by Lucy Diamond
Sod it. Needs must. She would go there and tell him in person, so there could no longer be doubt in anyone’s mind. She owed him that much at least.
Chapter Thirty-One
Spencer didn’t come back on Monday. There was still no word from him on Tuesday. It was as if he’d been swallowed up by the earth. Gemma even went and checked the garage, and then all the rooms of the house, just to make sure she hadn’t gone completely mad, but his sports car was definitely missing, and so was he.
It was affecting them all, as if a dark cloud had permeated the brick walls of the house and blocked out the light. Darcey had had nightmares for two nights on the trot. Will had retreated into new depths of sullenness, playing awful music at top volume and scowling when Gemma told him off. And when she woke up every morning, alone in the double bed, it hit her all over again. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come home?
On Wednesday morning she couldn’t bear it any more. Voice shaking, she phoned the police to report him missing.
The policeman who took down her details sounded rather unsympathetic. ‘So you haven’t seen him since Sunday,’ he said.
‘No, or heard from him. He’s got his wallet, but not his phone, or even a change of clothes. He just upped and left. He’s in a back-brace, driving a black soft-top Mazda. I mean, he’s pretty visible. People will have noticed him. If you could notify the other police forces . . . ’
He gave a polite cough. ‘I’m afraid that, as he’s over the age of eighteen and the circumstances aren’t suspicious, I can’t do that, madam,’ he said.
That took the wind out of Gemma’s sails. ‘You can’t . . . What? Why not?’
‘We see this kind of thing quite often, unfortunately. A domestic, a row – one person takes off to cool down.’
‘Yes, but . . . ’ She couldn’t believe how lightly he seemed to be taking this, how little he appeared to care. ‘But he’s been injured. He’s depressed. I’m worried he’s going to do something silly.’
His tone softened a fraction. ‘I’m sorry, madam. The best advice I can give you is to contact the Missing Persons Bureau. They can put your husband’s details on file and will get in touch if they have any news. But hopefully he’ll come back under his own steam anyway. They usually do.’
‘I hope so.’ Gemma gazed out of the window unhappily. If only she hadn’t nagged him about the lawn; if only she hadn’t torn a strip off him for the ‘fat’ remark; if only she’d bitten back all that anger and frustration . . . ‘Thank you,’ she remembered to say, before hanging up.
Any news, lovey? You must be worried sick. Do shout if I can help with anything around the house, or looking after the kiddies. I know it can’t be easy. Love Judy xxx
What would help most, Judy – Gemma thought meanly, glancing at her phone as she pushed cubes of braising steak around the frying pan – is if you could stop texting me every five minutes, acting like you’re my new bezzy mate. You’re not part of the family yet, you know. Butt out!
Just as she was thinking this (totally unfairly, yes, but she couldn’t help herself) her mobile jangled with Number Unknown, and her heart skipped a beat, as it did every time. Please let it be Spencer. Please let it be him. From a phonebox or a B&B or a police station, she didn’t care where. Let it be him and she’d go straight out and bring him home.
‘Gem?’ said a deep, unfamiliar voice. ‘It’s Jonny.’
Jonny? She was so frazzled that it took her a moment to remember who Jonny was. Then it hit her. Spencer’s cousin, who’d moved up to Newcastle. ‘Hi,’ she said tremulously. ‘Hello. Is he . . . ? Have you . . . ?’
‘He’s here. He’s safe, love. He’s hitched up here – just arrived this afternoon.’
‘Oh, thank God for that.’ She let the spatula fall into the frying pan and sank to her knees on the kitchen tiles, half-laughing, half-crying. ‘Is he all right? What’s going on?’ The words processed through her mind. He’d only just got there? He’d left three days ago. And where was the car? ‘What do you mean, he hitched?’
‘Stuck his thumb out and got a lift, I should think. He’s a bit knackered and quiet, but all in one piece.’
Gemma could hardly speak for a moment, she was so overcome with relief. She’d take knackered and quiet in Newcastle over dead in a ditch any day. ‘Can I talk to him? Is he with you now?’
Jonny paused. ‘He . . . ah . . . I’m sorry, love, but he doesn’t want to chat, he said. Wants to sort his head out.’ He sounded awkward. ‘It was all I could do to give you a call, to be honest.’
