by Lisa Gordon
Gaby turned her attention back to the Internet, where she conducted an electoral register search for Broomhead. After plugging in various districts, she came across a single Broomhead in Henley in Arden. Again, she made a note of the address. Gaby then switched off the PC after clearing ‘History’, and left the room exactly as she had found it.
She returned to the loft, gathered together the relevant school magazines, and removed as many photos of Clinton with his girlfriends as she could find. She shoved the magazines under her arm, flicked off the light and was making her way to the ladder when something suddenly fluttered to the floor. Squinting in the dim light, she picked up what appeared to be a newspaper article. No, it was just a picture of a young girl cut from a newspaper. Where had it fallen from? She had not seen it before. Deciding it may have some relevance, she carefully placed it in between the pages of one of the magazines, then arranged the boxes neatly after replacing the albums. Gaby slipped out to her car, avoiding the eyes of Anne, who was now making tea in anticipation of Michael’s return from golf, and locked the photos and magazines in her boot. Gaby was grateful to find that Anne was wrapped up in the orchestration of a three-course meal and was more than happy to take a rain check on a cup of tea.
Back in her car, Gaby glanced at the note she had written:
RD Corbett, 59 Sandal Rise, Solihull.
She knew the way.
The home of the Corbetts was a large, white detached double-storey with a slate roof and dormer windows on the first floor. Black brickwork bordered the large doorway and downstairs windows. The front garden was kept simple: a bricked drive and grassy lawn with an old oak tree were the only features. There was no gate and no boundary wall. Gaby parked in the street and walked up the driveway. With no mentally prepared script of what to say, she braced herself and knocked. She waited some moments; there was no sign that anyone was home. She looked at her watch: four fifteen.
She was turning to walk away when suddenly the door swung open, revealing a middle-aged woman with very short beige-blonde hair, dressed in an olive-green tracksuit.
“Mrs Corbett,” gasped Gaby swinging around.
Mrs Corbett regarded Gaby with some displeasure before growling, “You have a cheek showing up here.”
“What?” asked Gaby with incredulity.
“You’re Gabriella Butler aren’t you?” she demanded, incensed. “Your brother broke our Sally’s heart, he did.”
Gaby was unsure how to respond; it struck her as strange that Mrs Corbett should still be harbouring so much hostility towards Clinton, as many years must have elapsed since the break up. “Yes, I am Gaby Butler and please, please don’t hold me responsible for my brother’s actions. I don’t necessarily condone or endorse anything he does,” she answered with sincerity.
“What do you want?” asked Sally’s mother bluntly.
“Uhm, I was at a school reunion last night and I heard the terrible news about Sally. We were friends at school and I just …” Gaby paused, struggling for a valid reason for her visit. “… I just wanted to offer my condolences and perhaps get some closure. It really shocked me.”
Mrs Corbett looked at Gaby askance. “I don’t remember you being a close friend of Sally’s.”
“Yes, we were in the same group at school. We were good mates. Unfortunately, after school I was so bogged down with my law studies and then the exams that I lost touch with most of my friends,” lied Gaby. “I really regretted losing touch with Sally; I’d hoped to see her at the reunion.” Gaby was relieved to note that Mrs Corbett appeared partially convinced.
“Perhaps you should come in,” she said, opening the door wider and adding, “but you can’t stop for long as I am busy.” Gaby was led to a large, modern kitchen towards the rear of the house. There was an open stable door which led to a pleasant shrub-filled back garden — the only pleasing feature of the plastic and melamine conglomeration that was the kitchen. Gaby was invited to take a seat at a table for four, which was pushed against a wall. She remained sitting awkwardly as Mrs Corbett rummaged in the fridge, tested a chicken and reset the microwave, without talking. Gaby barely remembered Sally; was she this serious about Clinton? Many minutes of tension passed before Mrs Corbett eventually sat down opposite Gaby. “So?” she said, while drawing a deep breath.
