Mine

by J. L. Butler

  ‘We’re filming it tomorrow afternoon to go out later that night. The police think I should speak. I should definitely be there. With her family.’

  ‘You should speak to a lawyer before you do anything. You need to tread carefully.’

  ‘What did your colleague say?’ he asked after another moment.

  ‘Tom?’

  Martin looked at me. ‘You were there long enough.’

  I heard jealousy in his voice, and I liked it.

  ‘He’s recommended a couple of lawyers. You should speak to Matthew Clarkson before you talk to the police again. Robert Kelly keeps things out of the press,’ I said, giving him the phone numbers that Tom had written down.

  ‘Keeps what things out of the press?’

  ‘Speculation. The press have to report things very carefully these days, but sometimes insinuation gets through the net.’

  I heard him make a soft exhalation of breath.

  ‘This is mad,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘All I did was go to her house. Our house.’

  I nodded, with a sense of shame and disappointment.

  I thought about that Monday night when I had followed Donna to the restaurant, and then with Martin to her house. I could picture myself in the pub across the road. But my recollections beyond the first couple of drinks were as clear as they had been when I had woken up on Pete’s sofa. At the time, I was embarrassed at the whole sorry episode, ashamed that I had blacked out and woken up with ripped tights and bloody legs, but now I was angry that I had no fragments of memory that could help Martin.

  Had I not been so drunk, I might have known the exact time that Martin left Donna’s house. I might have seen the front door fly dangerously open; I might have even gone across the road and closed it.

  ‘What do they think has happened to her?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Martin, his voice barely audible.

  ‘Well, let’s think about it,’ I said as coolly as I could. ‘Perhaps she’s OK,’ I added after a moment’s thought. ‘Perhaps she’s at a spa or a friend’s, or she’s in John O’Groats or Land’s End and hasn’t thought to call, or has thought about calling but hasn’t bothered because she wants to scare you shitless.’

  ‘And perhaps she’s not OK,’ said Martin, meeting my gaze and holding it.

  ‘It’s a possibility.’ I nodded. ‘Maybe she got up after you’d left and came after you,’ I said, my mind racing through the myriad of options. ‘The streets are dark at that time, empty. There are drunk drivers on the road. She could have been knocked down, a hit-and-run, and someone panicked.’

  ‘We can’t think like that.’

  ‘We have to,’ I said, feeling my eyes widen. ‘Donna has been missing for five days and the police are interviewing you. She also could have been hurt in some way. Assaulted.’

  Martin let out a sound, a low, guttural moan of the wounded, and when he looked up there was so much pain in his eyes I didn’t know where to look.

  ‘I know this is hard, but you’re going to have to toughen up, right now.’

  He stood up and paced the grey rug slowly as if his mind was in torment. When he looked back at me, it was as if he had come to a decision.

  ‘Look, I’m tired. I need to get some sleep. There’s nothing we can do now.’

  His body language had become instantly defensive and I knew what he was saying.

  ‘I should go,’ I said softly.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  I didn’t say anything, simply stood up and picked up my bag. I’d been dismissed and I couldn’t help feeling piqued.

  ‘With the police coming here, and Donna being missing, I just think . . . I just think we probably shouldn’t see each other for a few days.’

  I knew what he was saying made sense, but as I looked at him and our eyes locked, for a fleeting moment, I hated him.

  Chapter 20

  I slept with my mobile phone under my pillow – although ‘slept’ would be overstating the facts. Rather I lay there in bed, tense and fretful, going over and over everything, examining every tiny facet until I gave in and scrabbled in my bedside drawer and dry-swallowed a sleeping pill. And even then, I couldn’t relax. My mind felt like that moment when the bathwater is swirling around the plughole, faster and faster, forming a silvery whirlpool that sucks everything down, down . . .

  But at some point I must have slept because the humming of my iPhone made my eyes snap open. I snatched it up, thumbing the button, pushing the hair from my face.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I haven’t woken you, have I?’

