The Stolen Child

by Sanjida Kay

  I pause, clutching a toy telephone on wheels to my chest. I have an image of me and Ollie dancing. We’re at a friend’s house, in their sitting room. A Eurythmics song is playing. We’re in our early twenties. It’s a year or two since we graduated. Ollie loves to dance but he normally doesn’t because he’s clumsy. Now he’s so drunk or happy – we’ve just got back together again – he doesn’t care. He pulls me into his embrace, flings me out again, twirls me round, sending other people flying, stepping on his best friend’s foot. Ollie sings along to the lyrics, belting out the words in an unexpectedly loud baritone. I’m laughing so hard my stomach hurts. The music changes and there’s a slow number. I expect him to stop, collapse on the sofa, but he doesn’t. He holds me tightly and looks deep into my eyes. They’re so blue. I see he’s not drunk, only a little tipsy, and the way he’s staring at me makes my stomach contract. Once, Ollie used to look at me like that all the time. Once, I would have done anything for him. Of course, Ollie being Ollie, as he leans in for a kiss, trips on the rug and falls, dragging me with him and knocking over a girl carrying two large glasses of red wine. I chuck the phone in one of the toy boxes and it rings, plaintively.

  I’m pouring another glass of Chardonnay when I hear his key in the lock. I walk into the sitting room.

  ‘Have you considered that he might not be her father? He could be a paedophile.’

  Ollie doesn’t say anything. He shrugs off his coat and hangs it up. Unties his brogues and slides them off. Sets his briefcase down. He runs his hand through his hair and says, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes? Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘We don’t know. Whether it’s her real father or not. I didn’t want to worry you even more.’

  He comes and puts his arms around me. I can’t smell anything strange on him. He smells like he always does as the end of the day, of trains and newsprint. When I kiss him, I taste beer on his breath. Has he been drinking on the way home? Not that I have any grounds to complain.

  ‘Has something else happened?’ he asks.

  I tell him about the presents I found in the attic.

  ‘You should get on to the police again,’ he says.

  ‘I should get on to the police? She’s your daughter too!’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I’ve had a long day. What I meant is, it’s hard for me to make private calls when I’m at work, and it’s easier if you do it because you’re here and you know when it’s the best time for the police to come and see you. But I can take time off if you want me to go to the station?’

  The anger drains from me and I start to cry.

  He hugs me and says, ‘It’s going to be okay. Let’s get a takeaway. We should eat something. Shall we order a curry?’

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  THURSDAY

  It’s the evening of Harris’s preview and I’m getting ready to go out, full of nervous excitement. There haven’t been any more cards or presents over the past couple of weeks. Maybe whoever it was has been scared off because the police know he’s out there. Evie hasn’t mentioned her real parents either. I have a knot in my stomach every time I think about it. I barely let her out of my sight when she’s not at school and I check the damaged tree in the garden twice a day. And every man I see on my way to and from school, as I’m buying groceries, as I walk Bella, I stare at, wondering – could it be him?

  My work is progressing well though – I’ve almost finished the painting I started after telling Harris what’s been happening. It’s as if he really did unleash something in me, gave me permission to be an artist, to be myself, to let go of my worries, even if only for a little bit. It sounds hokey, but it’s true. I’ve stopped feeling bad about asking Jack to look after Evie and Ben on Saturday afternoons – and they had a brilliant time last weekend. I took Hannah up on her offer too and she’s here now, putting both of them to bed.

  I asked Ollie if he wanted to come tonight. I thought it might be like the old days, when we’d dress up, talk bollocks about Art, pretend to be toff reviewers from the Sunday Telegraph, drink too much cheap wine, stagger home up Cowpasture Road. But nothing has changed. I’ve barely seen him. So it’s no surprise he said he had to work late.

  ‘You go,’ he’d said. ‘It’ll be good for you to meet potential clients. It’s not long until your show. Network.’

  I’d made a face. He knows I hate the idea.

  ‘Really, you should do a social media course, or a business module. You haven’t even got a Twitter account. This is all the stuff you need to be doing now, before your exhibition opens.’

  ‘That’s why I have Jenny,’ I’d said, ‘so I don’t have to.’

