by Helen Lowrie
As soon as I unlocked the front door to my flat I could tell Jasmine wasn’t there; it was too quiet. Struggling up the stairs with my suitcase, I was irked by the usual jumble of gloves, mugs, scarves and shoes that cluttered the edges of each step. Jasmine had moved in with me just six months into our relationship – it was her suggestion and I was grateful for the company. She had wasted no time encouraging me to redecorate, putting her stamp on the place and making herself at home, but unfortunately she had a childish habit of dropping things as soon as she finished with them and I was forever clearing up after her. So I was surprised when I stepped into the living room to find it tidy; the minimalist modular grey furniture that Jasmine favoured was conspicuously clutter-free. She must have had guests. I pulled the handle of the coat cupboard and an avalanche of clothes, magazines, tea towels, empty food packets and unopened post tumbled out onto the floor at my feet. I sighed.
Having hung up my coat, I moved around the apartment drawing the blinds in an attempt to cosy the place up a bit. Somehow the warm original character of the building – the coving, the timber-framed sash windows and the generous floorboards that I had worked so hard to save when I first bought the place – were lost in my girlfriend’s cool urban interior styling. The white walls and stainless steel surfaces almost gave me goosebumps, despite the central heating.
By the time I had tidied up, put the bins out, opened my post, poured myself a glass of Pinot Grigio and dealt with the most urgent paperwork, it was nearly midnight. I tried not to feel apprehensive as Jasmine burst through the front door and clattered up the stairs in her heels and a hum of cigarette smoke and aftershave.
‘Oh, you’re back,’ she said.
‘Hello, Jasmine.’
‘I wasn’t expecting you back until tomorrow.’ She was flushed and rattled and I wondered if it was because of the pair of boxer shorts I’d spotted lying in the doorway to the master bedroom. They weren’t mine. Had she been sleeping with someone else or only left the pants there to provoke me? Either way I didn’t feel up to confronting her tonight.
‘I told you on the phone I needed some paperwork for my meeting tomorrow.’
‘Oh, I thought you’d pick it up on your way to work in the morning,’ she said, removing her faux fur coat and letting it slide to the floor by the cupboard door. ‘Just as well you’re back – the bins need emptying.’ I refrained from pointing out that I’d already done so and suppressed a familiar twinge of irritation as she kicked off her shoes, padded off to the master bedroom in her stockinged feet, and closed the door behind her without so much as a ‘goodnight’. Our relationship was falling apart and, despite Jasmine’s increasingly callous attitude, it was probably more my fault than hers.
Twenty-nine-year-old Jasmine Reed, with her expensive, girly blonde curls, bow-shaped mouth and long-lashed blue eyes, was a rising star in the acting world. She could sing, dance, giggle, pout and cry on command, and with the energy she poured into her stage performances she even gave twenty-year-olds a run for their money. Men wanted her and women wanted to be her so when she’d singled me out two and a half years ago and set her mind to seducing me, I’d let her – I was the envy of most guys we knew. But I’d always known we wouldn’t last.
Draining the last of the wine from my glass, I rinsed it out in the kitchen sink and set it neatly on the draining board. We’d never had much in common with each other but Jasmine had insisted that was a good thing. “Opposites attract!” she used to say. She liked that I wasn’t an actor; that I had a secure, nine to five job; that I was available on evenings and weekends to escort her to events and parties where I said the right things, put people at their ease and looked good on her arm.
But lately, in the last couple of months, everything Jasmine once liked about me grated on her. She considered my job to be boring; my laid-back demeanour, irritating; and my popularity, nauseating. I was no longer invited along to parties or introduced to her friends. She said I was emotionally closed off – that I lacked passion and ambition. And maybe she was right – since the funeral I’d felt neither passion nor enthusiasm for my work. It didn’t help that I’d never told Jasmine that I loved her. But then I’d never told anyone I loved them.
