by Jo Furniss
“I called him Teddy.”
“What?”
“The Ed bloke. I recognize him, but I can’t place it. And when I said goodbye, I called him Teddy.”
“Maybe you want to cuddle up with Teddy?”
“It was subconscious. It meant something.”
She watched her brother walk out the front door, his white teeth turning gray under the Chinese strip lights beside the lift.
“Seriously, Col, do you remember anything about the name Teddy? From Tanglin Green?”
“I’m going now. Teddy was your bear, a soft toy. We each had a bear and so little imagination that we called both of them Teddy.”
Collin lit a fuse in Camille’s mind and it caught. She remembered. Not the bear, she couldn’t picture him at all, but the feeling of holding Teddy by his legs, as fat as a baby’s, while she played in the garden.
“Good night, Cami.”
“Good night, Col.”
The screen went dark and she felt limp with loneliness, as flaccid as overstretched elastic, and she didn’t have the strength to reach out to anyone. It was for the best; look what happened last time—she’d ended up embarrassing herself in front of her boss. Thank goodness he’d been professional enough to turn down her offer of a drink; she felt too weightless to withstand even a flurry of romance. Even if he seemed decent, past experience told her that men were as predictable as the Kowloon lights. They switched off by morning.
Chapter 24
Amanda sat cross-legged on cold marble in front of the window, scooping hummus directly from the tub with two fingers. The horizon was a dusky slash that bled into the ocean. Legions of clouds approached. At thirty stories, you could look the storm right in the eye.
She knew she should have eaten before opening a bottle of wine, but she’d needed a glass before Josie got home from the library, Dutch courage for the talk she had spent the day rehearsing. It was time to ask Josie about her father and perhaps swallow unpalatable answers. Josie wouldn’t welcome the confrontation, but it was in her best interests. One day, she’ll understand. Amanda said it out loud. It tripped off the tongue, the kind of thing a mother might say.
That morning, after Ed packed yet another bag, she’d gone to the gym and hit the treadmill, running like she was scared. Ed thinks I don’t take responsibility. Well, I’ll be responsible for finding out what he’s up to. She spent the day cataloguing everything she knew. She laid out the pieces of her suspicion. Putting together a jigsaw without knowing what picture might emerge. Maybe Josie could click the puzzle into place? So Amanda warmed herself up for the talk with one glass of red. And Josie didn’t come home. Half a bottle later, she still wasn’t home.
She’d gone to meet Willow after spending the day at the library, so maybe they’d decided to see a movie? It’s not late, there’s no safety issue. But Josie always checked in, and besides, Amanda had built herself up for this talk and wanted to get it over and done with.
Avoiding the wine bottle, she padded through the apartment to the bedroom, where she sat in an armchair. In the half-light, the luminous hands on Ed’s bedside clock pointed out to sea. She thought of the timer on Josie’s website and pulled out her phone. Today’s post was illustrated with the grinning face of a pumpkin.
In the future: Nine Days Until D-Day
In the past: Thirteen Days That Made Me Me
Post 4 of 13: Remember, Remember the Fifth of November
The Guy is creepy. The straw inside his clothes makes his body look broken, and the head we made from an old football keeps falling off. He looked okay in the daytime, but now it’s dark, the circle I drew for his laughing mouth is screaming as if he’s seen what’s coming. Teddy gets him on top of the bonfire in our back garden and all the mummies cheer.
Mrs. Traynor from the flat upstairs hands out sugar-free sticky apples, which are gross, and when I go inside to the bathroom, I dump mine in the bin. When I get back outside, Teddy has lit the bonfire and the flames jump into the night, making a noise like breaking glass. The Guy catches fire and his face melts. We light sparklers and Teddy takes my wrist and writes the word Jo-Jo on the darkness. Then we hear screaming. It’s Mrs. Traynor.
“She probably saw her toffee apples in the bin,” says Teddy.
