Hide and Seek

by Amy Bird

  So I do it. Blood thumping in my ears, I phone the bank. I make a transfer from our savings to our current account, and then I find a sales assistant. I’m about to go to one of the non-ignorant ones, but then I think maybe I can negotiate a discount from the sycophantic one. Plus if he gets my money, he will definitely go and find out about Max Reigate and the word will have been spread.

  “I tell you what,” he says. “Just to keep it in the family, I’ll do 5% off for you.”

  And when he says that, it triggers something in my head. Keep it in the family. The piano. You’d keep it in the family. Where was the piano? Max Reigate’s piano? I’d got the lousy crib but where was Daddy’s piano? The instrument of genius? This one, this new shiny lovely one, would do for the time being, but I need the very one his fingers have caressed. The one I would have sat under. The one whose stool I would have sat on, and echoed the movements of Daddy’s fingers. Sophie Travers. She must have it. She took his life and then she took the piano. And with it my life. My under piano, concert hall, genuine life. Well. When I find it and her, by which time I will have learnt to play, I will play her a tune from Daddy’s concerto. And I will make her cry. I will make her suffer.

  We arrange delivery. The piano will appear at the appointed time at Guy’s Campus, then be cajoled upstairs to my room. With a last loving gaze and stroke of my new friend, I leave the shop and head out into the open. I’ll have to make sure I get to the bank statements before Ellie does for a while, that’s all. But if I treat her nicely, show excitement about little Leo, as he’s to be called, she won’t know anything, won’t suspect. In fact, I’ll call her now, be nice to her. Offer dinner. All that kind of thing. I pull out my phone. Seven missed calls, not heard over my new friend’s music. One from what looks like a Guy’s Campus number; six from voicemail. I call voicemail. It’s James. My heart skips a (Max Reigate) beat. Maybe he’s found something! I listen. No. No. He has found nothing. He sounds indignant. ‘I know it’s your lecture, Dr Spears, and I’m sure any new line of research is interesting, but I really must focus on typing up my existing research notes so you can feed them into your delivery notes. Max Reigate, in my view, having looked into it, is a dead end.’

  Pompous urchin! Pompous cretinous urchin! The arrogance of failure. He lacks passion, that’s what it is. He’s been in that library, on the search engine, driven only by facts and task-completion. Of course Max Reigate isn’t in an index somewhere. You have to feel your way to the right sources, hunch your way through the clues, make links that the indexers haven’t found and then, then you will arrive at your answer. Like Ellie did, even though her answer was wrong. Shame I can’t turn to her for help, that all this must remain secret, for now. It’s all right when it’s her theories, not when it’s mine. Mine aren’t believable, apparently. Mine are the product of an over-worked, over-grieved brain, I’m told. Even the mumblings I made last week, before I’d worked out the full theory, are the sorts of misogynistic ramblings that you wouldn’t expect a man whose wife is about to embark on motherhood to put forward. Says Ellie. Except they’re not. They’re true. I know; the dreams and the memories have told me.

  So I’m not going home to Ellie, not yet. I’m going back to Guy’s Campus. It’s me alone who has to find out about Max Reigate as a research subject. Me alone who will find the proof to back up my facts. Otherwise we will progress this slowly forever. I’ll placate Ellie later with flowers. Much later. For now, I must search. Because if I can confront Sophie Travers with the truth of my talk and die theory, if I can spread the word to the attendees at my lecture about what she did, that will be a start on the justice my father deserves. The rest won’t be so much justice, as revenge.

  Chapter Nine

  -Ellie-

  You know, I am going to make an awesome mother. Totes amaze, in fact. Because look at what a good wife I am. How much insight, instinct and forbearance I have. Look at Will there, sleeping soundly beside me. All because of me. I knew the funeral was the right way forward for him. Used my insight and intuition – I can read him like a book. There’s nothing he can keep from me. And now, since I detected what he needed, life can continue. The working late tonight, it was unexpected, but such a good sign. His mind is clear of grief, and he can focus on his work again. That’s what he told me, and it’s so evident from the way he is holding himself. All positive and springy. And he brought me flowers! Beautiful, beautiful lilies. Bit funereal, but he’s a boy, so he can’t be expected to know that. I’ve put them in water (a vase that Gillian gave us, crystal, heavy, but hopefully Will won’t remember where it came from) so I can enjoy them again when we go down for breakfast.