It was like being slapped around the face. Why was Spencer punishing her like this? Had she really been so awful?
‘Gemma? You still there?’
‘I’m here.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘Tell him . . . Tell him not to worry. Tell him I love him and just hope he’s okay. If he wants to speak to me later, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, okay?’
‘All right, doll. I’ll tell him that. You take care of yourself, all right?’ Jonny lowered his voice and it crackled into her ear. ‘I’ll get on his case about ringing you, okay? I’ll sort him out.’
‘Thanks, Jonny. Thank you so much.’
She sat on the floor for a full two minutes, trying to take this in. So Spencer had made it up to Newcastle, but didn’t want to speak to her. And what did Jonny mean about him hitching there, when he’d driven off in the car? What on earth was going on?
Slowly, dazedly, she got to her feet and fished the gently melting spatula out of the frying pan, anguish slowly giving way to anger. Selfish, that’s what it was. Why did everything have to always be about him? If there was any justice in the world, this should have been a gloriously happy period for her as she made great strides of progress, racked up new career achievements, and smashed her way magnificently through every tiny ambition she’d ever dared dream about. There were women queuing up to buy her dresses. Rave write-ups in the press. Her order book filling faster than she could keep up. It was like the best rollercoaster ride ever . . . except for one thing: Spencer wasn’t beside her, holding her hand and sharing her delight.
No, he was up north, sulking and refusing to speak to her. ‘Well, up yours then,’ she said, giving the frying pan a shake. ‘Be like that!’
A few days passed without any word from Newcastle. She telephoned Jonny several times for updates, but each call brought the same response: Spencer didn’t want to talk right now, but yes, he was fine, a bit tender where he’d knocked his ankle playing golf, but in increasingly good spirits. They’d picked up some new medication from Jonny’s doctor. It was no bother at all.
Jonny’s words didn’t exactly go a long way towards comforting Gemma. Golf-playing? Good spirits? she thought in disbelief. Was this the same man they were talking about? He’d barely left the house, let alone cracked a smile for his own wife and children since January, yet all of a sudden he was living the life of Riley with his cousin? Not cool, Spencer, she thought, bundling warm sheets out of the tumble drier and snapping them into sharp folds. Not cool at all.
Still, somebody had to keep the home fires burning, and the home laundry ironed, and the home fridge full: muggins, of course. Mind you, the children had been admirable under the circumstances: unloading the dishwasher, unasked, and helping her set up an online supermarket account, to save her dragging round there every week. Of course then they’d promptly added all sorts of Creme Egg bags, Pom Bear superpacks and several gallons of Ben & Jerry’s ice-cream to the initial order, but she let it pass. She was earning some decent money at last, and they all deserved a few niceties, after so much soup. The newsreader had commissioned an evening gown, as had the professional violinist who’d been in the other day. Saffron was coming to stay next week and Gemma would have the full Dream Team back at Hourglass Designs. Win-win-win. It was all win, frankly, apart from on the marriage front.
On Saturday, Gemma took the children shopping in Bury St Edmunds as a treat and shelled out for new shoes and jeans all round, a jacket for Will and a p
arty dress for Darcey, then some DVDs and a game each for the Wii. It felt like Christmas. They had hot chocolate and gooey cakes in Harriet’s Tearooms, and then she picked up the ingredients for their favourite dinner of lasagne. Let Spencer play golf and keep up the silent treatment, if he wanted to. She and the children would have a lovely time if it damn well killed her.
Later that afternoon she was just sliding the lasagne into the oven when the doorbell rang and her hard-heartedness vanished in a heartbeat. Was it him? Was he back? Oh, please let it be him, she thought, dumping the oven gloves on the side and hurrying to find out.
Pulling open the door, she gave a start. It wasn’t Spencer standing there with a bunch of flowers and an apology. Not an early appearance from Saffron, either, with her suitcase and PR brilliance. Instead she saw a tanned woman in a tropical-printed jersey dress, incongruously teamed with an enormous fur coat and moonboots, arms spread wide in greeting. ‘Darling. Surprise!’
