by A J McDine
She nodded. I could feel her eyes on me as I turned and headed back down the corridor. What Sheila didn’t understand, what none of them understood, was that if I opened the floodgates even a whisper, the tears would never stop.
Chapter Nine
I let myself in the front door and dropped my bag and the box file on the console table in the hallway. As Stuart shuffled down the stairs, I caught a whiff of stale sweat and recoiled.
‘Traffic must have been bad,’ he said.
‘No, it was fine. I popped into work to pick up the accounts.’
He stopped on the second to last stair, his hand gripping the newel post. ‘Tell me you’re joking.’
‘Why would I be? All we’re doing here is waiting. I might as well get some work done.’
‘I don’t believe you. Immy’s Christ knows where and work’s still your priority?’
‘That’s not fair. If you must know, work keeps my mind off everything else,’ I retorted, aware that Sam Bennett was in the kitchen and probably listening to every word.
He picked up his car keys and blundered past me to the door.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To look for our daughter,’ he said, yanking the door open. ‘I’m going to find my little girl.’
I jumped as the door slammed, then picked up the file and headed for the kitchen. Sam looked up from her phone as I walked in.
‘Everything all right?’
I sighed. ‘The usual difference of opinion.’ I set the box file on the island. ‘I picked up some work after I dropped Nate at school, which was the wrong thing to do, apparently. Stuart doesn’t think I should be even thinking about work with Immy missing.’
The officer laid her hands on the island. ‘Everyone deals with stress differently. You’re not alone, if that’s any consolation. I’ve always thrown myself into work when life’s given me lemons. Shall I leave you in peace? I need to catch up with the search team sergeant, anyway.’
‘That would be good, thanks.’ I gave her a grateful smile, opened the box file and pulled out the pages of neatly typed figures. Just seeing the columns of assets and liabilities, income and expenditure calmed me. I picked up a red pen and scanned the first page - FoodWrapped’s balance sheet for the previous financial year.
‘I’ll let myself out,’ Sam said. ‘And I’m at the end of the phone if you need me.’
I nodded and returned to the accounts, hoping I could forget about everything but work for a couple of hours.
At first glance, everything appeared in order. The balance sheet was healthy, and the business was in great shape, although one fixed asset stood out. Our old warehouse on an industrial estate in Littlebourne was still standing empty and unsold, despite being on the market for over a year. I jotted a note beside it as a reminder to speak to the estate agent to see if we should lower the asking price.
I moved onto the profit-and-loss statement. Whereas the balance sheet gave a snapshot of FoodWrapped’s financials at a specific point in time, the profit-and-loss statement recorded performance throughout the financial year. Again, the numbers looked good. The revenue for the previous twelve months was as I’d projected - £1.8m, ten percent up on the last twelve months. A winter marketing push had paid dividends.
I ran through the cost of sales, frowning as I noticed our raw material spend was almost £30,000 higher than the previous year. Even allowing for inflation, it was a substantial increase. I circled the figure and scribbled a question mark beside it. My finger traced the next column of figures - rent, utilities and salaries. Then the depreciation column. No hidden nasties.
In need of caffeine, I pushed the accounts to one side and filled the kettle. As it boiled, I stretched my back and massaged the knots in my left shoulder. The muscles always spasmed when I was stressed. Usually a sports massage did the trick, but I’d have to make do with ibuprofen today. I checked in the drawer where we kept all the medicines, finding everything from bottles of Calpol to antihistamine tablets, but no anti-inflammatories. Swearing under my breath, I gave my shoulder another rub, and carried my coffee over to the island.
I rifled through the paperwork, curious to see why our raw material spend was so much higher than usual.
We used local organic producers for our ingredients wherever we could, and I knew most of them personally. Once again, my finger trailed down the column of figures. One producer caught my eye. Blackberry Organics. It was a name I didn’t recognise, yet we’d paid them £18,000 in the last month. I reached for my mobile and dialled the office.
Sheila answered after two rings with a polite, ‘Good morning. FoodWrapped. How may I help?’
