‘She has a cousin, Georgia, but, like I said, I’ve already spoken to her and she said she hasn’t seen her. Otherwise it’s like I told you – it’s just us.’
‘Friends?’
‘We’re friends with all the same people. But they haven’t heard anything. I’ve already told you this. Do you think I didn’t try calling everyone I knew when I was waiting for you guys?’
‘Is that how you met – mutual friends?’
Why is she asking me that? Why does that even matter? ‘We met about three years ago, in a pub … ’
Thinking about that night now makes me choke up again. I look back at the two people sitting opposite me, feeling my stomach sinking further and further. I swallow. ‘I … I just want her home.’
They look at each other, before turning back towards me. Nancy’s voice is gentle. ‘Do you have family, Dustin?’
I nod slowly.
‘Maybe it would be a good idea to stay with them tonight?’ I’m shaking my head so vigorously, I know it must look ridiculous, childish. ‘No, no, I’m not in touch with my family. I haven’t been back home in a long time.’
‘Dustin, we believe it’s best you go somewhere you aren’t alone, where you can get support.’
‘I’ve got friends here. My work friends.’
‘Will they be able to help you with Zara?’
‘Well … ’
I think about staying at Danny’s house. Danny, who sees girl after girl and goes out drinking more nights of the week than he should. I think about being there with Zara when he gets up for work, still drunk the next day. Or Naomi’s, sleeping on her tiny, lumpy sofa, Zara’s crib crammed into her cramped little living room. God, no.
Besides, I can’t leave our flat – what if Willow comes back? I have to stay. I think about asking one of them to stay over, to keep me sane as I pace back and forth waiting powerlessly for Willow to return. I sigh. What would they be able to do or say? It’s not like they’d be able to help really.
‘I need to stay here in case Willow comes back.’
I can tell by their faces they think I’m being difficult, but I don’t care. If I ever had a right to be difficult, it’s now.
Nancy places a hand on my arm. ‘If there’s anyone at all you can stay with tonight, who can give you a bit of help with Zara, we really want you to get in touch with them. Besides, Willow has your number, I’m sure she will call when she’s on her way back.’
Chapter 3
Willow
Then – July 2017
I know I am dangerously close to a panic attack. It has been brewing for hours, and now I can feel it rising to the surface. I get up from the bed and go to the bathroom, wash my hands, then come back and sit down again. My breath is already really shallow, and I can feel my heart start to race. It’s not getting better, so I go and wash my hands again – really scrubbing at them, soap under the nails – as they didn’t feel clean enough the first time anyway. Just as I come back into the bedroom, my phone pings.
OMG, me and Mum have just been chatting the whole journey home, about how many plans we have now you’ve moved to Surrey! So happy you’re so close
I stare at the text a little bit too long, before turning my phone off. Gee and her mum – Auntie Jayne – have just left. They spent the whole day unpacking boxes, moving boxes, doing whatever they could to help. Auntie Jayne even made an extra trip to Brighton and back in her car, which saved us getting a moving van. Everyone seemed in a good mood, even Gran who has been fidgety and quiet since the night she announced we were moving. And the positive atmosphere didn’t seem forced either, though that was mostly down to Auntie Jayne and Georgia. Georgia is the sort of person whose good mood is infectious: bubbly, positive, impossibly outgoing in a way I can’t begin to emulate. I will never understand how she can chat to people so easily, laugh with people she’s only just met. Or how she can toss her hair over her shoulder in a way which seems completely natural. Somehow Georgia just does everything so naturally in life, it’s like she was born to exist perfectly in this world. Whereas I constantly feel out of place, misshapen, a square peg in a round hole.
Around five o’clock, after we had finished most of the unpacking, we ordered pizza – two large ham and pineapples between us – from a takeaway Georgia recommended down the road. Gran and Auntie Jayne sat on the sofa, whilst Georgia and I were cross-legged on the floor, because the armchairs Gran ordered haven’t arrived yet.
After they left, Gran and I washed up the plates in an uneasy silence. I knew she was waiting for me to say how actually it was OK here, how it would be fun having my cousin and only friend down the road, and how thinking about it I didn’t miss Brighton at all. But I didn’t say any of that, and she clearly didn’t want to ask me outright. So after we finished I made an excuse about needing to do some more unpacking and came upstairs.
