What She Left

by Rosie Fiore

  In that one long moment of eye contact on the Tube platform, the wound had been ripped right open. I felt desperate, and my anger flamed high. How could she? How could she be living a few miles from us, from me and my daughters, and never make contact? How could she get up every day and go wherever she went, and then return to a home where she ate and slept without us? Without giving us a thought? How could she?

  One thing was for sure. Beer wasn’t going to cut it. I hailed a waiter (they were reassuringly available and attentive) and ordered a double tequila and soda, with another one to come as soon as I finished the first.

  The tequila was sharp and fragrant and oh so cold, and I felt its effect from the first sip. It spread through my veins in a flood of cooling calm, and the rage that had been pounding at my temples receded a fraction. Thank God. A few more of these and I’d have recovered enough to go home. Or at least to go to Lara’s and pick up the girls. I glanced at my watch. It was close to eight o’clock. There was no way I’d make it back before they had to be in bed. I was a good hour from home. Lara would put the girls to bed at her place, and I could just arrive and stay over. It wasn’t ideal, and I was sure to get major sulks from Miranda about something she needed back at the flat, but I’d deal with it in the morning. I drained my glass and swilled the ice around, taking small sips to get every last bit of taste from it. I signalled the waiter that I was ready for the next one, and he moved back into the bar with impressive speed.

  While I waited for my drink, I noticed that one of the two women sharing my table had left – I assumed to go to the toilet. The other, a petite girl with a thick mane of rich dark hair and impressively curvy breasts under her thin summer top, gave me a shy smile.

  ‘Nice evening,’ she said. ‘It’s warmer than I expected.’

  Weather small talk. I could do this. We chatted about whether summer was really here, and how this summer compared to last summer, and the festival she was going to at the weekend, and how she hoped it wouldn’t rain because she and her mates were camping and there was nowhere to plug in hair straighteners.

  Then her friend came back from the toilet and looked mildly annoyed that Curvy Brunette was talking to me. The friend was tall and blonde and looked as if she disapproved of quite a lot of things. It seemed important that I should win her over, so when my order arrived, I offered to buy them a drink. This was not a successful tactic, as the blonde one clearly suspected any man buying drinks of nefarious motives. She got even more thin-lipped, but the dark-haired girl accepted a small glass of rosé. She smiled her thanks when the drinks arrived, and then looked down at the table shyly. A lock of her thick hair fell forward, and I was irresistibly reminded of Helen – or the Helen I had known before she went.

  Curvy Brunette’s name was Kelly, or maybe it was Kiki. I wasn’t sure. It certainly didn’t matter what it was when, some hours later, I was grinding up against her, leaning on a railing by the river, kissing her with drunken, open-mouthed lust. She was short, even in her sky-high heels, so I had to bend right down. Her mouth was small and narrow-lipped, and sticky with lipstick, a not especially sensual combination. I didn’t care though. I stroked and squeezed her splendid breasts and did my best to lose myself in the drunken haze of the moment, the streetlights flaring in my half-closed eyes and the noise of the crowd eddying around us. She kissed me back enthusiastically, pressing herself against me, then she pulled back, her eyes unfocused with lust and wine and said, ‘Do you live nearby? Shall we go back to yours?’

  I almost laughed out loud. I could imagine what her idea of ‘mine’ might be – a cool bachelor pad in Bermondsey, or maybe somewhere like Hoxton. A big black leather sofa, an amazing sound system, white Egyptian cotton bed sheets, lovingly ironed and smoothed on to my king-size bed by my cleaner. How disappointed she would be by the reality of going back to mine. Which ‘mine’ would I take her back to? The house I owned, now rented out to strangers? My poky, depressing flat, with its damp towels and dust-ball-covered carpet, every corner crammed with the detritus of my daughters? Or should I take her back to the house where my daughters were sleeping right now, in the care of the woman who probably assumed we were in an exclusive relationship? Perhaps my elusive legal wedded wife would have a view on where I could take curvy Kelly/Kiki for a meaningless drunken shag?

