She will wish more than anything else that this was the last memory she had of her mother, rather than the one that, after nearly three decades, she still can’t erase.
Chapter Seven
Annie
It was Saturday and Tim and I were at the Counter in Hackney Wick, eating huevos rancheros with great big blobs of spicy chorizo and thick sourdough bread. A warm May sun was climbing rapidly into the sky and we were sitting out on the café’s higgledy-piggledy wooden jetty, watching the light sparkle and wobble on the surface of the River Lea. Lizzy had blown us out because she was hung-over and Claudine had said she would rather eat swords than hang around in Hackney.
‘Wow.’ Tim smiled. A narrow boat was chugging past bearing a girl in a leopard-print leotard and bright red lipstick. Nothing else. Behind her the Olympic Stadium squatted fatly in the sun.
Hackney was not the place it had been fourteen years ago when I’d rented my little house off Murder Mile. Luckily, my ancient landlord had not seemed to notice that it had become an extremely fashionable and expensive place to live, so I was still paying less rent than other friends now paid for one-bedroom flats. I really must tell him what his house is worth, I thought guiltily. The problem was that, even though he was probably perfectly nice, I could never quite bring myself to phone him in case he wanted to come to the house and talk to me there alone.
Tim had been telling me about Mel, who apparently slept with her face down in the pillow and was allergic to pork.
‘Poor thing,’ I’d said. ‘I know how she feels, with me not being able to eat wheat or dairy.’ I spread a piece of sourdough toast thickly with butter.
Tim seemed to be quite keen on Mel, and I was pleased to find that I was truly happy for him. ‘Maybe we’re getting there,’ I said. ‘Me finding a decent job and you finding a decent girl. It only took us sixteen years, Tim.’
‘Is that how long we’ve known each other? Seriously?’
It was. When I’d first met Tim on my first day at the support group, he was wearing a hoodie and those big trainers that always smell of wet dogs. He’d been going to the group for three weeks already and had befriended me with a fierce desperation as soon as I’d walked through the door. ‘If we’re really as mad as these people, we should consider killing ourselves now,’ he’d said, all curtains haircut and bum-fluff chin. He’d gestured bleakly at the collection of depressed teenagers sitting in a circle at the far end of the church hall.
‘I’m afraid I’m definitely mad,’ I’d apologized. ‘I have a psychologist’s file to prove it.’
Tim nodded glumly. ‘Me too. Is it not bad enough to be a teenager? Why do we have to be fucked up too?’
Now look at him. All tall and preppy, happy and successful, a clever psychiatrist with a big flat in Bethnal Green and now a girlfriend! ‘We just need to find you a decent man,’ he said. ‘Then everything will be complete and we’ll never have another difficult day.’
I thought about saying something but stopped short. What exactly could I say? Oh, I’ve got a crush on my boss, so hopefully I’ll be all loved up soon myself?
‘What?’ Tim was watching me in the annoying way he had, which said, I can see what you’re thinking. ‘What’s going on in there?’
‘Meh.’
‘Don’t you dare.’
‘Honestly. Nothing.’
‘Annie! You’re lying!’
I busied myself with my eggs, swirling in the spicy red oil of the chorizo until my plate was orange, concentrating on the clink of cutlery and the low hum of conversation around us.
‘Is it your boss?’
‘Meh.’
‘It’s your boss!’
Eventually I agreed. ‘Nothing to say, though, Tim, so don’t even bother. He’s just a bit fit and funny, that’s all. I shall get over it, like I always do.’
Tim finished his eggs. ‘So he’s unavailable. That’s a surprise.’
It wasn’t yet confirmed but I had, rather sadly, begun to fear it was inevitable. For a while I’d allowed myself to hope that Stephen’s recent dark time had been to do with a break-up, but yesterday his PA, Tash, had said ‘they’ when she was talking about Stephen’s house, and there was a picture of a child in his wallet. Plus he had said during his massage yesterday that he was off to Paris for the weekend, and men only went to Paris if they had a woman in tow.
‘It’s under control,’ I said. ‘A passing crush. It means nothing.’