“Tell me about Sally,” suggested Gaby sympathetically. “What did she get up to after school?” Mrs Corbett began to elaborate on Sally’s progression from art college to work as an illustrator of children’s school books and her aspirations to work as a freelance graphic designer; however, not long into the conversation, Gaby noticed the emotional quaver in her voice and Mrs Corbett reached for a tissue to dab the tears that had started to well in her eyes. Without warning, she shifted tack: “Clinton broke her heart. She loved him dearly and he just threw their two-year relationship out with the trash. That’s all it was to him, trash. He just moved on. The bastard.” She sniffed back the tears and continued with venom, “Didn’t care how he hurt her. Callous bastard. It took poor Sally two years to get over him. She was devastated, so depressed, the poor girl.”
“I am really sorry Mrs Corbett,” offered Gaby.
Mrs Corbett’s red face and streaming eyes revealed how intense her feelings still were: her love for Sally, her hatred for the one who had blighted her final years. “The three months before she died, she finally snapped out of it. Suddenly she was the Sally we used to know: happy, contented. Things had opened up for her at work and she was to head her department. She was really pleased with things.” Gaby stayed silent, sure that Mrs Corbett would continue. “Then she came home one day and announced that she had seen an advert for a two-week holiday in Cancun. It was a last-minute offer and she had taken it up impulsively.”
“Did she go alone?” asked Gaby.
“Yes,” Mrs Corbett answered, adding, “It was unlike her to travel alone, but she had been so much more confident and outgoing since her promotion. She wanted to try new things and we were all behind her. I should have stopped her.” She began to sob. Gaby stayed motionless and although she was moved to tears herself, she had no idea about how best to console her reluctant host. “The call to say she had drowned came in the middle of the night. It was twenty hours before we could get a flight to Mexico and then …”
“Did anyone know what exactly happened?” interrupted Gaby, desperately trying to gather any relevant details.
“No,” she blurted angrily. “Incompetent fools! Drowned while swimming in the sea, was all they could bloody say.”
“What did you think?” encouraged Gaby.
Mrs Corbett was angry, but more composed. “All I know, Gaby, is that I should have been there. I blame myself for not insisting that she rather holiday with a friend or in a group. I blame the tour operator, the local police, the lifeguards — what did any of them do for Sally while she was alive or dead?” She began to cry again. “Snatched away, just when she was getting her life together again.” This time, Mrs Corbett’s tears were silent ones and Gaby leaned over to clasp her hand in a gesture of understanding.
After some time, Gaby ventured to ask, “When did this happen?”
“February the 18th, 2002.”
“Did Sally and Clint ever get in touch again?” Gaby was anxious to hear the answer no matter what emotion it would engender.
“Absolutely not. Never, after what he put her through. Sally would have told him to go to hell for certain,” she replied vehemently.
Gaby pondered Sally’s happiness in the final months of her life. “Did Sally ever meet anyone else?”
A flicker of a smile momentarily interrupted the pain on Mrs Corbett’s face. “Well, she never said anything, but Rod and I are sure she’d met someone. The story was on her face: the happiness, the joy. A parent knows the signs. Sally was shy though; we are sure she was taking things slowly and that was why she told no one. It’s something of a comfort to know that at least her final months were happy.”
Gaby was beg
inning to establish a mental picture. “I am very sorry to have forced you to dredge all this up; it’s clearly very painful for you. Thank you, though. You have really helped me.” There was nothing false about Gaby’s thanks.
“Don’t worry dear. Sally is never far from my thoughts and it’s the way it should be. Not many people are interested in listening; at least you wanted to share the grief with me.”
Gaby nodded. She wanted to ask if Mrs Corbett had other children, but surely that was something a genuine friend of Sally’s would know. The microwave tinged, signalling completion, and it seemed an opportune time to depart.
Gaby slipped the key card in and out of the pad and waited for the door to unlock. She walked into the hotel room, welcoming the standard fixtures and fittings so typical of the chain. She found the impersonal, bland furnishings quite comforting; in Gaby’s world everything familiar had become hideous. She opened her mobile and sent Piers a text informing him that she was to stay over in the West Midlands with friends. She neither read nor listened to his messages.