  This afternoon he’d sent me a text saying:

  Have a good time. Don’t forget to schmooze. XO

  At least he’d remembered. As for Harris – I’ve seen a lot of him over the past few days. We’ve got into the habit of meeting for a coffee after I’ve dropped the children at school and nursery, at the tiny cafe behind The Grove. Even though I know I have to work, even though I’m desperate to return to my painting, I’m always the one who lingers. Harris drains his Americano and smiles and reminds me I need to go. I wonder if he realizes: if he’s smiling because he knows I’m torn between wanting to stay and wanting to paint. And he quite likes the power he has over me.

  The taxi beeps. I’ve treated myself, instead of walking there with my heels in my handbag. It’s early and I’m not ready. I hop round our bedroom, trying to put my strappy sandals on and push my new dangly earrings in. I’ve gone for a low-key luxe look – that’s what I hope it is, anyhow: smart skinny jeans and a silk sleeveless top with beads round the collar.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ I ask Hannah, poking my head round the bathroom door.

  The bath is really deep and Ben and Evie are in together, screaming with laughter. There’s a lot of water on the floor and the bath mat is sopping wet. She smiles, her face flushed from the heat, small tendrils of honey-coloured hair curling in the steam.

  ‘All good,’ she mouths over the noise. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got your mobile number.’

  I nod and hesitate. At this rate she’s not going to be able to get either of them to bed, they’re so excited.

  ‘Have fun!’ she shouts and turns back to the children.

  My mouth is dry when the taxi pulls up by the kerb in Brook Street. For a moment, I hesitate, looking in. The gallery is a white box of light blazing into the street; the sunset, clouds the colour of a split watermelon, are reflected across the windows. It’s packed. I panic – I won’t know anyone apart from Harris and Jenny and they’ll be too busy to speak to me. I always feel shy, tongue-tied in this kind of social situation. I wish Ollie were with me. But then I see Harris. He’s talking to someone, a glass of red in his hand and, as if he becomes aware of my gaze, he looks directly at me and smiles. As soon as I walk in, I’m glad I came on my own.

  Jenny air-kisses my cheek and passes me a flute of Prosecco and a catalogue before she strides away to greet the next arrival. Harris is at my elbow immediately.

  ‘Who are all these people?’ Coldplay is blaring out of the speakers and he has to lean in to hear me. He shrugs, as if they’re nothing to do with him.

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ he says, and his breath is warm against my ear. ‘I’ve missed you. Shall I show you round?’

  He cups my elbow, his knuckles grazing my waist. I’d like him to, but I shake my head.

  ‘You need to mingle.’ There’s a couple hovering; I can imagine them living in a mansion in Middleton, the wealthiest part of Ilkley. She’s wearing gold stilettos and a cream fitted dress; he’s in grey, a watch that cost more than my car, peeking out from beneath his well-pressed shirt. ‘I’ll look around and catch up with you.’

  He nods reluctantly. I wander over to the first piece, standing sentinel at the entrance. It’s large, around seven feet high, and made out of scrap metal, rusted, sanded smooth and glazed in places. Close to, I vaguely recognize some of the ind
ividual parts – cogs and wheels, valves and bolts, springs and blades. When I step back, the crowds shifting around me, it looks like a tree, bent in the wind; one of the lone pines perhaps, crippled by the wind, out past the Swastika Stone. The varnish has the effect of making it seem damp – a squall of rain has passed, or a heavy mist drifted through its twisted boughs. I’m aware that Harris is watching me. Even as he talks to the power couple and then moves smoothly on to a man I know is an art dealer from Harrogate, his gaze follows me. I walk on to a creature – possibly constructed from a tractor’s innards with broken teeth and staring eyes; a gollum that’s arisen from the peat bogs. I glance at the catalogue. There’s a photo of Harris – the one where he looks dark and brooding – and I smile as I read the sanitized blurb about him. I look up the listing for the sculpture I’m staring at and its price tag is so steep I’m astonished. My back is to Harris but I can feel his eyes piercing my shoulder blades. A blush spreads across my cheeks. I walk on to a second room in the art gallery, connected to the first by an archway. For a few moments, I’m sheltered from his gaze.