  A voice. Female, light and good humoured. I frowned, trying to reboot my brain.

  ‘Clare?’

  A tinkle of laughter. A sound from happier, more carefree times.

  ‘Someone had a late night.’

  ‘You could say that,’ I replied, sitting up and pushing the pill bottle by the bed away with one finger. The label read ‘Somnovit’, which almost sounded healthy, like a Victorian tonic, but those little tablets filled my head with straw and pushed bamboo slivers under my nerve endings every time. I was prescribed them years ago by my first doctor, who told me that people with bipolar disorder often found it hard to sleep. But sometimes there was no alternative when my mind was humming like the inside of a hive.

  Realizing why she was calling, I sat back against the pillow, bracing myself for her words. With a televised media appeal planned for that evening, I didn’t doubt that Donna’s disappearance would have made the Sunday papers.

  ‘Just checking what time you were planning on getting down here,’ said Clare, her voice too perky for what I was expecting.

  ‘Getting down here?’ I said slowly.

  I’d assumed she was calling about Martin. That she’d read a story about Donna Joy and put two and two together. Worked out that he wasn’t just my lover – that he was my client. Worked out that I hadn’t been truthful.

  ‘Although at this rate I’m going to have to ask you to bring a paintbrush and overalls,’ she continued breezily. ‘We were here until midnight last night and it’s still not bloody finished. Had to come back at eight to fix coat-hooks in the cloakroom. I am officially now an expert with a Black and Decker power tool.’

  There was an almost audible click in my head.

  ‘The launch,’ I said with relief. Tonight was the grand opening of the restaurant. It all came back in a rush, all the emails and snatched conversations, the scrabble to find chefs and waitresses and an interior designer who could make Dom’s place look like The Ivy on the cheap. It had consumed Clare for months, so much so that she obviously didn’t have time to read the weekend papers. But tonight – oh crap, tonight – there was a cocktail party for family and friends and, vitally, the food journalists they had bribed and cajoled into attendance.

  ‘Or you can come round to the house for drinks first?’ said Clare, an edge creeping into her voice. ‘I’m sure I can leave Dom at the restaurant for a while and we can get ready over here together?’

  ‘About tonight . . .’ I said slowly.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot,’ she teased. ‘Martin. Do you want to bring him?’

  ‘No,’ I said too quickly. ‘I’m just not sure I can come.’

  ‘Not come?’

  There was disappointment in her voice, of course. But it was worse than that. It was as if she had been expecting it. Like some people just can’t be relied upon.

  ‘Something’s come up,’ I said, knowing how pathetic it sounded.

  ‘But you’ve known about tonight for weeks and Dom’s had a ham especially imported from Jerez . . .’

  I was beginning to get impatient, my attention drifting back to where I had left it before my slumber. The iPad, abandoned on the duvet, demanded to be picked up and I knew there was only one easy way to get my friend off the phone.

  ‘OK, I’ll come,’ I said, knowing deep down that it was a bad idea. ‘I’ll just have to move some things around and come straight to the restaurant. That OK?’r />
  The relief in her voice told me just how important it was to her and I felt worse for having tried to back out.

  ‘Thanks, Fran,’ she said eagerly. ‘See you at seven?’

  ‘OK,’ I replied, wondering already what excuse I could give to be gone by eight.

  ‘This it, love?’

  I looked up at the taxi driver, slightly startled, and saw a restaurant front with brightly lit windows. Even from here, I could hear the beat of music and the hum of conversation; there were people standing on the pavement outside holding wine glasses and forbidden cigarettes.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I said, stepping out and straightening my dress as best I could. It was then I saw the sign above the building’s propped-open door: Dominic’s, spelled out in gold script. I’ll admit I was momentarily annoyed; it was completely typical that Dom had named it after himself, despite the fact that it had been Clare’s hard work and money that had made it happen.

