Hide and Seek

by Amy Bird

  It’s not that I gave up. That’s not why I got a private detective. It’s because I know best. I know that if I’ve spent hours on the internet searching for someone and I still can’t find them, it’s because they’re not there. Not on the internet. Shocking as that sounds. It was like she didn’t want to be found, our Sophie Reigate, née Travers. Not so much as a picture on-line. However many combinations I put into Google, Sophie wasn’t there. But then, obviously, 1984 was pre-internet (at least for normal non-geek people). She never created a digital footprint. And she obviously never did enough to make herself super-famous. So as far as Google is concerned, she doesn’t exist.

  But because I know best, in my pre-mum state, I realised that the internet is not the only source of knowledge. Realised that what I needed was a foot soldier. With the little snippets of knowledge I owe to Miriam, the right person, in the right place, would be able to unwrap Sophie Travers from whatever Parisian anonymity is cloaking her. And when I told him, Monsieur Dufort, about the information I had, he told me it was more than enough to go on. A teacher, about sixty, also a musician, brunette with dark red lips. And a name: Sophie Travers.

  Will is going to be so pleased. It was meant to cheer him up, but now it’d be worth it just to go back to the status quo, whatever that is. Grab him back from wherever he is. Make him engage in us, as a family. There’s been a return to his tossing and turning recently, I’m afraid to say. The names he calls out vary: sometimes Sophie, sometimes Max. Once, even, the name we don’t mention. So I didn’t mention it, the next day. But it hurt, you know, that he’d say it in his sleep? He has been saying my name too, though, and little Leo’s, and the usual talk and die, hammer-type stuff. Plus Gillian and John. So it’s not exactly selective, his subconscious. But I will be listening for any more he says about that whore, the unmentionable one, from back then.

  Anyway, yes, so it’s not just about happy families. It’s also a restorative. For these dreams he seems to be having. Never tells me what he’s dreamt about. Never even admits to having dreams. Says he can’t remember them. Which may well be true. Or he may be trying to protect me from whatever inner demons he is still battling. And maybe that’s right. When your little ones grow up, you’ve got to allow them to have some secrets. As long as they’re not wicked or dangerous ones. Which Will’s can’t be. Because he’s my Will. And because in his waking time he is still being so helpful with the practical things. He’s totally remastered the nursery. Done it in this really stylish monochrome effect. More stylish, frankly, than I would have thought him capable of. Much as I hate to think that Gillian had any influence on him, he must have got more from her interior design skills than just having his life redecorated. It’s all black and white, the whole room. My favourite bit is the zebra. Or rather, an interpretation of a zebra. Its stripes are a bit funny. White ones much longer than the black ones, which only go a short way down its body. But anyway, very stylish. And he cleaned up the M.C.R. crib so that’s white and gleaming, with a little black and white cat toy sitting inside it, just waiting for Leo. A lion might have been more appropriate than a cat, but I suppose it’s the same family.

  The only thing that did worry me a little about the black and white was – Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it, what would worry me? The piano connection. That it’s all just a shrine to Max. Nothing to do with Leo at all. But then that’s just me being silly really. Must be. Because a zebra is just a zebra, not a piano. Isn’t it?

  I’m thinking like a private detective. That’s what it is. Questioning everything. Making connections. Unlike Will. He seems to question nothing. He didn’t even ask how my job interview went. So I told him it went really well, that they loved the fact I was pregnant – in fact, they wished all their new recruits were pregnant – and that they’ll probably call me back for another interview. He just nodded. Didn’t pick up on the irony at all. I don’t even think he was listening – too busy painting the zebras. There’s me, trying to give him a bit of extra hope, a bit of extra happiness, and he only has eyes for zebras. Still, they’re for Leo. Suppose it shows his dedication as a father-to-be.

