The Missing Wife

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  ‘A glass of water would be nice,’ said Imogen.

  ‘Oh, have something stronger,’ said the woman. ‘The house wine here is lovely.’

  ‘I …’

  Vince didn’t approve of her drinking wine, certainly not in the afternoon, without food. He used to say it depressed her, and as a consequence depressed him. But Vince wasn’t here.

  ‘OK then,’ she said.

  ‘White?’

  ‘Sure.’

  The woman walked into the hotel bar and returned a few minutes later with three glasses and a bottle in a cooler.

  ‘It’s cheaper this way,’ she said as she filled the glasses. She brought one over to her husband, who had abandoned his phone and was reading a Jack Reacher novel. Then she came back to the table and raised a glass to Imogen.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Imogen.

  ‘I’m Samantha,’ the woman told her. ‘That’s my husband Gerry, and you’ve met Joel.’ She glanced at the pool. Her son was doing lengths now with an enthusiastic, if ungainly, overarm stroke.

  ‘Imogen.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Imogen. Are you here for long?’

  First a conversation with the student on the bus. Now a woman in a hotel garden. Neither of them part of the Plan. But she couldn’t ignore people. That would have the effect of making her more memorable. The Woman Who Wouldn’t Speak. The wine drinking wasn’t part of the Plan either, of course, but she couldn’t be The Woman Who Wouldn’t Drink Wine in France either.

  ‘I’m not certain,’ she said. ‘I have a few options, but I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘As soon as Joel was born, most of my options took to the hills.’ Samantha grinned. ‘I wouldn’t be without him, of course, but he can be utterly exhausting. Do you have children of your own? Are you here with family?’

  Imogen shook her head. ‘I’m by myself.’

  ‘In that case, you must come to dinner with us one night,’ said Samantha.

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t …’

  ‘Don’t say you can’t impose or something like that. We’d love the company. It’s nice having romantic dinners for two, or family dinners for three, but it would be fun to eat with another adult, and there’s a chic restaurant near the seafront we’d like to try.’

  It was ages since Imogen had been in a restaurant, chic or otherwise. Vince always said … She pushed Vince and his ideas out of her mind. She wasn’t going to think about him every time she did something different. She couldn’t let herself. Otherwise what was the point of the Plan?

  ‘We’ll talk before then,’ Samantha said when Imogen told her that it would be nice to meet up. ‘I suppose I’d better go and supervise my son more closely. Would you like another drop of this?’ She held up the wine bottle.

  ‘No thanks.’ Imogen shook her head. ‘But I appreciate it.’

  She drained her glass, then made her way back into the hotel, feeling light-headed from the alcohol. She went up to her room and lay on her bed.

  The Plan’s flexibility was being tested, she acknowledged as she gazed at the ceiling fan turning lazily above her. She hadn’t counted on interaction with other people. But it was impossible to avoid them.

  All the same, she knew she needed to keep contact with strangers to a minimum. She was acutely aware of the dangers of social media, where no matter how good your privacy settings, posts could end up being seen by the most unexpected of people. She didn’t want that to happen. She wanted to stay invisible.

  She’d deactivated her own Facebook page while she was in Paris, not that she’d had many friends on it to start with. But it had been a liberating step to take. If only everything could be that easy, she thought, she wouldn’t have needed a Plan at all.

  Would Vince have tried to send her a Facebook message? Or would he have sent an email? Her email account was still active, so if he had, it wouldn’t have bounced back to him. She wondered if he’d figured the situation out by now, and if he intended to do anything about it. He’d once told her, when she’d asked him about previous girlfriends, that when a relationship was over, it was over. He wasn’t in touch with any of them. He didn’t want to be. Yet she knew this was different. She wasn’t a girlfriend. She was his wife. So she’d allowed for him to try to find her. Not because she wanted him to. Not because she wanted to go back. Simply because she couldn’t imagine him letting her go.