‘Sheila, it’s Cleo. I’m going through the figures. Does the name Blackberry Organics mean anything to you?’
There was a pause, and I heard a rustle of paper. ‘Isn’t that the new company Bill was raving about? I’m sure he mentioned it at the last board meeting. They’re our new meat and fish suppliers.’
‘So why are we still paying RP?’
‘I expect there’s an overlap. Bill will know. He’s in with the accountant at the moment, but I can interrupt them if you like?’
‘No, don’t do that. Ask him to ring me the minute he’s out.’
‘Of course. Any news on Immy?’
I took a deep breath. ‘No, no news. Listen, I have to go. I’ll catch up with you later.’ I ended the call and massaged the bridge of my nose. Bill and I each had defined roles in the business, focusing on our strengths. I looked after recipes, marketing and human resources while Bill dealt with the financials and suppliers. It was true he’d been moaning about the service we’d been getting from our long-term supplier, RP Produce, for a while and I remembered him mentioning that he’d found a new supplier. But I’d been so busy working on our winter menu plans and dealing with a couple of tricky staffing issues, I’d paid little attention.
I pushed the paperwork to one side. The accounts could wait. Meanwhile, my shoulder was killing me. Wondering if I had some painkillers in my bedside drawer, I dragged myself upstairs.
Our bed was still unmade, and I plumped the pillows and straightened the duvet before I opened my bedside drawer and searched for a blister pack of Nurofen among the old birthday cards, bookmarks and half-empty tubes of hand cream. Nothing. I crossed to Stuart’s side of the bed. He suffered periodically from sciatica, for which he had prescription anti-inflammatories. A couple of them should do the trick.
Stuart’s bedside drawer was stuffed full of tangled chargers and earphones, drawings by the children, a couple of frayed handkerchiefs and, inexplicably, a pencil sharpener. I dug deeper, unearthing the Valentine’s card I’d given him the year we’d got together, an opened packet of Polos and a pair of nail clippers. Deeper still, I found a nasal spray, some earplugs and one half of a pair of cufflinks. And then I spied a corner of blue foil poking out of an old copy of The Ecologist. I pulled the magazine out and shook it over the bed. Three foil wrappers fell out. Three azure blue wrappers with the distinctive Durex logo on the side.
I sat down on the bed with a thump. Condoms in the drawer of Stuart’s bedside cabinet. The bedside cabinet we’d bought when we’d moved to Stour House two years ago. My mind was whirling with questions, the biggest of which was this: Why would my husband need condoms when I’d had a hysterectomy six years ago?
Chapter Ten
CORFU
FOUR YEARS EARLIER
The scorching heat hit me the minute I stepped off the plane onto the single runway at Corfu Airport. The heat and the smell. Hot tarmac and crushed oregano. I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the sun, enjoying the warmth on my skin. I’d always been a sun worshipper. My face would probably resemble an old leather handbag when I was sixty, but that was over two decades away and right now I couldn’t care less.
I felt a small hand in mine.
‘Mummy, can I have a snack?’ Nate asked. He’d been as good as gold on the flight, watching a film on my iPad before falling asl
eep, his head in Stuart’s lap. I spent the three-hour flight working on winter menu ideas. It was crazy to be thinking about venison cassoulets and potato-topped fish pies in the middle of June, but I wanted to make a start so I could run my ideas past Bill while we were at the villa.
‘Of course you can, darling. Ask Niamh.’
Nate skipped over to Niamh, who stopped and scrabbled through the contents of her backpack. She handed Nate a box of raisins and a packet of rice cakes.
‘Thanks, Niamh,’ I said.
‘It’s no problem, Mrs Cooper.’
‘Please, it’s Cleo. If you call me Mrs Cooper all week, I’ll think I’m still at work.’
‘Sorry, Cleo.’ A flush crept up her neck, suffusing her pale face with colour. She was going to have to use factor fifty, or she’d burn to a crisp. I was about to say as much before I stopped myself. It wasn’t my job to mother her. She was here to look after my son.
‘This way,’ Stuart said, striding towards the arrivals hall.
