by Louise Wise
Sarah ignored her. ‘You can now leave Tampax wrappers lying about and not worry that he’s going to get all disgusted.’
‘You can lie on both sides of the bed and get the covers all to yourself.’ Melvin spun round in his chair to join in.
‘You don’t qualify in this conversation,’ said Faye. ‘You’re conjoined.’
‘You get to sexually stimulate yourself when you want it, and not just when the footie is over. Or at stupid o’clock in the morning,’ said Sarah, warming to her topic.
‘Why’d men like it in the morning?’ asked Faye. ‘I hate it. I feel all grubby and want nothing more than a shower when I wake up.’
‘Men are strange creatures,’ said Charlie, and Sarah and Faye nodded in agreement.
‘Straight men are strange creatures,’ amended Melvin flicking fluff off his Don’t Discriminate, Hate Everyone T-shirt.
*
Ben sat in his nearly empty office in The Globe. It was almost cleared in preparation for his new one at London Core next week, but as he looked around at he realised this office was as empty as his life.
Camilla still hadn’t made contact. Her number for her mobile phone was no longer registering. It was as if she had cut herself out from her family. It hurt Ben. He’d lost a mother and felt like he’d lost a sister too.
She had been missing for three days now. It wasn’t long, but it wasn’t like her not to keep in contact.
A knock on his office door caused him to minimise a page he was on on the computer. His PA looked in on him.
‘I’m off to oversee your things being moved to Core,’ she said.
‘Thanks Clair,’ he said. ‘It’s close to your home, isn’t it, so take yourself off after. I’m all finished here, anyway.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘I am.’ He smiled at her, and waited until the door was closed then he brought the page back up on the monitor. He was searching for a Private Investigator. He needed one that specialised in missing persons and who was highly discreet.
He came back to: Private Investigator, Kevin Locke, sympathetic and particularly experienced in the location of missing persons. The website looked professional, and it promised discretion.
Ben telephoned the number from the website. He was surprised and pleased when it didn’t go to an automated answer line and was answered by a human.
He briefly gave details of Camilla’s disappearance and fixed an appointment for tomorrow morning where they’d meet and discuss the whereabouts of his sister in detail, and assign him a PI. Ben wrote the appointment in his diary, and flicking through the pages he was reminded of London Core’s party this coming Saturday.
God, he’d forgotten! Thank goodness he’d jotted it down, his father wouldn’t have forgiven him if he didn’t turn up.
He was dreading it. He hated parties; work parties especially.
There were four types of people he dreaded meeting at parties: crawlers, superiors, drunks and women.
1. Crawlers: These people fawned all over him and generally made him feel embarrassed.
2. Superiors: These were the types who thought he was ‘uppity’ and either ignored him or treated him with polite distain.
3. Drunks: Need he explain? But, of course, you got the crawling drunk or the superior drunk. Drunks who brown-nosed him were creepy, and drunks who were ‘superior’ often thought it clever to ‘speak their mind’ and tell him a few home truths – usually crap but it was uncomfortable all the same.
4. Women: He liked women, but felt tense in their presence. He never knew how to speak to women out of the office. And then you had the female crawlers and superiors. But worse, worse of all, were drunk women.
TEN
Charlie had decided she was going to join a nunnery, Andy was not answering her texts and her ovaries were bouncing around inside her in panic. Or that’s how the pain in her stomach felt. Truth was she was due on, and her skin was beginning to resemble a pizza. Sheesh, life was good. Not.
There was slight commotion outside in the corridor and workmen came in carrying various bits and pieces. One held a framed picture, covered loosely in polythene. He placed it outside Mr Fanton’s office, and then went back out for more.
‘Is that Middleton’s stuff?’ Charlie asked.
Faye had already scuttled over as fast as her six-inch heels would allow, and was peering through the collection.
‘Looks like it, doll,’ Melvin said. He wore his Touch my moobs T-shirt today. Charlie’s personal favourite.
