The Day We Disappeared
Page 2
‘There is no better job!’ I muttered. ‘This was the one. I need this job more than I can tell you …’
Becca carried on patting my arm while I cried, watching me with a fascination that I’d otherwise have found funny. ‘Pet,’ she asked eventually. ‘Have you got yourself into a spot of bother?’
A spot of bother. I almost smiled.
‘Well, I know all about those,’ she said kindly. ‘And if you need to keep the job then I’ll help you blag it. But you’ll have to tell me what we’re working with here.’
I felt so hopeless at that moment that I almost considered telling her the whole story. ‘Well,’ I began, after a sniffy pause. Best to stick with the headlines for now. ‘I had a bit of a breakdown.’
Becca looked cheerful. ‘Didn’t we all?’
‘I was after working for Google in Dublin but I’d to leave because I was suffering severe stress.’
Becca, rather to my surprise, started sniggering. ‘Have you escaped the nuthouse?’ she asked. ‘Are there a load of psychiatric folk on your trail?’
‘Erm, I hope not. I didn’t go mad, just hit a wall quite badly. Executive stress, you know.’
Becca slapped her leg. ‘Ha-HA! Executive stress! Whatever next?’
I smiled thinly. ‘The job was fine, it was me that was the problem. I mean, they did everything they could to support me … But I’m just a fruitloop. Burned myself out, let everything get to me. You know.’
Becca nodded sympathetically but I could tell she was trying not to laugh.
I took a deep breath. ‘I came here because I wanted – literally – some fresh air. I wanted to be somewhere I wouldn’t have any cause to think about Dublin and the Bad Shit for a long time.’
Becca couldn’t keep it up any longer. First she snorted, then she gave up and roared with laughter. ‘Pet, you need a lobotomy! I can’t believe you! You left your job suffering stress and you came to a horse yard to recover? Where you’d have to do manual labour twelve hours a day? What were you thinking?’
‘Um …’
‘Could you not have gone and worked in a kebab van or something, my little love? Oh, God, this is priceless.’
In spite of everything, of how exhausted and frightened I was, I smiled. Becca rolled across my bed with an imaginary rifle and took a stealth position at my window, lining someone up in her sights. With her cropped hair and dark eyes she was pretty authentic, I thought.
‘Boom,’ she whispered, into an imaginary mouthpiece. ‘Both hostiles are down. This area is clear, I repeat this area is clear. All mental-health professionals chasing Kate Brady have been deleted.’ She rolled back, removing an SAS helmet. ‘You’re going to be okay, pet. It was a tough call there, but I’ve got it under control.’
I was giggling, which was pretty rare, these days. ‘It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?’
‘It does indeed, pet, but you’ve brightened up my day. A fugitive in our midst!’
We both laughed, and I felt very grateful that this complete stranger was giving up her evening to listen to the Bad Shit. Or at least an approximation of it.
‘My body is fine,’ I insisted. ‘It was my head that broke. I don’t mind the hard work, Becca. I just need time out.’
Becca watched me, her brain ticking over. ‘Okay, pet, let’s talk about what we’re going to do.’ The smile had gone, although there was still warmth in her face. ‘I can help you keep your job, if you want, but I need to know you’re serious about it. If you’ve just run off to hang out on a pretty farm and play with the nice horsies, you’ve come to the wrong place.’
I shook my head. ‘No way. I want a routine, I want physical work and I want to live somewhere that couldn’t be more different from, well, from Dublin. I’m not here for the nice horsy games.’
Becca rested her chin on her fingertips, studying me. She had a sweet little snub nose, just like my mum’s. ‘This is one of the hardest jobs there is, Kate. Grooms only survive because they want it so badly. They never get enough sleep, they work in the snow and driving rain, they’re never allowed to be ill or tired, and they don’t really have control of their own lives. The horses always come first. Your family, for starters – you’re not going to get time off to go over to Ireland any time soon. Are you okay with that?’
I took a deep breath. ‘My family aren’t expecting to see me for a very long time,’ I said truthfully. ‘They’re not happy about it but – well, they’ll survive.’
I smiled, because the guilt was overwhelming and I didn’t know what else to do.