‘Mum,’ said Gemma, inadvertently taking a step back. Karen’s hair was an unnatural shade of auburn these days, which clashed horribly with her fuchsia-pink lipstick. ‘God. I . . . I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘I know. Which is why I said “Surprise!”’ Karen waggled her pencilled eyebrows. ‘Are you going to let me in then, or what? Where’s that divine husband of yours? And my adorable grandchildren? Aha! There’s my little Billy. Goodness, haven’t you grown? Not so little any more! You remember Grandma, don’t you? Except I’d rather you called me Karen, to be honest. Nobody can believe I’m old enough to be a grandmother, least of all me, ha-ha!’
Gemma turned to see Will behind her in the hall, looking as if he’d quite like to shrink into the floor with discomfort, while his rarely seen grandmother cackled with laughter.
‘Come in, Mum,’ Gemma said, trying to recover herself. Was she planning on staying? She must be – and yet now wasn’t exactly the best time. The spare room had been set up in readiness for Saffron’s arrival and, besides, the family atmosphere had been kind of leaden recently, despite her best attempts. ‘Er . . . you’ll have to take us as you find us, I’m afraid, we’re a bit all over the place.’ She tried to relax as her mum hugged her in a furry, perfumed embrace, but it was difficult. Every last childhood insecurity had immediately risen to the surface, like iron filings to a magnet. ‘Have you eaten?’ she managed to say. ‘Dinner’s on.’
Her mum didn’t reply, strutting across to cluck over Will. ‘Look at you! My word. How old are you now? Fifteen, is it? Got a girlfriend, eh? You can tell me. I won’t breathe a word.’
‘Mum! He’s thirteen,’ Gemma said. ‘Give him a break.’
‘Darcey! Yoo-hoo! Spencer!’ She cocked her head on one side. ‘I guess Spencer’s not back from work yet, is he?’
Gemma wasn’t sure where to begin. So much had happened, it was impossible to condense events into a single sentence. ‘Let me put the kettle on,’ she said. Then, knowing her mother, and feeling slightly desperate already, she amended her own suggestion. ‘Actually I think there’s some wine in the fridge.’
‘Now you’re talking,’ said Karen with a laugh. ‘Follow that daughter!’
Pouring glasses of wine, Gemma did her best to have a word with herself. Forget the irritation and inconvenience, she ordered. Forget the hurts from years gone by. This is your mum – the woman you’ve missed having in your life for over twenty-five years, remember. Your mum, who’s chosen to come and see you for once, with the chance to rebuild bridges and forge a new grown-up woman-to-woman relationship. With Spencer away and business booming, she needed every ally she could get. What better ally was there than your own mum?
‘Cheers,’ she said, placing a full glass in front of Karen, before taking a long, thirsty gulp of her own. ‘How long are you planning to be around?’
Karen had lived in Ibiza since Gemma was eight, and subsequent visits had been few and far between; it was like glimpsing a phoenix or a unicorn or some other mythical, read-about creature, when she did actually show her face for her children’s weddings or a cursory look at new grandchildren. Blink and you’d miss her, though; she was not a fan of damp, drizzly England and was always desperate to hop back on a plane to the sunshine.
It came as a surprise then – another – when Karen replied in a rather subdued voice, ‘I’m not sure, love. Maybe I’m back for good this time.’
‘Really?’ Hope flared inside Gemma like a shooting star through the darkness. ‘How come? What about Carlos?’
Karen pulled a face. ‘Carlos who?’ she muttered. ‘We’ve split up. Men, honestly. Why do they have to be such bloody . . . children?’
Gemma winced at the way her mum said ‘children’ as if they were the most tiresome creatures ever to exist. Er, hello? Daughter sitting right opposite you, Mum. Yeah, me. Your child?
Mind you, she thought in the next moment, look at the way Spencer had behaved – flouncing off without so much as a goodbye, taking umbrage the one time Gemma had lost her patience with him – for insulting her, no less. Maybe Karen had a point. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘Well, I’d been getting sick of him for a while, ever since he—’ Karen broke off, frowning. ‘Wait – did you mean for me to actually tell you about it, or are you having man-problems of your own?’ Her nose twitched, as if expertly sniffing out marital strife right there at the kitchen table.
‘Oh, Mum,’ Gemma said, unable to keep up appearances any longer. She took another long swig of her wine. ‘I’ve got a lot to tell you.’