They pinned back the doors for the workmen to come and go more easily, and then Melvin went down to see if he could help. One came in wheeling boxes and files with a large potted plant balancing precariously on top, Charlie grabbed it before it could fall.
‘Thanks, love,’ he said, passing her. Charlie followed him peering through the leaves of the plant.
Fanny came out of his office and looked down at the boxes and loose furniture. ‘That’ll never fit in my office,’ he said.
‘Been told to bring it all up here,’ the workman said.
A tall woman had followed Charlie towards the office. She stuck out her hand to Mr Fanton. ‘I’m Clair Michel, how do you do?’
‘Mr Fanton,’ said Mr Fanton, clasping her hand and shaking it. ‘I’m the managing editor. Can I help you?’
‘I’m Mr Middleton’s PA. I’m organising his possessions into his new office.’ She pointed to Mr Fanton’s office. ‘Is that it?’
Fanny looked at his office and then back at her. ‘I thought the one upstairs?’
‘Eventually, yes,’ Clair Michel said. ‘The electric need rewiring, it needs redecorating and carpeting. Mr Middleton can’t possibly take up residence in such a mess.’ She looked at Mr Fanton as if he should have realised that.
‘But my office is too small for us to share,’ he said.
‘Share?’ She looked at him scornfully. ‘I don’t think so Mr Fanton.’
‘Get out of there, girl!’ He turned his embarrassment into anger and flapped at Charlie as she placed the potted plant on the floor. ‘And don’t be so nosy.’
Charlie flushed, feeling guilty even though she knew she was innocent.
Another workman came in wheeling a dark brown leather chair.
‘Do you want my men to help move you?’ Clair Michel looked around and then pointed to a spot in front of his office’s window. ‘We could position your desk there facing the room.’
Mr Fanton nodded miserably, as Charlie and Faye giggled between one another.
Charlie’s eyes fell on the framed picture. She moved away the polythene so she could see it properly. It was the famous picture of the earthrise from the moon with the caption: God gives us dreams a size too big so that we can grow in them.
‘Inspiring, isn’t it?’
Charlie looked up at Clair Michel.
‘I think he glances at that for motivation on bad days.’
‘Does he get many bad days?’ Charlie couldn’t believe old Mr Middleton thought days as bad or good.
‘He could be happier,’ she said. She took the picture from Charlie as if afraid she’d break it and placed it back against the office wall.
The two workmen were lifting Fanny’s desk with his paperwork still on top. He was running around trying to stop stuff from sliding off. His comb-over was slipping off his bald patch and he licked his fingers to stick it back into place. Poor Fanny, he was reduced to a small desk alongside everybody else’s.
That evening, Mr Middleton’s picture and its caption inspired Charlie to open up her laptop and find her article. She hadn’t looked at it since she and Andy had split up and Melvin had told her the article was already being covered.
She sat looking at her words; not reading but just thinking about Melvin’s reluctance to encourage her. He’d always been the same. Never strive, never hope and you won’t be disappointed was his motto. Despite his sexuality, or maybe because of it, he wasn’t as liberal as he looked. She supposed his natur
e was because of the cruel way his parents were taken from him. He barely drank and was terrified she was going to be led astray by free-thinking friends.
The authorities took Melvin away when she was twelve; she had never forgotten the pain; it had been like a tumour inside. Expanding each and every way until she couldn’t eat or breathe. It had never gone away – oh, the pain had certainly gone, but the fear of being left alone; of being deserted was always there and that, Charlie suspected, had been the birth of her embarrassing panic attacks that dogged her life.
Melvin was adopted at fourteen and his adoptive parents had wanted to separate them, believing she was a bad influence on him; something her social worker agreed with. They all believed that because she had been in care since forever and Melvin only five years, he had more prospects whereas she was doomed. OK, she was being fanciful as usual.