Gaby tried to recap her conversation with Mrs Corbett, wondering whether she had gleaned anything of value at all, but her mind was too tired and concentration was impossible.
After a scorching shower, she wrapped herself in the complimentary terry-towelling gown and sat on the edge of the bed alongside the phone. She reached for the telephone directory, searched for the relevant number and dialled.
“Hello, could you tell me if you have a seat on tomorrow’s flight to Nairobi?”
She replaced the phone and poured herself a double gin from the mini bar. She thought of Meagan and how she would react to Gaby’s out-of-the-blue appearance on her doorstep. Meagan, who had a master’s degree in social anthropology, lived in Nairobi, where she was head of Humanitarian Aid with the Kenyan branch of the UN. Gaby had never been particularly close to Meagan, but she had been immensely pleased when Meagan accepted her request to be a bridesmaid. Gaby was amazed that Meagan had even taken time off the work she loved, and travelled all the way from Kenya for the fittings and the big day itself. The last time they had spoken properly was at Gaby’s wedding outside the marquee on the banks of the River Avon. Gaby remembered the conversation well.
“Thank you so much for coming. It means ever so much to me.” Gaby could tell that Meagan was about to speak and so she held up her hand and continued quickly before she lost the nerve, “I am really sorry that I haven’t made more of an effort to keep in touch these past eight years. It’s been wonderful seeing you again.”
Meagan smiled with genuine warmth. “Gaby, you should know that I am not a ‘keep in touch’ kind of person. I love you all dearly, but I love living away in Kenya; I have always been one to do my own thing.”
“I know, but suddenly I wish you were closer. Maybe there is something about getting married which makes you think about how important family is.” Gaby was sincere and reflective as she looked into her sister’s large, dark-green eyes and heart-shaped face, which were so similar to Gaby’s own.
“You are just feeling emotional. Just wait until you get back to your life in London; you won’t have time to miss me,” said Meagan reassuringly, before adding facetiously, “anyway, you’ll have Chantelle to keep you company.” At this point they had both burst into uncontrollable giggles.
The memory reassured Gaby that she was making the right decision. Meagan would understand and Meagan was the only person she could really turn to.
A sunny Sunday revealed the patchworky splendour of the Warwickshire countryside. There was that indescribable yet unmistakeable scent of summer in the air: perhaps it was the rapeseed or maybe the new wheat which gave summer that distinctive aroma. The breeze was warm and the ambient temperature most agreeable. Gaby soon reached Henley in Arden and with some help from a young man mowing a lawn, found ‘Kissing Tree Close’. The Broomheads’ house was a modern, red-brick detached with white fascias and window frames, almost identical to the other five houses in the close.
Rosemarie Broomhead invited Gaby into the living room and immediately prepared an instant latte. Unlike Mrs Corbett, Rosemarie did not appear to have been especially close to Melissa and she displayed no apparent emotion when remembering her. Rosemarie recalled how proud she had been of Melissa’s independent and outgoing nature. She described how Melissa had spent only two months during her gap year teaching in Kyrgyzstan and the remainder backpacking through the world’s “Fun Capitals”. She had no recollection of Clinton Butler whatsoever and did not even know whether “Mel” had had a steady boyfriend at the time of her demise. According to her mother, it was totally within Melissa’s character to dart off across the world on a whim. She had sent her parents a text to let them know she was off to Vancouver and that was the last they heard from her. The Canadian police had revealed that Melissa’s body had been discovered by a group out fishing; they surmised she had been trekking across Vancouver Island, had slipped on some rocks, banged her head, fallen into the river and drowned. No one had come forward with any eye-witness accounts despite appeals by the police. It was concluded that she had been exploring on her own and had met with an unfortunate accident — death by misadventure. At this point Rosemarie became more sombre and reflective. Gaby surmised that despite the rather inconclusive findings, the Broomheads had accepted the explanation with no questions.