‘Okay. Well, on top of that, Mark’s an arsehole and Tiggy – she’s the Head Girl – she’s only okay if you play her game. Oh, and Joe’s a nice lad but he’s also a dirty sex pest.’
‘Grand.’
She smiled wryly. ‘This is not an easy job. Are you sure you want it?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said.
Becca nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘We’ll forget we ever had this conversation, then. You’re going to work your little peaches off and you’ll have forgotten about Dublin and your “executive stress” in five minutes. Deal?’
‘Deal. But what about all the stuff I’m meant to know about horses?’
‘Once you’ve learned to shovel shit, love, we’ll teach you the rest. Auntie Becca’ll sort you out.’
‘But if Mark Waverley’s as bad as you say, you’ll lose your job.’
‘Very noble of you. But where are you going to go if I don’t help you out, like?’
A good question. The world yawned emptily around me; the world that was no longer my friend. ‘I’d sort something out.’
Becca grinned. ‘Kate, love, it’ll be okay. By the time Mark even bothers to ask your name you’ll know enough to blag it.’
I breathed out slowly. This might just be the answer. ‘Why are you doing this for me?’ I asked her.
To my surprise, Becca blushed. ‘Never you mind,’ she muttered. ‘Never you mind about that, pet. Anyways, do we have a deal?’
I held out my hand, soft, plump and white, and took Becca’s, rough, red and dirty. ‘We have a deal,’ I said softly. ‘And whatever reason you have for helping me, Becca, thank you.’
‘There’s a lot to learn,’ Becca said, still pink-cheeked. ‘But we’ll get there.’ She pulled out a packet of tobacco and some Rizlas, rolling a fag with mesmerizing dexterity. I suddenly loved this crop-haired, nose-ringed Geordie woman. I wanted to grab her grubby fleece and hug her all night. I was so completely lost and alone, so totally disconnected from the entire universe, that my boundaries were shot. I’d have hugged a chicken, if it was nice to me.
‘Get yourself settled, then come downstairs to meet the others. Later we’ll do a tutorial.’
I forced my best smile. It was like a migraine. ‘Grand! Thanks! I’ll be down in a sec!’
‘Cool. Later.’
‘Oh! Becca?’
‘Yeah?’
‘What time do we start in the morning?’
‘Seven.’ She sounded casual, as if this were a reasonable time of day to be awake. Let alone working in the mud and cold.
I sank back on my very mediocre bed.
‘Are you going to kill yourself, pet?’
‘I am.’
‘Right you are. I’ll leave you to it.’ She left, humming along to the trance music coming out of her bedroom.
I slid the bolt across my door and went over to shut my curtains. I glanced out beyond the floodlit horse yard to the silky blackness of the fields, feeling vaguely hopeful again. I’d just have to take it one day at a time and trust I was up to it. Because, really, it was that or return to my old life, which was an impossibility. Quite apart from the Dante-proportioned inferno I’d fled, I felt a horrible certainty that my family and friends would never forgive what I’d done.
No, this was my life now. It was 17 March and spring would officially begin in three days. Spring would inch slowly forward into summer, never back into winter, and if I knew what was good for
me, I’d tag along.
As I turned away my eye was caught by a sudden movement at the edge of the blackness and my heart stopped. Muscles weakened by fear, I turned back to see what it was.
A big grey dog trotted in from the fields and across the yard towards Mark Waverley’s house. A bright floodlight snapped on. Downstairs a door banged and laughter from the kitchen floated up the thirty-three stairs that lay between me and the world. ‘Happy St Patrick’s Day!’ someone shouted.
I pulled the curtains closed and breathed.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Chapter Two
Annie
The four of us were in that French restaurant up the side of Clapham Common tube. None of us could remember its name.
We referred to it as Le Cloob – French(ish) for the Club – which was what the restaurant had become for us. It was absurd that we had to meet so far away from our homes: I lived in Lower Clapton, Tim lived in Bethnal Green, Claudine lived in Chiswick and Lizzy lived in Chelsea. But Claudine insisted that we met there, and people didn’t argue with Claudine.