Then Melvin’s adoptive parents moved to London, taking him with them. Charlie was left behind in her hometown of Northampton, and gradually they lost touch; the social workers and his adoptive parents had succeeded in splitting them up.
But Melvin found her again. Dear Melly. It was thanks to him that she had a job with London Core.
She didn’t know anything about reporting, but she knew about writing. There had been many stories about the prostitutes in a negative light, and Charlie knew she could write something in a sympathetic slant instead. It didn’t have to mean an article. Melvin was right, she could write fiction. A novel!
*
Ben was sitting in the smart office of Mr Kevin Locke. He studied the picture of the cartoon Pink Panther on the back wall. Locke was writing something down in a notebook, a pink tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Ben dragged his gaze away from the cartoon and studied the top of Locke’s bent head. He had a bald spot the size of a two-pound coin. Ben fingered his own head.
Kevin looked up, and Ben snatched his hand away from his head as if he’d been found out doing something he shouldn’t.
‘So,’ Locke read back his notes, ‘last seen Friday at about 2 p.m., wearing black. Her car is a dark silver Land Rover Discovery 3. And her emotional state was…’ he checked his notes, ‘emotional.’ He twisted round and glanced at the calendar pinned to his wall behind him. ‘Missing for four days,’ he said. ‘Not terribly long really.’
Ben played with the end of his tie. He discovered a hole in the tip. Probably when he caught it in the car door yesterday and nearly garrotted himself, he thought absently. Ben looked up, realising Locke had spoken and was waiting for a reply.
‘Four days,’ Ben agreed, ‘and that’s four days too long in my opinion.’
‘I can understand your concern.’
‘That’s very decent of you.’ Ben let his tie go and sat forward in his chair. ‘I know it doesn’t seem long, Mr Locke, but with all due respect she’s my sister and I know she’d not have left it this long to call home.’
‘People, highly emotional, people can act out of character, and sometimes the longer they stay away the harder it is for them to make contact.’ He swivelled around so he was facing his computer. It was the old chunky model from the late 90s. ‘Why’d she leave?’ he said, Ben wasn’t sure he was talking to him or the computer he was tapping away into.
‘Hmm, family, er, family disagreement.’
Locke turned to look at him. ‘Has she left in shame? Anger? Disappointment? It helps if I know the kind of emotional state she was in on leaving.’
Ben realised he’d have to tell the PI the entire sorry story, but he hesitated. His father didn’t want their family business in the newspapers, which Ben could understand. Also, if Camilla saw her name in any tabloid, and given her emotional state, they’d be highly unlikely to ever see her again!
‘What you say will not pass these walls, Ben,’ Locke said.
‘Then I’d say she left with all those emotions,’ Ben said, and found him telling Locke everything.
Locke was expressionless as Ben related the story, so Ben really didn’t know where the description ‘sympathetic’ came from on the webpage.
‘This does change things,’ Locke admitted at last. ‘From what you’ve told me she probably feels she caused your father’s heart problem, and now that her mother is dead may feel that she doesn’t have a home.’
‘That’s absurd.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Locke. ‘I asked you to bring me current photographs of her, do you have them?’
‘Er, yes.’ Ben reached for his briefcase. He handed over several photos of Camilla.
Locke took them and laid them out on his desk in front of them. ‘Long blonde hair,’ he said. He looked at Ben. ‘If she was serious about staying away for good, she’d easily change her appearance.’
‘She didn’t take her passport,’ Ben said. ‘That tells me she’s not serious.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ He gathered the photos together. ‘OK, my fees…’ and his dead-pan face brightened.
ELEVEN
‘Piss off!’ The vividly made-up woman turned her back and began to slowly walk, hips swaying, along the path.
Charlie sighed. It was growing into double figures the amount of women telling her, clearly, to go away. She tucked her microphone back into her handbag and delved inside to turn the machine off. All week she had been studying the red-light areas; finally plucking up courage to interview a few on foot tonight.