  The nausea came then, fast and hot. It was almost indistinguishable from the anger of earlier, but now it roiled around in my gut with large quantities of alcohol and absolutely no food. I pushed Kiki away.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to. . . I’ve got to go.’

  Her eyes hardened, and she looked at me appraisingly. ‘Married, right?’ she said. ‘I should have known.’

  I could have said so many things, but in the end I said, ‘Yes. Sorry,’ and stumbled away.

  I was violently sick around the corner, and again before I managed to make it to the Tube station. I could barely focus to see the time, but, astonishingly, it wasn’t that late. Around ten or so. There was a blinding headache starting to pound behind my right eye, I was desperately thirsty and my mouth tasted foul. I had managed to vomit without getting any on my shoes or clothes, but I could still smell it on myself. What a mess I was.

  The human survival instinct is a curious thing, because I got back to north London without incident, and with absolutely no memory of how I did it. I must have changed trains where I needed to and stayed awake long enough to get off at the correct stop. A fine, cool drizzle was falling, and I hoped it might wash off some of the vomit, booze and perfume smell that hovered around me.

  I passed my own block of flats and glanced up at the darkened windows. I was desperate to turn in there, have a long hot shower and fall face forward on to my unmade bed. But I’d made no contact with Lara since my early evening text, and guilt overwhelmed me. I didn’t want the girls to wake up in Lara’s house and for me not to be there. I squared my shoulders and continued my unsteady progress. I got to the front door of Lara’s house and I could see that there were lights on downstairs. My heart sank. I’d kind of hoped she would be in bed, asleep, and that I could sneak in, wash and get into bed without having to talk to her. Maybe, I thought hopefully, she’d just left a light on for her mum, who I knew was out and coming home later.

  I usually knock when I arrive at Lara’s, even though she’s given me a key. It preserves a degree of distance, makes it clear that I know it isn’t my house. But this was a good time to use the key, if only to keep my entrance as quiet as possible. I fumbled and found the right one. I even managed to insert it, turn it and ease the door open without making too much of a racket. I stepped in soundlessly. I could hear low voices in the living room. I’d have to brazen it out, apologize for my lateness and be extra helpful and charming tomorrow. I slipped off my shoes in the porch and padded down the corridor in my socks. I turned into the living room, and as I did, I saw a muscular, tanned, male arm resting along the back of the sofa. The hand was inches from the long, pale stem of Lara’s neck. Her head was bowed, but I could see she was smiling, her face half turned towards the man on the sofa beside her. I laughed in shock, and they both turned, surprised, to see me standing in the doorway. Lara and my brother Tim, curled up on the sofa together.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sam

  I woke up very early and rang Chris’ voicemail, leaving a message to say that I was sick and wasn’t coming in. A twenty-four-hour bug or food poisoning or something. I tried to keep it vague and sound faint and ill and confused.

  I was sick – my stomach ached fiercely and my hangover was punishing. I was awake well before the girls, and as soon as they were up, I shoved them into their school uniforms and said we were going back to our place to make sure they had what they needed for school. Marguerite was fuzzy and half asleep, but she’s biddable and still small enough for me to dress her myself for speed. Miranda was obviously relieved; I could see she’d been worrying about the books and equipment she didn’t have, so she got herself ready in
a few minutes and we let ourselves out into the chilly, rainy morning. Neither of them noticed that Lara wasn’t up and about and we hadn’t said goodbye to her. I’d also got them out of the house quickly enough that they hadn’t registered the rumpled sofa cushions and the folded blanket on the arm of a chair, clues to where I had spent the night.

  There’d been an argument the night before – nasty, whispered and vicious. When I walked into the living room and saw Tim about to make his move on Lara, I’d growled, ‘What the fuck is going on here?’

  Lara leapt up, looking simultaneously guilty and angry.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she said.

  ‘Well, obviously not here, which seems to have given you a good opportunity to get your leg over my brother.’

  ‘What? I…’ She was speechless.

