When I Find You

by Emma Curtis

  Make-up is a necessity these days, whereas before it was an optional enhancement. She applies it, smoothing in a tinted moisturizer, obliterating the shadows from her eyes with concealer and using blusher to contour an already contoured face, lipstick on her full lips. She swipes lines of black kohl, wing-tipped at the ends, above her eyelashes and blinks.

  She could have been a model if she hadn’t had such big tits, but tragically, she does. She has correspondingly big feet. Not that she’s ever had complaints about either.

  She sprays a puff of perfume into the air and walks through it. Then she packs swiftly, expertly, into her Louis Vuitton case, knowing exactly what she will need for four days in the depths of the country, which is basically her normal clothes with Wellington boots and this season’s Barbour. She double-checks she has her keys, MacBook, phone and reading glasses in the gratifyingly expensive Anya Hindmarch bag he gave her for an early Christmas present, then lets herself out. She can’t help it, she runs an advertising agency; she tends to think in labels. Her sister will quirk an expressive eyebrow but would only be disappointed if Rebecca rolled up without make-up and in jeans and a jumper. Her driver is waiting to take her to Paddington station.

  And then she remembers and darts back inside. She takes the package of contraceptive pills from the cupboard in the bathroom, pops one out of its tiny blister, takes it between her finger and thumb and drops it ceremonially into the plughole. Rebecca has been doing this for five months. It started off randomly, missing the odd day or two here and there, but she realized she would have no idea whether her period was due or not, so she stopped taking it altogether, just kept up the pretence. She needs to think about herself and what she wants in the long term. To be honest, she isn’t particularly interested in the whole baby thing; what she would like is the adult her baby will become. She picks up her keys, closes the door behind her and presses the button for the lift. It may never happen anyway.

  If she gets pregnant and he finishes with her – she forces herself to entertain the scenario even though it goes against everything she believes of him, of herself – at the very least the baby will have alpha-male genes. Rebecca is a pragmatist, always has been, always will be, but she’s a fighter too, and doesn’t give up easily. She has no intention of letting go.

  As they cut through Primrose Hill her phone rings. She sees it’s David and picks up.

  ‘Sorry I had to vanish last night,’ she says. ‘Did you get home OK?’

  ‘Rebecca,’ David says, his voice catching. ‘Something’s happened.’

  8

  Laura

  I ALMOST DON’T take the call, because for one horrible, illogical moment, I thought it must be him, but it’s Rebecca.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Laura,’ she says, throwing my name at me, ‘David and I …’ Her voice falters, which worries me. Rebecca Munro is forthright and never shirks bad news.

  ‘We’re emailing the whole company but we’re calling a few of you, those who …’ She pauses again, and this time my throat constricts. The last time we received an emergency communication it was because of a terrorist threat in the area. ‘It’s Guy,’ she says finally. ‘He was knocked off his bike on his way home from the party last night.’

  ‘Oh my God. Is he OK?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid he isn’t. He’s dead.’

  ‘Shit. That’s awful.’ Disbelief and surprise quickly curdle into a kind of sick horror. This is real.

  She sighs. ‘I’m on my way down to Somerset, but I’ve spoken to his parents.’

  ‘What about the driver?’

  ‘It was a hit-and-run.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  The train pulls into Clapham Junction and two elderly women take the vacated seats in front of me. I can feel their curious glances, even as I stare down at my knees.

  ‘Laura?’

  ‘I can’t believe …’ I sniff and dash the back of my hand under my nose. ‘It’s not fair. Poor Guy.’

  ‘I have to ring Eddie now, Laura. Are you going to be OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, trying to pull myself together.

  ‘I’ll be in touch when I know more,’ Rebecca says, then disconnects.

  I struggle not to cry. I can picture it as clearly as if I had been there. Guy is lying in the road, broken and bleeding, tangled in the bicycle frame. The back wheel is still spinning, the front wheel buckled. His eyes are open, staring up at the street light. He’s hoping someone will stop, that they will call his parents or his partner, that he won’t die alone. I put my hand to my mouth, stifling an involuntary moan of shock. One of the old ladies leans forward and offers me a tissue. I take it, with a muttered ‘Thanks’, blow my nose and wipe away the tears. I fix my gaze on my knees until the wave of agony passes.