  As I stepped inside, I took a breath, my eyes scanning the room, the sea of faces, smiles, laughter. The entire restaurant was full of people who didn’t care about anything other than how long the free bar was going to last.

  My irritation was undercut by relief then pride as I saw Clare’s beaming smile across the room.

  ‘It’s a triumph,’ I said, going over and hugging her tight. ‘I can’t believe how many people are here.’

  ‘I know,’ Clare laughed. ‘We had convinced ourselves that it’d be just us and the waiters. Can you believe Sophie Cole brought the guy from the Times along? I thought she was just showing off, but they’re here. Dom practically got him into a head-lock as soon as they arrived and he’s been feeding him champagne ever since.’

  ‘Sophie Cole is here?’

  I didn’t know why that made me feel nervous. Sophie had been nothing but warm and welcoming to me, but she was a sharp and shrewd customer, an idea that put me on edge.

  Dom looked up from his huddle with the critic and offered me a distracted wave. I felt bad for being so uncharitable about the name – what else was he supposed to call his restaurant? – and waved back.

  ‘So did you get whatever it was sorted?’ asked Clare.

  I glanced back at my friend, searching her face for clues, wondering what – if anything – she had been discusing with Sophie. Was it innocent chit-chat or a probing question? It was sometimes hard to tell. That was the downside to being friends with a therapist, you could never completely relax. Not when you had something to hide.

  ‘Just some work thing,’ I said, grateful for the arrival of a waiter with a tray of wine glasses.

  ‘Big case?’

  I realized with a flash of piqued bemusement that she didn’t know. She still didn’t know about Donna’s disappearance. Didn’t know about Martin’s torment, my torment.

  I nodded as I took the first sip of alcohol.

  My confession – that my lover Martin wasn’t just married, he was also my client – was on the tip of my tongue. And I didn’t want it to stop there. I wanted to tell Clare everything: that I had followed Martin and Donna on the night she disappeared. That perhaps I had seen something important, knew something about the disappearance but couldn’t quite recall it. Not only was Clare my best friend, I knew this was the sort of thing that she could help me with – after all, she had spent her entire working life dealing with the complexities of the mind. But how could I explain something I didn’t understand myself?

  But Clare carried on speaking before I could say anything.

  ‘You don’t have to work seven days a week you know. Even I’ve gone old-school and given myself Sundays off.’ She smiled as she sipped her champagne.

  Something else she didn’t know: I wasn’t late to her party because I’d been working. I had spent the entire afternoon at the gym, working out feverishly, alternating between trying to forget about the fact that Martin was at that moment filming the police appeal about Donna’s disappearance, and obsessing about every detail of it. Where he might be, what he might say, all the while clutching my phone, wondering if it would vibrate in my hand with news from Martin.

  ‘About Martin . . .’ I began.

  ‘I’m glad it’s just us tonight,’ she smiled, cutting me off. ‘You know, when you said you weren’t coming tonight, I thought you’d blown me off again for sex.’

  Her voice was low, playful, but I couldn’t ignore the soft rebuke. After all, the last time I’d seen Clare was at the gallery event where I’d invited her along, only to stay an hour before I slipped off.

  The realization that those easy, carefree moments were just a handful of days ago made me feel so sad that the air seemed to disappear from my lungs.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that . . .’

  ‘You know, I read a piece of research the other day. Apparently, falling in love costs people two close friendships. Not enough hours in the day apparently, something’s got to give. So I’d better take whatever scraps you can give me.’

  There was a resentful edge to her voice and I knew I had to defuse it.

  ‘We’ve been busy. Work has been crazy and you’ve had Dom’s restaurant to sort out . . .’

  My resolve to tell her about Martin crumbled. It was clear that Clare blamed him for the fact that I had not seen much of her for the past few weeks, so the best course of action was not to talk about him.