  At a visceral level I understand his work. It’s as if he’s trodden in my footsteps, seen what I’ve seen, felt what I’ve felt, as I’ve criss-crossed the moors countless times. There’s a small room off to one side. That’s where I am, looking at the last sculpture, when Harris says, ‘What do you think?’

  He stands next to me, contemplating it, almost from my perspective. He hands me another Prosecco and takes a sip of his wine. He’s completely still, waiting for my answer. If I say his work is good, I know his lip will curl. Anything else is going to sound measured, too arts-student-like. I think back to my first reaction, when I saw the photos for this exhibition.

  ‘They look tortured,’ I say.

  He throws his head back and laughs. A few people stop talking and look at him. He turns to me abruptly and I realize how important my response was to him.

  ‘Aye, they do. They are.’

  I’m about to make a joke about the time he spent in Shangri-La and how it was wasted if, on his return from this Himalayan paradise, he could only dream up such anguish, but he’s looking at me so intently, I can hardly breathe.

  ‘Let’s go outside. I need some fresh air.’

  ‘Don’t you need to speak to more people?’ I say – prospective buyers have been practically lining up to talk to him – but he shakes his head and strides ahead.

  The crowd parts for him; they’ve had too much to drink and are too deep in conversation to notice his departure. He walks to the back of the large middle room and towards a white door, flush with the wall. I’ve never noticed it before. He holds it open for me and I step through. I’ve been represented by Jenny for seven years – since we adopted Evie, and Ollie and I were still living in London and thinking about moving to Ilkley – but I’ve never seen this part of the gallery. We’re in a short corridor leading to a galley kitchen and a small office. A waiter assembling canapés moves to allow us past. Jenny’s leather jacket, like a shed snakeskin, hangs from a hook on the wall and there’s a rail of outfits with beautiful heels in Perspex boxes beneath each one. So this is how she looks immaculate all the time, I think, staring at them curiously. Harris takes my hand impatiently and pulls me through a back door.

  The cold is a shock. The night is clear and every star is sharp and bright as steel. We must be facing towards Back Grove Road but I can’t see anything – there’s a fence around some bins and a couple of hard plastic chairs. We’re completely hidden. I take a sip of Prosecco. I’ve drunk too much and eaten nothing and my head is expanding, my feet have left the ground. Harris has ditched his glass somewhere. He leans in and kisses me. I’m caught off-balance. He takes my glass and then he cups my face between his hands and kisses me again. This time it’s long and slow. His lips are soft, his palms rough. I can taste the wine on his tongue. I feel as if I’m dissolving into him. It’s unbearably tender and yet urgent, impatient. He sits on one of the chairs and pulls me onto his lap. He cradles my head in one large hand, the other slides round my waist.

  I think briefly of Ollie and then I don’t care. It feels so right. I haven’t been kissed like this for years.

  ‘I’ve wanted to do that since the day I first set eyes on you,’ he says, and breathes in my ear, nuzzles my neck.

  I know, I think, I’ve always known. I had never imagined I would cheat on Ollie – but now I can admit to myself this is what I’ve wanted to do since I met him. I lose track of how long we are here, how long we kiss. There’s a noise and a beam of light spreads across the Tarmac – one of the waiters has opened the back door and is leaning out to smoke a cigarette. I pull away from Harris, take a deep breath. After the heat of his mouth, the air is so cold it burns my throat.

  ‘I have to go –’ I say, ‘– the children – I have a babysitter.’

  I can’t see his eyes but I can tell he’s looking at me and his grip is tight and hard. For a moment I think he’s not going to let me go and I don’t want him to. He releases me and stands. He takes my hand and leads me round the fence and into the glare of the car park and street lights.

  ‘I’ll walk you to the taxi rank,’ he says.

  He stops beneath the awning of a shop on Brook Street and pulls me into the shadows. He kisses me one last time and crushes me against his chest. I can hear his heart beating; it echoes in my ribs.

  I cross over the road. I climb in a cab and, as I drive off, he’s still standing there, his hands in his pockets, his head lowered, watching me. He doesn’t wave.

