by Jane Corry
‘Want some crisps?’
Scarlet stopped. The man handed over the tube. Then she reached in her bag for the sugar. Just as she gave it to him, there was a shout.
‘You there. Stop!’ Another man was running up to them. ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of illegal possession of a controlled substance …’
‘No. NO!’
Mum suddenly appeared, but then a woman in cop uniform ran up and held her back. A second one tried to take Scarlet’s hand.
‘Come with me, lass. It’s all right.’
‘LET HER GO!’
‘MUM! COME BACK.’
‘Scarlet! SCARLET! Let me talk to my little girl, you bastards.’ Mum’s cries pierced her ears as they pulled her away.
Was this part of the game?
‘It’s all right, love,’ said the cop. ‘You’re safe now. Come with me.’
‘GET AWAY.’
The man pulled his hand away but not before she’d sunk her teeth into his flesh.
‘Don’t bite me, you little cat.’
They were putting her in one car and Mum in another. Hers went first.
‘COME BACK,’ she wept, hammering on the window with her fists. But Mum grew further and further away until the other car was a little black spot.
And then she was gone.
Rose. Neroli. Sandalwood. Ylang-ylang. Patchouli.
All are said to have aphrodisiac qualities.
Do they work? Put it this way.
Some days I love him still. Other days I hate him. Right now I wish he was dead. It would be so much easier. Then no one else could have him either.
3
Vicki
‘This is David,’ says the smooth, husky voice. ‘You know what to do.’
But I don’t. In fact, I lost my way on the day that it happened. I put down the phone.
Stop. Don’t think about it. Or the stress might trigger it off. The ‘thing’ that sits on your shoulder, day after day. Teasing you into thinking that everything’s all right now before striking you out of the blue.
Deep breath. That’s better. Work this out calmly. Why not just ring again? He might pick up this time. Even though my ex-husband has said he never wants to hear or see me again, I miss him. That’s why every now and then I call, just to hear his voice on the answerphone. Besides, this is an emergency. So I’ll give it another go.
‘This is David …’
My ex-husband’s deep, assured tone takes me back to the evening we’d met. It was a fundraising dinner in aid of a scheme to rehabilitate prisoners, and I’d been told, in no uncertain terms by the authorities, that my presence was ‘required’.
David Goudman (as his nameplate read) was late, which meant I had an embarrassing gap on my right, limiting me to conversation with a very quiet woman on my left. When he finally arrived, he was deeply apologetic as well as courteous and charming. Dismissing my questions about his work – property development – he seemed far more interested in me.
‘Tell me about your life,’ he’d said, straight out. David had a way of listening with his cheek resting on his right hand, as though you were the only person he wanted to hear in the whole wide world. How old was he, I found myself wondering. Those crinkly lines with a hint of a suntan suggested late thirties perhaps, like me. How had he got that slightly hooked nose which somehow didn’t detract from his good looks? Maybe a sporting injury. He looked like he might play rugby.
‘That’s amazing,’ he said when I gave him a brief outline. His brown eyes – with a hint of green in the middle – locked with mine. Something stood out about them. That was it! He wasn’t blinking, which added to the intensity of his gaze. But it was his deep voice that really struck me. There was laughter there: something I’d been missing for so long! It seemed at odds with that strong, set jawline, which spoke of determination. I had a sudden urge to run my finger along that faint hint of stubble as he continued to talk. ‘I’d love to know more, Vicki. May I call you that?’ He glanced at my place setting.
He was still there at the end of the evening when the great and the good and the press had filtered out. ‘I don’t suppose you have time for a drink,’ he asked. ‘My place is near here.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘My ex-wife always said I was handy with both a corkscrew and the coffee machine. One of my few pluses, apparently!’
Ex-wife. I glanced at his left hand. No ring. To my embarrassment, he noticed.
‘Single,’ he said, with a directness I admired. ‘You?’
‘The same.’
