I sit at my desk and open my laptop, close down the files I’m currently working on and fire up Facebook instead. I’m not a big fan of social media. I rarely post anything because whenever I do, I feel like I’m either bragging or moaning. But it does have its uses. It’s handy to catch up with old friends and also to share photos of Beatrice with my parents and other relations, all of whom live up in Scotland. Even though my parents are Scottish born and bred, I’ve never lived there myself. They moved down to the south of England thirty years ago when a job opportunity came up, but they always planned to return. They finally did just that nine years ago after Dad retired. Ollie, Bea and I usually visit them in the summer at their stone-built house on the outskirts of Aberdeen. They adore their only grandchild.
I haven’t told them about Beatrice going missing yet. I’d rather have waited until we found her and everything was fine again. But I realise that right now I don’t have any choice. Not if I’m going to create a public Facebook post about what’s happened.
I spend the next half hour on the phone to my mum, her Scottish accent thick with worry. My parents are both pretty no-nonsense people, practical and straight-talking. But Mum is shocked and devastated by my news. After a few moments of silence where I know she’s trying to get herself under control, she regroups. Mum tells me the Facebook post is a great idea. She tells me to get out there and search. To bug the hell out of the police, and don’t let them slack off at all. She offers to get the next flight down with Dad, but I tell her to wait a while. I’ll let them know if I need them, but right now I’d be too emotional if I saw my mum. She’d want to make everything better. She’d be warm and comforting, and I’d probably fall to pieces – even more than I’m already doing. I don’t need kindness right now, I need action.
Speaking to her over the phone has given me the shot of energy and courage I need. Once I end the call, I get to work on the Facebook post. I upload a photo of Beatrice and write about what’s happened, asking all my friends to share the post with locals and to keep a look out. Writing about it makes everything seem even more real. As soon as I hit post the first lot of reactions and comments start flying in. I can’t face reading them just yet. I need a few minutes’ break before engaging with everyone. Before accepting their sympathy and the suggestions I know will be forthcoming. Already I can see that I’ve had twenty-three reactions, four comments and sixteen shares. I just hope that between Jill’s search party and my Facebook post, Beatrice will be found safe and well very soon.
I glance up at the sound of the front door.
‘Claire?’
It’s Ollie. I check the clock on the screen. It’s only one fifteen. He’s only been gone a couple of hours.
‘In here!’ I close my laptop and pinch the bridge of my nose.
The door opens and he comes in, his face a little sunburned.
‘How did you get on? You’re back early.’
‘I came to see how you’re doing. Mum said you were upset on the phone. She said you weren’t happy about Laurel being there.’ He pulls up a chair and gives me a look of concern. I’ve always been a little insecure about his ex-wife, even though they broke up before I came onto the scene. I think it’s because we’re such different people. I always feel like he must be comparing us, especially when I’m being uptight or angry. It doesn’t help that his mum thinks the sun shines out of Laurel’s behind.
‘She shouldn’t have said anything. I told her not to say anything.’
‘She’s worried about you.’
I click my tongue and try to calm my breathing. Try not to spiral into this irritating conversation – it just doesn’t matter. ‘So how’s the search going?’
Oliver shakes his head and smiles. ‘It’s amazing. There are so many people there. Mum’s friend Trina says there’ve been over five hundred volunteers so far. I mean, can you believe it? Surely with that many people out looking they’ll find her.’
‘Not if someone’s driven away with her.’
Oliver’s face darkens. ‘We can’t think like that.’
‘Do you really feel that positive? I mean, genuinely? Do you think they’re going to stumble across her walking down the road?’
‘I don’t know.’ He throws up his hands.
‘Because I don’t think there’s a hope that any of them will find her today. Not if I really think about it. It’s almost been a whole day, Oll. A whole day of not knowing where she is.’ My blood is heating up again, my emotions soaring. I want to lash out. To yell. My husband’s forlorn expression makes me want to scream. Even though I know he’s feeling just as bad. Probably worse, as it was his mother who lost her. ‘Did your mum apologise for not involving us in the search?’ I know it’s a horrible thing to ask right now. Twisting the knife to make him feel even more guilty.
