‘I don’t remember,’ Liam says. ‘I said you guys could come back any time, but that was the last I heard from her. I didn’t even know about the wedding date until I saw it online this morning. Figured she didn’t want to see me.’
The not remembering bit is an obvious lie, but I’m not sure about the rest of it. I can’t quite get a grasp on who Liam is or what he wants. He never quite makes full eye contact and doesn’t stop fidgeting. Charley didn’t want to tell me whatever they talked about and neither does Liam. If I couldn’t get my fiancée to talk, then it’s a bit of a cheek to push a stranger.
This damned family.
I don’t want to think that and, if I’m honest, I probably don’t. Not really – but Liam is convincing when he talks about the Willis women. Everyone knows the whispers about Martha. As for Charley’s mother? I can imagine how a TV star and ‘lifestyle guru’ could perhaps be a little diva-like. There were hints in an old article written by Peter Willis’s brother that the adults were career-orientated.
But Charley? She’s different… isn’t she?
Except she’s now been gone for nearly two full days.
Liam passes me a Post-it note on which he’s written the name ‘PAMELA’ and a phone number. ‘Call her,’ he urges. ‘She knows you might phone. She’s good.’
I figure there’s no harm in having the option, so pocket the note and then we shake hands. It’s Liam who instigates it.
‘Perhaps after all this, we can go for a beer?’ he says.
We pass through the doors onto the car park and he motions towards a crusty 4x4 in the front row.
‘That’d be good actually,’ I reply, meaning it. ‘I’m sure Charley would like to see the twins again.’
Liam unlocks his vehicle and then places a hand on my shoulder. ‘Sounds good – but first we need to get her back.’
Nineteen
5 Years Ago
Charley Willis, 23 years old
‘Look at the state of this place!’ Martha flaps a hand towards the sofa. Her sofa, I guess. ‘Cushions? Since when did you get cushions?’
‘Couple of weeks ago,’ I reply, ‘figured I’d smarten the place up.’
My sister is in the doorway, doing the hands-on-hips thing she does when she’s getting all motherly. ‘You’ve not got a boyfriend on the go, have you? Not without telling me?’
‘I’ve not got a boyfriend on the go.’
She points towards the vase on the TV unit. ‘So what’s with all the feng shui?’
‘I figured I’d redecorate. I’ve lived here for ten years and never bought anything new.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘That, dear sister, is because you’re an old fart.’
She gasps with mock outrage. ‘That’s it, line crossed, I’m evicting you.’
‘You can’t evict me. Who else are you going to text at three in the morning when you can’t sleep?’
‘Good point.’
Martha flops onto the sofa and digs around behind her back, pulling out one of the cushions and launching it onto the lounger. She pats the spot next to her and I slot in at her side.
‘I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks,’ she says.
She places her phone very deliberately on the side table, face-up.
‘Like the old days,’ she adds.
‘Not quite.’
‘What do you mean?’
I laugh and point to the phone. ‘You’re going to call home, aren’t you?’
She bites her tongue. Even though the large ear piercing has gone, along with the one through her septum, the tongue stud remains. ‘No.’
I’ve had doorstop sellers who sound more convincing.
‘You know your husband’s looking after them, don’t you?’ I add.
Martha nudges me with her elbow. ‘Aww, Charley, hun. You should come over more. Daisy’s only six weeks old. She’s so itty-bitty. I swear I saw her smiling the other day.’
‘What about Dillon?’
‘Terrible twos… no, terror-ble twos. I wish they could stay tiny.’ She nudges me again. ‘Anyway, sister time. You and me: Angel and Bliss, like the good ol’ days.’
She reaches into the shopping bag she brought and pulls out a bottle of sparkling wine. There’s no proper cork in the top, it’s one of those plastic screwy things and Martha pops it off. The topper smashes into the ceiling and she shrieks a delighted yelp. She’s giddy already.
I pass over two plastic flutes – they’ve been in the flat longer than me – and she starts to pour.
‘What else have you brought?’ I ask.
Martha finishes filling both glasses and then puts the bottle on the side table. She pulls a separate bag onto her lap and starts to sort through it. ‘Wotsits, Monster Munch, Jaffa Cakes, giant Fruit & Nut. The essentials.’
‘How is a massive Fruit & Nut bar considered an essential?’
She passes me the tube of Jaffa Cakes. ‘You’ve never had a child, have you?’
‘I’ve lived with someone who acts like one.’
Martha grins and rips apart the multi-pack of Monster Munch. She digs out one of the spicy ones and starts to eat.
‘I’ve missed this,’ she says.
‘Monster Munch?’
She rests her head against mine. ‘This.’
Martha’s shopping haul is quite the artery-clogger. As well as everything she mentioned, there are Peperamis, sausage rolls, plus Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer.
‘What movie do you want to watch?’ she asks. ‘I was thinking Se7en. Or Reservoir Dogs? I swear I’ve been watching the Pixar catalogue on repeat for the past two years. I need something that isn’t a cartoon. I’m at the point where Nemo can get stuffed. Dory, too.’
This is the moment I’ve been dreading, or at least worrying about.
‘You know what’s on TV tonight, don’t you…?’