  Tim got up, deliberately more slowly than Lara had, and turned to face me with a glint in his eye that I knew meant combat.

  ‘What’s this, Samster? Attack is the best form of defence? Look at the fucking state of you. Honestly.’

  ‘I think you should go,’ I said.

  ‘Pardon?’ Now his eyes narrowed, and I knew I’d pissed him off. ‘Last I heard, this wasn’t your house. It’s Lara’s.’

  ‘Yes, it’s Lara’s. My girlfriend.’ I bit off the word. It was the first time I’d called Lara that. I didn’t dare to look at her to see what she thought. ‘So I’m not terribly sure what the hell you’re doing here.’

  ‘Looking for you, you idiot,’ said Tim, and his voice got louder. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lara shushing him and glancing up at the ceiling.

  ‘Looking for you,’ Tim repeated in a harsh whisper. ‘And where the fuck were you? Out getting rat-arsed and leaving Lara to look after your kids? Don’t you dare claim the fucking moral high ground.’

  ‘Can you both stop talking about me like I’m some kind of mute maiden?’ said Lara, and when I looked at her, I realized that it was the first time I had seen her properly angry. ‘Tim, thanks for everything, but I think it’s probably best if you go. I’m so sorry.’

  Tim hesitated for a good long moment, watching her to see she was sure. She was. He also waited, I was certain, to piss me off and show he was his own boss. He’d been my kid brother for all his life. He definitely knew how to push my buttons. Then he picked up his jacket, nodded to Lara, ignored me and walked out. I heard his car roar into life seconds later in the street outside, and he was gone.

  I turned to face Lara and opened my mouth to speak, but at that moment we heard a key in the door, and Lara’s mum’s voice came floating down the corridor to us. ‘Lara? Is that you? Did I just see someone leave?’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ called Lara, keeping her tone even and calm. ‘Sam’s brother Tim. He popped by. Sorry you missed him.’

  She went out into the hallway and I heard them talking quietly. It was likely Lara was trying to stop her mum coming into the living room and seeing the state I was in. Somehow she succeeded, and I heard her mum heading off up the stairs to her room, calling a quiet ‘Good night’ as she went.

  Lara came back into the living room. ‘I’m going to bed,’ she said. ‘You’re in no state to talk now. You’d better sleep down here.’ She indicated the woolly throw that always lay on the back of the sofa. ‘You should be warm enough. I’ll get your toothbrush and things and you can use the downstairs loo.’

  She walked out of the room before I had time to respond. She was right, of course. Any conversation we would have was certain to turn into a row, and with her mum and all the kids upstairs, the fallout would be hideous.

  She came back down within a minute or so, and, her face expressionless, handed me my toothbrush and a towel, and a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. Then she went out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

  It wasn’t the best night’s sleep, unsurprisingly. Nausea, misery, fury and Helen’s face kept looming over me out of the darkness. I’d doze for a few minutes and then jerk awake, shaking and sweating. Eventually, a grey haze began to creep over the trees, and I could make out the outlines of the shed, climbing frame and washing line in Lara’s garden. I got up and pulled on last night’s trousers, which still reeked of booze and shame, and made ready to get the girls out of the house.

  Once we were back at our place, I left the girls bickering over the cereal while I took a scalding shower and shaved. I couldn’t imagine ever being hungry again, but I knew if I didn’t eat, I’d vomit or faint. My body was running on last night’s tequila and adrenaline. I dressed and went into the kitchen, where I forced down a piece of toast and honey and a cup of instant coffee. Then I went into hyper-efficient mode and got the girls ready for school, making sure they had everything they needed. We were at the gates as soon as they opened, and I prayed I’d be able to get both girls to class and be gone before Lara arrived with her own kids.

  I was lucky. Both girls’ teachers were ready to usher the kids into their classes, and with a swift hug goodbye to Marguerite and a coolly offered cheek from Miranda, I was off down the hill to the station.