Sometimes we act completely out of character. Of all people, I should know that. Or perhaps my boldness was down to something one of the girls had said when she’d seen me earlier, all dressed up in heels and a lime-green suit that seemed to go with my hair.
‘Letting you out for the night, are they?’
She must have sensed how nervous I was. It can be daunting after being inside for so long.
I’d walked on, conscious of the titters behind me and the odd word like ‘lezzie’.
If only they could see me now.
‘You’re not what I expected,’ David said later.
We were lying face to face in his huge bed in a massive loft conversion – with an incredibly complex security entrance on the ground floor – overlooking the London Eye. I knew I could get into trouble for being back late, but for once I ignored the nagging voice, telling myself I was entitled to some fun for a change.
‘In what way?’ I asked.
I often wonder how people really see me. But very few have the courage to tell me to my face. Instead, I get the odd sideways look. An expression that conveys a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Even fear.
‘You’re more …’ He hesitates. ‘I was going to say “feminine”, but that sounds disparaging.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘It does.’
He stroked the side of my face as if memorizing the texture of my skin or the position of my mouth. ‘Let me start again. You’re strong. You’ve done things that many women – and men – wouldn’t or couldn’t have.’
This talk was making me nervous. ‘I suppose. The last few years haven’t been easy.’
He nodded. ‘I’m sure they haven’t.’
It had been a long time since I’d had such a frank conversation. Despite the unease, I felt a sense of relief at meeting someone who seemed to understand.
His right hand was tracing the outline of my back. ‘Do you have any regrets?’
David’s touch made it hard for me to concentrate. It’s as though this man already knew each curve of my body, even though we had only just met.
‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘You?’
‘Several – if I let myself dwell on them. But I don’t.’ He turned away to lie on his back. My body felt cold without his skin on mine, despite the warmth of the centrally heated air. ‘Instead I keep myself busy.’
This was my cue now to question him. Physical attraction was all very well, but it’s what lies beneath that matters in a long-term relationship. Then I caught myself. Long-term? What was I thinking? I didn’t know this man. And he didn’t know me. I wanted to tell him that I’m not the kind of woman who goes to bed with someone on a first date. But that sounded too much like a cliché. The truth is that I had to do this. Call it intuition or lust or loneliness or a desire to prove that I could get a man if I wanted. But here I was. And now I wanted to find out everything about David Goudman. I sensed there was more to him than met the eye.
‘How did you start your business?’ I asked.
‘Through sheer hard work and luck. My old man pushed me to go into the army, which I did, but it wasn’t for me.’ A strange look flitted across his face and I wondered what horrors he’d seen. ‘I got out as soon as I could and hooked up with a bloke I’d met through the forces who’d gone back to the States, where he ran a business. He wanted a UK presence and I began developing land. He had the capital and I seemed to have a knack of finding the right plots at the right time. Then I was able
to set up on my own.’ He spread out his hands. ‘The rest, as they say, is history!’
I was impressed.
‘What do you do when you’re not working?’ I asked.
He laughed. ‘I usually am working. Doesn’t leave much time for personal relationships, but I’m happiest being active.’
‘Me too. I need fresh air.’
He nodded approvingly. ‘I thought as much. Do you like walking?’
I thought of the long corridors and the outside exercise yard with its jogging track. ‘Can’t get enough of it.’
His eyes looked as though they were somewhere else. ‘I love Dartmoor.’
‘So do I!’
‘Your favourite part?’ He placed a finger on my lips. ‘No. Wait. Say it together. One, two, three …’
‘Haytor,’ we both blurted out together. Then he moved towards me and we rocked in laughter and amazement, his body against mine.
‘I love to climb up and look down,’ he said. ‘It’s like being on the top of the world.’
‘Exactly. But I have to come down on my bottom. It’s too difficult otherwise.’
He gave mine a gentle slap. ‘I’d like to see that.’
‘What else?’
‘What else would I like to see?’
‘No.’ I giggled. I hadn’t felt this carefree for years. ‘What else do you do apart from walking or working?’
