The Missing Pieces of Me: Discover the novel that will break your heart and mend it again

by Amelia Mandeville

  And he’s on his own at the pub, just like me – though everyone here seems to know him, so I suppose he’s not really alone. Apparently, he’s a regular here, he comes for the karaoke. They hold it twice a week, and tonight is one of the nights.

  ‘So, I take it your family aren’t all lawyers?’ Dustin smirks, handing the flask back to me.

  ‘Um, no, not exactly,’ I say sheepishly. ‘That was a bit of an embellishment.’

  ‘So what do they do?’

  I freeze. I can feel the familiar nerves and stomach-dropping dread. Are we going to talk about families now? Am I going to have to awkwardly dodge all the usual generic questions? Or worse, what if I end up giving too much away? I feel like the combination of the vodka and his hazel eyes could make me spill everything if I’m not careful. I give what I hope is an offhand laugh and self-consciously brush the hair from my face. ‘Um, well … ’

  ‘You OK?’

  I look up at Dustin; he’s watching me with a concerned expression.

  ‘Look, I didn’t mean to intrude or anything. You don’t have to tell me about your family if you don’t want to.’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Sorry, I think I’m a bit drunk. I had the good part of a bottle on the way here.’ I laugh awkwardly.

  He arches an eyebrow. ‘On a Wednesday? Now you’re making me feel boring.’ He’s smiling again. I like his smile.

  I grin back at him.

  ‘Obviously, you have to have a bottle of wine on a Wednesday, catch up! That’s what all the cool kids do now.’

  ‘Oh, that’s what they do? I’m always late with the trends,’ he says, his eyes still not leaving my face. He’s a funny-looking guy, really proudly wearing his mismatched clothes like they’re all the rage. Is this his everyday attire? Or is this for the karaoke? He has a tiny hoop dangling from his ear, so tiny you wouldn’t notice unless you really stare at it. And suddenly I realise I am staring. Shit. But then again, so is he. We’ve been staring for a little bit too long, so there’s that pause. He realises and clears his throat awkwardly. ‘Wait, this is so unfair.’

  ‘What is?’ I say. What does he mean?

  ‘You already know my embarrassing hobby – karaoke. So what’s yours?’

  I’m so relieved that I don’t even think before I answer. ‘I like to knit!’

  Did I really tell just him about my knitting? Wow. So cool, Willow.

  Dustin eyes widen. ‘Sorry, what? Are you secretly ninety?’

  I bite my lip, trying to hold in my embarrassed laughter. ‘It’s actually fun. I’ll teach you someday.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  I nod my head and wink at him. ‘I always keep my promises.’

  ‘And what brings you here tonight, when you could be having a wild night of knitting?’

  I take another swig from the flask. ‘Feeling pissed off at the world. Pissed off at people,’ I say, thinking it’ll come off cool and edgy. Instead it sounds whiny and I realise I’ve opened myself up to more questions. But Dustin just gets to his feet and offers me his hand. ‘Sounds to me like you need to let off some steam. How’s your karaoke?’

  I take his outstretched hand. ‘I’ve never even tried it. Like ever.’

  Dustin feigns outrage.

  ‘Must be a sign. Maybe you were meant to walk into this place.’

  I bite my lip, feeling excitement flush my face. ‘Obviously a sign. You’d better do a duet with me though, I’ll be super offended if you say no.’

  He grins at me. ‘One condition: it has to be an ABBA song.’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ I say, before grabbing his hand and dragging him inside.

  I can be anyone with him, absolutely anyone, cos he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know the real me.

  Chapter 6

  Dustin

  Mum stares at me from the doorway. She looks the same. Her cropped blonde hair might be shorter than it used to be, but it still has that slight off-centre parting that she’d always complain about. Only when I look closer do I notice the small signs of the two years that have passed. The extra creases around her brown eyes, shiny now with tears, and the slightly less pronounced cheekbones. For a moment she doesn’t say anything, then I feel her arms around me, pulling me towards her, Zara still cradled in my arms. She smells exactly as I remember her: of lavender and fluffy towels.