Putting the chain on the front door, I switched off the overhead lights and took my files and papers into the spare room, my bedroom. Jasmine had suggested I sleep there so that she could have a few nights’ undisturbed sleep; she claimed I breathed too loudly. But that was back in January and she hadn’t asked me to return. Perhaps I should have requested re-admittance to the master bedroom but if she’d said no we’d be forced to acknowledge the increasing distance and the complete lack of affection between us.
Of course I was also worried Jasmine might say yes; that she’d invite me back into bed with open arms. For any other guy that would be a dream come true but my libido was currently at an all-time low. I was no longer aroused by my pretty, vivacious girlfriend the way everyone else seemed to be and if we shared a bed again it would be obvious. It was always the same with every girlfriend I’d ever had – as soon as the initial attraction wore off I struggled to get it up. Jasmine would take it very personally. For now it was easier to stay put in the spare room, especially if she might be cheating on me. I couldn’t let her go on walking all over me indefinitely but I didn’t want her to leave yet. I couldn’t face a break-up right now – I didn’t want to be alone.
While undressing I knocked the stack of files with my elbow and dislodged a flurry of paperwork. It mostly comprised those documents necessary for probate – copies of Dad’s Will, death certificate, insurance policies, property deeds, bank statements etc. But they were not the only legal documents I’d salvaged during my search of Southwood Cottage. As I collected up the scattered papers the certificate of my adoption caught my eye.
It was strange seeing the proof of my origins set out in black and white and immediately I found myself thinking of Kitkat. Back then she was always there for me – I could tell her anything and she always knew what to say or do to cheer me up. If only I’d never lost touch with her we might still be friends – she might be here right now...
Climbing into bed, I lay down and stared at the ceiling. I felt very alone. Was it time to try and find Kitkat again? A friend from my university days, Brian, worked as a private investigator in London. I had given him free insurance advice over the years – should I ask him to return the favour by tracking her down? On second thoughts the idea of divulging the sad truth of my origins to anyone, even a friend, did not appeal. Perhaps with the aid of the Internet and all its far-reaching social media, it might be possible to find Kitkat myself. The trouble was I’d never known her real name.
My nickname for her stemmed from the ceremonial way she would share her chocolate-covered biscuits with me; the ones she managed to ‘obtain’ from the newsagents. I still recalled the way she would carefully ease the paper wrapper off sideways without breaking it; gently run her thumb nail through the foil, snapping the two fingers of biscuit apart, before handing one to me with intense satisfaction. She claimed that the biscuits were designed especially for sharing; it was only when I started school that I discovered that other kids did not agree. I would proudly wear one of Kitkat’s paper wrappers around my wrist for days, like a badge of friendship, until it inevitably tore and fell away. Everyone else at the time – other kids, foster parents, teachers and social workers – had all referred to her as Kat but that was presumably a nickname too.
No, after twenty-three years it wouldn’t be easy tracking her down but I had to try – she was the closest thing to family I had left and, unlike both my mothers and all my ex-girlfriends, Kitkat had never left me – it was me who had abandoned her.
Chapter Seven
Cherry leaned into the counter and I noticed dried toothpaste at the corner of her mouth. ‘So then I said to him, “If you’re so rich and powerful why don’t you have a girlfriend?” and he said, “Who says I don’t?” The cheeky bastard!’ Cher
ry cackled, her bosom heaving.
As the pensioners in the corner waved goodbye and slipped out of the door my stomach tightened with tension. The man opened up an umbrella and his wife took his arm as they set off together in the rain. With them gone there were just the three of us left in the cafe – no witnesses if Vic lost it.
It was two in the afternoon and my husband had been drinking. I could smell it on his breath. Not beer but vodka. He was angry about something and spoiling for a fight. He hid it well behind a mask of impassive neutrality and a deceptive smile but I knew when he was fuming; there was an eerie stillness about him, the calm before the storm. And right now Vic was set to blow.
Cherry was clearly not as attuned to Vic’s moods as I was or she would have known to stop talking long before now. She was describing her session with a rich city banker she’d picked up the night before in extensive, lurid detail. It wasn’t Cherry’s occupation that riled Vic – he couldn’t care less how many men she screwed – it was the particulars of this John’s lifestyle that irked him: his top of the range Ferrari, the size of his hotel suite, the fact he could spend a ton on champagne and not drink it. Vic resented those things because he secretly wanted them for himself. Usually he took his frustrations out on me but right now Cherry was unwittingly in the firing line and, with no other customers around, I was beginning to fear for her safety.