‘What’s the rush?’ I grumbled, adjusting the bag on my shoulder and following him.
‘There’s a beer at the villa with my name on it, and the sooner I have it in my sticky paws the better.’
I’d been hesitant when Bill and Melanie first suggested we join them for a week’s holiday at Bill’s parents’ villa in the pretty fishing village of Agios Stefanos on Corfu’s north-east coast.
We’d been on holiday together, the four of us, a handful of times over the years, and we’d always had a laugh. But since we’d had Nate, I’d found excuse after excuse not to join them, because holidays with small children didn’t involve eating, drinking and lazing on the beach or by the pool buried inside the pages of the latest blockbuster.
Holidays with small children meant the meticulous adherence to meal and nap times, hours spent locating local play areas, the endless application of sunscreen and steering clear of too much booze because dealing with a toddler with heatstroke was no fun with a raging hangover.
No, holidays with small children were basically hard work away from home, and I didn’t think it fair to inflict that on Bill and Melanie, even if they were Nate’s godparents.
Having Niamh on the scene changed everything. If we took her with us, she could look after Nate during the day and babysit while we went out for dinner with Bill and Melanie.
‘You can’t take the piss,’ Stuart said when I mooted the idea. ‘She’s an au pair, not a nanny. She’s supposed to be part of the family, not your skivvy.’
‘Rubbish. She’ll be getting a week’s free holiday in a beautiful villa in Corfu, the kind of place she’d never afford to stay at otherwise,’ I countered. ‘Let me at least ask her, OK? If she’s not keen, I’ll tell Bill we can’t go.’
But Niamh had grinned and said she’d love to come, as I predicted she would. What eighteen-year-old girl wouldn’t jump at the chance of an all-expenses paid holiday to Greece? If she didn’t realise she’d still be minding Nate while we were away, then that was her mistake, not mine.
Our luggage loaded into the hire car, we headed up the coast road towards Agios Stefanos. I pointed out the resorts of Ipsos, Barbati and Nissaki to Nate as we passed them, and we all laughed as he rolled the unfamiliar words around his mouth.
‘This is going to be good for us,’ I said, resting my hand on Stuart’s leg as he negotiated a tight bend in the road. I let my fingers creep up his thigh towards his crotch. It was the heat. It always made me horny.
‘Cleo,’ he mumbled, shaking his head and pushing my hand away.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Not in front of Niamh,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth.
‘You’re no fun,’ I muttered, folding my arms across my chest and staring out of the window, halfway to a full-on sulk. But the sight of raspberry-pink bougainvillea trailing over white-washed, blue-shuttered buildings, the frequent glimpses of the sparkling Ionian Sea to the east and the hills of olive groves and cypress trees to the west diffused my pique. It would be a waste to be miserable in this paradise.
‘Have you stayed at the villa before?’ Niamh asked from the back seat.
Stuart smiled into the rear-view mirror. ‘Once, about six years ago.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Stunning. Six bedrooms, an infinity pool and a beautiful terrace overlooking Albania.’
‘Albania?’ Niamh said, eyes wide.
‘The west coast of Albania is just over a mile away,’ Stuart told her. ‘People used to swim across to Corfu to escape the communist regime.’
She leaned forwards in her seat. ‘They did?’
Stuart nodded, warming to his theme. ‘Albania was cut off from the rest of the world for over forty years after the Second World War. It was known as the North Korea of Europe.’
‘How d’you know all this?’
‘I’ve got one of those brains that retains useless bits of information.’ Stuart gave a self-deprecating shrug. ‘It’s a pity I can’t remember what I had for breakfast.’
‘Bran flakes with a chopped banana and a black coffee, one sugar,’ Niamh said promptly. ‘Same as you do every morning.’
I raised my eyebrows and was about to pass comment when we turned off the main highway onto the narrow road - little more than a lane - that wound its way through the olive groves to Agios Stefanos. The village was in a secluded bay surrounded by hills dotted with pastel-coloured villas. Bill’s parents’ villa was along a dusty track opposite the junction with the road to Avlaki, the next beach along the coast.