She was the fiercest and most terrifying woman any of us had known, yet she was also one of the funniest and most loyal. She loved us all ferociously and made us laugh until we cried, and as long as we kept on the right side of her the friendship worked. Certainly for me this beautiful little Rottweiler was a source of strength that my life otherwise lacked entirely. If I was to avoid drifting vaguely off the side of the earth and into space, I needed firm tethering and Claudine had stepped into that role ten years ago with neither consultation nor appointment. I had been, and remained, grateful. Tim and Lizzy couldn’t carry on managing me for ever.
A couple of years ago Claudine had said she could only live in ‘this dreadful country’ if she got to eat bona-fide confit duck or steak tartare when she dined out, so we’d agreed to meet only in French restaurants. It kept Claudine quiet and provided a wonderful excuse for me to eat bread and cheese and all the things I wasn’t allowed. (‘But I’m gluten-free and dairy-free!’ I’d wail, shoving my baguette into a giant baked Camembert.)
After trying almost every French restaurant London had to offer, Claudine had announced, without sharing any reasons, that this was her favourite. So here we were once a month: Le Cloob.
The only problem: ‘I ’ate Clapham,’ Claudine said, giving her chair a little kick as if it were Clapham. ‘I must find another restaurant. My soul dies every time I come to this ’ole.’ Claudine spoke with a heavy French accent, in spite of being fully bilingual, because she didn’t see the point in trying to sound English.
‘Claudie, darling, do behave,’ Lizzy said. She was beautiful tonight in orange lipstick and one of those padded skirts that trendy people were partial to. ‘We only come here because of you, my little Froggie. Although I do rather hate Clapham myself.’
Tim was not the sort of person to hate anything or anyone, so he just smiled tolerantly. As did I, because I avoided discord at all costs. ‘Happy St Patrick’s Day!’ I offered, raising my glass.
The waiter came to take our dessert orders and, as usual, spoke only in French. A few years ago, Claudine had gone on strike as our translator – ‘You are an embarrassment to your country,’ she’d muttered darkly, so Tim had done a year of French evening classes to rescue us. That was the sort of man Tim Furniss was. Unimpeachably brilliant.
As usual I dithered agonizingly and Tim stepped in. ‘I ordered you a crème brûlée. Apricot. Is that okay?’ he asked, after the waiter had gone. ‘What with you not eating sugar?’ There was a little too much cheek in his smile.
‘Ah, well. It’s a one-off.’
He grinned.
‘Sssh, Tim. And crème brûlée is perfect, thank you.’
Tim, like Claudine, was excellent at hoicking me out of paralysed indecision, only he, poor man, had been doing it since we were teenagers. Aged sixteen, I’d walked into that awful support group and found Tim lurking by the door, looking as depressed as I felt. Within days, we had become inseparable. He was my rock, Tim Furniss, my anchor. Tonight he’d brought me an article he’d read in some clever periodical about how many therapists and mental-health professionals – not just complementary therapists like me, but proper psychotherapists, psychologists and even psychiatrists, like him – were basically mad themselves. And how that was okay because we were all human beings, struggling through the boggy wilderness of life. It had made me feel so much better.
Sometimes I could feel quite sad about the fact that my mental health was so sketchy. I was thirty-two; it wasn’t right. What kind of thirty-two-year-old was so scared of making decisions that her friend had to choose her dessert? What kind of thirty-two-year-old spent so much time worrying about things that she never actually did anything? Not to mention having been essentially boyfriendless her whole life. And having had sex only once. Well, one and a half times. But half-sexings were a minor detail in that mess, really.
More wine was poured. St Patrick’s Day was toasted several times and everyone became increasingly drunk. Dessert arrived and Claudine, with a ferocious look in her eye, started grilling Lizzy about her multiple lovers.
‘I’m thirty-four, darling.’ Lizzy shrugged. ‘Two boyfriends at the same time is a simple matter of expediency.’
I watched my big sister curiously, wondering if this was how she really felt.
‘But these are real relationships, you ’arlot!’ Claudine cried. A few years ago Claudine had fallen in love with (and promptly married) one of her osteopathic clients, a hairy man from Melton Mowbray called Sylvester. Once or twice a month Sylvester gave people ‘gong showers’ for a tenner a pop but otherwise he sat around playing computer games and farting. Rather surprisingly, given the kind of formidable woman Claudine was, she adored this farter. She was unswervingly committed to the marriage and very severe with anyone who didn’t take their own relationship seriously.