Tim put his fingertips together and watched me.
‘Stop it, Tim.’
‘Okay …’
‘Worry about your girlfriend instead. She can’t eat bacon sandwiches.’
Tim laughed and the little thread of tension was cut. I would get over my crush. Although it would help if Stephen stopped coming for massages. He’d had three this week alone – ‘I’m completely addicted,’ he said cheerfully – and the better I got to know his body the harder it was to feel nothing about it. There was a little dink at the top of his neck where he’d once been cut with a barber’s razor, and a mole on his left ankle with a curious ellipsis round it, like a planet. I enjoyed his body far too much.
It also hadn’t helped that, after my first month, he’d sent me a massive hamper of beautiful food to say thank you for ‘turning my senior management team into relaxed little puppies’. It was full of expensive superfood supplements and lovely farmers’ market things. And a pair of Reebok shorts! He’d remembered what I’d said about never having time to exercise or cook!
I was very confused about my relationship with my boss.
No, I wasn’t.
Yes, I was.
Oh dear.
Tim and I left the café and mooched around the paintings in the Stour Space. After less than a minute we admitted we hated them and moved on into the midday sun, drifting over Regent’s Canal and picking up the bank of the Lea Navigation, talking about Lizzy, who had added a third boyfriend to her portfolio and was somewhat manic.
‘Don’t you long for a time when everyone in Le Cloob is just normal?’ I sighed. ‘There’s always at least one of us in some form of the Bad Shit.’
Tim picked up a stone and tried to skim it across the river towards the Olympic Park. It plopped and sank straight away. ‘I don’t wish we were all normal,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Although I know what you mean. Life is a rich tapestry, Pumpkin, highs and lows, happies and sads. It’s all in the natural order of things.’
‘Life is a rich tapestry, eh?’ I grinned.
‘Unfortunately I did say that, yes. But you know what I mean.’
‘Yeah.’
‘By the way, talking of the Bad Shit, what’s the latest on Kate? Have you heard from her?’
‘No, but I think she’s okay. I called her landline and some girl answered, saying she’s renting Kate’s room for a while because Kate’s gone away. I guess she just forgot to tell me. She’ll be in touch.’
‘Oh, phew,’ Tim said.
‘Yeah. Although she’d better not have gone off to Asia without me.’
‘Well, if she has, you’re not allowed to go running off after her. You’ve got a proper job now, Pumpkin, time to lay down some London roots for a bit.’
Tim was often on at me about my tendency to fly to the other side of the world. Like my therapist, he thought it was unhealthy; he claimed it only happened when my anxiety got out of hand and that it was all about disappearing. Disappearing emotionally: running away, skirting off sideways, rather than continuing the uphill battle to stay sane.
He was quite right, of course, but I felt that was my prerogative. For all Tim’s training, and for all the many conversations we’d had about my mental state over the years, I still didn’t think he quite understood how exhausting it was for me to stay afloat. If the work required just to feel neutral was a constant struggle, did I not have the right to skive off from time to time? I mean, at least I disappeared to fascinating places for six months, rather than to my bed.
Also, as I’d tried
to explain to him many, many times, it wasn’t just about disappearing. I loved travelling. I loved the landscapes, the big skies, the freedom. Most of all I loved the surprising feeling of safety it gave me. I’d hand over my rucksack at the check-in desk, pass through security and … there. It was as if my very soul breathed out. Suddenly I was just another girl, a nameless face in a sea of travellers. I’d collect my bag at the other end, dive into a humid scrum of waiting rickshaw drivers and nobody would know – or really care – who I was.
I looked up at the sky, a thin sheet of vivid blue. ‘I won’t be going travelling any time soon, so you needn’t worry. Um, Tim?’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you in love with Mel?’
Tim frowned, picking up another stone. He did another terrible skim. ‘Love?’
‘Yes. That. Are you in that with her?’
‘When you fall in love, it’s like being hooked up to a drip,’ Tim said thoughtfully. His eyes had taken on an intensity that surprised me. ‘A drip that delivers the very breath of life. I don’t feel like that with Mel – not yet … But she’s great. I certainly think I could fall in love with her.’