But it’s not that. She’s pointing to the big tree that stands in the next-door garden but hangs over ours. “The branches are going to catch!” she shouts. Teddy tells her it’s too wet to burn, but she’s running inside. “It’ll set fire to my flat!” Teddy gets the bucket of sand he prepared earlier, and the other daddies help him sprinkle some on the bonfire until the flames stop being so overexcited. He sprinkles a little bit on my head in case I get overexcited.
Close to the fire, my face is burning but my back is chilled by the night air. Teddy tells me to close my eyes. “Feels like you’re two different people,” he says. “Or in two places at once—a cold place and a hot place.” When I open my eyes, Mrs. Traynor is back, tugging Teddy by the sleeve. He looks up at the tree. “Not that,” she says. Her mouth looks like the Guy’s did before we burned him. “They’re having a side party upstairs.” Teddy looks at the window of the flat above ours. The reflection of golden sparks makes it seem like it’s burning. Mrs. Traynor tells me to stay in the garden. I write the numbers one to ten in the sky with a sparkler before I follow. Into the kitchen, out through the living room to the front door of our flat, which is flung open to the communal hallway. They must all be upstairs because that’s where the shouting is coming from. And that’s where I saw my mother going earlier when I came inside to throw away the lollipop.
Mrs. Traynor is saying bad words. There’s one I haven’t heard before, but I like the sound of: slag. I whisper the word until Teddy hammers down the stairs and spins me around by the shoulders, saying, “Outside!” He throws a bucket of sand on the bonfire and stands on the kitchen step to announce to the people in the garden that it’s been wonderful but it’s school tomorrow so we’d better call it a night.
When they’ve gone, I can make out, high in the sky, the colors of fireworks from the display at the park. It’s too far away to hear the bangs and cracks over the sound of Mrs. Traynor screaming at Mr. Traynor upstairs. “Get out!” she screams. There’s thundering on the stairs.
“Are Mrs. Traynor and Mr. Traynor getting a divorce?” I ask, but Teddy pushes me aside and runs out of the kitchen. I walk into the living room and sit on the arm of the sofa, where I can see into the hallway. Teddy holds Mr. Traynor by the shoulders as though they’re going to hug, but then rocks his head forward and knocks him on the nose. Mrs. Traynor gallops down the stairs and pushes Teddy into our flat. He slams the door and punches it. He’s breathing like a bull. He rubs his punching fist with the other palm.
When Teddy turns and sees me, he groans, so I say it’s all right. “It’s not, Jo-Jo Sparrow. It’s not. Can you go to your bedroom? Can you stay inside, whatever you hear?”
I ask if I can play my computer game and he says I can. He goes into their bedroom and I go to mine. When I hear him shouting, “Where are you hiding, Mrs. fucking Bonham?” I put on my headphones.
At bedtime, Teddy reads me a story. Afterward, he tells me she’s gone away, but not to worry. “She ruined that family’s life,” he says, when he tucks me in for the night. “I’ll not let her ruin ours.”
Amanda checked the date on her watch: fifth of November. She tucked her feet up and rested her cheek on a cushion. This account of Josie’s childhood made her feel quite normal for the first time in her life. Yes, her parents had their issues, eccentricities afforded by privilege, but she could see now that they’d kept the worst of it behind closed doors. Maybe that’s what made Laura so remote: a habit of keeping it inside. Ed and Josie’s mother, though, acted out the whole soap opera with Josie in the front row. But—Amanda shifted to fling her legs over the side of the chair—this provided common ground between herself and Josie, their shared experience of tempestuous parents. She settled to thinking of how she could allude t
o what she knew without letting on that she’d peeked at the blog.
When she woke, the framed sky was as dark as the screen of her phone. It was almost eleven. No messages. Her feet burned with pins and needles. She checked Josie’s bedroom, but it was undisturbed, and there was no sign of her in the rest of the apartment. She tried her number again and it rang out. Ed wouldn’t land in Zurich until morning so she couldn’t call him.
Now it’s a safety issue. She got her laptop and navigated to iCloud and Find My iPhone. She waited for their devices to load, her mind as blurry as the spinning wheel on the screen. Josie never stayed out late without letting someone know. She could imagine her laconic tone: “Yeah, well, I don’t need the drama, do I? I’m kind of over the rebellious stage.”