  Because Will has promised to make me breakfast. And he’s promised to paint the nursery when he gets the chance as well. Although he’s said that might not be for a while, as he’ll have to do a bit more late work at the university, on the research for this lecture. I’ll be so proud of him when he delivers it; I’m even going to come along and watch. Sneak into the back, so he can’t tell me not to come, keep me out with protestations of gore. Takes more than a few bloodied heads to frighten me! And he’s started kissing my stomach again, talking to little Leo about how they can play together (football, presumably), planning out the life for our new family. They say men only behave like this out of guilt, but that’s nonsense. For Will, it’s all from love. Love for Leo, love for me.

  We haven’t had sex again, since that night before the funeral. But, you know. He’s been working hard. I don’t look that great. Clearly. Despite all the baby doll nightdresses I’ve been elephantinely floating (/stomping) around in. And the leg-stretches I’ve been doing in front of him. At least, I guess, he’s kissing my stomach. The Leo bit of me. Even if he’s not interested in the Ellie bit of me right now. That will change, in time. I hope.

  And this happiness, Will’s happiness, is all because of me. All because I know best.

  I’ve got a little plan, as well, that I’ve been working on. Was thinking about it earlier, as a way to keep his spirits up. Not suspenders, even though that used to do the trick. No, something more advanced than that. Yes – to make up for his father being dead, I’m going to find him his mother. That’s right. I’m going to track down Sophie Travers.

  Shouldn’t be too difficult, should it, if I look in the right place? And then, for Will’s birthday or something, I can present him with the details, and they can have this beautiful reunion. I know he went through a little phase of hating her, over the last couple of weeks, but I’ve told him that was silly (and actually, disrespectful, given my current condition). Particularly when the real witch is so obviously Gillian. Wouldn’t be surprised if she’d done Max in herself out of jealousy (still convinced there was a whole world of desire going on there, from those photos) or just because she wanted her own little boy. Probably couldn’t have their own, Gillian and John – can’t exactly imagine either of them being procreative firecrackers.

  So yes, I’m going to track down Sophie Travers. Maybe I should leave it to Will. Maybe I should wait until he wants to find her. But he must want to find her – who doesn’t want their mummy back? But I have to do it in secret, until I’ve actually found her, otherwise I’ll be accused of getting his hopes up again, like with Max. She’ll come back, and that will be proof that she hasn’t really abandoned him, not long-term. She can explain it all. And then we’ll have this lovely, lovely extended family. Mummy and Daddy, my much-missed Mummy and Daddy will be part of it too, in spirit. That way, they get to meet their grandson, to know of his existence. Even if it’s Sophie who actually plays with him. And unlike Gillian, Sophie will be so grateful to me, because I’ll have brought back her son to her after all these years. So she will do whatever I want, and she’ll look after Leo for free, so I won’t have to work, but can still go out and have some Ellie-time, and Will of course will be eternally grateful as he should be. Might even express his gratitude in the bedroom. Yes, I can see it now. Perfect harmony, in all things. All I need to
do is track her down.

  I did do a little bit of research today, to take a break from buying maternity clothes on-line (got to look my best for Will’s lecture, when the time comes). Which, in turn, I was doing to take a break from looking at job sites. Because, would you believe, Will has started on at me about getting a job? Now. As in pre-birth. I tried to tell him that I am preparing for the biggest job in the world: motherhood. I explained I need to work out my whole approach, have a plan, so I can be as good a mum as Mum. Then he started on about how important it is for Leo to have a role model. Well, that is dumb. He has a role model: Will. And anyway, I told Will that I don’t want to do science and teaching again. He told me it wouldn’t have to be in that exact space. Like, I could go and work at an academic publisher. Or an academic bookshop. Well, I searched ‘academic non-science bookshop jobs for pregnant women’ and nothing of much use came up. So I did my real research instead. My Sophie research.