Martha stops chewing. She sucks the mashed-up crisp from her teeth and then twists so that we’re facing each other.
‘You are joking?’ she says.
‘It’s the tenth anniversary. I thought…’
Martha has mellowed beyond all recognition since getting married. After Daisy came along, she’s even softer. There’s still that steel to her, though, and I can only imagine how she’d react if anyone ever threatened her kids.
I almost flinch from her stare. A hint of the old Martha. Wild child Martha.
‘Of everyone, aren’t you the last person who’d want to watch it?’ she asks.
‘I know… it’s just… I guess I’m interested in what people are going to say.’
‘It’s only some tenth-anniversary memorial cash-in rubbish. It’ll be the same old people saying the same things about Mum and Dad. “Aren’t they brilliant” and all that. We’ve heard it before.’
‘Liam’s going to be on it.’
Her eyebrows twitch, wondering if I’m making some sort of joke.
‘I think it’s because we said no,’ I add. ‘When that producer was emailing me, she said that if I wasn’t interested that they’d have to go looking for other family. I thought it was some lame-ass threat to get me to say yes – but his name is in the TV guide.’
This is definitely the first Martha’s heard of it.
‘I can’t believe he said yes.’ She stops, downs her entire glass in one go. ‘That sonofa You know he’s done it for money, don’t you?’
‘Shall we watch?’
Martha is biting her tongue again, but there’s a level of aggression about it this time, as if she’s trying to hurt herself.
‘Have you got his phone number?’ she asks.
‘Let’s just watch. No point in phoning him up to abuse him before we know what he’s going to say.’
Martha reaches for the bottle of wine and pours herself another glass. From the merriment and laughter of a few minutes ago, the mood is now dark.
‘Put it on,’ she says.
The only sound for the next few minutes are the adverts from th
e television and the noise of Martha eating. She rattles through the bag of Monster Munch and is halfway through a packet of Wotsits when the show begins.
She was right, of course. It is a rubbish memorial cash-in. The same old faces trying to cling to any degree of their fame by banging on about how much our parents gave to the entertainment industry. There are a few newer celebs. No one important, no one that famous. The Celebrity Big Brother sorts or red-carpet clinger-onners talking about how they grew up watching my father on TV, or how they used to do yoga with Mum in the mornings. At least the older ones knew my parents; some of this new lot are younger than me.
Martha and I don’t really talk as we watch. She scoffs at a few instances, but there isn’t a lot to say.
There are clips of Dad presenting a variety show in his early career, then a game show. A woman wins a car and she heads straight for Dad, wrapping her arms around him. After that, he’s telling jokes for a Christmas special of someone else’s programme. It’s smiles. Everyone’s happy.
Mum’s segment shows the yoga poses that she apparently ‘popularised to the nation’ and then it moves onto her cookbooks. There’s a clip of her creating some sort of ‘kick-start’ breakfast bar.
Martha snorts. ‘That is such bollocks,’ she says. ‘I know for a fact that she came home after that demo and ate two Mars bars. She used to keep a secret chocolate stash around the house – there was all sorts in there. I found it a few times and nicked everything. She couldn’t accuse me because Dad would hit the roof if he knew she was eating all that crap.’
The Fruit & Nut bar suddenly doesn’t seem so funny.
After yet another advert break, we’re finally back – and then Liam is on screen. The make-up team have done an incredible job scrubbing him up into something passable. He’s in a suit that must have been provided. The shirt is tucked at the waist, making him look slimmer than he is. His hair isn’t the usual shabby mess; it’s been styled sleekly to the side and his facial hair looks more like it’s supposed to be there.
There’s a live audience and they cheer as he waves. It’s weird. Seriously weird.
The female presenter is wearing some sparkly thing – glitter and tits, as Martha used to say. She waffles on about Liam being the eldest child, skimming across the existence of Martha and me – which is fine by us. That done, she asks Liam what it was like to grow up ‘as the son of such a talented couple’.
It only takes a few words for it to be clear how far Liam is prepared to go for a payday.
‘It was wonderful,’ he says. ‘I felt so privileged. I’d love to think at least some of their talent rubbed off on me.’
There’s a laugh from the audience – someone must be holding cards off to the side, telling them what to do, because it was more desperate than funny.
‘That’s insane,’ Martha rages. ‘He was at boarding school most the year and then summer camp in the holidays. As soon as he was old enough to leave, he was out the door. I only had to wait a couple of years and then I followed him.’
She takes the remote control from the table and mutes it.
‘I can’t watch this any more,’ she says.
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s not you.’
Martha rubs her temples and the enthusiasm of earlier, the promise of a sister night, has gone. We’re not the people we were six or seven years ago. She downs another glass of wine and opens a second bottle, then scooches herself into the corner of the sofa, wriggling to get comfortable.
‘That’s why I bought cushions,’ I say.
She smiles thinly. ‘When are you going to get your own place?’ she asks wearily.
‘Am I a bad tenant?’
A shake of the head. ‘Not that, Char. You’re better than this. Before everything happened, you were getting good grades at school. You were smart.’ A cough. ‘You are smart. You got the brains and the looks in this family. You’re twenty-three years old, you have money. You can do anything you want.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t want their money.’