‘Give away my money.’ He laughed when he saw my sceptical face. ‘Really. It gives me pleasure. I’m a great believer in putting things back if you have good fortune yourself.’
I had a flash of the Big Issue seller I’d passed earlier that night. ‘Who do you help?’
‘I like to go for smaller causes that don’t get the big handouts. One of my favourites provides holidays for inner-city kids. And then there’s a hospice in Oxfordshire. In fact, I’m driving down tomorrow to open its new wing.’ He reached across me for a brochure on the bedside table, brushing my breast as he did so. ‘My mother died of cancer when I was twelve. Dad and I nursed her together at the end. We could have done with a place like this.’
A large lump sprouted up in my throat. ‘I’m sorry.’
He made one of those ‘It’s fine’ gestures. Maybe it was my intuition, but I sensed it hid grief. ‘My mother died of cancer too,’ I ventured. ‘I was eight.’
There was a flash of affinity between us. One that hadn’t been there before, despite the passionate sex.
‘I’d like to see you again,’ he said. ‘Do you think that’s possible?’
I thought of the rules and restrictions by which my life was governed. ‘I hope so,’ I said.
Over the next few weeks he rang me every night and took me out to lunch on the days when I was allowed out – evenings were more difficult for me. We usually went to bistros that were understatedly chic, tucked away in pockets of London that I hadn’t been to before. David actually had a Porsche! But he was a careful driver, I noticed, constantly checking his mirrors. He didn’t like to talk when he was driving, concentrating instead on the road. I liked that.
He didn’t judge or ask why I had done certain things. Instead, he made me feel special in a way that no one had done before. He opened my body. My mind, too. David was well read. We shared a love of Somerset Maugham’s short stories and went to a reading of one of his plays at the British Library. Like me, he ‘couldn’t paint for toffee’, yet he admired art, as was apparent from the huge colourful contemporary oils on his walls. This was a man who took his hobbies seriously. He listened when I allowed myself to cry at some of the things I had to endure, day after day. ‘You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known. A one-off. I’ve never met anyone like you before. And I don’t think I ever will.’
Men like David would have had several lovers. Common sense told me that. But right now, he wanted me.
Two months later we were married, with a prison officer as one of the witnesses. My only regret was that Dad wasn’t here to see it.
I have to stop right here with my memories. Stress is bad. Hadn’t they told me that over and over again?
Lavender. Quickly. Calming lavender. I reach for the oil next to the sofa. Inhale. Three deep breaths. Now massage into the pressure points. Two on the sinuses. Behind the ears. Above the eyebrows. That tender part on the top of the head. The two spots at the back of the neck. Press until they stop hurting. I learned that as part of the training.
I suddenly yearn for a lovely warm, deep bath with orange blossom oil. Showers aren’t the same. You can’t lie back and relax. Sit still, I tell myself. I resist the temptation to pick up the phone and hear David’s voice again. Where is he? Then again, hadn’t he gone walkabout enough times during our marriage?
My mind goes back again to the month after the wedding. When it all started to fall apart.
‘I had a deal to sort out,’ he’d said casually when I hadn’t heard from him for two days. ‘I told you. Don’t you remember?’
No. I didn’t.
‘That’s because you were tired.’
Nonsense! Nothing wrong with my memory.
‘I did tell you,’ David insisted.
But I couldn’t see his face because our conversation – as so often – took place on the phone. And even if I could have, I might not have known if he’d been lying.
Eventually it became easier to go along with it, rather than argue back. Perhaps now, I tell myself, he’s simply repeating his old patterns. Good luck to Tanya with her low necklines, little-girl voice and black eyeliner. There’s a certain justice that she’s having to put up with the same thing.
Unless she knows something that the rest of us don’t.
15 February
When my eyes open the next morning, the sun is streaming in through the window. Gingerly, I do my usual checks. No obvious bruises. My muscles aren’t aching. No feeling that something ‘isn’t quite right’. So far, so good.
