When You Disappeared

by John Marrs

  ‘I don’t have one, and you have every right to. But if you’re going to call them, at least wait until you’ve heard everything first.’

  ‘And when will that be?’ she asked, as the sick feeling in her stomach made itself known again.

  Soon, he thought. Soon.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CATHERINE

  Northampton, twenty-two years earlier

  7 January

  I can honestly admit, with my hand on my heart, that I hadn’t given another man a second glance in the two and a half years Simon had been gone.

  Sometimes I’d daydream about how it might feel to fall in love again, but there’d never been a face attached to the strapping hunk who swept me off my imaginary feet. Besides, falling in love scared me – it meant running the risk of once again losing someone. I was terrified of feeling that all over again. So I vowed to keep potential aggravation at arm’s length for the time being.

  Instead, I threw all my attention towards my dressmaking – and, more urgently, trying to find the money to buy Fabien’s from Margaret. Steven had done a wonderful job making a success of his and Simon’s business, and he now employed a staff of five. I still owned Simon’s half, and when I told Steven about Margaret’s offer, he thought I’d be mad to turn her down. I suggested he could give me the extra capital I needed if he bought me out.

  In theory, it was the perfect solution, but before I asked him, I had to give it a lot of thought. Simon had invested so many hours in building it from scratch that giving up his share was another way I’d be letting him go. But I had to put myself first, and although I’d be waving goodbye to his dreams, he’d be helping me to reach mine. So with Steven’s money and a small bank loan, I was soon to have a business of my very own.

  But just when I had everything mapped out for the year ahead, something – or more accurately someone – came along to throw a spanner in the works.

  Tom caught my eye the first night I began the bookkeeping course Margaret had suggested. He was the only person who smiled when I walked nervously through the classroom door. He was classically handsome, with dark, wavy hair and greying temples, and his few laughter lines drew me to his chestnut-brown eyes.

  I was stacked from waist to chest with textbooks when Emily’s Barbie pencil case toppled from the top to the floor. Tom’s hand shot out and caught it, and he chuckled at the doll’s smiling, plastic face and impossibly thin waistline. I blushed.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll be needing all of them tonight,’ he began as we queued for a vending-machine coffee during the first lesson break.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘All your textbooks, they’re for the entire course,’ he said, pointing to my desk. ‘Unless you’re planning to condense six months into one night?’

  My nervous laugh came out like a pig’s snort and I died a little inside.

  Tom introduced himself and explained how he was about to start his own business in wood sculpture and furniture design. He’d recently quit a successful career as a solicitor to follow his dreams – a brave decision for a man in his late thirties. And, like me, he didn’t know the first thing about accounts. Already we had something in common.

  ‘Are you busy later?’ he asked as we returned to our seats. ‘Do you fancy a drink after school?’

  ‘Me?’ I asked, taken aback. ‘Oh, um, well, I’ve got to get home.’

  ‘How about the weekend then . . . Saturday night? Dinner? That’s if you’re free. Or if you want to.’

  ‘I barely know you,’ I replied, sounding like an uptight virgin from a Brontë sisters novel.

  He grinned. ‘That’s what dinner’s for.’

  I stared at him blankly. Then my mouth stepped in before my brain had a chance to.

  ‘I’ve got three kids and my husband’s disappeared and he’s probably dead but I can’t be sure because we haven’t seen him in years and I’ve not been on a date since ABBA won Eurovision,’ I blurted out in a babbling stream.

  He responded with a silent smile until he was sure the onslaught of information had peaked.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know where that came from,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Well, I’m divorced with a money-grabbing ex-wife who’s sadly very much alive and I’d love to go on a date with you.’ He smiled at me. ‘So how’s about it?’

  11 January

  I wasn’t sure how I’d found myself in a Chinese restaurant sharing a chicken chow mein with a single, drop-dead-gorgeous man.

