Last Seen

by Lucy Clarke

  I tried to smile, but the girl he’d described seemed like a stranger to me.

  Sarah picked up her wine glass.

  ‘How are you getting on with your work?’ Stella asked. ‘Nick tells me you’re doing very well at the international school.’

  ‘I love working with the children – seven to eight year olds.’

  ‘A lovely age,’ Stella agreed.

  ‘We had to take you under our wing, didn’t we?’ Nick’s father said, returning to his thread. ‘You barely knew how to boil an egg back then. Lived on those packet noodles, didn’t you?’

  ‘Still does,’ Sarah added.

  I looked up, wondering if I were the only one to notice the tightness in her voice.

  ‘Good for you, I say! Life is to be lived out here,’ Stella said, casting an arm wide. ‘Not in the kitchen.’

  ‘There’s something to be said for wonderful home-cooked meals,’ Nick added, loyally.

  ‘You boys didn’t go hungry though, did you?’ Stella said. ‘There was always food in our house.’

  ‘Yes – we just had to cook it.’ Nick smiled warmly at his mother.

  I toyed with the food on my plate, wishing I hadn’t agreed to come. When I looked up, Jacob was watching me.

  Everyone’s attention was caught by a sandy-haired man in a pair of red trunks, who burst from between two beach huts, chased by a pack of young children, who came bounding after him in a flurry of legs and sand. The man steamed towards the shoreline, and dived clumsily into the shallows with an almighty splash. The children screamed, delighted, dancing on the shoreline. When the man surfaced, he shook the water from his thinning hair, hooting. ‘Glorious! It’s like the Caribbean!’

  ‘Darling, you haven’t had one of the steaks,’ Sarah said to Jacob, leaning across the table and pushing one towards his plate.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘They’re your favourite. There’s blue-cheese sauce.’

  Jacob took another bite from his sausage bap, shrugging.

  I realized Jacob, like me, had barely said a word. His face looked drawn, tired.

  Sarah sat back down and picked up her wine.

  Nick’s father said, ‘Let’s have a toast. To the birthday boy. Seventeen today! Happy birthday, Jacob. Go forth and set the world alight!’

  The rest of us reached for our glasses, calling happy birthday across the table and clinking them against Jacob’s beer bottle.

  ‘I’d like to make a toast, too,’ Jacob said, looking across the table to me.

  I felt my pulse quicken, unsure.

  ‘I’d like to toast Marley. Seven years today. Always missed, never forgotten.’ He raised his beer. ‘To Marley.’

  Tears sprang up at the corners of my eyes. My throat closed around Marley’s name as I touched my glass to Jacob’s.

  Nick’s father patted my hand gently. ‘Brave girl, you.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Nick said quietly to Jacob, a hand resting on his shoulder.

  The toast was left to settle for a few moments, and then conversation gently resumed, Nick telling his father about his upcoming pitch, and Jacob answering Stella’s questions about whether he would be applying for university.

  I glanced at Sarah; her mouth was set in a tight line, her food untouched. The two of us would normally fall into easy conversation, yet I could feel the anger radiating from her. Was it me? Was she annoyed about the festival tickets I’d given Jacob? Jesus, I couldn’t deal with this. I picked at the rest of my meal in silence, and refused the dessert that was heaped in towering portions into bowls. Afterwards I said, ‘I’ll clear,’ and I carried a stack of bowls into the kitchen. I was already pumping water into the washing-up bowl when Jacob and the others appeared.

  ‘I’ll help dry,’ he said.

  Nick clutched his heart. ‘Did our son just offer to help?’

  Jacob rolled his eyes, then picked up a tea towel, moving to my side.

  I could feel the proximity of him, the heat of his skin beside me.

  Thankfully Stella shooed him away, plucking the tea towel from his hand. ‘Go on, birthday boy. Scoot! Have fun with your friends. They’re waiting for you.’

  He looked reluctantly at the group of teenagers who’d emerged from a hut somewhere and were loitering around on the shoreline.

  As Jacob left the hut, he came close to me, whispering, ‘I need to see you – on our own – before you leave.’

  I pulled the ply-board shutters from beneath my hut, and dragged them on to the deck. Next door, Sarah was angling Nick’s forearm towards her so she could read his watch-face. ‘It’s only six thirty.’