  ‘I’ve missed you, Dustin,’ she whispers, her voice choked with emotion.

  I’m thrown, I don’t know how to reply. After this amount of time, I had expected a much frostier reception. More dramatic. More … anything. Less … this.

  ‘I … missed you too, Mum,’ I mumble.

  Two years without trying to contact me and she’s acting like I’ve been gone a week. Thirty minutes I stood outside the house, pacing back and forth with Zara in her buggy, my stomach writhing like I was being eaten alive from the inside. And now this. Has she just decided to move on, forget any of it ever happened? I have so many questions, but I’m also so tired. So I just lean my head against her shoulder instead.

  After what feels like hours, Mum shuffles us both into the living room, telling me to take my shoes and coat off and asking about tea and would I like some and did I manage to grab something to eat on the train. Before I even have a chance to answer, she calls Alicia from upstairs, and my anxiety comes flooding back. The living room has only changed a little in the years I’ve been away. I think the walls have been painted a brighter white, but there’s still our cheesy family portrait on the wall. The wooden plaques engraved with This is a home not a house propped on the surfaces. The same diddy TV, that was always too loud or too quiet, impossible to get the volume just right. I am back.

  My not-so-little sister – she’s nineteen now – eventually comes downstairs, followed by a tall, dark-haired guy, who towers behind her. It is evident from the expression on her face that, unlike Mum, Alicia isn’t about to sweep the last two years under the carpet. I walk towards her, not sure what I’m going to do. Hug her? Shake her hand? It doesn’t matter anyway, because as soon as I approach her she backs away and, without saying a word, slides past me and sits on the sofa. Her boyfriend sits down next to her but not before he holds his hand up awkwardly and says ‘All right, mate? I’m Elliot, Alicia’s boyfriend,’ as if I couldn’t have worked that out for myself. I already know from her Facebook updates that he’s called Elliot, but for the last year or so he’s been Action Man in my head. Because he looks like an Action Man. Sharp jawline, electric blue eyes, messy hair that somehow looks carefully styled. It’s like someone has put him together from plastic parts. I already don’t like him. He just sits there, arm around Alicia, pulling her closer towards him protectively. He looks too perfect. At least he’s introduced himself to me, I guess. My sister, on the other hand, is silent as the grave.

  I was aware from Facebook that Alicia wasn’t going to look like the round-faced seventeen-year-old I remember. But even so, seeing her in person takes me by surprise. Her once long, auburn hair has been dyed black and cut into a short blunt bob, revealing the monkey-like ears that stick out from the sides of her small head. She has decorated them with loads of tiny glints of metal, and the side of her nose and her septum follow this theme as well. Her rosy cheeks, the spray of freckles across her nose that have always meant she looks a few years younger than she is, are still very much present, but she has none of the charming innocence that used to characterise her, none of the wide-eyed curiosity. She folds her arms and glowers at me.

  Mum sets cups of tea down on the coffee table, before flopping into an armchair with a loud exhale and a smile on her face, wiping another tear from her cheek. She’s acting as if everything in her life has just come together, like everything is great and we are a happy family – long have been, and always will be. Then she sees Alicia’s expression. Her smile fades away.

  I look back at Elliot. The more I stare at him, the more I notice the wrinkles by the sides of his eyes. He looks a lot older
in person.

  ‘How old are you, Elliot?’ I say to him.

  Alicia’s eyes widen. ‘Seriously? That’s the first thing you’re going to say to us?’

  I shrug. ‘I’m just making conversation.’

  ‘Oooh – biscuits!’ Mum mutters, quickly exiting the room, because, of course, the absence of biscuits is what’s making this otherwise normal situation so awkward.

  I feel like Alicia’s eyes are drilling into me. ‘Why does it matter, Dustin?’ she says coldly.

  ‘I’m twenty-eight,’ Elliot says quickly, obviously keen to defuse the tension.