  Dating in my thirties was not such a different experience to dating as a teenager. As a sixteen-year-old, I’d been embarrassed by my growing boobs and pimply skin. As a thirty-six-year-old, I was embarrassed by my sagging boobs and stretch-marked skin.

  When I started putting my make-up on for my ‘date’ – a word that seemed ridiculous for a woman of my age to use – I glared into that unforgiving bathroom mirror. I remembered how naturally Simon and I had fitted together, how from the start I didn’t want to be chatted up by anyone else. Other boys had asked me out, but there’d been a vulnerability that came with him that they didn’t have. And the Simon I remembered was funny and spontaneous, able to make me laugh with his uncanny impressions of teachers. He’d sketch beautifully detailed pictures of me and hide them in my exercise books for me to find. He made me feel like I was his all.

  Now I asked myself what Tom thought he saw in me. I had more baggage than an airport check-in, my once-sparkling blue eyes had been dulled by circumstances beyond my control and my confidence with the opposite sex was at rock bottom. Actually, it was lower than that. I was not what you’d call ‘a catch’.

  Twice I almost phoned him to cancel, blaming a sick child, before I reminded myself dating was just another mountain waiting to be conquered. In the end, I had nothing to worry about. Once the butterflies stopped circling my stomach, I was drawn in by his sense of humour, his self-confidence and honesty.

  Tom recalled how his ex-wife had walked out on him to live with a much younger man. He’d distracted himself from his divorce and high-pressured job by wood carving and creating incredible sculptures and furniture.

  ‘I don’t know if I can explain it properly without sounding like an idealist or a hippy,’ he began, ‘but one day it was like I had an epiphany. I realised that I was actually capable of doing anything I wanted to if I put my heart and soul into it. And being creative with wood gives me more fulfilment than the path I’d mapped out for myself in law. The other lawyers in the firm thought I was mad when I resigned, but I had to give it my best shot even if the odds were stacked against me. Do you understand what I mean?’

  I identified with every word he said. And, like me, Tom was new to the dating scene.

  ‘I quickly learned that a man who’d quit being a lawyer to follow his heart into the unknown isn’t as attractive to women as one who knows where he belongs,’ he continued. ‘That’s what I like about you. You didn’t look at me like I was barking mad.’

  Likewise, I examined his reactions to my story when I went into more detail than my blurted summary at our first meeting: one morning, my husband simply fell off the face of the earth.

  ‘Do you think he’s still alive?’ Tom asked.

  ‘No, I don’t think he is,’ I replied. ‘I’ve been through every scenario of what might have happened, but I don’t think I’ll ever really know. So the kids and I have accepted we’ve lost him.’

  ‘And you’re ready to move on?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied with certainty. ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Good.’ He smiled, and reached out to hold my hand.

  12 June

  Tom knew without me ever having to explain that I was a repair in progress.

  I took our relationship slowly and cautiously, with post-lesson drinks, pub lunches, coffees and then finally a kiss. Although the front seat of his car outside a DIY store wasn’t quite straight from the pages of a Jackie Collins novel, it didn’t matter. He’d given my life a much-needed thrill.

&
nbsp; And with that came guilt. Was I cheating on Simon’s memory? It was all very well promising till death do us part, but there was no clause in our wedding vows to cover an unexpected disappearance.

  I asked myself what he’d do if the roles were reversed, and I wasn’t convinced he’d have moved on. But after all I’d been through, I felt I deserved a spring in my step.

  That said, I still made Tom wait nearly four months before I was ready to make love. I’d become used to my body as a solitary vessel navigated by a crew of one. And Tom was someone who wanted to steer her into fresh waters. With each touch, each stroke and each kiss, I found it hard to concentrate on pleasuring him or feeling him pleasuring me, as I was too focused on stopping my body from involuntarily shaking. But when the second time came around, I was much more relaxed, and by the third, I couldn’t wait for more. And there was a lot more.