‘Yes,’ Ollie grunts. ‘She feels awful about all of it. You know she does.’
I nod. ‘I set up a Facebook page asking friends to look out for her. To share it with anyone else local.’
‘Good idea.’ His face reddens.
‘What?’
He shakes his head.
‘What is it?’ I push.
‘Mum did an interview with the Argus. They kind of ambushed her, but I think it’s a good thing. Don’t be mad at her.’
‘I’m not this horrible person who’s got it in for your mum, Ollie! Newspaper coverage is a good thing. The more people know about it, the better our chance at getting her back.’
‘Good.’
‘I feel like you’re taking her side or something, against me. Like you think I’m being mean when all I’m doing…’ I get to my feet and ball my fists at my side, take a breath. ‘All I’m doing is trying to process everything. Trying to keep my shit together while everyone else is so organised and perfect. And I’m made out to be mean, horrible and unreasonable.’ My voice goes shrill, and ironically all I can hear is this person who’s being mean, horrible and unreasonable. This isn’t me.
‘Whoa!’ Oliver gets to his feet too. ‘I’m not taking sides, Claire. There are no sides. There’s just all of us wanting to find Beatrice. That’s it.’
It suddenly hits me that I know exactly why I’m behaving this way. Why I’m so mad. It’s because I still haven’t forgiven Oliver for not doing what he said. For not taking the girls to the fair last night. For going behind my back and asking his mother to do it instead. I want him to properly admit it’s his fault. To say he’s sorry. Even though I’d tell him that it’s not his fault, that he doesn’t need to apologise. I want him to say it anyway. Because right now I’m still feeling guilty.
‘If I hadn’t been going out, none of this would have happened.’
‘Don’t go down that road, Claire. You’re allowed to go out. Just because we’re parents, doesn’t mean we’re not allowed to have a social life. Come in the kitchen with me. I need a drink of water.’ I follow him out of the office. ‘Let’s go and join Mum’s search party. You’ll feel better once we’re doing something proactive.’
‘I’ve just been doing something proactive – the Facebook page.’
‘Yeah, I know, I just meant…’ He gets himself a drink of water and downs it in one long draught.
‘Can we just go out looking for her ourselves?’ I ask. ‘Just the two of us in the car?’
‘I told Mum I’d go back.’
‘Oh, well,’ I snap. ‘You better go back then.’
‘Claire, don’t be like that.’
‘I’m not “like” anything.’ I grip one of the chair backs, willing myself to calm down. ‘Just go.’
‘Come with me.’
‘No. I already told you I don’t want to.’
‘Fine. See you later.’ Oliver slams his glass down on the table and leaves the kitchen without even looking at me. The front door crashes shut and I hear the sound of his car engine start up.
Nausea swirls in my gut. Why did I push him away like that? What did I even hope to achieve? Nothing. A black fog descends, plungin
g me into a deep, regretful despair. After a few moments of paralysis, I stumble after him, down the hallway and out onto the front porch. But as I stand there in the blistering sun, mouth open ready to apologise, Oliver’s car is already roaring away down the road.
Day Three
I stand outside the window watching her. Chestnut waves falling over her face as she scribbles on the paper. She’s already started asking too many questions. I’m going to have to do something about that. But I’m not sure what. Not yet. I don’t want to have to move to plan B. That would be a real shame.
I startle as she looks up from her drawing and stares directly at me through the glass, chewing the end of her pencil. As I gaze back, I realise she can’t see me, not while I’m out here in the dark. All she’ll be able to see is her own reflection.
Sixteen
JILL
I’m walking out the front door when a green florist’s van pulls up outside the house and the driver waves at me to wait. She gets out of the van.
‘That was good timing,’ she puffs. ‘I’ve got a delivery for you.’ Walking round to the back of the van, she takes out a beautiful bouquet of yellow and white roses interspersed with various green leaves and sprays of white gypsophila.