A naughty beagle galloped past us. ‘Wow,’ I said, surprised. I glanced sideways at my friend, who was in a world of his own. ‘I’ve never had that. The intravenous-drug thing.’
Tim shrugged. ‘It just means you’ve not found your One. Or, at least, you’ve not allowed yourself to.’
‘Oi. No psychologizing.’
‘I’m a psychiatrist.’
‘No psychiatrizing, then.’
He laughed despairingly, muttering something about me being a mad badger and testing the diagnostic capabilities of even his cleverest colleagues.
I ignored him. Something wasn’t quite right. ‘Er, Tim, forget for a second that I’m a maddo. Can we instead talk about who you’ve been in intravenous-drip love with, please?’
Tim looked away. ‘Sorry?’
‘You just said a really hair-raising thing about what love feels like. And I’m asking who, exactly, has made you feel like that?’
Tim looked very uncomfortable. ‘I …’ he began. I waited.
‘That’s just what they say,’ he said eventually. ‘In books and films. And even psychological literature. I wasn’t talking from personal experience.’
That was not how it had sounded to me. But I left it. Tim and I were good at knowing where to stop. Maybe he had fallen head over heels in love with Mel already and didn’t want to admit it.
We walked on.
A man up ahead was taking photos of the water, balanced precariously on the scrubby grass of the bank with a very expensive piece of kit dangling close to the rippling surface. ‘I’d laugh if he fell in,’ I said, even though I probably wouldn’t. And then, as I saw the set of the man’s head, the slope of his nose, I realized it was Stephen.
I stopped. I turned to walk in the other direction, then turned back. Then turned again to walk away. Then I stopped completely, paralysed by indecision.
‘Annie?’ Tim said.
‘Come here,’ I hissed, walking away again. Tim came, obviously perplexed. ‘That’s him! That’s my BOSS!’
Tim looked round. ‘DON’T LOOK AT HIM!’ I whisper-yelled.
It was too late. Stephen must have sensed that we were stalled on the towpath and turned sideways, straightening slightly. The lens of the camera caught the sun and flashed off my bright red face.
‘OH!’ I bellowed. ‘HI!’
Stephen hung the camera round his neck. ‘Are you stalking me?’ he called, loping over to us with one of those dazzling smiles. ‘Hello,’ he added pleasantly to Tim.
‘Um, Stephen, Tim, Tim, Stephen,’ I said. I felt the same wash of pleasure that swept over me whenever I saw Stephen. Although what on earth was a man like Stephen Flint doing out here in the wilds of Hackney?
‘Hi, mate,’ Stephen said, shaking Tim’s hand. To my great surprise he was wearing trainers, although they did appear to have cost five thousand pounds.
Tim scuffed the earth with his thirty-five-pound Converses and Stephen asked what had brought us there.
‘I live here,’ I told him. ‘Well, in Lower Clapton. We were just having breakfast at the Counter Café. Do you know it?’
Stephen beamed. ‘I do! And how funny – we’re almost neighbours.’
Tim and I stared at him. ‘You live in Hackney?’
Stephen whipped up his camera and took a quick photo of our stunned faces. ‘Shock-horror.’ He checked his screen. ‘Corporate twat lives in EAST LONDON! I have a house in Clapton Square.’ He picked up a stone and did a perfect skim.
‘Ha,’ Tim said. ‘You sound like you have a property portfolio!’ He was grinning as if that were impossible. He didn’t know quite how rich Stephen was.
‘Actually I have,’ Stephen admitted. ‘Awful.’ He grimaced apologetically and we all laughed. It was impossible to dislike Stephen. Even the slightly radioactive-looking duck straggling past us looked as if it would mate with him if he tipped it the wink.
‘I thought you were in Paris this weekend,’ I said.
‘I cancelled the trip about fifteen minutes after my massage with you. Decided to have a lie-in, go for a walk, take some pictures … You were right,’ he added. ‘I needed some rest.’
I beamed.