Karen flicked her a quick, understanding glance, patted her arm and rummaged in her bag for a box of Marlboros. Lighting up, she puffed two quick smoke-rings, then fastened her gaze on Gemma. ‘Now then. Mummy’s here. Tell me everything.’
Gemma did. In between mixing the salad dressing, opening the window to let in some freezing fresh air, laying the table and slicing tomatoes and cucumber, she told Karen the whole sorry saga.
‘My goodness, darling! You’ve been through so much!’ Karen’s hand flew to her crêpey décolletage. ‘You poor thing. Makes my little troubles look like nothing.’
‘What troubles?’
Karen took a dramatic, shuddering breath and tossed her long hair. ‘Oh, you know. Going bankrupt. Carlos cheating on me. Being mugged in the Old Town . . . ’
Gemma was bending down at the oven, sliding the hot lasagne out, but jerked round sharply at this list of woes, burning her wrist on the oven door. ‘Mum! God, why didn’t you say? You shouldn’t have let me go on for so long.’
Karen waved a hand as Gemma went to run her scorched skin under the cold tap. ‘No matter. It’s not a competition, is it: who can have the shittiest life? Anyway we’re here for each other now, right? We’ll both get through this. I’ll help you however I can.’
‘And vice versa.’ It would be different this time, Gemma vowed. Here for each other – just like a mother and daughter should be. And of all the times for Karen to have appeared offering support, this was the best time she could have picked. Gemma went over and hugged her suddenly. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
It quickly became apparent, however, that Karen and Gemma had quite different opinions on how Karen’s ‘help’ would best be effected. Gemma, for example, had envisaged assistance in the kitchen for mealtimes, so that she could squeeze in an extra hour’s work; Karen picking up some of the school runs, which would afford her greater flexibility with client visits, or the chance to run slightly over time at Caitlin’s place, if she was immersed in a particular piece. She’d even imagined Karen mucking in about the house, too – a push-around with the Hoover here, a laundry load put on there, maybe even a few school shirts ironed . . .
Karen had other ideas, though. Her version of ‘supporting Gemma’ seemed to consist largely of the two of them sinking endless bottles of wine together, slagging off Carlos and Spencer for their general bastardliness, and offering reiki head massages, her fingers digging too hard into Gemma’s scalp.
After a few days of thi
s Gemma was starting to despair. Her mum seemed to do very little in the daytime, apart from stay in the spare bed smoking and then move down to the living room and lie there, smoking even more and watching daytime TV. She had already made it impossible for Gemma to keep any fabric in the house, because the smell of cigarette smoke clung to everything with horrible persistence. She hadn’t cooked a single meal or offered to wash up once. When she grew tired of bitching about Carlos, she slagged off Barry – Gemma’s dad – instead, leaving Gemma with an impossible conflict of loyalties.
‘Maybe getting out of the house will give you a lift,’ Gemma suggested that night, when the four of them were eating dinner. ‘Why don’t you go for a walk tomorrow, or drive out to the coast?’
Karen raised a skinny eyebrow. ‘Are you serious?’ she asked. ‘The North Sea’s not exactly the Mediterranean, is it? I might end up hurling myself off a cliff.’
‘You could come and see my school,’ Darcey piped up. Gemma got the feeling that Darcey was rather impressed by her glamorous, young-looking grandmother, who swore and smoked, two things she knew Gemma disapproved of. ‘Some of the other grannies come in and listen to us read.’
Karen scowled at being likened to ‘the other grannies’. ‘No offence, sweetie, but I bet those grannies are boring old biddies who have nothing else to do with their lives,’ she said cuttingly.
Darcey’s face fell. ‘Perhaps you could pick Darcey up one afternoon,’ Gemma suggested, feeling a pang of sympathy for her. ‘I’m sure she’d love to show you her school, and her teacher.’
‘Oh yes! Yes, I would, Grandma. I mean Karen. Would you?’
Karen twirled spaghetti around her fork, not answering immediately, and Gemma’s heart ached to see the imploring expression on her daughter’s face. Come on, Mum. Think about someone else for a change.
‘Maybe next week. If I’m still here,’ she said vaguely. ‘I’ve got a few plans to sort out first.’
Darcey looked crushed, but Karen didn’t notice. ‘What sort of plans?’ Gemma asked.