  ‘Best I go now. Beat the traffic. Then I’ll get to the hotel early enough to give me time to run through the pitch.’

  ‘I’ll get you some cake for the journey.’

  As she went inside, Nick saw me struggling with the shutters. ‘Here,’ he said, coming over to help.

  ‘All packed and ready?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Do you look forward to it – returning to Chile? Or is it a wrench to leave?’

  I thought for a moment. ‘Both.’

  He stacked the shutters against the hut, offering to help me screw them into position.

  ‘I’m fine. You get off. You’ve got a pitch to prepare for.’

  He checked his watch. Nodded.

  Sarah returned to their deck with a slice of cake wrapped in a napkin. ‘Here you are,’ she said, placing it on his overnight case.

  Nick thanked her, then turned to me. ‘I guess this is goodbye then.’ He threw his arms out wide and I moved into them. ‘Thanks for coming this afternoon,’ he said quietly. ‘I know how hard today is for you. We really appreciate it. You’re a star.’

  I knew without needing to look up that Sarah would be watching from their deck.

  I could feel his arms beginning to loosen. ‘Safe travels, okay?’ He pulled away, giving me a boyish little pat on the shoulder.

  It took me an hour to put all of the shutters on the windows, and I managed to stab my thumb with the screwdriver in the process. By the time I hauled on my backpack, I was exhausted and clammy.

  Goodbye, I whispered to the hut, running my fingers down the wooden door, feeling the grooves and splinters in the wood, as if imprinting it on my memory.

  When I was ready, I climbed from the deck and crossed the sand to Sarah’s hut. She was standing in the kitchen area, a glass of wine in hand. The hut was immaculate; no sign of the earlier bustle, except for the leftover dishes of food clingfilmed on the side.

  ‘You’re off?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  She nodded. Said nothing else.

  ‘Lovely barbecue.’

  ‘Shame there was so much food left over.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got more food for you here,’ I said, handing over the bag of perishables that I’d cleared from my cupboards.

  ‘Thanks.’

  There was an awkward silence that I felt compelled to fill. ‘Do you think Jacob had a nice time?’

  ‘His birthday is always … difficult.’

  Perhaps Sarah was waiting for a response from me – some acknowledgement that I understood that Marley’s anniversary was hard on Jacob. Of course I knew it was, but I wasn’t about to apologize for it.

  Sarah shifted, refolding her arms. ‘I wish you hadn’t bought him those festival tickets.’

  ‘It’s just a day pass. I thought—’

  ‘We said he couldn’t go to Glastonbury earlier this summer – so now what are we supposed to do? Back down and let him go to this one?’

  ‘There are two tickets. You or Nick could go with him.’

  ‘Oh yes! I can imagine how that’d go down with Jacob!’

  ‘I don’t see what the big deal is. He’s seventeen.’

  Colour burst into Sarah’s cheeks. ‘The big deal is that your gift undermines me. Jacob is my son. I am the one who makes the decisions about what is or isn’t appropriate. Look, I know today is difficult for you—’
/>
  ‘This has nothing to do with the anniversary. It’s about you!’ I retaliated. ‘You’ve been off with me all day. It’s clear you didn’t want me here—’

  ‘Oh, come on! I was the one who invited you. I practically had to force you to come.’

  ‘But you didn’t make me welcome, did you?’

  ‘Everyone else was doing such a good job of that.’

  My eyes widened. ‘You’re … jealous?’

  ‘Don’t be pathetic.’

  I looked at the shelf where Jacob’s birthday cards were arranged, mine placed at the back. I plucked it free, holding it up to Sarah. ‘You told Jacob that I’d asked for this photo back, didn’t you?’

  ‘What?’ she snapped, with a dismissive shake of her head.

  ‘He told me, Sarah,’ I said looking her full in the face. ‘I never asked for this photo – it was you who decided to replace it. So why lie to Jacob?’

  Sarah folded her arms. Said nothing.

  I could feel my anger unravelling, hot and swift. ‘And what about you giving Nick the wrong dates last summer?’

  ‘That was a mistake.’