‘Annie’s brilliant,’ Stephen told Tim. ‘Really helping me out. An asset to FlintSpark, and a very good influence on us nasty old corporate capitalists.’
They started talking about Stephen’s camera and I stared at the water, excited and a little distracted.
I liked the way Stephen took the piss out of himself. And lived in east London, rather than Surrey, and shuffled off on a Saturday to take pictures of the water just like I did when I was travelling. I particularly liked that he was not carrying a child or holding the hand of some beautiful woman.
I was full of chorizo and May sun and a big heart-pounding crush.
‘… with chorizo? Holy moly! Unparalleled!’ Stephen was looking at me.
‘Eh?’
‘I said, have you ever tried the huevos rancheros with chorizo? Holy moly! Unparalleled!’
Tim and I looked at each other. ‘That’s exactly what we just had!’
In my head I started singing the tune of ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’.
‘We order it every time,’ Tim said. ‘But it’s quite a challenge – Annie basically eats all of mine if I don’t watch my plate.’
Stephen cocked his head to one side. ‘You two are a fantastic double-act. You even laugh at the same time. Have you been together long?’
I went bright red. ‘Oh, no! Just very old friends!’
‘Oh, come on. You’re like peas in a pod!’
We shook our heads hopelessly, and Stephen began to look guilty.
‘Oh, crap,’ he said, realizing he’d blown it. ‘In spite of running a global company I’m actually outstanding at saying the wrong thing. Sorry. I’ll go now. Carry on taking pictures of stupid things. I spent half an hour photographing a floating Pepsi can earlier. You truly belong in Hackney when you find yourself doing things like that.’
I smiled. ‘I still can’t believe you live here.’
‘Ha. Well, there you have it. I’m not what you might think, Annie. Lovely to see you, and Tim, nice to meet you.’
‘Likewise,’ Tim said, shaking Stephen’s hand again.
‘Wow,’ he said, as we walked away. ‘Even I have a crush on him. What a charming man.’
‘Stop it,’ I said. Then: ‘Argh, Tim. Isn’t he gorgeous?’
Tim nodded. ‘He is.’
I smiled hopelessly. ‘I wish he was single. And not so nice. Because if I stood a chance with him, I think I’d just go for it. Try my hand at the old dating thing.’
Tim watched me. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah. I want to blow a big mating horn and make a charge for him!’
‘I’d advise against that.’
We both laughed, altho
ugh I could tell Tim was holding something back. ‘Just take it easy,’ was all he said.
Later that night I read my tarot cards. Just out of curiosity, of course. I wasn’t really into tarot, but I’d inherited a pack during my travels and found them useful when I entered into my latest obsession.
I got the Knight of Cups and the Ace of Cups. Which meant new love, new beginnings, excitement and happiness, with a bit of knight-in-shining-armour thrown in for good measure.
I forbade myself to connect this with Stephen, then caved in after less than a minute. I thought about the sun on those eyes of his, about those nice hands cradling his camera as if it were his child, and the easy way he talked to my dear friend Tim Furniss. Was he my Knight of Cups? My Ace of Cups? The intravenous drug that Tim had talked of?
‘No,’ shouted the tiny part of me that was still mostly sane. Stephen was my boss, the CEO of a vast company. The fact that I’d had this level of contact with him was a mere fluke and his ownership of a house on Clapton Square was not a Sign.
I was doing quite well with this line of thought until twenty past ten when my phone buzzed with a message from him.
Was great to see you today. At the risk of being done for harassment, I just wanted to say that I thought you looked lovely. Those mad ethnic things you wear really suit you (and I never thought I’d hear myself say something like that). Stephen X
Chapter Eight
Kate
My official welcome drinks were held in the paddock by the outdoor school at seven. Drinking commenced immediately and was fast and furious.
By nine o’clock, when we all lurched off to do our final check on the horses, there was still no sign of Mark. I tried and failed to stop myself asking Sandra if he was coming.
‘Oh, he’s having a nice dinner with Maria and Ana Luisa,’ Sandra said. ‘I got them some lovely pork chops from Normington’s this aftenoon, only four pounds for the lot!’
The Day We Disappeared Page 10
