by Alison James
‘It’s just business.’ Even so, a faint warmth creeps up my neck. It’s too soon, I tell myself firmly. Far too soon to feel anything resembling attraction. To prove this too myself, I put off returning the call.
* * *
Back at home, I start dabbing paint swatches on the walls of the nursery, trying to decide between a delicate smoke grey and palest taupe. My phone rings again and I extricate it from my pocket, but not without getting a smudge of emulsion on the screen.
‘Are you avoiding me?’
Jim.
‘No, I was out before, with a friend.’
‘Right then. I’ve made contact with Adam Nixon. Calls himself Nickey. Bit of a dickhead if you ask me.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That’s the thing… he’s more than happy to talk, but he’s making a meal of it. Literally. He’s asked me down to his house in Kent for supper. So I thought you might as well come along with me.’
I hesitate. ‘I don’t know, Jim… having met Nickey a couple of times, I doubt he’s got anything worthwhile to contribute. After Scotland, I’m not really sure there’s any point going on with this. We’re getting nowhere.’
‘Are you saying I’m off the job?’
I give a drawn-out sigh; which I know he’ll be able to hear. ‘I think you should send me your bill, and I’ll settle it. But unless any startling new information comes up, I think you should probably focus on other work.’
And I should avoid being confused by a weird urge to flirt with you while I’m still shocked and scattered.
‘Tell you what, just come to this little soirée with me. If nothing worthwhile comes to light, then we’ll leave it at that.’
* * *
The Nixons’ house is in the Kent commuter belt, in a new-built estate of white clapboard homes next to a man-made lake.
‘Aow, Alice, lovely to see you!’ Lisa screeches. She’s a tiny woman with long, straight bottle-blonde hair, lash extensions and veneered teeth. She takes in the fact that I’m pregnant and her eyes widen momentarily, but she quickly covers her composure and ushers us through into the living room. ‘Come in, come in, you two! Adam’s getting us some drinks and nibbles.’
We’re settled in our seats in the sitting room, which has squeaky leather furniture and a display of garish gold-painted roses on a white marble fireplace that will never see a fire.
Adam comes in carrying a tray on which is an ice bucket of champagne, a bottle of Perrier, four glasses and a large bowl of peanuts. He places it down on the gilt-edged coffee table and rubs his hands. He’s changed from his City suit into off-duty uniform of jeans, sweater tied round the shoulders and loafers with bare feet. ‘Lovely, lovely… lovely to see you both. No nut allergies I hope?’
‘Let’s hope not,’ Lisa giggles. ‘Otherwise it’ll be a trip to A & E.’
‘Bloody hell, wouldn’t that be a ’mare,’ snorts Adam.
Jim stands up to accept his glass of champagne from Lisa, his frame temporarily blocking what’s left of the daylight from the picture windows. He hands me a glass of water.
‘Oh my God, you’re a big one, aren’t you, Jim?’ she simpers. She turns to me, ‘Really tall, ain’t he, Alice? I love a tall man. How tall are you, Jim? Adam’s nearly six foot, but you’re a lot taller, aren’t you? Especially next to me, ’cause I’m only five foot. Five one on a good day. Maybe I should have worn my heels… you wearing heels, Alice? No, well you’re not supposed to when you’re expecting, are you? Mind you, that didn’t stop me when I was having Coco.’
Lisa continues this monologue, punctuated only by frequent refills of her own glass, or Adam’s banal opinions on the state of the economy. She addresses remarks about Jim to me, as though we’re there on a double date. It’s a relief to sit down at the pretentious Perspex dining suite and be served with roast chicken – ‘with all the trimmings, otherwise Adam’ll give me what for!’ – accompanied by water for me and Chardonnay for everyone else.
A fractious squawk from the baby monitor sends Lisa upstairs to check on their daughter. Jim takes advantage of her absence, leaning across the table and imposing on Adam’s space.