  ‘Was it? Or was it that you didn’t want me here at the same time as Nick and Jacob?’

  ‘Now you’re really being ridiculous.’

  ‘Pathetic and ridiculous?’

  ‘If you must know, I took down that photo of Marley and Jacob because I wanted one of our family on the wall. Is that wrong of me? We can’t tiptoe around you for ever, Isla.’

  I drew back, stung. ‘That’s how this friendship feels to you? Like you have to tiptoe? We’ve been best friends for over twenty years. You’re the one fucking person who should know me well enough that you don’t need to tiptoe. The one person I should be able to be real with.’

  Tears stung at the edges of my eyes; I couldn’t be here any longer. I turned, grabbed my backpack and left her beach hut.

  Sarah didn’t call me back. Didn’t attempt to apologize. She let me walk away as if that was exactly what she’d wanted.

  43. SARAH

  DAY EIGHT, 9.30 P.M.

  ‘I didn’t call after her, didn’t apologize. I just let her go,’ I say, finishing recounting the argument to Nick.

  He has been sitting very still, a frown deepening across his brow. ‘That’s the last time the two of you spoke?’

  I nod.

  His thumbs tap together as he thinks. ‘I still don’t see it. Your fight wasn’t enough to provoke Isla into doing something as drastic as taking Jacob to Chile.’ He looks up, his gaze meeting mine, assessing me. The air in the hut hums between us.

  There’s something new in the way he looks at me since he discovered Isaac is Jacob’s father. It’s as if he no longer knows who I am, or what I’m capable of. I feel stripped bare, disorientated by the wariness in his gaze. I want to take his face in my hands, tell him, It’s me, Nick. I’m still me! Everything I’ve done has been to protect this family!

  But I don’t move, because Nick is saying, ‘There’s more, isn’t there?’

  My stomach turns over. Maybe he does still see who I am.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, slowly. ‘There is.’

  I scanned the contents of the fridge: there was a bottle of white wine open from the barbecue, and half a bottle of prosecco. I chose the prosecco, pouring myself a tall glass, hands trembling. I drank the first one standing up. Then I refilled my glass and tipped that back, too.

  I had moved on to the white wine by the time I heard Jacob’s footsteps lumbering across the deck. ‘Oh. Everyone’s gone?’

  ‘Your dad had to leave for Bristol. He asked me to say goodbye. Nana and Pops had to get on, too.’

  ‘Auntie Isla?’

  ‘Left about half an hour ago.’

  ‘For Chile?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His expression darkened. ‘But … she didn’t say bye.’

  I apologized on her behalf, making an excuse about her being rushed, while silently cursing her lack of consideration. ‘Did you have a good time at the barbecue?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jacob crouched down to his drawer, pulling out his rucksack.

  ‘I’ve put up the rest of your cards.’

  He grunted without looking up.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ I asked, hopeful. ‘I could make you a sausage sandwich if you’re hungry? There are plenty of leftovers.’

  ‘I should get to Luke’s.’

  ‘Nice of him to put on a party for you.’

  ‘It’s not a party. We’re just gonna be hanging out.’

  ‘Hanging out, not a party,’ I said, writing the words in the air with my fingers poised around an imaginary pen. ‘Another bullet-point to add to my “How To Talk To Teenagers” thesis.’

  I hoped Jacob might crack a smile, but he actually shuddered at my attempt at humour. I took another slug of wine, finishing the glass. ‘Oh,’ I said, sitting forward to set the glass down. ‘Did you like your birthday present?’ Nick and I had stretched ourselves to buy him a set of ten driving lessons.

  ‘Yeah!’ Jacob’s face brightened as he moved to the shelf where our birthday card was. He plucked down a card. ‘The line-up is amazing. It’s, like, the best day of the whole festival, easy!’

  Isla’s card, not ours. The crush of hurt was far more painful than I should have allowed it to be. I knew I should let it go, but I couldn’t stop myself: ‘Isla should’ve talked to your father and me before buying those tickets.’

  Quick as a fox, Jacob turned on me. ‘What, so you could say no?’

  ‘So we could have a discussion about it. We’d agreed no festivals until you’re eighteen.’

  ‘You and Dad agreed. I didn’t.’