But prostitutes were a bolshy lot, Charlie thought and muttered a few words beneath her breath, and then turned and walked in the opposite direction.
What was it with microphones that prostitutes didn’t like? Or was it her? She raised an arm and sniffed the pit. All Charlie could smell was her deodorant. Maybe she should try another brand just in case. Feeling she had earned a break, she began to make her way across the road to an all-night café when a car pulled to a stop beside her.
‘After some fun?’ a grey haired man asked leaning across the passenger seat, his hand reached to open the latch for her.
Charlie quickly fumbled for the recorder in her bag where she flicked it on and pulled the microphone discreetly out.
‘How much do you expect to pay?’ she asked.
The man pulled a face. ‘Isn’t that your decision? I want full sex,’ he added.
‘Fine,’ she said without embarrassment. ‘Fifty quid for full sex, twenty five for, er, manual.’ She bit back a giggle then, and watched with a grimace as the man frowned suspiciously. It looked as though she had blown it. So much for her acting skills.
‘You look a bit old to be new at this,’ he said.
Cheeky devil, Charlie fumed inwardly. She considered lying, but said, ‘I’m twenty four.’
‘Like I said, you’re a bit old to be new at this.’ His eyes dropped to the small microphone held in her hand. He swore violently, and his car disappeared, tyres screeching.
‘Another satisfied customer,’ she said to herself and grinned.
Charlie continued across the road and opened the door to the café. It had the shy atmosphere of a large place, which was used to crowds of bustling people, but now only had a few late night shoppers.
She bought a mug of hot chocolate with cream and marshmallow and chose a table where a dog-eared newspaper, The Globe, lay. She pulled it towards her and opened it up. There was a small piece about the merge inside. ‘The Middleton Group that owns the fast selling newspaper, The Globe, has bought London Core,’ she read softly to herself. She felt a tickle of excitement as she read. ‘It is said that it has been a challenging year for the newspaper industry,’ She pursed her lips and muttered, ‘It’s going to be a challenging year for me if I want to get ahead.’
Charlie stirred her drink. She was feeling more positive since she’d decided to turn her article ideas into a novel. If not her work colleagues, it’d certainly impress Andy! She blew a hole in the froth so she could take a sip, and organised the paper in front of her for a further read. There were many cup rings and spillages over the pages.
�
��Damn,’ she said, as a blob of creamy froth joined the stains and covered the face of Sarah Cameron. ‘Sorry, Missus,’ she said. Looking up she caught the startled glance of a businessman.
He smiled awkwardly, and looked away, obviously determined not to catch her eye again.
‘Typical Londoners,’ she muttered, dropping her eyes back to the newspaper. She pushed it away and fumbled in her pocket for her mobile. She checked it for texts or missed calls from Andy.
She’d been texting in between calling and not getting an answer. She figured he was busy. He did love her. He had to. She realised she was close to becoming obsessive. Soon she’d be parking outside his mum’s for short glimpses, stealing hair and nail clippings and resorting to papering her walls with his photos.
He was as close to a family as she was going to get, and Charlie didn’t want to let that feeling go. She’d been in a care home for all of her childhood; apart from the times when various families fostered her. Her last ‘posting’ (that’s what she called her placements because she felt unwanted in all of them) was at the age of fifteen and if it hadn’t been for Melvin, she didn’t honestly know how she’d have coped. She longed for a family to belong to.
Charlie sipped her drink and debated on whether to order a pastry.
She texted Andy instead.
I luv u. Call me pls. We nd 2 tk.
*
‘She’s nearby.’
Ben pressed his mobile against his ear. ‘You’ve found her?’
‘Not exactly,’ Locke said. ‘After she left the wake she dumped the car and wandered around the city. I suppose she left spontaneously without any clear thought at all, anyway to cut a long story short, she squatted with a group of homeless people –’
‘What!’
‘For a night or two. It’s not certain, but anyway she left with a woman called Sally Readman.’