Our new home is a place called New Haw, and yes, it’s OK, albeit tiny. There’s a train station in the next village, technically within walking distance but still, and there are one or two pubs, a little shop, and a prettyish park. Put it this way, it’s no Brighton.
Now, as I’m counting to ten to try and get my breathing under control, and barely making it to five, I scramble for my backpack, and rifle through it until I find my purse. I unzip the small pouch and take out the silver necklace concealed inside. Fumbling clumsily with the clasp at the back of my neck, I eventually manage to fasten it. I don’t have a bedroom mirror yet, so I go back in the bathroom. Avoiding my own reflection, I stare at the necklace instead. It is really beautiful: a delicate pendant in the shape of an angel, attached to a thin gentle silver chain. I slowly run my thumb over it, and gradually a sense of comfort seems to seep through my skin. Finally, I feel like I’m taking in oxygen again. I run my hands under the tap, grab my backpack from the bedroom, and go into the living room.
Gran is sitting there, knitting, probably waiting for me to join her, as I usually do. She smiles at me, that smile that makes my heart swell, but still I can’t bring myself to return it. ‘You joining me?’ she says, nodding her head towards the knitting basket. It’s positioned right next to the sofa, exactly as it was in Brighton. Except this isn’t Brighton.
I shake my head.
Gran has been trying so hard, I know she has, but she can’t think that’s going to make up for it. For the way she just announced our sudden departure from our home and all that was familiar.
‘I want to go home, Gran.’
Gran sighs. ‘Willow, please, not this again. You know that I wanted to be near Auntie Jayne for when she has her hip operation.’
I clench my teeth. If she wants to convince herself that’s the reason we suddenly upped and left the city I’ve been living in for the last seventeen years, fine, but she won’t be able to convince me.
‘Don’t lie to me, Gran.’
‘Willow.’ Gran’s voice is calm, but stern, and I know not to push it.
But I’m angry. No, I’m furious. And I don’t know what to do with this anger, because Gran and I never argue. I walk into the kitchen, grab the bottle of wine Auntie Jayne brought over from the fridge, and chuck it into my bag. When I go back into the living room, my chest is pumping, my cheeks heated. Guilt over the wine is already seeping in. ‘I’m going to Georgia’s, Gran.’ Gran starts to stand up. ‘I just need space,’ I say firmly.
‘But Willow—’
‘I’ll be home safe, but I don’t want to be here right now.’
‘Well, shall I call Auntie Jayne—’
‘No! Just leave it for once, Gran.’
She pauses, then sits down again. ‘OK,’ she says quietly.
I don’t say anything else. I leave the house, slamming the door. But halfway down the street, I feel my stomach sink. Gran had looked so small somehow. Because however much she screwed up, however much she doesn’t understand, we both know why she insisted on leaving Brighton. She thinks she’s protecting me. Shit.
I stop, get out my phone, and text her.
Love you.
I press send, and all dread has gone away. I swig from the bottle and head right, in the exact opposite direction of Georgia’s house.
Chapter 4
Dustin
Hi, Mum. I know this is weird, and it’s been a while. But I really need to come home.
Nineteen words after two years, and I decide to do it over Facebook messenger. I would have texted her, if I hadn’t deleted her number. I could have tried the home phone, which I still know off by heart, but apparently I’m too cowardly for that.
I didn’t think my mum would see the message initially – we aren’t even friends on Facebook. I had to find her through Alicia’s page first. I was considering messaging Alicia in the first place, but I knew that would make everything weirder. It had to be Mum.
But by the time I awoke, groggy and disorientated, to Zara’s cries the next morning, her message was there waiting for me.
It was brief.
Get the next train.
I didn’t tell her why, and she didn’t ask. That was all that was said, and yes of course it’s weird, and confusing, but the last twenty-four hours have been a lot of that.
It was Georgia who persuaded me to message Mum in the end. After the police left and I had wrestled an exhausted and over-wrought Zara into a clean nappy and pyjamas, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I called Willow again. And again. I kept calling her until my battery died and as I was waiting for it to recharge, I realised I had to give up. So as soon as it flashed back to life, I called Georgia. It was so late, almost three-in-the-morning late, but Georgia answered immediately and I felt a pang of guilt. I should have thought about how worried she’d be. She’s Willow’s cousin, after all. Before I had even told her about the police’s suggestion, she said quietly: ‘You should come home, Dustin.’