  ‘Isla should have checked—’

  ‘Checked? She can buy me whatever she wants! She’s my godmother.’

  ‘And I’m your mother,’ I said, standing to face him.

  ‘This is bullshit!’ Jacob slammed the heel of his foot back against the drawer, a loud thud vibrating through the hut.

  ‘Watch it,’ I warned, aware of the raised beat of my heart.

  He flung out his arms suddenly and I flinched. ‘So Isla did something nice. She gets me. Why turn it into a big deal?’

  ‘I don’t get you?’

  He looked at me square in the face, his dark gaze unnerving. ‘No, Mum. I don’t think you do. I don’t think you ever have done.’

  My breath caught in my throat. ‘It’s hard to be the cool one, like Isla, when you’re cooking and cleaning and running around after a family all day, don’t you think?’

  Jacob’s gaze narrowed. ‘Don’t you think Isla wished she had a family to do all that for?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said, under my breath. ‘She seems fairly settled into ours.’

  Jacob’s eyes widened.

  I stepped towards him. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said—’

  ‘Because you’re jealous!’

  The crack of my palm against his cheek filled the hut.

  Jacob stood there, slack-jawed, holding his face. ‘You … you hit me?’

  ‘Jacob, God! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘You hit me?’ he said again, shocked.

  ‘Please, just let me explain.’

  His mouth twisted as he hissed, ‘You know what you are? You’re a liar!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. You lie to people – that’s what you do. And guess what?’ he snarled, eyes blazing. ‘I’m just like you. I’m just fucking like you!’

  My blood ran cool. ‘What are you talking about?’

  His voice was ice, his gaze unflinching. ‘You know.’ He grabbed his rucksack, stalked past me, and slammed the hut door so hard that the timber trembled in his wake.

  I think back to the whispered conversation I had with Isla seven years ago, in the dark hours after Marley drowned. I remember her standing by the hut window, a sentinel with bloodshot eyes and skin as pale as fright. Her face seemed to have caved in, dark hollows ben
eath her eyes. She grabbed my hands in hers, bony fingers digging into my flesh. ‘How did it happen? I don’t understand? Tell me, please Sarah, tell me every detail.’ So I let her hold on to me as I began the story, the one I’d repeat time and time again, until I could almost picture it being real. Being the truth.

  Only it wasn’t.

  I can hear the rain pounding against the hut roof – or perhaps it is my heart drumming. I shift, sliding my hands beneath my thighs. I force myself to look at Nick, to go on, to tell him everything.

  44. ISLA

  This summer

  I turned the jar slowly through my fingers. In the moonlight, I could just glimpse the edge of a skimming stone, the white softness of the egret feather, the shadow of a sprig of heather. Pressing my lips against the cool curve of the glass, I whispered Marley’s name, then cast the jar into the air, a flash of moonlight glinting as it spun through the darkness, before hitting the water with a light splash. It bobbed for a moment, as if unsure which way to travel. Then the outgoing tide seemed to gather around it, pulling it away from the quay, out towards the open water. Had any of the jars, I wondered, my fingers wrapped around the railing, washed up and been found? In a sense, I hoped they’d hadn’t: there would be a cruelness to it – that a jar tossed to sea washed up safely, when Marley did not.

  I breathed out slowly, remembering how Marley and I used to sit here on the quay, legs dangling towards the water, a parcel of fish and chips warm in our laps. Marley loved making up wild stories of the people across the harbour in their candlelit huts – a mysterious family from another planet; a fisherman who kept his catch in an aquarium in his beach hut; a band of smugglers who had been trapped in time.

  The warmth of the memory faded before I was ready, my thoughts dragging me back to the brittle argument I’d left behind in Sarah’s hut. I could picture her pacing right now, a glass of wine gripped in a fist. She’d be stewing, her lips pursed with that indignant little expression she wore when she felt wronged. I could feel the itch in my fingers wanting to reach out, right across the harbour, and grab her by the shoulders, asking, Today? Did you really have to pick today? I was leaving – all she’d needed to do was bite her tongue and I’d have been gone for another year. But she couldn’t let it slide. I’d seen it building all summer, those old insecurities circling, hawk-like, waiting for the opportunity to swoop.