  I still had inhibitions over what my body had to offer to Tom or any man, so lights-on lovemaking was a strict no-no. The war wounds of five pregnancies gave me as many hang-ups as hang-downs. But Tom didn’t appear bothered. He was no Kevin Costner, but I didn’t need a six-pack, tree-trunk thighs or the libido of an eighteen-year-old to satisfy me.

  I enjoyed doing couply things like visiting the cinema and the theatre, taking long walks by the canal with Oscar or visiting woodwork and textile museums. We each took an interest in what the other liked, and slowly I began to develop real feelings for Tom, so much more than just a crush on the first boy who’d shown me a glimmer of attention.

  The kids were the only part of my life I wasn’t ready to share. My relationship with them was as honest as it could possibly be, so I didn’t want to lie by keeping him hidden like a dirty little secret. But I didn’t want to rock the boat either.

  James’s temper no longer had me on tenterhooks, as he focused all his energies on his guitar. I was so proud the first time I saw him on stage playing in the school orchestra, and I embarrassed him by standing up and cheering when he finished his first public solo. Robbie’s conversational skills were also gradually improving. I’d resigned myself to the fact he was never going to be a chatterbox like Emily. But when he started accepting invitations to school friends’ birthday parties, I knew we’d turned a corner.

  So I began by slipping Tom’s name into conversations here and there, explaining he was a friend of Mummy’s from night school. As our dates became more frequent, Emily was the first to cotton on that there might be more to him than just the man who helped Mummy with her maths homework.

  ‘Can we meet your friend, please?’ she asked as we fed stale bread to the ducks in the park.

  ‘Which friend?’

  ‘The one who makes you smile. Tom.’

  ‘Why do you say he makes me smile?’ I asked, and felt my face go bright red.

  ‘Whenever you tell us you’re seeing him, the corners of your mouth go up like this,’ she replied, giving me a huge, cheeky grin. ‘You love him!’

  ‘Yes, Mummy, why can’t we meet him?’ chirped James.

  So, to my delight and terror, the decision had been made for me.

  9 July

  I’d both looked forward to and dreaded Tom meeting the children in equal measure. It’d just been the four of us for so long that I’d forgotten what it felt like to be five.

  The day before he came, I had a sit-down chat with the kids to explain that Tom wasn’t going to replace their daddy, and if they didn’t like him, they should tell me. I’d always put their feelings before mine, so if it meant Tom and I were going to be prematurely nipped in the bud, then so be it.

  By the time he knocked at the door, I was fully prepared for them to charge through the full gamut of childhood emotions like tantrums, awkward silences, hostility and general boundary-pushing. How wrong could I have been? They were so inquisitive, well mannered and polite that I thought I might have to reassure Tom I hadn’t kidnapped them from Stepford. I also felt bad for not giving them more credit.

  Tom was relaxed and had a natural chemistry with them, despite not being a father himself. He paid each one equal attention, and they couldn’t wait to show him their bedrooms and toys. Even Robbie spoke a little to him – a huge sign of his approval.

  As I stood at the kitchen sink washing up the dishes after dinner, I closed my eyes and took a moment to listen to my children’s laughter and a man’s voice echoing around the house.

  I’d not expected to hear either of those things under this roof again.

  24 November

  Introducing another ball into my juggling act was tricky, but I found a way to make it work.

  I was winning in my battle with basic bookkeeping, and Margaret was winding down and dreaming of sunnier climes. Tom knew he was going to come third in line for my attention, after the kids and the boutique. And although we weren’t able to see each other as often as we’d have liked, he understood.

  Twice a week he slept at our house, and once a week when Selena babysat, I’d stay at his. Most evenings he joined us for dinner and would end his day being pulled in three different directions by six hands for bedtime stories and baths.

  Tom had been in a rock group during his university days but his attempts to seduce me away from my George Michael and Phil Collins CDs and towards his Led Zeppelin collection were wasted. But James was more than willing to soak up different sounds, so Tom took him to see bands I’d never heard of at music arenas in Birmingham and London, and they’d arrive home singing at the top of their voices and holding armfuls of tour merchandise.