  Chapter 7

  It was almost six o’clock by the time Vince arrived at the industrial estate where Chandon Leclerc had its distribution centre and offices. He knew that it closed to the public at five, but it was usually an hour later before Imogen left.

  He parked the Toyota in a vacant space directly outside the door to the building and took out his phone. This was his wife’s last chance to answer before he went in to get her. And before he completely lost his temper about her thoughtlessness. But she was right about the poor mobile signal, because even as he scrolled to her name, the final bar showing signal strength disappeared and a no service message replaced it. He got out of the car, slammed the door and walked inside the building. The small reception area was empty except for a tired-looking potted plant. Beside it was an intercom to speak to anyone in the office. Vince pressed it, and a few moments later a crackling voice asked him what he wanted.

  ‘It’s Vince Naughton,’ he said. ‘I’m here to collect Imogen.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  Vince paced the grey carpet for a couple of minutes. When there was no further sound from the intercom and when nobody came to meet him, he tried to open the door that led to the office area. It was locked. He banged on it in frustration and then buzzed the intercom again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the voice when he repeated his request. ‘She seems to have gone home. We close at five, you know.’

  ‘She was in today, wasn’t she?’ asked Vince.

  ‘I presume so,’ said the voice. ‘I’m not sure if I saw her or not, to be honest.’

  ‘I want to talk to Conor Foley,’ said Vince.

  ‘I’m sorry, he’s busy right now.’

  ‘I need to talk to him.’

  ‘Like I said, he’s busy.’

  ‘Listen to me.’ Vince’s voice was hard and uncompromising. ‘I want to talk to Conor Foley and I want to talk to him now. And if you don’t let me, I’ll put my fist through the door down here, which I’m sure will cause trouble for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get me the goddam managing director!’ yelled Vince.

  There was silence from the intercom. A couple of minutes later, a tall man with greying hair opened the double doors that led to both the office and the warehouse of Chandon Leclerc. His right wrist was in a plaster cast.

  ‘Vince,’ he said.

  ‘Conor.’ Vince held out his hand and the other man touched it briefly with his fingers.

  ‘Why don’t we go to my office,’ said Conor.

  ‘I’m here to pick up Imogen,’ Vince said. ‘I’m angry that after a long day yesterday, she’s putting in another long one today. She should have time off, you know that.’

  ‘My office,’ said Conor.

  Vince followed him up the stairs to the administration area that overlooked the warehouse. He looked around for Imogen but didn’t see her. He felt himself tense up. Conor ushered him into a compact office. He sat behind a desk covered in brochures and paperwork and motioned Vince to sit opposite him.

  ‘I thought it was better to speak to you privately,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s obviously an issue here,’ Conor said. ‘I’m sorry to tell you, Vince, but Imogen doesn’t work here any more.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? Did something happen in Paris? Did you fire her? Where is she?’

  ‘I don’t know. She didn’t come in to work today.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well …’ Conor shuffled the papers on his desk and picked up a single sheet. ‘The truth is that she’s res
igned.’

  ‘She’s … Give me that.’ Vince grabbed the paper from him and looked at it.

  Dear Conor, he read. This is to let you know that I am resigning from Chandon Leclerc with immediate effect and am taking the annual leave due to me in lieu of notice. I apologise for the inconvenience. I have left all of the necessary notes from our visit to the exhibition in the green folder. Thank you for your support over the past years. Yours sincerely, Imogen Naughton.

  ‘What the …’ Vince looked up from the letter.

  ‘She put it in my briefcase yesterday,’ said Conor. ‘Along with a variety of papers from the exhibition. I didn’t see it until a short time ago. And I’m guessing …’ he looked sympathetically at Vince, ‘I’m guessing she didn’t say anything to you about it either.’

  ‘No she bloody well didn’t.’ Vince’s voice was shaking with anger. ‘But I’m sure she said something more than this to you. You must know where she is. It’s probably all to do with you anyhow. Isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Conor. ‘I was completely taken aback to see this.’

  ‘You were, were you? Or is it all part of a plan?’