The Find My iPhone list appeared with Amanda’s device at the top. It hadn’t found Josie’s or Ed’s. Was that because their phones were switched off? Panic prickled her edges, like a match head running over the striker and throwing up tiny sparks. Late as it was, she’d have to call Erin.
Amanda dialed the number, and it connected on the first ring. “What?”
Amanda was caught wrong-footed by the tone, but she identified herself.
“Didn’t bother to read the screen,” Erin said. “I thought it was him.”
“Arnault?”
“I’ve been trying to reach him all night. What time is it?”
“It’s after eleven. Sorry to call so late, but have you seen Willow and Josie?”
“I thought they’re with you? Ed’s away, right?”
There was a scratch on the line, and Amanda pictured Erin clawing her own elbows. “I haven’t heard from Josie since this morning.”
“They must’ve gone to the movies. Or a friend’s place. You know what they’re like.”
“I feel responsible, especially with Ed away.”
“They’ll be fine—it’s Singapore. I’ve got to go, call coming in. It might be him.”
“Okay, thanks, Erin, please let me know if—” But the line cut.
Erin was right. It was Singapore—safe little Singapore. But low crime didn’t mean no crime. And what if she’d been in an accident? The hospital only had Ed’s contact number, and he was on a flight to Europe . . .
She snatched up her security pass and took the lift to the swimming pool. The humid air carried threads of spiderweb that stuck to Amanda’s lips as she hurried past empty sun loungers. Apart from skittish geckos, the deck was empty. She followed the orchid path around the side of the tower toward the lobby, marching up to the security desk, where a guard rose to greet her with a purposeful, “Yes, ma’am?” But she hadn’t seen the girls either, and she walked Amanda back to the lift, pressed the button for the thirtieth floor, and said she would buzz if she had any news.
Home again. Amanda checked her watch and found she’d been outside for less than five minutes. And yet the space had changed. Maybe it was just the contrast with the humid night, but the apartment felt sterile and chilled, as white as a meat locker.
“Josie?” she called out. Then, quieter, she didn’t know why: “Awmi?”
When there was no reply, Amanda tried Josie’s number again, but it went to voice mail. She slapped her phone against the palm of her hand. I should call the police. But what if Josie was safe and sound at the cinema with her phone switched off? Maybe the police wouldn’t consider her “missing” yet? And what if they came to the apartment to find Amanda three Merlots down, as thickheaded as she’d been the last time they came?
According to Ed, Josie had hundreds of Facebook friends, but of course they didn’t post contact numbers. In any case, who would pick up at this time of night? After fruitless searching, she found herself on SOWs. Tonight they needed a champagne brunch, a chess tutor, a recipe for buttermilk. The hive mind buzzed.
It’s a community. There are women dying to help. It’s what they live for.
She typed in the box and hit “Send” before she could change her mind: My 17-year-old stepdaughter went out with a friend and hasn’t come home. The friend is also not home. Her mum isn’t too worried, but it’s unlike my stepdaughter not to let me know where she is. Her father’s on a flight to Europe. I don’t want to overreact but I’m thinking of calling the police. Any advice?
Within seconds the comments section was bubbling with typing women.
Jennifer Moran I hope your child is OK!
Fionna Stone This happened to me—I called the police and they gave my daughter a really HARD TIME!!!
Allison Ghosh Do you follow her on social media? Maybe see if she’s checked in anywhere? Just a thought . . .
Nina James A 17-year-old on Facebook! Mine would rather shave her head live on Snapchat!
Allison Ghosh I didn’t specify Facebook. I meant any social media.
Nina James OK, yeah, but “check in” is totally FB—we’re so ancient LOL!
Allison Ghosh I think it is possible to use “check in” generically.
Tara Hussein Try to stay on topic, ladies. Amanda—what about other friends or parents? Do you have a class list from school with their contacts? I can help you ring round some people?
Jennifer Moran I’m happy to drive to her favorite haunts and look for her?
Amanda went through and liked all their messages—irritating and touching ones alike—unsure what to say in reply. The class list was a good idea; Josie must have one. But where? Then a private message pinged on Amanda’s phone.