‘Nickey, have you had a chance to think some more since I contacted you? I really just need anything you might have learned about Alice’s husband that would help us get to his real identity. Anything about his background, his upbringing.’
‘It’s a real shocker, I’m not going to lie,’ Adam says soberly, slipping out of the persona of genial host. ‘It’s been playing on my mind the whole time since you phoned me. I mean, bad enough that the guy’s dead, but finding out that he wasn’t really called Dominic Gill… it’s a proper mindfuck, I don’t mind telling you.’
‘Did he talk about himself much?’
‘This is the thing…’ Adam pours himself more wine. ‘I mean; I didn’t really know the geezer that well. I was a bit shocked, if I’m honest, when he asked me to be his best man. I mean, yeah, he came off as a nice guy. People liked him. The women proper fancied him.’ He glances in my direction and his boyish face reddens. ‘But he never said a whole lot about himself. He never said a thing about his family. I suppose we assumed they were in Scotland; you know, because of the accent, but…’ He pauses, looking first at my face, then Jim’s. ‘But then there was the whole business of the nickname.’
‘The nickname?’ Jim’s tone doesn’t alter, but I sense his body tense fractionally.
‘Yeah. Some of the guys at work used to call him Skippy.’
Jim and I exchange a blank look.
‘You know, like Skippy the Bush Kangaroo. Because when he was particularly worked up about something, or if he was a bit tired, he used to veer off into a bit of an Aussie accent. We had an Australian intern for a few weeks last summer – Jessica, she was called – and she said something about not being the only Aussie in the office and I said, “Why, who’s the other?” and she said, “Well, Dom of course.” Apparently she heard him calling someone a “coot”, and that’s Aussie slang for a stupid person. He referred to someone as a “cobber”, and it was always a “barbie”, not a “barbecue”.’
I can feel my fingers trembling as I reach for my glass of water.
Jim touches my arm. ‘Alice?’
‘He used to call me a “coot” sometimes.’ My voice is not much more than a whisper. ‘And a “galah”. I didn’t know what that meant. I thought he’d invented a term of endearment. You know – the way some couples use a private language.’ I flush defensively. ‘My brother and I used to make up silly names for each other when we were little. I thought it was like that. A sign of affection.’
‘Well, there you go. Jessica used to call people “stupid galahs” too,’ says Adam.
‘When we took the piss out of him and called him Skip, he said he’d been backpacking in Australia and New Zealand when he was at uni. So maybe that was why.’
‘Maybe,’ said Jim thoughtfully. ‘It’s worth looking into.’
A tipsy Lisa totters back into the room, carrying a huge gooey cake, just visible through clouds of whipped cream. ‘Salted caramel gateau anyone? Contains nuts, just so you know.’
* * *
‘On a scale of one to ten, how awkward was that?’ Jim asks, as his Subaru heads west along the M20.
‘About nine and a half, I’d say.’
I lapse back into silence, watching rain refracted in the beam of oncoming headlights.
‘So, are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘Probably. Depends what you’re thinking…’
‘That the reason Ellen and Malcolm Henderson disappear from the records is because they literally did disappear. To the other side of the world.’
I nod. ‘Yes, I was thinking that.’
‘And if it’s true, then we have a shot at finding their son.’
I sigh. ‘Maybe. But their son – if they had one – still might not be my husband. We’re making a big assumption based on one old photograph.’
‘Le
t me just run some checks first though. Promise me you won’t make any decisions until then.’
I manage a faint smile. ‘I’m never making promises to a man again.’
Thirty-Nine
Alice
Now
Jim and I meet at his office a week later.
He’s wearing a rumpled pink linen shirt and a disgruntled expression. A manila folder is open on his desk, with pieces of paper spilling out of it. Amongst them is a blown-up headshot of a young woman.
‘Okay…’ he says with a sigh, placing his large hands palm down on the desk. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’
‘I believe the convention is bad news followed by good.’
‘Actually, I think in this case it makes more sense the other way round. The good news is that I’ve been to the National Archive and searched their emigration records. Malcolm and Ellen Henderson emigrated to Australia in 1973. We got that right.’