‘So forget it – but you’re still better than this.’
We look at each other and I’m not sure what to say. I know she’s right. It’s what I told Liam years ago.
‘It was a decade ago,’ Martha says softly. ‘That’s long enough. It’s time to move on.’ She leaves it hanging for a moment and then plucks her phone from the table, adding that she’s going to call Mason.
As she disappears into the kitchen, Martha closes the door, leaving me alone with the TV. Liam is talking again and the presenter is still flashing her cleavage in his general direction. It’s all a bit flirty and hard to tell if it’s fake. It probably is, or else she has serious self-esteem issues.
I turn the sound up.
‘…They were great parents,’ Liam says. ‘The best.’
I pause it. Rewind. Repeat.
‘…They were great parents. The best.’
Pause. Rewind. Play. Over and over. I’m not sure how many times I listen to him speaking. He’s smiling as he says it.
‘…They were great parents. The best.’
I’m so engrossed that I don’t realise Martha is back in the room. She’s standing in the doorway, phone in hand. It feels like I’ve cheated on her.
‘…They were great parents. The best.’
She turns from the television to me as I pause it once more.
‘That boy will do anything for money,’ she says.
Twenty
Now
Seth
I’m not sure when it happened, but television news has got to the point where it’s taking the mick. I remember the old days with Dad when the six, nine or ten o’clock news came on and it was all serious. It felt like it meant something. Now it’s all cheapo videos ripped off the internet of cats falling in holes or toddlers singing along to some pop song.
There’s speculation, too. Loads of it. Everything from hinting that the killer of Charley’s parents could be back, to mentioning the Willis Curse.
A news broadcast talking about a curse.
It’s ridiculous.
All I can hope is that Charley’s seen some of the attention, that she knows people care for her. That I care for her.
I don’t know what to think. Has she left me? Has she left the life we wanted for ourselves? Or is it something far more serious than that? She’s been taken? Everything’s conflicting. I don’t know whether to be angry or upset. In the end, all I feel is empty.
The journalists from the front of the house have, for the most part, disappeared off to wherever they came from. For now, whatever Fiona told them is enough – but I’m not stupid enough to think that’ll be it. The longer Charley remains missing, the more this will be a story. More questions for the police, more questions for me. No new answers.
Fiona has gone, but Emily has been minding the house. No sign of Charley, of course.
‘What did the brother want?’ Emily asks. We’re in the kitchen and she’s cooking spaghetti. I didn’t ask her to, but she insisted she wasn’t going to leave until I ate something.
I dig out the Post-it note from my pocket. It’s become slightly screwed up, but I flatten it on the kitchen counter. ‘He gave me the name and number of some publicist who used to know Charley’s mum and dad. He reckons she can get the media to go away.’
Emily glances towards it as she stirs a pot of tomato sauce. It looks like she’s making enough food to last a week. ‘Pamela…’ Em rolls the name around her tongue. ‘What does she get out of it?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘People don’t usually work for free.’
‘Good point…’
‘Didn’t you ask?’
It sounds so simple when Emily says it like that.
‘He made it sound like it was a family favour thing,’ I reply. ‘As if they all knew each other from the old days and Pamela wanted to help…’
Emily doesn’t bother to hide the scepticism. Sometimes she’s really good at b
eing the older sister.
I get to escape her gaze because my phone starts to ring. It’s Raj, but he doesn’t have much to say. Is Charley back? No. How are you? Fine. If you fancy a pint…? Not today. Okay, well if you need anything…? He leaves it there and says goodbye.
In the meantime, Emily has found half a dozen plastic tubs and dumped a mound of spaghetti into each. She’s busy spooning meaty tomato sauce on top when I get back into the kitchen.
‘No excuses,’ she says.
‘For what?’
‘Not eating. These can go in the fridge and there’s some left over that you’re going to eat before I go home.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘I ate at the service station with Liam. We had Burger King.’
She tilts her head. ‘Do I actually have to call you a liar, or are you going to do what you’re told?’
There’s no point in arguing with my sister when she’s in this mood. If she ever settles down with someone, she’s going to spend the first year bullying them into the type of person she can stomach being around.
Okay, that’s not true. It’s only me she’s particularly harsh on and, yes, touchy-feely or not, I do know that’s because she cares.
I take the plate through to the dining table in the living room and then start to eat.
‘See,’ I tell her.
‘I’m not leaving until you’ve eaten it all.’
‘Can you stay and do the dishes?’
‘Don’t push your luck.’
I do eat it all, but it’s hard to say it was particularly enjoyable. It’s not Emily’s cooking, more that I don’t think I’d enjoy anything right now. Food’s only function is to help me get through a day. To be awake and alert for when Charley calls, or arrives on the doorstep.
When I’m done, I carry the plate into the kitchen and leave it in the sink. I turn into perhaps the most unexpected thing.
A hug.
Emily rests her head on my chest and puts her arms around my back.
‘You’re supposed to hug me back,’ she says.
The Wife’s Secret: A gripping psychological thriller with a heart-stopping twist Page 12