Molly: Just saw your message on SOWs. Is she home yet? X
Amanda typed back in the negative.
Molly: Oh, no. Poor you. Do you have a number for her friend?
Amanda: I’m going to call her mother now and ask for it.
Erin’s line was engaged. Bloody Arnault. Amanda tapped a quick text asking for Willow’s number. Then she went back to Facebook. She clicked onto Josie’s page—no updates—and navigated to Willow’s—no updates—and sent them both private messages.
Then she replied to Molly.
Amanda: So how long do I leave it before calling the police?
Molly: My kids are so young—I don’t have these issues! Is the other girl’s mother not worried?
Amanda: She’s going through some marital problems—not sure she’s got her eye on the ball TBH.
Molly: Oh dear . . .
Amanda: I’m sure Josie just lost track of time.
Molly: Better safe than sorry . . .
Amanda: You think I should call the police?
Molly: Is this out of character?
Amanda: It really is! But then she’s been upset recently bc our helper died.
Molly: OMG! When did that happen?
Amanda: Last week. She killed herself. Josie was upset. We all were. So, I don’t know. Could mean she’s just acting out . . . Or it could mean she’s vulnerable and I should be more worried . . .
Molly: That’s awful! Can’t believe you didn’t say something at book club!
Amanda watched the cursor blinking. Why hadn’t she told the women at book club? Why hadn’t she spoken about it to anyone? It was true she’d been distracted by all this worry over Ed. But is that all?
Molly: You still there?
The cursor blinked. Why? Why? Why?
Amanda: I was caught up in the fertility thing.
She waited for a reply, but none was forthcoming. Molly’s instincts were good. Deniability wasn’t plausible.
Amanda: Obviously, I feel guilty.
Molly: But why?
Amanda: She was a young girl, in my house, and I didn’t protect her . . .
Molly: What from?
Amanda: I don’t know. That’s the point. I never really got to know her.
Molly: How long was she with you?
Amanda: Almost two years.
Molly: I’m not surprised your stepdaughter’s playing up. She must be in shock.
Amanda: I feel like she’s going off the rails.
Molly: Because of the helper?
Amanda:
Maybe there’s something else.
Molly: Such as?
The cursor blinked again: Why? Why? Why?
Maybe because her father has a side so dark I never spotted it lurking in his shadows.
Amanda: I don’t want to overreact, but I think I should call the police.
The phone buzzed in her hand—Willow’s number from Erin. She dialed. While she waited to connect, she wondered if her mother had fretted over her when she was a teenager. It didn’t seem likely. Amanda had given up teenage rebellion quite easily; it would have taken a huge effort to top her mother’s infamy.
The phone started to ring. And kept ringing. She hit redial a couple of times, and finally decided she had no choice but to call the police. After she’d explained her story and answered the officer’s questions, he rang off. Amanda sat on the hard sofa to wait.
She was woken by the buzz of a hornet. First light, as thin and gray as tin. The buzz sounded again, and Amanda realized it was her phone. She pushed herself up and grimaced at her garlicky breath.
“Mrs. Bonham?” The female voice on the line sounded weary.
“Yes, speaking?”
The woman introduced herself, but Amanda didn’t catch the name. Just her title—sergeant—and the fact that she was calling from the central police post.
“Is this about Josie?”
“Yes, ma’am. You can collect her from the station now, please.”
“From the station?”
“Yes, ma’am. We are ready to release her.”
“Is she okay? Has she been arrested?”
“She’s fine, ma’am.”
“Then . . . why is she there? Why didn’t anyone call me?”
“We are calling you, ma’am. There is no problem. You can collect her now, please.”
“But—”
And the phone went dead.
Amanda called for a taxi while she changed into a clean top and got down to the lobby just as it pulled up. At such an early hour, they cruised to the police station. As she paid the taxi and got out, another cab pulled up. Erin. A third delivered Arnault. Erin was on her phone. “But the girl is a minor,” she was saying, “how can you question a child without a guardian? Her parents have rights!”