  FRIDAY

  Evie is outside, wearing her princess dress even though it’s growing chilly. I can’t make my mind up whether she’s playing in the old tree because it’s her favourite spot or because she’s expecting another present. I wish I could talk to my mum about Evie. It’s been three years since she died, but I still miss her. I put Ben in front of CBeebies. I know I’ve only got about ten minutes. I prop my laptop on the kitchen work surface, so I can keep an eye on Evie, and open Google. There must be a way of finding Evie’s real mother. Her first name was Jane. She was living in London when she gave birth. My fingers hover over the keyboard. Is that it? Is that all I have to go on? They didn’t tell us her surname. Jane. Not a name you’d associate with a junkie. But then, she was somebody’s lovely little girl once too. She might even have made that name up. ‘Jane’ signed away all rights to Evie when she was born; I’m pretty sure she was pressured by social services. The adoption agency doesn’t have an address for her. So how can I find Jane from London seven years later? Maybe the hospital would have records? They’d be confidential though.

  I rest the tips of my fingers on the keys. I touch the J. And then I can’t help it. I think of Harris. The feel of his skin. His thumb pressing against my lips. How he smelled: of wood smoke and leather; red wine and cinnamon. His tongue pushing against mine. In spite of what I’m meant to be doing – searching for the birth mother of my adopted daughter to try to find out who her real father might be – my mind yet again drifts to last night. I feel a surge of desire. I want to phone Andy, tell him all about it like I always do when anything exciting happens to me. But I can’t. He’d see it for what it is: a betrayal of Ollie. I pull myself up short. I’m married. I have two children. I know next to nothing about Harris other than that he understands me and I understand him on some deep, intuitive level. It’s all become so complicated, and I yearn for the way Harris makes me feel: that life is simple and art is everything. Could it work? Could I have an affair? Would I leave Ollie for him? Would Harris care for my children? I shudder when I think of the heartache and the complications – how could I take Evie and Ben away from Ollie?

  When I got home late and slightly drunk last night, my vision a little blurry, rattling the key in the lock, Hannah had already left and Ollie was in bed. He stirred when I slid beneath the sheets but he didn’t wake. He was up before me, out of the house before 6 a.m. And since then, I’ve been thinking of Harris constantly,
turning his name over in my mind, reliving the gallery visit as if it’s a hyper-real dream. Ollie is my husband, I tell myself sternly. He does not deserve this. But my heart isn’t in my self-admonishment.

  Ben comes barrelling towards me, clutching one of Evie’s dolls in his hand. My time is up. I look outside and, at first, I can’t see Evie. She was right by the tree just a few minutes ago. Ben trips on a chair leg and falls, banging his head on the sharp edge of a kitchen cabinet. He howls. I pick him up and hug him. He hasn’t cut himself but the bump starts to swell almost immediately: the size of a wren’s egg, blue-green against his pale skin. I run cold water on a dishcloth and hold it against his head. He tries to push it away and fights and kicks against me. I struggle to hold him. I still can’t see Evie.

  The doorbell rings. I tuck Ben on my hip and hand him the doll he was playing with as I go to see who’s there. I’m nervous about leaving Evie when I don’t know exactly where she is. Andy’s on the path outside. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead and he looks uncomfortable.

  ‘Andy! Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?’

  ‘I can’t stay. I’ve left both the girls in the car.’ He nods towards his Volvo, parked diagonally across the pavement. Sophie waves at me and Ben. ‘I drove over straight away, as soon as I found it.’

  ‘Found what? Is something wrong?’

  I glance behind me, wondering if Evie has appeared, and when I look back Andy is holding out a parcel. It’s small and thin and rectangular, wrapped in cheap paper with pink butterflies on it. It’s been torn open but I can see the sticker and the writing in blue Biro, a looping capital ‘D’ beneath his thumb. A shiver courses through me like a glass of icy water on a cold day.

  ‘Present,’ says Ben, trying to reach it.

  ‘It was in Sophie’s room,’ Andy says, sounding apologetic. ‘She said Evie had it in her school bag and she must have left it behind when you were at our house on Monday.’