I tilt my head to one side. ‘And the bad?’
‘I’ve been grappling with the Australian Government’s online registry, and it’s proving impossible to find any children who may or may not have been born to them. For starters, the six states are governed separately, and there’s a separate register for each of them. Even if you go through them all one at a time, without either the individual’s first name or place of birth, the search engine won’t play ball.’
I nod slowly. ‘It’s fine: we knew it was a bit of a long shot. You have other stuff you need to be working on.’
And I’m enjoying our little partnership more than is appropriate. I feel my cheeks grow pink at the thought.
Jim picks up the photo on the file in front of him and turns it round so that I can see it properly. The woman is in her early twenties, with shoulder-length ash blonde hair, Slavic cheekbones and a nose piercing.
‘Irenka Minar. Young Slovakian girl who was working as an au pair in Wimbledon and vanished into thin air a week ago. Her family back home are frantic with worry, and after the police failed to show much interest, her employers contacted me.’
I look down at the exuberant smile, which reveals a slight gap between her two front teeth. ‘You should definitely make her your priority. Email me your final invoice, and I’ll transfer the money to your account as soon as I get it.’
Shaking hands seems formal and wrong after everything we’ve been through together, so I reach across the desk and pull him into a clumsy hug. ‘Thanks so much for everything.’
‘You’re very welcome. Sorry we couldn’t quite get there.’
I smile at him as I head for the door. ‘Listen: I may not know whose widow I am, but at least we’ve filled in some of the blanks. And answered some questions.’
He sits down again and picks up Irenka’s file. ‘Grand. Good luck with everything, Alice.’
* * *
I should feel a sense of relief, of coming to the end of a long road, but I don’t.
Instead I feel restless, unable to settle. I oversee the painting and re-carpeting of the nursery, and I order a few of the larger pieces of furniture I’ll need, but it’s too early in my pregnancy to put up the cot and start assembling a layette. David and Melanie invite me to stay for a few days, but Melanie is so obsessed with her own pregnancy, and so determined to constantly compare notes, that I use an obstetric check-up as an excuse to say no.
I realise that I miss going to work and start to regret my decision to sell Comida. I made it when I was under immense strain, but with hindsight, it feels too hasty. I should just have taken some time off, rather than throwing in the towel completely.
Still, I reason, as I lay awake one night with my brain whirring, just because I no longer own the company, there’s no reason why I can’t still work there.
I get up the next morning full of energy and resolve. I wash and style my hair, apply make-up and put on a navy empire-line dress and kitten heels, before heading to the tube station.
The Comida office in Tower Hill is the same, yet subtly different. The desks have been moved around to change the floor layout, and there’s a new work girl on reception who I’ve never met before.
‘And who shall I say it is?’ she asks with a charming professional smile.
‘Alice. Alice Palmer.’
This clearly means nothing to her, but Milan has spotted me from his office and comes bustling over. ‘Alice used to be the boss here,’ he tells the receptionist, kissing me on both cheeks. ‘But she’s moved on to better things.’ He indicates my now-visible bump. ‘Wow – look at you Mama! No hiding it now! Are you allowed coffee? I’m guessing not. Tea, then? Could you fetch us one, Emma? And tell Matt that Alice is here.’
He leads me into what used to be my office and I sit on the wrong side of what used to be my desk. It feels strange and back to front. I’m Alice through the looking glass.
‘So how are things with you? What can I do for you?’
‘Actually,’ I press my fingers against the edge of the desk, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. ‘It’s more a question of what I can do for you.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘I was wondering… well, thinking… that I could come back and help out. On a freelance basis. As a consultant, perhaps. Doing some business development.’
Matt has come into the office, sweeping me into a hug. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’
I repeat my offer. The merest hint of a look is exchanged between the two.
‘That’s incredibly generous of you,’ says Matt warmly. He was always the more tactful of the two. ‘But things are ticking over okay at the moment. We’ve taken on a few more corporate clients, and we’re just putting together the teams to take care of their accounts.’