‘Lizzy, my dirty little cabbage, these men think they are your boyfriend! They spend ze weekend wiz you! I am betting they do all that smiley pillow talking on a Saturday morning! Merde, you are the very worst!’
‘You’re right.’ Lizzy giggled, digging into her tarte au citron. ‘They both adore me! I do one weekend with Freddy and the next with Tom. They think I’m looking after Dad when it’s their weekend off. Ha-ha!’
‘Disgusting,’ Claudine grumbled. ‘Depraved.’
‘Oh, Lizzy.’ I sighed. ‘Leave Dad out of it.’
‘Oh, Annie.’ Lizzy sighed back. ‘Bugger off. I haven’t said he’s dying of cancer or anything, just that he’s lonely and needs company. Which is true so don’t go all pious on me.’
It was true. Lizzy and I frequently travelled to Bakewell to keep Dad company, separately so he’d receive more visits. We’d eat cake and listen to music, look at old photos and make plans for a redecoration of the house that would never happen. When I returned home on the train to St Pancras my heart would ache. He was so humble in his solitude, so uncomplaining.
‘Do you think you might one day make one of these men your full-time boyfriend?’ Tim asked.
Lizzy thought about it. ‘Honestly? No. They’re terribly precious, in their different ways, but I don’t want either of them to father my children.’
‘Then shouldn’t you let them go?’ Tim asked mildly.
‘Listen to Tim,’ Claudine hissed. ‘You must set them free. You are being prostitute of the highest order.’
I didn’t think Lizzy was being a prostitute of any order but I did worry about her technicolour love life. Quite apart from the fact that she was still repeating the same dysfunctional patterns she’d started as a teenager, I couldn’t help worrying that one of her boyfriends would one day discover he was being cuckolded and kill her or something. A little scene played out in my head where I went round to her flat and found a raging ex-boyfriend leaving with a bloody hammer, and I had to organize a funeral while my organs collapsed with misery.
‘Butt out.’ She grinned. ‘You don’t get to go around psychologizing me with a love life like yours!’
Claudine, who had no loyalty to anyone, agreed.
I blushed painfully. My outstandingly disordered relationship history was a textbook case for any psychologist, although I failed to agree that Lizzy’s was any better. Mum had died when I was seven and Lizzy was nine, and since then we’d exhibited all the classics – fear of abandonment, terror of intimacy and a sturdy collection of unhelpful emotional defences and coping mechanisms. My pattern was to spend my time avoiding men, fantasizing safely about the ones I couldn’t have, while Lizzy’s was to have wild, often painful flings with hundreds while never really letting anyone get close to her.
It was annoying. I’d been seeing a shrink on and off for years. I had self-awareness coming out of my pores yet I didn’t seem able to change. I longed for a Saturday cuddle with a nice boyfriend, all morning breath and semi-tumescent willies, but the reality of attempting anything like that left me in a white panic. Instead I ‘enjoyed’ pampering Friday nights behind my triple-locked front door, ‘revelling’ in the luxury of my homemade avocado facemasks and Buddhist-lite meditations, while a secret part of me stung bitterly as I imagined other people meeting their future partners in trendy bars that I was too scared to go into.
All the while Lizzy, with her glossy mane of wavy golden hair and her milky-skinned beauty, blazed through a trail of men who wouldn’t give up and often died trying.
‘Your love life, Annie.’ Lizzy smiled. ‘What was it Kate Brady said last time she was over?’
‘That my love life is just fine,’ I mumbled.
‘No, darling. Kate said – and forgive me for quoting this directly, but it’s rather special – she said your love life was like something from a provincial radio’s Sunday-night phone-in. I thought that was outstanding.’
I blushed even harder. Kate Brady was a little bugger. We’d met a few years ago during one of my (many) backpacking trips to Asia and I had formed an enormous girl crush on her from the get-go. She was the sunniest, most carefree woman I’d ever met, with a mane of deep red hair, big green eyes and that beguiling Irish accent. Everyone loved Kate Brady, with her relentless cheerfulness and point-blank refusal to wallow in what she called the Bad Shit. Were it not for the fact that she lived in Dublin we’d have made her a full-time member of Le Cloob. As it was, she was the only civilian who was granted entry to our monthly meetings whenever she visited London.