‘How gorgeous. Thank you.’ I take the flowers inside and read the attached card. It’s an apology from Millie’s parents and an offer to help if I need it. That’s so nice of them. I don’t really blame Paul and Tanya for being cross on Saturday. The whole thing has been a terrible shock for everyone.
I was leaving the house to meet Laurel for a late coffee in town, but I think I’ll pop these flowers in water first. I take a glass vase from the kitchen cabinet and start trimming the flower stalks with a kitchen knife. After Claire’s outburst on the phone yesterday, Laurel is probably the last person I should be spending time with; it feels disloyal somehow. But who else do I have to confide in? Laurel has been a good friend to me. She’s never too busy to listen. While Oliver and Claire are getting their support from one another, I’m getting my support from Laurel.
The final rose stem is tough and woody, but I finally manage to saw through it, piercing my thumb pad with a thorn in the process.
‘Damn!’
Shoving the flowers into the vase with one hand, I suck my bleeding thumb and scrabble about in the odds-and-ends drawer. I can’t locate any plasters, but I come across a battered tube of antiseptic cream so I squeeze a little of it onto the cut. That will have to do. I sweep the stalks, leaves and wrappings into the bin, wipe down the surface and leave the house.
It’s already eleven thirty so I pick up my pace, walking briskly along the dusty pavement, a thin sheen of sweat coating my skin after only a few minutes beneath the baking August sun. I invited Laurel for lunch at home, but she asked if we could meet at the Bridge Street coffee shop as she’s dying for one of their frappuccinos. I really don’t have the money to be throwing it away on fancy drinks so I asked her to order me one too.
Thankfully, the café isn’t far, and it’s heaven to enter its cool interior. I spy Laurel halfway down in a booth, two tall glasses of iced coffee on the table in front of her. She looks up and gives me a wave, her red hair plaited today and draped over one shoulder. My own hair is in desperate need of a wash, but I woke up late and was in too much of a hurry to bother this morning. I run a hand down it self-consciously, wincing as I catch my sore thumb on a strand of hair.
‘Hi, Jill. How are you doing this morning?’ Laurel rises and I lean in for a hug before settling opposite her on the green leather bench seat.
‘Is this for me?’ I point at the drink.
‘Yes. You look like you could do with it.’
I blow out a puff of air. ‘You’re not wrong. Thank you. I’ll get the next lot.’
Laurel waves away my offer. She’s not particularly well off, but she’s always been generous. ‘You sounded upset on the phone. What’s been happening? Any news of Beatrice?’
I shake my head and bite the inside of my cheek to stem the emotion bubbling up inside. ‘Nothing yet.’ My voice is thin and brittle.
‘Oh, Jill. I can’t even imagine what you must be going through.’
I take a sip of my drink through a cardboard straw that’s already turning soggy. The coffee is ice-cold and sweet. Reviving. I take another longer sip. ‘It doesn’t feel real. My poor Beatrice. I keep expecting to wake up and find it was all a horrid dream. I was so sure we’d find her yesterday with all those people out searching. How did we not find her?’
Laurel shakes her head. ‘I know. Same here. It was such an unbelievable turnout. You did an amazing job organising it.’
‘Claire wasn’t happy though,’ I mutter, feeling instantly disloyal. I really shouldn’t be talking about my daughter-in-law to Laurel, but I can’t help myself. I need to vent.
‘How so? Why would Claire not be happy? I would have thought she’d be grateful.’
‘Because I didn’t involve her in the search party. But that was only because I wanted to let her and Oliver rest after the night they’d had. Especially after I’d called him from the police station, when I… you know.’ I trail off, not wanting to articulate what happened that night.
‘You mean the drink-driving thing?’ Laurel finishes my sentence and I glance around the café, hoping no one heard.
‘Yes, shh.’
‘Sorry.’ She winces and makes a zipping motion across her lips.
