immediately, ringing the bell several times. ‘Bring out your dead,’ she says.
‘Shh!’ I say, and despite my angst, I laugh – wondering if it’s more hysteria.
Nobody comes to the door. I peer through the opaque glass, then turn and look about me. There’s a separate garage, and a gate leading around to the back of the house. I shiver. What if whoever hit me lives here?
Becky takes off towards the garage. ‘It’s an electric door,’ she says, observing it. ‘Very fancy pants.’
‘There’s a side door,’ I say, picking up on her investigative tone, and following her. She tries the handle.
‘Should we be doing that?’ I say, but it’s locked too.
‘We could go round the back of the house,’ Becky says, as a cloud blocks out the sun. ‘Or look in the windows.’
‘No. I really think we should leave this to the police.’ I’m beginning to feel odd, a prickle on my neck as though someone is watching us. What felt so beautiful moments ago, now gives me chills. ‘It’s far too quiet,’ I say. There isn’t even any birdsong. ‘We should get back,’ I add, fiddling with my car keys.
‘OK. Just one more thing.’ She grabs a log and pulls it towards the garage. There’s a high window. I know what she is about to do.
The log wobbles as she climbs onto it, ‘Nothing much in here,’ she says, screwing up her nose and squinting, as she peers into the garage window. ‘There’s a red car, a couple of old bikes – that’s about it.’ She almost falls from the log.
‘Let’s go,’ I say, and she trots to my side, and we get into the car.
It’s as we pull away I notice a face at the upstairs window, and a flash of blonde hair.
Chapter 40
AVA
2001
‘Is everything OK, Ava?’
She looked up to see Peter standing over her, and nodded weakly.
‘You’re necking it pretty quickly, maybe slow down a bit, aye?’
She scraped her chair back across the wooden floor, putting space between them. ‘I’m fine,’ she snapped. ‘And you’re one to talk.’
‘Think about Willow, Ava,’ he said, leaning over and placing his hand on her arm.
‘I always think about her,’ she cried. ‘Always.’
‘I know. Sorry. You must be in a living hell right now.’
With a deep intake of breath, she reached into her bag and pulled out the box with the bracelet inside.
He sat down, and furrowing his forehead, picked it up. ‘What is it?’
‘I found it.’
‘Found it?’ He lifted the lid, and stared at the necklace, and back at Ava. ‘Found it where?
Her mind whirred and tears rolled down her face. ‘I found it the night I was attacked.’
Gail appeared beside them, and Ava dabbed her tears away with the heels of her hands.
‘You should go home,’ Gail said. ‘It’s the first dance soon, and we’ve got to cut the cake, and if I’m honest, Ava, I really don’t want you here ruining everything with your continual self-destruction. This is my wedding day for God’s sake. It’s meant to be the best day of my life.’
‘I know,’ Ava said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry isn’t enough. People keep asking me if my sister is OK. Go home, Ava.’
‘Leave her, Gail,’ Peter said. ‘You know what she’s been through.’
Ava’s eyes widened. ‘You told her?’
His eyes met hers. ‘I’m sorry. She was just so angry with you. I wanted her to understand.’
‘I don’t care what she’s been through, Peter,’ Gail snapped. ‘If she can’t put it on hold for one fucking day, then she can piss off home, quite frankly.’
‘Shut up!’ Ava banged her hands palm down on the table, and a splinter of wood pierced her skin. She pulled it out, and blood oozed from the small wound, but there was no pain. She was too numb to feel pain.
‘Where the hell did you get that?’ Gail snapped, snatching the open box from Peter, the bracelet glinting inside.
‘I found it,’ Ava said, glancing at Peter.
‘I don’t believe you.’ Gail snapped the box closed. ‘You took it, didn’t you? You’ve always been jealous of everything I have, but I didn’t think you were capable of taking the gift Rory bought for me. The bracelet I chose.’
Anger shuddered through Ava’s body, her stomach churned. Rory? She rose, needing to throw up.