  ‘A plan?’

  ‘You and Imogen,’ said Vince. ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you look at her. You fancy my wife, don’t you? And you took her to Paris. So what have you done with her now?’

  ‘Vince, I assure you my relationship with Imogen has only ever been professional.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Honest to God.’ Conor was looking uneasily at Vince, whose face was red and who was balling his fists on the desk. ‘We went to the exhibition. It was hard work. When we finished, Imogen left to catch the flight to Dublin and I went to get the Eurostar to London.’

  ‘London? Why?’

  ‘Because I had a meeting there first thing this morning and it made sense to get the train. I arrived back in Dublin at lunchtime and haven’t seen Imogen since she left the hall yesterday.’

  Vince didn’t know whether to believe him or not.

  ‘I’m a happily married man, Vince,’ said Conor. ‘I have two kids. I wasn’t having an affair with Imogen.’

  ‘I’d expect you to say that.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Where is she?’ asked Vince again.

  ‘I really don’t know,’ replied Conor. ‘She seemed fine in Paris. A little anxious, but we’d all been anxious about the exhibition. I didn’t know she was planning to leave the company. We’ll miss her.’

  Vince read Imogen’s resignation letter again.

  ‘I’m sorry if there’s some issue between the two of you,’ said Conor. ‘Obviously she didn’t tell you anything about … well …’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘She’s my wife and you allowed her to disappear in a foreign country.’ Vince banged his clenched fist on the desk.

  ‘Not disappear,’ said Conor. ‘She clearly made some kind of decision to … to …’

  ‘She texted me from the airport.’ Vince took out his phone and showed the message to the other man.

  Conor read it, then looked at him sympathetically. ‘She must have changed her mind about coming back to Ireland.’

  ‘She wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Doesn’t she have family in France?’ asked Conor. ‘Maybe she decided to visit them on the spur of the moment.’

  ‘And resign her job at the same time?’

  ‘I don’t know what was going on in her head,’ said Conor. ‘As I said, she seemed perfectly fine to me.’

  ‘Imogen is a very fragile person,’ said Vince. ‘You had a duty of care to her and you allowed her to disappear.’

  ‘Imogen made a decision of her own,’ said Conor. ‘It had nothing to do with me.’

  ‘She’s been under huge pressure!’ cried Vince. ‘This stupid company. All your restructuring. People being made redundant. You must have said something to her to make her do this.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t,’ said Conor. ‘The company has had trading difficulties, but we’re still profitable. Imogen was a valued member of our team and treated as such. She wasn’t under any pressure.’

  ‘But she left,’ said Vince. ‘While you were responsible for her. You didn’t make sure that she got on the plane. You didn’t make sure she got home. You didn’t keep an eye on her.’

  ‘We were away on a business trip,’ said Conor. ‘And I wasn’t responsible for her. She’s a grown woman.’

  ‘So basically my wife has disappeared and you don’t give a shit.’

  ‘She hasn’t disappeared,’ said Conor.

  ‘She hasn’t come home!’ cried Vince. ‘Which is disappearing in my book.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be in touch,’ said Conor. ‘This wasn’t an unplanned event, otherwise she wouldn’t have written the letter.’

  Vince studied it again. ‘How do I know she wrote it?’ he demanded. ‘How do I know it wasn’t you? That something terrible hasn’t happened to her and you’re trying to concoct an alibi?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ exclaimed Conor. ‘Why on earth … Look, Vince, you’ll have to leave. I’m sorry there’s some issue between you and Imogen that kept her from telling you she planned to leave her job. And that she’d made a decision not to come back to Ireland. But it’s not my fault and I can’t help you with it.’

  ‘She’s having a breakdown!’ Vince cried. ‘And you didn’t even see it.’

  ‘If she was having a breakdown – which I doubt – then you’re the one who should have seen it,’ said Conor. ‘You’re her husband. I’m just her employer.’

  ‘So you’re not going to do anything about it?’