  I let him move his tools and wood into Simon’s garage-workspace, and soon the smell of fresh sawdust wafted regularly around the garden.

  Tom was aware Simon was a presence that would remain in the cottage for as long as his family did. But if it bothered him, he never showed it. I grew used to having a man around the house, and he reminded me of how much I’d enjoyed it with my husband.

  And then, from beyond the grave, Simon destroyed it all.

  SIMON

  San Francisco, USA, twenty-two years earlier

  7 January

  With Betty transmuted to a smelted shell wedged into the desert floor, I had been relying on railways and Greyhound coaches to ferry me around.

  They carried me up to Canada, then back down into America and towards middle states like Colorado and Nevada. My surroundings were unimportant, as long as I kept active. Solitude posed the greatest threat to my state of mind because it allowed me time to think.

  On my arrival in France, I’d had a firm understanding of how my thought process operated and I’d manipulated it accordingly. If I didn’t want to think about something, it was consigned to a box and then closed tight. But I couldn’t shut Paula away with such ease. And her death began to eat at me like a slowly growing cancer. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make the lid fit. Flashbacks of her last, fateful moments haunted me so often that I began to question whether I’d dealt with our confrontation correctly. Because if I had, then why was she playing so heavy on my mind? Why could I not stop hearing her voice as it screamed my name? Why did my cheek still sting from her slaps? Why couldn’t I blank out the confusion in her eyes when I’d pushed her?

  I reminded myself countless times it was Paula who’d forced my hand, and not the other way round. But it wasn’t enough.

  Every town and city housed an area of dodgy repute, making narcotics easy to source once you spotted the familiar signs of decay in its residents. Cocaine became the only thing that kept my thoughts of Paula sedated.

  I still enjoyed cannabis, but only as my night-time buttress. I’d smoke a few joints and delay retiring to bed for as long as possible, so the moment I slipped into my sleeping bag I was too exhausted and relaxed to analyse anything.

  I constantly kept moving, and crammed as many activities as I could into my weeks. I’d visit notable landmarks, seek adrenaline thrills like white-water rafting and rock climbing, or spend time with other travellers discussing the next place to visit. The mo
re unmarked paths I explored, the less opportunity there was to revisit those I knew too well.

  The prospect of being more than a few days in one location and risking further muddling scared me. But I couldn’t spend the rest of my life running. Eventually, something had to give.

  Two years in perpetual motion had left my bones begging for rest and my mind longing for unclouded breathing space. And so, on the recommendation of others, I settled on San Francisco as a bolthole.

  I stood at the summit of one of the city’s twin peaks on my arrival, and understood why so many out-of-towners had left their hearts there. Its magnificent panoramic views, adorable Victorian-style houses and misty skies were as beguiling as they were calming.

  I stayed at the Haight-Ashbury Hostel, which nestled quietly in the centre of what, twenty-five years earlier, had been the heart of the hippy insurgence. Many of the peace-and-love generation had remained, and weren’t hard to spot by clothing alone.

  San Francisco’s compact nature enabled me to work my way around it by foot and cable car. It was a world away from the sprawling landscapes I’d scoped from train and bus windows. And as my body slowed down, gradually my brain followed suit.

  There were plenty of parks, museums, galleries and coffee houses for me to relax in and gawk at the absurd walking shoulder to shoulder with the elegant. I was at home in a city of misfits.

  The hostel’s vibe reflected its surroundings, reminding me of the temporary safety I’d found at the Routard International. Like its predecessor, it too was a former hotel that had seen better days.

  However, the only restoration project I had a vested interest in was me. Until someone made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

  20 April

  My exposure to dozens of hostels of varying standards qualified me to advise Mike, the relatively inexperienced proprietor of the Haight-Ashbury Hostel. I’d become an expert in the minimal requirements a budget traveller expected, and he lent a willing ear to my suggestions. What began as a casual proffering of opinions over a pitcher of Budweiser escalated to an offer of employment as manager.