  Hopefully M. Dufort will see some connections. I’m paying too much for a nil return. But I doubt there’s much risk of failure. He gave me a call, earlier today, M. Dufort, to tell me I should expect to receive his report today. He said – in perfect English, hardly a hint of an accent – that I was a very lucky lady. Because there was some kind of big celebration at a local restaurant, centred around Sophie. The chef toasting her, making all sorts of speeches about her past and her future. Easy for my own private dick – and for once, I don’t mean Will – to stare at her without being observed.

  So even though I’m still on the other side of the Channel, I’m getting so close now, I can feel it. Can almost feel her, Sophie, her French double-air-kiss on the cheeks as she welcomes me to the family. Or I welcome her to ours. Either way. I’ve planned my outfit. I have this really cool red, white and blue ensemble from Joules. If I wear a little beret, it will be just perfect. I’ve even started practising my French. Not that she just speaks French, of course. But it’s nice to make the effort. I’ve learnt how to say ‘Welcome to my new mother.’ “Bienvenue, ma nouvelle maman.” There’s a great pronunciation aid I found on the internet, says you pronounce it like bee y’ah ven –

  But never mind that now. As the bus nears my stop, I check my phone again. And, if I’m not mistaken, here it is. An email from M. Dufort. The report. I click to open it. There’s a covering message, which I skim through. ‘I would suggest at first that my client open the picture attached to check that she is happy that the woman on whom I have reported is the correct one.’

  My stop appears, and I do my usual ‘pregnant woman levering herself off seat’ routine. I waddle as fast as I can back home, go through the rigmarole of turning off alarms, washing my hands, and then – finally – I can do as suggested and open up the attachment.

  And yes, there she is. The thick brown-black hair. Dyed now, maybe, but still as lustrous. The deep-red lips. A bit thinner perhaps than the ones on the photo, with lines at the edges. But unmistakably the same woman whose photo was pointed out to me in the school corridor. Sophie Travers, I’ve found you.

  This time she is not just standing and staring – pouting – at the camera. She is deep in conversation with a man in a chef’s hat. A romantic conversation, maybe, because she has her hand on his forearm, and there’s a sparkle in her eyes. And on her finger, too, I see – from a rock of a ring. Her other hand is propping up her head, and she’s leaning forward. M. Dufort has caught her mid-word. The lips are pouting, maybe in some French vowel, and her skin is pulled taught over her enviable cheekbones. She looks happy, in love and relaxed. And so does the man with her, whoever he is. Max’s replacement, maybe. So she can’t have had a bad life. All I need to do is transport her life back over here and she can be happy, in love and relaxed back in the UK. A holiday, maybe, at first, but when she sees Will again, she’s sure to want to stay longer. Those Freudian or whatever tight-arsed analysts would probably say I’m looking for a new mummy for me. But I’m not. It’s all for Will. Plus I am my own new mummy – or soon will be.

  I open up the report attachment itself and read through. It’s all here. I’ve got the name of the school she works at, details of a fiancé – must be the man in the picture – called Alain, and an address. And even a phone number. M. Dufort has earned his wages. What we don’t have is an explanation as to why she left. But that will come in time. Soon, we’ll all be joking about it merrily. For now, all I need to do is dial the number.

  I punch it into the phone. I think at first that the line is engaged, but then I realise it’s the French dial tone. Aggressive and cold-sounding. Then a voice answers.

  “Allo?”

  “Sophie?”

  “Oui. Qui est à l’appareil?”

  “Oh, hi, Sophie. We haven’t spoken before. My name’s Ellie. I’m married to Will. Will Spears. Born Will Reig
ate. I believe he’s your son. I’m calling because – ”

  And then I realise I am talking to myself. Because the line has gone dead.