  I started in Dartington. Couldn’t find any Reigates in the on-line phone book. Or any Travers – which is silly, because it’s such an old English name. Like in P.G. Wodehouse or something. But anyway, I have found some local estate agents. I’ll call them in the morning. What I’ll do is, I’ll say I’m from one of these ‘find your ancestor’ TV programmes, looking up the history of my ancients – mention Max Reigate himself, why not, and say I’m positively desperate to find his former home, or that of his family. It won’t matter, you see, for data protection, if I say he’s already dead. So they’re bound to tell me. And then I can go on a little field trip. See if the people in the house fancy telling me where Ms Travers is now. Or for all I know, she might even still be there. Just longing to see the son she gave away, and to pick up that old life again.

  I kiss Will lightly on the temple before I slide down into the covers for sleep. Not a big enough kiss to wake him; I’m not stupid. But just firmly enough for it to reach his subconscious world that I’m looking after him, that I know best, and that I’m going to find him his other mummy. I’ll still be chief Mummy, of course, the best Mummy. Because our baby Leo will be newest and shiniest. But mummy number two will be nice too. I know she will. For all of us.

  Chapter Ten

  -Sophie-

  I often wonder what it would be like if I saw my own son again. Alain isn’t bringing his son round this time, thank goodness. Not that there’s anything wrong with Alain’s son. Matthieu is the epitome of filial perfection. He wears a suit, practises his already impeccable English on me, and is studying hard for his two-part Masters in philosophy. It’s just that we have to behave when Matthieu is here. Which is a bit awkward if Alain wants to stay the night. Matthieu, conscientious boy that he is, always wants to walk papa to the Métro. It’s only ten minutes to Place de la République from here, but he worries for old papa, particularly late at night. Would shock him, I suppose, to think of his father as a sexual being. Which he definitely is.

  Not just sexual, of course. He is kind, funny in his own gently amusing way, and an excellent cook. Which is just as well, seeing as he has his own restaurant. Never got that Michelin star, never expanded it out into the chain that it deserves. But he continues to create these beautiful dishes, which his loyal patrons love. And he loves them right back – beams with pleasure when he comes out of the kitchen at the end of the night, still wearing his little pinny.

  ‘Bravo!’ people will shout, and applaud. ‘Encore!’ the cheeky ones will say. And he will then vanish back into the kitchen, and two minutes later appear with a crêpe in the shape of a star, so sugar-coated that it twinkles. Or his signature pot d’amour, a heart-shaped chocolate mousse so rich it really is orgasmic and which spurts out brandy cream when you insert your fork. Not classy, maybe, but nice. And amusing, in a safe kind of way. Then he’ll sit around with you while you finish your wine, and he’ll have the odd glass himself, talking to new clientele or schmoozing the old regulars.

  That was how I first met him. The school’s Head of Music was having a birthday dinner and, as usual, invited me and his other staff along, expecting me to decline. Just to serve him right, I accepted, and stayed until the bitter end. And then there was this friendly little chef beside me, saying ‘Alors mademoiselle, parlez-moi de vous.’ Usually, those open questions asking me to tell someone about myself would terrify me. But that night, in that ambience, I could just tell him who I was at that moment. A teacher of music and English, alone but alive. I never thought I’d see him again, but when he asked me for my number, why refuse?

  And so, on continue And like his cooking he is nice, and safe. I have to seem nice and safe too, of course, so none of it, none of the past, comes out. He must know there is some past. You do not get to my age without some. But so far, he has not intruded. It’s early days yet, but if we marry, or if we just live together, he’ll by then know everything about me, in the moment: how I brush my teeth; which side of the bed I sleep on; my favourite cereals; where I go for a run; what makes me cross; what makes me laugh; how many glasses of wine I can take before I get tipsy; how I deal with a hangover. Those are the things that matter, don’t they, to a lover, to a husband? Where is the past in that, if it doesn’t concern them? Why does it matter what I’ve done? This is my new second life. Which I must deserve a chance to preserve. Mustn’t I? Because it allows me a chance to live in the moment, too. To worry less about what I’d do if I saw my own son again. Who may not treat me with such filial respect as Matthieu already does. Who may evoke that old anger again. From whom I had to flee, in case he ended up dead too.