‘This is us,’ Stuart said, indicating right. As the car bumped down the track, I glanced at Niamh. She’d pulled her seatbelt loose and was sitting on the edge of her seat, her face pressed up against the window, her toe tapping in the footwell. I tried to remember what it felt like to be eighteen with your entire life ahead of you, brimming with excitement at the prospect of a week in the sun. I tried to remember, but I failed.
Chapter Eleven
MONDAY 14 JUNE
I sailed through my pregnancy with Nate. Even in the first trimester, I glowed. No morning sickness for me. My hair was shiny, and my skin was clear. I had a small, neat bump, and I buzzed with energy and positivity.
Nate was two weeks late, and I was still working the day before I went into hospital to be induced. I had no reason to doubt that I’d be home with our perfect baby a couple of days later and back at work a month after that.
No one had warned me that induced labour was more painful than labour that started on its own, nor that women who were induced were more likely to have an assisted delivery, where midwives used forceps or ventouse suction to drag the baby out.
I started haemorrhaging within minutes of Nate’s forceps delivery because my uterus failed to contract. Doctors whisked me into theatre, leaving a wailing Nate in Stuart’s arms. When attempts to fix the haemorrhaging failed, the same doctors had no choice but to cut my womb out of me. I would have died if they hadn’t. As it was, I lost four litres of blood and my ability to give Nate a brother or sister.
It was the most traumatic time of my life. Until that moment I’d followed an upward - almost stratospheric - trajectory. I didn’t do failure. And yet my body had failed me when I needed it most. Six years later, I still had the occasional flashback.
In Nate, I’d found comfort. A happy baby, he’d grown into an easy-going, cuddly toddler, always quick with a smile. Work fulfilled me and Nate completed me. And I had given him a sibling in the end.
My phone rang in my pocket, dragging me back to the present. I checked the screen. Bill. He could wait. I had more pressing things on my mind than the company accounts. I stared at the three foil wrappers in my hand. Stuart and I hadn’t needed to use protection since my hysterectomy. So why did he have a stash of condoms in his bedside drawer?
I slid the condoms back into the pages of the magazine and replaced it at the bottom of the drawer, rearranging everything on top exactly as I’d found it. If only I could do t
he same with my thoughts. But my brain refused to forget what my eyes had seen. I was transported back to a sex ed lesson at my girls’ grammar school, when our red-faced form teacher had popped a condom out of a packet and pulled it over an under-ripe banana while the class sniggered behind their hands.
Stuart was having an affair. There was no other explanation. He was sleeping with someone else. Shagging around. My lumbering, ponderous husband had a bit on the side. It seemed so unlikely that a bitter laugh bubbled up my throat and out of my mouth before it ricocheted around the bedroom, mocking me.
Had his behaviour changed recently? Cheating husbands joined the gym, started taking care of their appearance, offered to pop out to buy milk or a newspaper so they could phone their lovers. I cast my mind back over the last few months and drew a blank. I crossed the room to his wardrobe and sniffed his clothes to see if I could catch a hint of another woman’s perfume, but they smelt of the sandalwood aftershave I bought him for Christmas.
He wasn’t a flirt, not like Bill, who fancied himself as a bit of a ladies’ man and had Sheila wrapped around his little finger. But women warmed to Stuart because he was a genuine, straightforward kinda guy. Hell, it’s the reason I fell in love with him. And now it appeared someone else might have, too.
A terrible thought occurred to me. Had Stuart really been out looking for Immy? Was he looking for her now, or was he in the arms of his lover, being consoled by her? What if… I shook my head, dismissing the thought as absurd. But it refused to go away. What if Stuart’s lover had taken Immy?
My phone rang again. Probably Bill trying me a second time on Sheila’s orders. Did he know about Stuart’s affair? I snatched the phone up, about to stab the decline icon, when I saw it was a withheld number.
‘Cleo?’ said a crackly voice. ‘It’s DC Sam Bennett. Are you and Stuart home? The DI’s on his way. He needs to speak to you ASAP.’