She had a lot of reasons. You’ll be back in Surrey. You won’t be alone. You might need them now. It will be good to come back. I won’t be far away. Usually I’d have dismissed them, but with endless thoughts of Willow hurt going round and round in my head and my heart throbbing so hard I was fairly sure a heart attack was coming at any moment, they started to sound pretty compelling.
I was still worried about missing Willow if she came back to the flat, but in the end Naomi came to my rescue, volunteering to stay there and let me know straight away if there was any sign of Willow.
And now I’m on a train to New Haw. I’m not nervous, I don’t have the brain space to be nervous. I perch Zara on the table in front of me, and she gurgles contentedly. I nabbed an empty table seat on the train and luckily no one has joined us. Maybe it’s because they worry about sitting next to a baby who could start bawling at any moment – and by that I don’t know if I mean me or Zara. I watch my daughter, her wide eyes looking up at me, then kiss her softly on the forehead.
Last night I lay in bed with Zara next to me, a cushion fort around her, and tried to sleep. I couldn’t remember when I’d last slept without Willow. I don’t know how long it took me to get to sleep, and then, almost immediately after I had just dozed, Zara started wailing and kept it up most of the night. It was already light when I fell asleep properly, and when I awoke it was to feelings of overwhelming guilt. How could I just sleep like that without knowing if my girlfriend was safe? Where she was sleeping and why wasn’t it our bed?
After I read Mum’s message, I tried my best with Zara: got her changed, fed her, packed a bag with nappies and wipes and clothes and her toys. I barely knew what to pack for myself, so flung some jeans and a few jumpers into a bag at random, then left with the pushchair. To the outside world I must have looked like a normal dad, taking his daughter for a walk.
I suppose I never was the most hands-on dad with Zara, because I worked, didn’t I? Don’t get me wrong, on weekends and evenings we’d do stuff as a three; we would have a lovely time – we would go to parks, playgroups, and I’d help out with baths and bed times. But thinking about it now, I never really knew her daily schedule – how often she needed changing, feeding, what she ate and when, and how much food was exactly the right amount. It’s all a bit overwhelming, to say the least.
I trace Zara’s face, running my finger softly over her soft wisps of thick curly hair, her nose, her lips. She has Willow’s face. Her round brown eyes, her button nose, her rosebud lips – she’s the spitting image. I just know she’s going to have hair like her mother too. Lots and lots of beautiful, thick golden hair.
Zara’s bottom lip is trembling now. ‘Blankie,’ she says quietly, but firmly. Shit. I hastily pull her into my lap, cradling her close to my chest like Willow always used to. I look around anxiously at the other passengers. They’re all looking at me, waiting for the screaming to start. To our right there’s an elderly lady, so frail she looks like she might break, with white hair. She looks sweet, kind-eyed, but she’s probably also the type who would judge a young single father. Just behind her is a tall, heavily built guy, with olive skin and a thick beard whose eyes, only just visible through his salt and pepper mane, are fixed intently on me. He looks like he could be quite intimidating if he tried. Then opposite him there’s a guy reading a newspaper, thick-framed glasses and freshly pressed suit. His eyes flicker nervously to Zara now and then.
‘Blankie,’ she says again. And then she screams. Her whimpers have become full tears. I pull her in closer to my chest and stand up.
‘Sssh,’ I soothe, ‘let’s find your blankie, shall we? That always helps, doesn’t it?’
Shit. Shit. Where is it? Where’s her blanket?
I am rummaging through the bag I brought for her, emptying everything onto the seat of the train, but I can’t find it. I can’t find Zara’s blanket. I am filled with dread as the reality sinks in. I’ve left it at home. The home I can’t bring myself to go back to without Willow there.
‘I know, Zara,’ I whisper, sighing as I stroke her hair. ‘I miss her too, I really miss her too.’
And then I can’t keep it in any more. I’m sat there on the train, tears streaming down my face, crying together with my one-year-old daughter.
All she wants is her mummy. All I want is Willow.
But where did she go?