She tried pushing past her sister, but Gail wouldn’t budge. ‘He had to get this ridiculous thing instead,’ she said, pointing at the necklace around her neck that Rory presented her with at the top table. She rammed the box into her bag. ‘I’ll have this thank you very much, you little bitch.’ And with that she stormed into the main hall.
The noise that came from Ava was close to a wild animal in distress.
Peter got up, attempted to hug her, but she shook him away, fell back into her seat, and buried her head in her hands. Had Rory raped her?
Peter sat down and attempted to pull her hands from her face. ‘What can I do?’ he said sounding desperate. ‘Let me help you.’
‘Just leave me alone, Peter,’ she said through her fingers. ‘Please.’
He sat for a while longer, before kissing her head and leaving. After sitting as though in a trance for some time, she got up and followed him into the main hall where the band boomed out a cover of ‘Cotton Eye Joe’, and a row of guests were attempting line dancing.
‘Ava!’ It was Megan Powell, dressed in a pink floral dress, hurrying towards her, a cream fur coat over arm. As she got closer, avoiding guests who had taken to the dance floor, Ava could see she was angry. ‘Can I have a word with you?’
‘It’s not a good time, Megan.’ Ava could see Gail talking to their mother. Peter and Willow were dancing some distance away.
Megan grabbed Ava’s arm, her neck flushing red.
Ava shook her arm free. ‘What’s this about?’ she said, the waft of Megan’s heavy perfume making her head ache.
‘How could you be so cruel to my boy? You ignored his messages and now barely speak to him. The poor boy’s devastated. He’s gone home.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ava said. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt Dexter. It’s just—’
‘There’s no excuse for being so cruel, Ava Millar,’ Megan snapped, thrusting her arms into her fur coat. ‘I’ve got to go home now. Leave the party. Make sure he’s OK.’ With that she stormed towards the door, getting lost in the crowd.
Ava approached her sister. ‘Line dancing,’ Gail was saying. ‘It’s a wedding not a bloody barn dance. They need to play something more cultured, like a Grease medley or something.’
Ava took hold of her sister’s arm. They were the same height, but Ava was running on adrenaline – she was stronger. ‘Where is he?’ she demanded. ‘Where the hell is he?’
Gail spun round. ‘Who?’ She was wearing the bracelet. Brazen. Bold. How could she?
‘Rory?’ Ava yelled, tryin
g to make herself heard over the music. ‘He needs to pay for what he did.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Gail’s eyes were wide and full of anger.
‘I think he raped me, Gail,’ Ava cried.
Gail’s slap across Ava’s face stung like pins plunged into a pincushion. But as Ava looked about her, holding her cheek, tears filling her eyes once more, nobody seemed to notice. Or if they did, they politely ignored what they’d seen.
‘Go home, Ava. Go!’ Jeannette said, pointing to the door.
‘You’re unbelievable, Mum,’ Ava whispered, before rushing away, diving through the crowd, knocking into a man who jabbed her chest with his elbow.
‘Ouch,’ she cried, clutching her breasts, as she headed for the ladies’.
She didn’t want to walk home on her own. Afraid. Yes. He’d made her weak. He’d made her helpless. He’d made her vulnerable.
She continued through the throng of dancers, and someone touched her arm. She swung round.
‘Join in, Ava.’ It was Maxen, yelling above the music, as he tried to follow the steps.
She ignored him, throwing open the door to the ladies’ instead.
Women applying make-up and spraying perfume were lined up in front of the mirror. There was a wooden chair in the corner, and three cubicles. She raced into the vacant one, locked the door, and leaned her body against it, taking deep breaths until her heart resumed an even beat. She sat on the seat, lid down, cradling her knees, and rocking backwards and forwards. She would stay here. She would stay here until this fucking fiasco was over.
An hour went by. She cried. She got angry. She threw up. And repeat.
Music vibrated the walls. Women came and went. Trying the door. Accepting it was engaged.
She looked at her watch. Quarter to eleven. Gail and Rory would head to the airport soon in his stupid Ferrari.
Suddenly the outside door was thrown open, and she listened for the usual clatter of make-up, the giggles, the whispers, but there was nothing.
Traces of Her: An utterly gripping psychological thriller with a twist you'll never see coming Page 18