I’d already interrupted Cherry and tried to change the subject, more than once, but she was pleased with her night’s exploits, caught up in some sort of Pretty Woman fantasy, and wouldn’t be diverted.
‘I nearly ripped his shirt when I tried to get it off ’cause he had these chunky cufflinks – solid gold they were!’ Her eyes widened for emphasis.
Vic’s jaw tightened and I stepped out from behind the counter grabbing a broom. ‘Cherry, I don’t suppose you could do me a favour and clear that table by the door, while I sweep the floor?’ Cherry looked at me blankly; I never asked her for help.
But before she could reply Vic said in a steady voice, ‘You think that makes him something special? Flashing some bling? He can’t be all that fucking clever if he wastes his dough on the likes of you.’
A spasm of hurt flickered across Cherry’s face before her features hardened. ‘At least he fucking paid for it,’ she retorted.
And that was it – Vic snapped. His arm shot out like lightning, his hand closing around Cherry’s windpipe as he forced her back against the counter. Her eyes bulged in terror and I launched my body between them, my face just centimetres from Vic’s, my head blocking his view of Cherry, the broom handle gripped tightly in my hands.
‘Don’t, Vic, please,’ I gasped, staring into his eyes. They were unnervingly icy, as he glared back at me with loathing. ‘Someone might see,’ I added.
‘Move,’ he snarled.
‘Please,’ I whispered again, adrenalin pounding in my ears. ‘Hit me if you have to but let her go, please.’
The door opened with a familiar click and sweep and Vic automatically released Cherry and stepped back. We turned in unison to see Travis frozen mid-step in the doorway. ‘Shit, should I come back later?’
Vic stalked towards Travis. ‘Get out of my fucking way,’ he growled as he pushed past him and stormed out.
Once I was sure he had gone I turned back to Cherry. ‘You OK?’ Her hand shook as she touched her painted fingertips to the flushed skin of her throat but her expression was already settling into a mask of neutrality.
‘I’m fine,’ she muttered, sinking back onto a stool. I could see that she wasn’t but I knew she wouldn’t want me to make a fuss in front of Travis. Sex worker or not, Cherry had her pride and hated appearing weak. How many times had she been roughed up by men over the years? Clearly she hadn’t been expecting that kind of treatment from Vic though. Perhaps she had always assumed, like I had, that his wife-beating was reserved for his wife. Returning to the kitchen, I set aside the broom and reached for the teapot.
‘What’s eating him?’ Travis said. He’d sauntered up to the counter, leaving a trail of rainwater across the floor.
‘Who knows,’ I muttered, pouring Cherry a fresh beverage and sliding it over to her. She had her head down as she rummaged about in her handbag for her fags. ‘What can I get you Travis?’
Travis glanced from me to Cherry and then back again, the curiosity plain on his face, but he knew better than to poke his nose into Vic Leech’s business.
‘Just a Coke thanks, Rina,’ he said, fumbling in the pocket of his jeans for some change.
Cherry stood up as I retrieved a can from the fridge. ‘Just nipping out for a fag,’ she mumbled, already on her way to the door as two more customers walked in. I made a mental note to make her eat something when she came back – something sweet for the shock. Thank god Travis had arrived when he did. In gratitude for his timely arrival, and in anticipation of his discretion, I slid a king-sized Mars bar across the counter along with his Coke.
‘On the house,’ I said, watching Cherry on the pavement outside as she attempted to light up in the rain, one trembling hand cupped around a disposable lighter.
‘Wow, thanks,’ Travis said cheerfully.
‘My pleasure.’ Vic would notice the shortfall the next time he did a stock check but, right now, I didn’t care.