Gaby left the Broomheads with only one relevant piece of information. The date of Melissa’s death: 9 April 2000.
Chapter Six
“If you don’t have time to tell me what you’re doing, then you don’t have time for our relationship anymore.” Piers was red-faced and exasperated.
“I don’t have time Piers,” pleaded Gaby as she darted from cupboard to case, randomly selecting clothes and chucking them into her suitcase which lay open on the floor. “I have to be at Heathrow by four o’ clock.”
“I can’t believe this: you are flying four thousand miles to speak to a sister you NEVER talk to and you can’t talk to me. We used to share everything!”
“I know we always talked about things, but this is different. I know the type of person you are and you would never understand.” Gaby frowned and shook her head, not interrupting her packing.
“The type of person I am,” challenged Piers, enraged. “What the hell does that mean?”
Gaby looked up from her case for the first time and answered seriously, “I didn’t mean to be pejorative, Piers. I know you well; we were so alike in the way we thought, in every way. But I’ve changed and you haven’t. I don’t expect you to understand.”
“You’ve changed because you have some secret,” shouted Piers, pointing an accusatory finger at Gaby.
“To call it a secret,” uttered Gaby in a low tone while glaring at Piers, “is to totally underestimate what it is.”
Piers threw up his hands, his face grim. “Well why should I put up with it? I can’t stand living with someone who’s rushing around the world on some mission she won’t talk about. When you get back I am going to stay with my brother!”
“Do what you want,” replied Gaby.
Piers stared hard at her before turning and storming out of the bedroom. “You bitch.”
Gaby stood up. Thick strands of loose hair had strayed across her face. Grabbing them into a bunch, she clutched the bunch on top of her head. She turned and looked towards the bedroom door, sighed and headed after Piers. She found him at the window, his shoulders tense, his gaze fixed. “Piers,” she began apologetically, “I’m sorry. We love each other and I promise that I will tell you every single detail soon, but please, in the meantime, can you support me?” Piers remained stubbornly silent. “I am not going to pretend I have been easy to live with lately, but I just need you to support me. Please.”
“Okay,” said Piers, turning around to face Gaby for the first time. “But maybe I will go to my brother’s to give you some space while you get on top of whatever this thing is you’re going through. It’s tough to live with someone w
ho is obviously … going through stuff, but can’t or won’t talk about it. I have serious stress at work; this is too much on top of that.”
“It won’t be for much longer,” Gaby promised, having no idea whether it was a promise she could keep. She gave the wooden and still-nettled Piers a hug before fixing her eyes to his and adding gravely, “There is something very important I want you to do for me.” She paused to make sure she had his attention. “If Clint rings, DON’T tell him I’ve gone to see Meagan. Tell him I’m at a work conference in Geneva.”
Heathrow
The g-force pushed Gaby back into her seat as the Boeing 747 lifted off the apron. She felt a mild sense of relief and her spirits lifted. As the aircraft strained to gain altitude, Gaby turned to look out of the window: below she could see streams of lights moving along what was probably the M4. The plane banked to the left and Gaby gazed with awe at the glittering lights which were the capital by night. There was something about those magical moments after take-off — the sound of the engines and sensation of defying gravity as the plane soars into the sky and the recognisable elements of life: the buildings, roads, cars, reservoirs become smaller and smaller and either fade into total insignificance or are obscured by cloud, something that had always exhilarated Gaby. As she looked at the twinkling lights below — each representing a car, a house, a life, a purpose, a destiny — she gained an instant philosophical perspective on her own life.
There was the familiar pinging sound and the lights came on again, indicating that the plane had reached altitude and drinks were about to be served. Gaby was wrenched back to reality. After dinner, Gaby drew on her eye mask and blanket and she remained that way all night even though she did not sleep for a second. She was solaced when the morning came and was able to gaze out of the window at the magnificent savannah plains of Kenya, resplendent in the African sun.