I ease myself slowly out of bed and pad across the beige carpet to the window. The water spreads out before me. Gentle today. Yesterday it had been furious, spitting pebbles up and onto the promenade. I’d had to walk round them, frightened of tripping.
How had I managed to live so long without being next to the sea? The colours alone are to die for. Sometimes turquoise. Or pale blue. Or grey. Red from the rocks. I marvel at the soothing regularity with which the tide goes in and out, day after day. Its emotions go up and down just like mine. The other day it capsized a kayak, and the lifeboat had to go out.
Missing. Hasn’t been seen for fifteen days.
The policeman’s voice comes back to me. Tossing me back to last night’s visit, which means it’s been sixteen days now. Despite my earlier resolution, I reach for the phone.
‘This is David. You know what to do …’
Don’t play that message again, I tell myself. Get out. Breathe in the air. It might be cold but it’s brisk. Good for you! You need to buy some nutty rye bread anyway. And pick up your prescription. Sort yourself out before the next client. When is she coming again? Check the diary. Not until tomorrow.
Since David, I’ve fallen into the habit of talking to myself. It makes life seem less lonely. The same goes for the radio. Most of the girls had gone for Radio 1, but the psychologist had introduced me to Classic FM. ‘Music makes such a difference to your state of mind,’ he would say.
I tune in now, but the reception isn’t great. Radio Cornwall is clearer. More intimate too. Makes me feel as though I belong here.
‘More delays expected on the Great Western route to Paddington after a week of heavy storms …’
Might this explain David’s disappearance? Could he have come down here – maybe to find me? No. Get real.
To have a break then? No to that too. ‘Can’t think of anywhere worse,’ he used to say, ‘than a cold British beach.’ Turned out too that he’d only been to Dartmoor once. In reality, he was a London man with holidays in the Caribbean, usually tied in with deals all over the world. That way, he could pass
off ‘leisure’ spending as business expenses. Was that legal, I’d asked in the early days. He’d laughed that deep, rich laugh of his. Of course it was.
All these memories, I warn myself as I put on my bright-red waterproof jacket, are making my head hum. Or is it because I’m hungry? It’s reasonably early – only 7.30 a.m. – although the girls would have been up for some time by now. I pick up my bottle of tablets, think about it for a second, knock one back and then tie up my hair. They advised me to keep it short after it happened in case it proved a ‘hazard’. However, I needed to create a ‘new me’ in order to keep going.
But suddenly the idea of going out is scary. I feel safer inside. Old habits – however unpleasant at the time – die hard. So I stay in all day, blending my essences. By the time it’s dusk, I have cabin fever so I put my jacket on once more and open the door, flinching as the wind hits my face.
I walk along the promenade, concentrating on the fine line between the land and the sea to distract myself. Then a cracked paving stone makes me falter but – phew! – I manage to right myself just in time. After that I look straight ahead. It helps that we’re out of season, with few tourists to bump into.
I freeze. There’s a child walking towards me, carrying a yellow bucket and spade even though it’s not the weather for it. He seems the right age. His fringe is cut straight across. His eyes lift up as if he knows me.
‘Patrick,’ I whisper in my head. But the word escapes into the air for all to hear.
The woman next to him grabs his hand, gives me a strange look and skitters past.
Breathe deeply. Pretend it didn’t happen. Think of something else, like sea salt. Not just the smell but the taste on your tongue and the freshness in your nose. Until I moved down to the south-west, I hadn’t realized how different the air could be.
A man on a cherry-red disabled scooter is now approaching. I move to one side to allow him by. Would it be easier if my own problems were more obvious like his? Then others might not be so shocked when it happens. Past a woman in purple leggings playing a recorder, half-sitting on the sea wall. (I love the arty types in this part of the country.) The music is hauntingly beautiful, but experiences such as this need to be shared. Yet who would want to share my dark life? Not David, as it turned out.