Chapter Eight
By the time I’d finished loading up the van ready for market the rain had stopped and the sun was peeking out from behind the clouds. Shaking out my shoulders I looked around in satisfaction. The first half of March had been relentlessly cold and drizzly but now, at last, spring was finally asserting itself. It was evident in the fresh green buds bursting into leaf, the frothy candy pink cherry blossom and the cheery yellow primroses and narcissi jostling for space in the hedgerows. The surrounding hills basked in sunshine as a clear blue sky spread out above, completing the near-idyllic scene. I found myself taking a deep lungful of fresh air and savouring the sound of birds singing and the warmth on my skin. How could anyone viewing this place now not be tempted to buy it? Surely the estate agent would be ringing with a serious offer soon? With probate completed I’d put both the cottage and the business straight on the market. It had only been a week but so far all the ‘offers’ had been well below the asking price and from developers who simply wanted to flatten the place. I was reluctant to surrender my family legacy under such circumstances – it just felt wrong.
With Easter just over two weeks away and in a last minute bid to increase revenue, I had found a market stallholder in the city willing to trial our seasonal, hand-planted pots and hanging baskets. Gary, a flower seller by trade, sold to the London crowd and was consequently prepared to offer me a better price for the stock than it would sell for in Wildham. I figured it was worth a try because, if all went well and the planters proved popular, it could become a regular revenue stream – which would look great on the books.
No matter how long it took to find a decent buyer for Southwood’s though, one thing was for sure: I couldn’t go on living in two places at once; it was killing me. Flexing my back, I raised my arms and stretched – tipping my head from side to side to release the tension in my neck. This week, by re-arranging several appointments, I’d managed to wrangle a bit of time away from my day job – escaping to Wildham yesterday at lunchtime. But I would have to be back in the office in time for a company forecasting meeting tomorrow afternoon and in-between I wanted to deliver this planted stock to market while it was fresh. It had been a long day of physical labour and my muscles still ached from my exertions the night before. My mate Liam was lock forward for the local rugby squad – the Wildham Warriors – and had invited me along to Tuesday night rugby practice. I’d relished the opportunity to be part of the team, throwing myself back into the game and discarding my troubles at the side of the pitch. But I hadn’t played since university and my body was paying for it now.
Rugby aside, trying to keep a hand in both businesses – a foot in both worlds – was exhausting and, as patient
and understanding as my boss was, if I carried on this way for much longer, I was going to get myself fired.
Dusting the compost from my hands, I locked the van and said goodbye to Lil, thanking her for all her help. She had more than forty years of experience in planting up pots and hanging baskets and made it look easy. As with every aspect of running the nursery, I found I still had plenty to learn.
On my way back to the cottage, I experienced a wave of sadness on seeing the mass of tulip buds that were forcing their way up through the ground, either side of the back door. The bulbs that Dad planted every autumn in Mum’s memory were still going to provide a spectacular display of colour, regardless of the fact that Dad would not witness it this year.
By the time I’d showered and changed, swapped my contact lenses for my glasses, and packed everything ready for my return to London in the morning, I was ravenous but the day wasn’t over yet. Re-heating some vegetable soup and buttering myself some bread, I settled at the kitchen table in front of my laptop to put in a few hours of insurance work. It was after eleven when, having proofread and emailed a last policy report to my boss, I was finally free to check my personal inbox for messages – or, as I liked to think of them, Kitkat clues.
Given the confidential nature of the fostering service and that my search was not for a blood relative I had inevitably hit a brick wall as far as official channels were concerned. But I’d been surprised by the number of open websites, chat rooms and forums dedicated to finding those who were missing, lost or estranged.
It was hard not getting bogged down in the raw, heart-wrenching detail of thousands of other posts; my own futile search (for someone half-remembered, who may not remember me) was time consuming enough, without getting sidetracked by the desperate plight of others. But I’d uploaded what little I knew: the name and address of our foster parents at the time; the dates we were there; a brief physical description of Kitkat; and her approximate age, then and now. In the absence of her real name I’d suggested other alternatives: Katherine, Kate, Katie, Kaitlyn, Kathy or Kathleen – but I was just stabbing in the dark.