‘It’s okay. It’s just, I can do without the extra drama of people finding out and gossiping.’
‘What’s happening with that, anyway?’
‘With the driving thing?’
She nods.
‘Nothing. Other than what they said at the station – I have to go to court next week.’
‘Bummer,’ Laurel drawls. ‘I can come with you if you like.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you.’ I reach across to squeeze her hand, which is freezing. ‘You’re a good friend, Laurel.’
‘I try.’ She smiles. ‘So, Claire’s mad at you?’
‘Yes, sadly. She’s a strange one. One minute I think we’re getting on fine, the next she’s yelling at me.’
‘Blimey. Is she always like that?’
‘No, well, not really. We’ve never been that close, but this has understandably sent her over the edge. It’s sad, but I think she might be jealous of our friendship. Because I click with you a little better, that’s all. I always try to spare her feelings and I never talk about you when I’m with her. But she got upset when she found out you were there yesterday.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Laurel tosses her plait behind her back. ‘She’s already got my ex-husband, and now she wants to drive a wedge between you and me.’
‘I don’t think she wants to drive a wedge between us; she’s just a little jealous of our friendship, that’s all.’
‘Of course she does. I love you, Jill, but you can be quite naive sometimes. Promise me you won’t let Claire come between us. I consider you to be my best friend, you know.’ She tilts her head and smiles at me.
I’m starting to think I shouldn’t have offloaded on Laurel about Claire. I might be turning this into something bigger than it needs to be. ‘Just ignore me. I’m definitely overthinking things. Claire’s fine. She’s upset about Beatrice so she’s lashing out. Which is entirely understandable.’
‘Maybe. But it’s not fair on you. You’re worried too. She should bear that in mind instead of using you as a punching bag.’
‘I don’t think it’s quite that bad!’ I frown at my friend’s transparent attempt to turn me against my daughter-in-law.
‘Hmm.’ I can see Laurel’s mind whirring. ‘I don’t understand how she and Ollie got together in the first place. They’re nothing alike. She doesn’t have a creative bone in her body. And Ollie is all about creativity and the arts.’
‘I think it’s an opposites-attract thing.’ I realise I’ve opened up a new dyna
mic in our relationship. One where Laurel thinks it’s okay to bash Oliver’s wife. I should never have opened my mouth. I really need to nip this in the bud. I remember her trying to use this exact same tactic back when Ollie first met Claire, but I refused to be drawn in then and I refuse to be drawn in now. I’m going to have to cut off this conversation.
‘But do they actually get on?’ Laurel’s eyes narrow with curiosity and a desire for me to spill the gossip.
I won’t give her the satisfaction. Honestly, Laurel is really disappointing me today. I thought she was above this. I’m not enjoying the way she’s pushing me to talk about Claire and Oliver’s marriage. I should never have bad-mouthed Claire in front of her. It seems to have opened the floodgates to a side of my ex-daughter-in-law that I’d hoped I’d seen the last of. I sip my frappuccino, suddenly hungry for proper food. It is almost lunchtime after all, but I’ll have to wait until I get home. I can’t afford these coffee-shop prices.
‘Of course Claire and Oliver get on,’ I reply brightly. ‘They love each other. How about you? Any new romances on the horizon?’
She shrugs. ‘Nothing worth shouting about. I’d rather be on my own than with the wrong person.’
‘I know what you mean. No one could replace my Bob.’
‘He was one in a million, Jill.’
‘He certainly was.’
‘Oh, while I remember, you didn’t come across my blue chiffon scarf yesterday, did you? It was so hot, I took it off, but it’s not in my bag.’
‘Sorry, no. That’s a shame, it was pretty.’
She shrugs. ‘Ah well.’
We sip our coffees in silence for a moment and I let the chatter and the clink of crockery swirl around me. I hope Laurel realises that I don’t want to talk about Claire any more. That I made a mistake in criticising her.
‘Jill…’
‘Hm?’ I look up to see Laurel looking serious, a little apprehensive even.
My Little Girl Page 9