  I do the maths. Alicia quickly chimes in. ‘It’s really not that big of a deal.’

  I shrug my shoulders. ‘I didn’t say anything.’

  I wanted to, but I didn’t.

  ‘Well, even if you did, it’s not like you were here to give your opinion so … ’

  Something tells me that’s going to be a familiar quip before long. I want to see Elliot’s reaction, but he’s just looking calmly at Alicia. Playing it very safe.

  ‘So this is Alicia’s niece?’ he asks, though he’s still looking at my sister, tapping her knee rhythmically with his finger.

  I pull Zara closer to me, so she’s leaning on my tummy rather than sitting on my knee. Alicia doesn’t say anything, though she’s now staring intently at Zara.

  ‘Yep,’ I respond. I feel almost self-conscious on Zara’s behalf.

  ‘I can’t believe you have a baby, Dustin,’ Alicia says slowly.

  You’re not the only one, I think. With everything that’s happened these past twenty-four hours, I feel like I’m struggling to process it all over again.

  Alicia grips Elliot’s hand, leaning forward to get a proper look at Zara, and shakes her head slowly in disbelief – or maybe it’s disgust. You know, I don’t even recognise this girl. ‘How are you a dad?’

  ‘Little Zara is gorgeous,’ Mum says, shuffling back in the room before I can answer, placing a plate of biscuits on the table.

  I wonder how Mum already knew Zara’s name, but I suppose Alicia has been keeping her posted on my social media.

  I look down at Zara and her eyes look up at mine, her small hand reaching out to grab my face. She is gorgeous, I don’t need to be told that. My heart drops, like an elevator crashing through the floor of my ribs, coming to a stop somewhere in my stomach.

  ‘Zara is so beautiful,’ Mum says, as if she thinks I didn’t hear her the first time.

  ‘Just like her mum,’ I whisper.

  All three look at me sharply. I know I’ve given them an opening to ask about Willow. But I’ve already decided I’m not going to tell them about her disappearing, or the visit from the police or any of that. I know what they’d say. Well, what Mum would say at least. And besides, how can I tell them anything, when all I have is questions?

  Chapter 7

  Willow

  Then – July 2017

  I’m snuggled up on the sofa, hot water bottle on my belly, knitting another one of my blankets. Gran is sitting on the other sofa, a cup of her redbush tea steaming on the table, book still in her hands though she’s not reading it because Corrie is on the TV. This is what most of our nights were like back in Brighton.

  Gran and I are fine now. She was already in bed when I got in from the pub the other day but almost as soon as I shut my bedroom door I heard her pad into the kitchen for a glass of water and I felt a pang of remorse. She’d been waiting up for me. I started to apologise the next morning but she held her hand up and said we should focus on settling in and forget all about it. Which I have. For the most part …

  The settling-in part is proving more difficult. Brighton with its hustle and bustle feels very far away. Usually in the summer holidays I’d be walking along the pier, skimming pebbles on the beach and eating ice cream. Instead I’m inside doing nothing but knitting and drawing and watching daytime TV, counting the minutes going by and wishing for a way to speed up time. My room doesn’t feel like my room. The fairy lights don’t help, the posters on my wall don’t help, the candles don’t help. Even knitting obsessively doesn’t help. I hug the hot water bottle closer to my tummy, and lean back into the cushions, pretending I’m actually paying attention to the TV.

  I don’t like how you have to drive to get anywhere here. In Brighton I could walk everywhere: to school, to the shops, to the beach, to the bowling alley. Here, I have to rely on lifts from Gee if I want to go anywhere. The flat Gran and I live in now is a bit bigger than the one we had at home. We have our own garden, a living room, and a dining room too. It feels more like a house. But still, it’s got nothing on the period flat we had at home. It was small, but it was perfect for us. I miss the big sash window in our old living room, that I would push up and open, then crawl through to sit cross-legged on the balcony at night, watching the stars nestle perfectly in the sky, listening to the rush of the waves. Now I look out of the small square window of my bedroom and see street lamps, and houses, and there’s no rush of waves, and no smell of salt. I miss my home. I miss Brighton. It was where I belonged.