  I’d have liked to get to Canary Wharf by seven or so, but with the school run, it wasn’t possible. In the end, I got there by a quarter to ten. I knew that it was probably hopeless. If Helen passed through the station on her way to work, she’d be long gone, hidden in one of the thousands of anonymous offices. I had no hope of finding her here. And yet, here I was, walking up and down the platforms, then leaving the station and waiting outside the ticket barriers, scanning every face in the crowd. It wasn’t rational, it wasn’t going to work, but I had no other plan. This place was the only clue I had to Helen’s location in London and I wasn’t ready to give it up. I was ready, however, to find somewhere to sit down. I left the station and found a small coffee shop with tables tucked away at the back and free, fast Wi-Fi.

  Canary Wharf was a vast and busy part of London, and both Jubilee Line trains and Docklands Light Railway trains ran through it. I’d seen Helen here at around 4.30 in the afternoon, which was early to be returning home from work, so it was more likely she was passing through on her way to or from a meeting. She’d been on a Jubilee Line train. As she’d got off here, either this was her ultimate destination or she’d been planning to change to the DLR. I called up a Tube map on my iPad. Where could she go from here on the DLR? The answer wasn’t promising: she could have gone north, south, east or west. Or she could have been going to leave the station to catch a bus, which added dozens more travel options.

  Worst of all, it was just as likely that she was only in Canary Wharf to attend a meeting, as I had been. My office was in Soho, five miles away. I had probably been to this station a handful of times in my life. And of course now she knew I had seen her here, she’d probably do everything in her power to avoid the area, knowing that I would come and look for her. I needed a better solution. The trouble was, with my addled, exhausted and hung-over brain, I wasn’t going to find the answer anytime soon.

  I went home. I didn’t have another solution, and I reasoned that if I could get some sleep and get to a point where I felt halfway normal, I might be able to think more clearly. It was nearly lunchtime by the time I got there. The girls were going to the after-school club and I didn’t need to pick them up until 5.30. I made myself eat – more toast because I didn’t have the energy for anything else – and then crawled into bed and fell into a dead sleep.

  Sleep is a miraculous healer, because I woke up without the edge of hysteria or the sense that I was going to die of alcohol poisoning. I felt calm and sad and determined but no longer mad. It was about 4 p.m. and I lay tangled in my rumpled duvet and, for the first time, thought about the mess of the situation with Lara.

  I knew perfectly well that nothing had happened the night before between her and Tim. I’m not stupid. I knew that I had caused a scene merely to cover my own guilt at my disastrous behaviour and to set up a situation where I didn’t have to explain where I had been or why. Nothing about my experiences of the night bef
ore would bear retelling – seeing Helen, my drunken absence, what happened with the girl whose name I had completely forgotten. I behaved abominably, and all I could do was grovel and beg Lara’s forgiveness. She’s a lovely woman, and I knew she would forgive me, this time at least.

  But what had Lara and Tim been talking about? I had to assume it was me, and how I’d been doing since Helen left. It made me feel deeply uncomfortable. It’s not like I’m a divide-and-rule kind of person, but the thought of them discussing me, my behaviour and probably my drinking made my skin crawl. Oddly enough, separately, I probably see them as the two people I trust most in the world. But together? I didn’t like the idea of them getting together to compare notes.

  I knew I couldn’t tell Lara about seeing Helen. Well, maybe not couldn’t – I wasn’t going to. Her response would likely be emotionally charged and complicated, and I’m confused enough about it as it is. In my drunken haze of the night before, I imagined telling Tim. But now I was deeply unsure about that too. I’d always thought of Tim as being unequivocally on my team. But his reaction last night showed that that maybe isn’t the case. Anyway, it’s not like there’s anything to tell. One glimpse and then she disappeared. In a city of eight and a half million people, the odds of my finding her again are infinitesimal.

  Lara

  I heard Sam rouse the girls and get them dressed and then I heard them sneak downstairs and leave the house. I thought about getting up to say goodbye and maybe trying to make things okay with a look or a touch on his arm, but I stayed in bed with my back turned to the door. I had a lot to think about.