‘Well, I could help with that, surely?’
Again, a glance between the two. ‘You wouldn’t want to spend your whole time chasing up recruiters and filling out spreadsheets!’ Milan exclaimed. ‘You’ve got enough on your hands with this!’ He indicates my bump.
‘I’m pregnant, not ill,’ I say, forcing a smile.
‘But don’t you have a heart condition that makes it all rather dangerous?” Matt asks. ‘Surely you’d be better off at home?’
‘I’m fine,’ I assure him. ‘My heart rate and blood pressure are being monitored weekly, but so far everything’s absolutely normal.’ It’s pointless, however, persisting against this lack of enthusiasm for my idea. I can’t really blame them: it’s their company now and they don’t want the ex-boss hanging around like Marley’s ghost. I’d be in their way. ‘But you’re probably right: I should be taking it easy as I get bigger. The doctor’s always nagging me to rest.’
‘Well there you are then!’ exclaims Matt, visibly relieved. He kisses me again. ‘Lovely to see you. And we’re definitely going to be planning your baby shower, okay? You can leave it all to your two fairy godfathers.’
* * *
Two hours later and I’m lying on my back in an antenatal ultrasound suite at St Mary’s Hospital, in a darkened room, with a flickering grey-and-white screen somewhere near my feet.
JoJo offered to come with me, but I told her I didn’t want to make a big fuss about the twenty-week scan. ‘I’ve decided I’m not going to find out the sex, so there’s not going to big a big reveal. It’s just a question of checking that the baby’s size is on track.’
Now, with the scan probe sweeping across the swell of my stomach, the sonographer smiles at me and asks, ‘Want to know if it’s a little boy or a little girl?’
I hesitate. Curiosity about the baby’s identity is a powerful and natural thing, and a big part of me is dying to know. But I need more time. I need more time to adjust to my situation before that wriggling image becomes a real person. I shake my head. ‘No,’ I say, with more decisiveness than I feel. ‘Please don’t tell me.’
The sonographer removes the probe, wipes off the gel and presses the button to print a copy of the image. ‘I understand. You want a surprise on the big day.’
‘Something like that. It feels a bit like cheating. You know… like opening your presents before Christmas.’
‘Exactly. The most important thing is that baby’s doing fine.’
I bite my lip. ‘No heart abnormalities?’
She consults my notes and looks back through the images. ‘I can’t see anything that suggests a problem at this stage, though obviously with your history, we’ll continue to monitor that… You’re measuring at twenty weeks and three days, which gives you a due date of 24 October. Though that’s only a rough guide.’
I gaze, mesmerised, at the baby-shaped white blob on the picture she has handed me, before slipping it into my bag.
Feeling more cheerful than I did after my visit to Comida, I make a detour to Daylesford in Westbourne Grove and buy myself a selection of overpriced cheeses and deli items. Once I get my shopping home, I make a big bowl of salad and get to work chopping onions for a risotto. I wish – and not for the first time – that I could pour myself a glass of wine. I’ve taken a bottle of white from the fridge to add to the risotto and I risk a swig, but it tastes strange and metallic to my hormonally-disturbed palate.
I take a wine glass from the cupboard anyway, because JoJo has texted to say she’ll come over to hear all about the scan after she has finished work. When I hear the doorbell, I wipe my onion-stained hands on a tea towel and go to let her in.
‘Oh,’ I say, ‘it’s you.’
‘Give the girl a prize,’ Jim says, with a ghost of a smile. ‘First-class observational powers.’
‘Is it important? Only I’m expecting someone for supper.’
I’m aware that I sound unfriendly, but seeing him here, large as life, is unsettling. We no longer have a professional connection after all.
‘It is, yes.’ There’s a seriousness in his tone that makes my stomach flip slightly.
I lead him into the kitchen, where he looks mock-aghast at the open bottle of wine and the wine glass.