  Chapter Eighteen

  -Sophie-

  Shaking, shaking, I must stop shaking. But how, how can I when it’s here, it’s here, it’s finally happened. And oh God, the bile, the bile that’s in my throat. I haven’t felt this since, well of course, since it happened. I think I’m going to be sick. Eurgh-gh-gh! There we go. But what. What what what am I supposed to do now? This Ellie, she knows, she’s got my phone number, God knows how. And she’ll come here, with my son, this ‘Will’, Guillaume. And I’ll be face to face with the guilt and the shame and the horror of it all over again. And they’ll look with these accusing accusing stares, and Alain, Alain will happen to be here because life, it’s shitty like that. And even if they don’t accuse me of the worst crime a mother can commit, Alain will know that I have lied to him. That the life that I have created is a lie, that our engagement is a lie, our future is a lie. Why bother arguing the ‘woman of the moment’ idea? That I just am what I am in this moment. How easy would it be then for Alain to say oui, moi aussi, je veux vivre dans l’instant, mais l’instant, c’est parti. And he will be right. The moment, our present, it will have gone, and I will have to go too.

  But worse, worse than all that. I will have to see Guillaume’s face. And I cannot cannot cannot do that. Particularly not now, now that he may well resemble Max. I will come face to face with all that has been, all that can no longer be. With the horror of the moment, not this moment I am in with Alain, but that other moment. And again, again I wish we had not argued that evening. Wish I had not snapped. Wish I could undo all that cannot be undone.

  Except Alain. I don’t want to have to undo Alain. Undo this. The ring on my finger. The smile I had until even two minutes ago on my face. They are mine. I have as much right to them as anyone else. I do. I have told myself this and I must believe it. Even the worst criminal, when they have served their time, repented, deserves a second chance. But have I even served my time? Have I even repented? Is this what must happen now, when I see him, both of them, here in this apartment?

  So what do I have to do now? Do I have to run? Do I go again to Bois de Boulogne? Or do I leave Paris entirely? Start again, again?

  Oh, and the shaking, it has returned. I must sit, I must sit on the floor. I cannot go, I cannot start again. I must stay here and I must hope, I must hope that the Channel, it will be my moat and this Ellie, and this Will, they will not cross it. If they can find me here, then fine, I will move in with Alain. And the phone, it can ring and ring and ring but the mother of Will and the wife of Max won’t answer it. For she is not that now. She is the wife-to-be of Alain, the stepmother-to-be of Matthieu. She will not be confronted with the horror of the past. She will not, she will not, she will not. Because then the horror wouldn’t be in the past. It would be here, with me, again. And this time I may not be able to escape.

  Chapter Nineteen

  -Will-

  I keep the smile fixed on my face because I must, mustn’t I, convince Ellie that everything is OK. Even as I paint another of these creatures on the wall of the nursery, even as their black and white stripes taunt me. Whirling around, like the pianos that whirl in my dreams, they all sing the same tune: you have found nothing, nothing, nothing. You went to all those lengths, all that pain, with Flick, yet you still just have your hunch. But it’s a good hunch, a sound hunch, from the best instinct of one of the best specialist guts in London. Sophie Travers killed Max Reigate. Sophie Travers was an angry woman, always shouting, waving hammers, slapping people. And she hit Max with a hammer and he seemed OK and so went off to record his wonderful, wonderful music. But of course he wasn’t OK, because the blood, it was pressing, pressing, pressing on his brain. Accelerando, crescendo, fortissimo went the blood. As he without knowing faced his final decelerando, diminuendo, pianissimo into silence.

  Keep painting the piano-zebra. Brush up and down, up and down, up and down. Don’t let Ellie see you stop. Flick, the piano payments, all of them are ripe for discovery but I must keep my father-to-be excited face on. I must look over-the-moon and joyfully apprehensive and dotingly bewildered at all times. Come on, Zebra, with your F-sharp stripes, help me paint that image. Like I’ll have to paint for the students, and the public, at the lecture. They’ll expect proof, the students, I know they will. But that’s only because they’re so green. They don’t have instincts yet. They have foetus brains, stunted by lack of sunlight, days spent poring over books that contain ‘knowledge’ but not facts, not real hard facts about who killed who and why. And why they then ran away with their guilt and hid and hid so you couldn’t find them just like you couldn’t ever again find the father that they robbed you of.