Chapter 5
Willow
Then – July 2017
I can’t believe I stormed out like that, and I can’t believe I’m now wandering around at dusk, swigging wine straight from the bottle. It’s reckless and it’s dangerous. I barely even drink. In fact none of this feels like me at all. But then I’ve barely felt myself for five minutes since Gran announced we were leaving.
The wine is starting to go to my head and suddenly I’m cold and it’s getting dark. Maybe I should just go home, make it up properly with Gran. But the thought of that makes me feel even worse. Then I spot a pub ahead of me and the headiness I felt a moment before morphs into a warm fuzzy layer of confidence. Maybe one more drink will be enough to put Gran and Brighton firmly out of my mind.
‘Can I see some ID please?’ the girl behind the bar says in response to my order of a vodka and Coke. I’m being refused alcohol because I don’t look eighteen. Which makes sense, because I’m not eighteen. But, still, if the girl behind the bar knew how I felt right now, I’m sure she’d give me a drink.
‘Do you think I’d be here if I wasn’t eighteen?’ I say. God, are my words slurring?
The girl stares at me, eyebrows raised. She looks about my age, but I don’t see her flashing her ID about. ‘You may well be eighteen, but I need proof of that,’ she says, crossing her arms.
I fold my arms too, mimicking her. ‘My name is Willow Allen. And I was born in 1987.’
The girl cocks her head slightly. ‘So you’re thirty?’
Damn. It’s a lot older than I’d meant to say I was, but I can’t exactly take it back now so I nod my head confidently. This is so unlike me. Usually just the thought of asking for a drink at a bar would be enough to make me hyperventilate. ‘And if you refuse to serve me, I’ll sue.’
‘You’ll sue?’ I can’t tell if the bartender is enjoying this or getting annoyed. Either way, she hasn’t asked me to leave yet.
‘Hell yeah, I’ll sue, my family is full of lawyers.’
‘Willow!’ I hear someone shout a second before a pair of arms envelops me. I stiffen and I feel the person pull away. I turn around. The boy is tall, so tall he towers over me. It’s hard to focus on him, because I’m still a little dizzy from the alcohol and the left-field embrace, but I can’t help but notice his eyes: they’re a deep hazel, almost hidden beneath a mass of heavy black curls. I don’t know this boy. I don’t know anyone here. But he’s looking at me like we’ve known each other all our lives. How drunk am I?
‘All right, you did the dare, good one! A tenner for you.’ His voice is full of warmth as he winks furtively at me, before turning back to the girl at the bar, grinning. ‘Sorry for annoying you, Hols, this is my friend Willow. She’ll do anything for a dare.’
‘Hols’ looks unimpressed. ‘She still doesn’t get a drink without ID.’
‘I know, it was a mere joke.’ The girl rolls her eyes and stalks to the other end of the gleaming white bar. It sticks out like a sore thumb against the rustic brick walls lined with homely picture frames. Is this what the pubs are like in New Haw? All mismatched? Bit ugly? No theme?
I turn my head back to the boy, frowning at him. I am utterly confused. I don’t recognise him at all – or am I deliriously drunk? I stare at him in silent confusion, waiting for him to explain, but he just returns my gaze, saying nothing, a smug smile on his lips.
I feel the corners of my mouth twitch, curling up into an involuntary smile. ‘What the hell?’ I begin. And then I’m laughing. And I can’t stop. And he’s laughing too.
Oh, wine, oh, lovely, lovely, wine.
We’re outside in the lamplit garden, sitting on a cushioned leather sofa – I told you this pub is weird – sheltered from the rain by a wooden structure. We are sipping straight vodka from a flask he produced from his trouser pocket. His name is Dustin. I don’t know him, and he doesn’t know me. He just overheard my conversation with the bartender and knew I was going to get kicked out, so decided to save me from utter mortification and potential arrest, and come to my rescue. And I’m glad, because he is very nice, and we’re talking a lot, and he is sharing his secret flask of alcohol with me, which is very kind. He’s almost exactly a year older than me, as it turns out. He turned eighteen last week, and I’ve been seventeen for a couple of months now. He is wearing an oversized chequered jumper, with stripy trousers, and big leather Doc Martens. He stands out in a way I’d never dare to.
The Missing Pieces of Me: Discover the novel that will break your heart and mend it again Page 2