  ‘It’s none of my business,’ said Conor.

  ‘A missing woman is none of your business?’

  ‘If she really is missing and there’s anything I can do to help, I will,’ said Conor. ‘If you feel you have to go to the gardai, I have no problem speaking to them. But all I can say is that she behaved perfectly normally all the time we were in Paris, and if I’d known she was thinking of … well, running away or whatever, I’d have tried to persuade her otherwise. She’s … she was a good employee and a very nice person. She got on well with everyone.’

  Vince said nothing.

  ‘Is there anywhere else she might have gone?’ asked Conor. ‘We’ve been talking as though she didn’t return from France, but perhaps she has family she went to see here in Ireland?’

  Vince shook his head.

  ‘Anywhere?’

  ‘She’s not really in touch with her family,’ said Vince.

  ‘But she must have someone.’

  ‘She has stepfamily in England and a couple of dotty aunts in the States. I can’t imagine she’d go to them.’

  ‘Nevertheless, they’re the people you should ask.’

  Vince gritted his teeth.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll come home,’ said Conor. ‘She probably just needs a few days alone. I can understand that. We all do sometimes.’

  Vince got up and walked to the door. He opened it and turned to Conor.

  ‘I hope you can sleep at night,’ he said, and slammed it behind him.

  Shona Egan had always thought that the decor of Imogen’s kitchen betrayed her French origins. To Shona it was quintessentially Gallic, with its distressed off-white cupboards and blue gingham accessories, as well as the pots of fresh herbs growing on the window ledge. There was a continental air about it, Shona would insist as she and Imogen drank coffee together at the wooden table, and there was no point in Imogen pretending otherwise.

  ‘You like to think you still live there,’ Shona told her one day. But Imogen shook her head and said that she was happy in Dublin and happy with her life.

  ‘So you should be,’ Shona said. ‘I’d be happy if I’d landed a hunk like Vince Naughton too.’

  And Imogen had laughed and agreed with her and said that Vince was the man of her dreams.

  In which case, thought Shona, as
she sat across the table from him now, why the hell had Imogen walked out without a word? What on earth had got into her? Vince treated her like a princess. They had a perfect marriage, everybody knew that.

  She’d called around to the house after she’d returned Vince’s call and he’d told her that Imogen hadn’t come home.

  ‘She can’t have walked out on you without a word,’ she said. ‘She loves you.’

  ‘And I love her,’ said Vince. ‘But clearly something’s wrong. You know how fragile she is.’

  Shona didn’t think that Imogen was fragile, but it was true that her friend sometimes lost the plot about something entirely forgettable. You love being a drama queen, she had told her once. You like black moods and shrugging your shoulders and doing your French thing, even though your parents were Irish through and through. Imogen had admitted that she could be a little melodramatic, but only when life was really, really unbearable, which made Shona look at her intently and ask if everything was OK. Imogen had replied that it was now, that Shona always knew how to put things into perspective. That she was lucky to have a friend like her.

  ‘And you’re lucky to have a husband like Vince,’ said Shona.

  ‘Indeed I am.’ Imogen nodded. ‘I couldn’t be luckier.’

  If there had been something wrong, thought Shona now, why hadn’t Imogen confided in her?

  ‘Did you guys have a row?’ she asked Vince.

  ‘We never row,’ he replied.

  ‘She wouldn’t leave without saying anything.’ Shona picked up her phone and looked at it. There had been no messages or emails from her friend.

  ‘That’s why I’m so worried,’ said Vince. ‘I promise you, Shona, we didn’t have a fight. There’s nothing for us to fight about.’

  ‘What do the police say?’

  Vince thought back to his hour at the garda station, where he’d gone directly after his encounter with Conor Foley. A female officer had questioned him about Imogen, specifically about whether his wife had accessed their bank accounts since her departure. Vince hadn’t even thought about that. When he logged into the mobile app and saw that she had withdrawn cash on the day she’d left for France, and again while she’d been in Paris, his face had darkened.