  I move to the fireplace, pick up another set of knitting needles and drop back on the sofa, sighing.

  ‘Your tummy playing up, love? Shall I make a peppermint tea?’ Gran’s red-framed glasses are perched on the end of her nose.

  ‘A little. But I’m fine, Gran, thanks.’

  ‘You sure, sweetheart?’

  I nod and look pointedly back at the TV. But I can still feel Gran’s eyes on me.

  ‘You’re fitting in well here, right?’

  ‘There’s nothing to fit into, Gran,’ I mumble. Gran has more of a social life than me; she’s met people at bingo, at book club, at the country market where she helps out.

  It’s been a week since we moved and every single day I’ve had a text from Georgia asking if I want to go out with her and some friends. But I can never bring myself to go. It would be so awkward, everyone knowing each other and all the focus being on me as the new girl. All I ever wanted in Brighton was for people to include me, but now that Georgia is I realise I don’t want that either. What do I want?

  I hear Gran sigh. ‘You’re going to have to get used to it at some point, Willow.’

  ‘Well it’s not going to be for ever, is it?’

  Gran doesn’t reply and for a moment I think she’s going to ignore me and go back to watching Coronation Street. Then she says, ‘Sometimes a fresh start can be a really good thing. It was time for a change. And you know I wanted to be near Auntie Jayne and Georgia.’

  I don’t look up. What’s the point? We both know the real reason we left Brighton.

  I start stroking my necklace, fingers tracing the shape of the pendant.

  ‘Is that a new necklace? I meant to say I noticed you’d started wearing it since we’ve left Brighton.’

  Shit. I quickly drop my hand. ‘Georgia got it for me. As a kind of welcome present.’

  Gran smiles. ‘It’s nice you girls have the chance to spend so much time together now.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Just then my phone pings. Text from Gee, the usual.

  Hey, we are all going to Joe’s house, do you want to come?

  Soon she’s going to get annoyed if I keep saying no to things. But this basically sounds like a house party full of strangers and I can’t think of anything worse. Would everyone be drinking? Would they force me to drink lots too or question me if I said I didn’t want to? Would they be doing drugs in the bathroom? What would I wear? How would I get home? What time would I get home? What if someone suggests me staying over? What if they don’t have soap in their toilets? I’ve been to houses before that have no soap in their toilets.

  But if I ask Gee even one of those questions I know she’s going to roll her eyes through her phone and tell me to lighten up. But I can’t. I can’t lighten up. It’s just not that easy sometimes.

  Chapter 8

  Willow

  Then – July 2017

  Georg
ia tricked me.

  She texted me earlier asking if I fancied a film night at hers, something quiet and chill. I was surprised because quiet and chill is hardly Georgia’s vibe at the best of times, let alone on a Friday night. She has so many friends, it makes me feel dizzy just thinking about how she keeps track of them all.

  I haven’t told Georgia about the boy from the pub – Dustin. She’d make such a big deal of it and it’s not like I’ve spoken to him since that one night last week anyway. He liked the Willow of that night – drunk Willow, confident Willow. I don’t know what he’d think if he saw the real me.

  Georgia is grinning at me now, pleased with her deception. It is very clear we are not heading to hers for a movie night. She has pulled up in front of a field.

  ‘What the hell, Gee?’ I say. ‘I thought we were just stopping by the shops to get popcorn?’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘This was the only way I could get you out. You’re going to expire if you stay in that flat any longer. Besides, a couple of them will be in college with you in September so you should get to know them now.’

  It’s July. I don’t even want to think about September yet.

  Georgia gives me a shove. ‘Come on. Out you get.’

  The very last thing I want to do is step out of the car. But I can’t just sit here like a sulky child. I get out, slam the door, and follow Georgia through the field. I honestly feel like I could kill her. What sort of people hang out in a field?