  And Ellie, she’s talking now. What is she saying? She’s standing up. She seems angry.

  “How could you?” she is shouting and she’s clutching her phone. And I clutch the paint brush tighter because somehow, I know, she knows about one of the unknowable things. The piano? Flick?

  “What?” I ask, because I don’t know which one she has discovered. The worse one or the slightly less worse one. Whichever is which.

  And now she is holding her phone to my face and jabbing at the screen. It seems to be my Facebook page, the wall, there’s a post. From Flick.

  ‘So good to *catch up* last week. Let’s just hope the wife doesn’t find out. Oops…’

  There it is then. Flick’s revenge. The revenge that has to come when you whisper another woman’s name as your would-be lover is about to kiss you. Sophie, I’d murmured that night as Flick’s pouty red lips approached mine. Even when you say it is your mother’s name, that doesn’t help. The slap comes faster. The slap that triggers your memory of your mother’s slaps, that makes you say the name again, gets you slapped again, until the door is the only viable option. But that’s blocked by a shouting woman calling you every name under the sun. Last week, thirty years ago. Now.

  “While I was running around fucking Dartington to find your fucking mother you’re running around with Felicity bloody Stephens! What the fuck were you thinking, Will? Is this how you do fatherhood?”

  “Ellie, Ellie, I swear nothing happened.” My mother? She’s been trying to find my mother?

  “I trudged all the way round housing estates and schools, and mad Gillian was following me, and you’re hooking up with an old flame. Saying, what? Oh, poor me, my wife is really huge and pregnant, I haven’t had sex for weeks, pity me, pity me? Is that how it went, Will, is it? Is that why you wanted me to get a job? So you could carry on working late? So I can fund your affairs?”

  “Ellie listen, I didn’t do anything. I met up with her because I wanted to get some professional contact details from her. Nothing happened!” Because it didn’t. Our lips never touched. I am corporally innocent. I would never have let things go further. Never.

  “And, do you know what? I actually found your bloody mother. Yeah, yeah, you might well look like that. I tracked her down to Paris. Yes, Paris. And not just that. I know where she works. Even now, she is teaching kids, like the fucking kid we’re meant to be having, probably any minute now because this stress, this bullshit – no don’t fucking tell me to calm down – is going to make my waters break any minute, teaching them at L’école Sainte-Thérèse in Paris. All through my own research, under my own steam, I found that out. I even spoke to her on the bloody phone. It was meant to be a surprise. A pick-me-up. But I guess you fucking found your own fucking pick-me-up.”

  And then she has to stop because she’s out of breath and panting. But she’s still glaring. So I have just to store up the knowledge she has given me and placate her, make her understand.

  “Ellie, darling, listen to me.” I put a hand on her arm but she shrugs me off. “I arranged to see Flick because I wanted – ”

  “– to get into her pants.”

  “Because I wanted to get the contact information
for a specialist in Torbay hospital. Where Dad would have died. Max. I wanted to find out what really happened.”

  “And what’s that got to do with Flick?”

  “Flick did one of her rotations at Paignton. In the same NHS trust. So I thought she might know people there.”

  “And, what, you were willing to go to whatever lengths you needed to find out?” demands Ellie.

  I try to maintain eye contact. Only the guilty look away. But I am innocent.

  “Not at all. Nothing happened. But, yeah, it looks like she wanted something to happen. She tried to kiss me, I moved away, she slapped me. This stupid post must be her idea of revenge.”

  “That’s really what happened?”

  “It’s really what happened.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me, then, if you had nothing to hide? Why didn’t you tell me you were going to meet her?”

  “Because of this.” I raise my hands. “Look at how you’ve reacted now.” She starts to protest, say that I’m blaming her. “I love you, Ellie. I love little Leo. And I didn’t want to worry you. And, you know, I felt a bit guilty, trying to look for more details of Dad, after you’d tried to help me mourn him with the funeral and everything.”