  Because that’s the problem. If I saw Guillaume again, the result would not be good. I may not be able to hold back. And then, the past would not hold back either. It would all come out. And then Alain would know. And this second life, it would be gone.

  And there is the bell. Not calling time, but sounding the arrival of Alain and his Camembert, which we will melt and enjoy together. There may even be a bit of saucy food foreplay. But there will be nothing else. Just the two of us, in this flat, no outside world. Like it used to be with Max, before Guillaume came along and changed everything. Except, not quite. Because nothing could be like me and Max. Not really. But I will treasure it for what it is. And I pray, I hope, this time I can keep it.

  Chapter Eleven

  -Will-

  Come on, come on, come on! There must be something! Something in this pile of journals and articles and clinical case reports that in the last few weeks of searching I have built up around me. Otherwise, what is the point of all this paper? Of all this midnight oil being burnt? Of leaving an increasingly pregnant Ellie at home alone? There must be an answer!

  Sure, there are hints. I am creating a little trail of mentions. ‘A case in the South West showed…’ from a journal article published a couple of years after the relevant time. Or ‘On epidural haematoma, recent high-profile cases including the following have shown…’ And then they list the wrong examples. Why not list conclusively – all of them, not just your chosen one? Otherwise that is not reporting back on your research. It is just selecting the facts that suit you best.

  And so these little trails, they get my hopes up. I flick my eyes straight to the footnotes or endnotes. I go to indexes to find his name. But it’s never there. Never a mention of the tragic loss of the dazzling pianist. It’s as though his death has been cut out of history, the history that I know must have happened.

  Maybe if I could work in a more organised fashion, if my notes were not all around me on the floor, that would assist. But I have the piano now, you see. It is theoretically my desk. The other staff, they will not believe me. And so, I don’t let them come in here any more. They can’t come in during the day, when I am at home, sleeping, because I lock it. The cleaners don’t come in and nor should they; I cannot have them vacuuming up my precious breadcrumbs of research.

  I pull myself up from the floor and walk to the musical desk. It is beautiful. It waits, silently, for me always. Patience is almost its best feature. But
that’s supplanted by its smoothness. For my piano, our piano – it belongs to Max as well, really, in spirit – has this wonderful wooden sheen. Over the weeks since it arrived, I’ve learnt to play the outside as much as the inside. A sweep of the hand over the lid makes a delightful swoosh. So quiet and so private it could never be a concert. But I am the only audience that this piano needs. Apart from Max, of course. He is always here. And yet, in the papers that litter the floor, not here enough.

  I take out the polish and the duster from the piano stool. This always soothes me, this time of night, when I’ve reached ultimate frustration. Now I spray the polish on my beautiful friend and I ease the cloth methodically up and down that fine lid. Along and back, along and back, along and back. Just the motion makes my breathing a little easier. Then, finally, I am ready to go inside. I lift the lid. I sit on the stool. I confront the music that is always there.

  Right hand in place first. Then left hand. I’ve learnt, for this first bar of the piano’s entrance, where my hands should go. I had to look up the positions on the internet. But now I have it. And one day, when I’ve mastered this bar, I will get onto the next one. Try, this time, now, to get the right and the left moving at the same time. Think, feel, what Max must have done. Slowly bring the fingers down in a chord. Move instantaneously – no, too slow! Instantaneously to the next position with the left hand, start the flowing melody with the right. Again, again, quicker, quicker, quicker. Why can’t I do this? I am Max’s child. This music is part of who I am. Why don’t I have the ability just to make my fucking hands move like they should? Just three different chords, three little descents of my left hand onto the keys, at same time as moving around my right hand a little. I’m a grown man. I should be able to do it!