  Clare shook her head and took a longer swig of champagne. ‘No, we haven’t stopped for a minute – the paint is still wet,’ she said gesturing up to the ceiling with her glass. ‘We were still finishing up this afternoon. It’s like that old joke about the queen, how she thinks everywhere smells of fresh paint. Must be the same with restaurant critics.’

  ‘You have a bit of Dulux just there,’ I said, touching a pale fleck in her hair.

  Clare’s hand came up to touch mine, her palm covering my fingers.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘It wouldn’t have been the same without you here, you know that, don’t you?’

  Her gaze was so intense, I had to look away, only to see Sophie, coming towards me through the crowds.

  She was fixing a shawl over her shoulders looking as if she were about to leave. I froze, caught between wanting to speak to her and wanting to hide.

  ‘Hello, Fran,’ she said kissing me on the cheek.

  I looked around for Clare, but she had gone.

  ‘Dom’s thrilled you came with your friend,’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘It was so kind of you to sort that out.’

  ‘I told Clare I’d try and I like to stick to my word. Besides, I was hoping to see you.’

  ‘Me?’

  She stayed silent for a moment, which was long enough to make me feel uncomfortable.

  ‘I assume you’ve heard about Donna,’ she said lowering her voice.‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I can’t answer that,’ I said honestly. ‘No one knows.’

  Her eyes watched me and I began to feel like a dormouse under the shadow of a circling hawk.

  ‘How much do you know about her?’

  ‘Donna? Very little,’ I replied.

  ‘Really? You’re Martin’s counsel.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I said, not meaning to sound defensive.

  ‘You’re a great lawyer, Fran. I bet you found out everything you could about Donna when you were preparing his case.’

  ‘I have no idea why she’s disappeared, Sophie, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘None whatsoever?’

  I could imagine her interviewing prospective employees at the Gassler Partnership, imagine how unsettled she would make them feel. No one would dare tell her a lie, or embellish a CV, because Sophie Cole was the type of person who would catch you out.

  I shook my head and she pulled her shawl a little tighter around her body.

  ‘Have you ever met her?’ she said, not fliching in her gaze.

  I didn’t know if there was an accusation in her question but I decided that the best course of action was to a
void it. My fleeting meeting with Donna Joy that day in court was barely anything anyway.

  ‘She’s smart. If no one has seen her for a week, there’s a reason for that.’

  ‘You think she’s trying to manipulate Martin, somehow?’

  ‘Either she’s causing trouble, or she’s in trouble. As much as I’ve been worried about the business ever since she filed for divorce, I hope it’s not the latter.’

  My cheeks had gone hot. I looked up towards the lights, noticing a few patches of ceiling that Dom and Clare had not painted, and when I glanced back at Sophie, she was still watching me.

  ‘You don’t look well,’ she said. ‘Do you need some water?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Well,’ she replied. ‘I was just leaving.’

  I stood rooted to the spot. I didn’t dare turn and watch her go out of the restaurant, although a part of me sensed that she was watching me.

  I glanced at my watch to check the time, wondering if the televised appeal for Donna’s disappearance was the reason Sophie was leaving early too.

  Seven forty-five already. I couldn’t see Clare anywhere and I was glad about that. I’d shown my face and I could go now, although there was not enough time to get home. Instead, I drifted away from the main room of the restaurant towards the stairs. No one noticed me weave through the crowds and head upstairs. I was vaguely aware of the plans for the first-floor space of the property. Clare had told me that if, when, the restaurant took off, it would be made into a private dining space or even a designer flat they could rent out for a princely sum to help subsidize Dominic’s.

  But as I looked around the scruffy space, I knew neither of those plans were anywhere near being realized. There were just three rooms up here, all tired and semi-furnished. Clearly, someone – Dominic most likely – had been using one room as an office and living room. There was a desk with a phone, and untidy piles of paper, and a flat-screen television sitting on a box facing an old sofa, with a games console tucked away to one side. My first guess was correct. This was Dom’s little hideaway, his man cave where he could while away a few hours on Call of Duty while supposedly working on restaurant business.