  Mum is waiting in her car in the station car park, too used to me walking straight past her to risk a busy platform. I endure her chatter for the ten-minute journey, doing my best to respond cheerfully, but when we pull on to the drive, I apologize gruffly and dash inside. I shout a greeting at my sister, which is echoed from somewhere deep in the house, and run straight up to my old bedroom. There is too much in my head. Guy’s death; what happened to me last night. My instinct is to hide, but barely a minute passes before someone follows me up.

  ‘What’s happened, darling?’

  It’s Mum. Isabel would have called me chérie. Not being able to recognize your mother goes against the laws of nature. One of my earliest memories is of Mum arriving at the church hall where my nursery school was. I picked up the finger-painting I wanted to show her, but instead of coming to me, she went up to another little girl, took her in her arms, kissed her cheek and hugged her. I burst into tears, howling with fury, jealous and hurt, pointing at them and yelling, ‘My mum! My mum!’ My teacher picked me up, a sodden, irate, red-faced bundle, and told me that my mummy would be here any minute. Then the door opened, and another lady walked in, and the teacher said, ‘There you are, Laura. Mummy’s here. All better now?’ I remember being embarrassed but going with the story – that I had got it into my head that she wasn’t coming – even at that age wanting to protect my mother from the dreadful fact that I had confused her with someone else.

  ‘I’ll be down later, Mum. I need to close my eyes for an hour. Too much to drink last night.’

  ‘Oh. OK.’ She sounds faintly disapproving, as if I should have grown out of such behaviour by now. ‘Do you want me to call you when supper’s ready?’

  ‘No. I just want to sleep. Sorry.’

  I can feel her struggling with her maternal urge, but I don’t want to be hugged. I don’t think I can bear to be held. I don’t want to be touched at all.

  ‘You’re scratching your hands again.’

  I look down. I hadn’t even realized I was doing it.

  ‘Do you have any of your cream with you? There’s some in the bathroom cupboard. It’s probably out of date, but it’ll help.’

  She hurries out of the room and comes back with a twisted tube of hydrocortisone.

  ‘Thank you.’ I unscrew the cap, squeeze some out and rub it into the reddened skin. I can feel tiny bumps where the rash is developing.

  ‘I’ll nip out and get some more. Is there anything else you’d like? Some hot Ribena?’

  I harden myself. I have to protect my mother; she worries enough already.

  ‘Mum, I’m OK.’

  Once she’s gone, I shut the curtains and then pull off my jeans and jumper and get into bed. It’s such a relief that I start to cry, stifling the noise with the pillow pressed to my mouth.

  Later I tell them about Guy and I hate myself for using his tragedy to allow myself the luxury of breaking down. It’s for him as well, of course it is, but I can feel my skin burning where that man touched me. My lips are sensitive and feel swollen from kissing and the tears camouflage that too.

  ‘His poor parents,’ Mum says. ‘They must be feeling destroyed. I don’t think I wou
ld cope if anything happened to one of you three.’

  ‘It’s unbearable,’ Isabel says, reaching over.

  She’s always been more physically affectionate than me and it’s usually nice to be touched by her. Her hands are cool, her fingers slim and delicate. But this time I slip my hand out of hers. The action feels more portentous than it is.

  ‘Will you go to the funeral?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, I expect so.’

  I get a call from the police that evening. All they want to know is if I own a car and how I got home that night. They are asking everyone who was at Hoxton 101, including the party from the upstairs bar.

  ‘I don’t drive,’ I told them. ‘I went home in a cab.’

  ‘Did you share the cab?’

  A cold stream trickles through my veins. ‘Why do you need to know that?’

  ‘We’re trying to ascertain who was out on the street last night, Miss Maguire. We’re not being nosy.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. I was alone.’ I can hardly tell them I don’t have a clue who I shared my taxi with.

  The steadiness of my voice when I tell the lie surprises me. I put the phone down and curl into the corner of the sofa. My nephews are watching a superhero movie, and I close my eyes, listening to the Kapows! and the Aaarghs! and the supersonic booms and finally dozing. At some point I feel a hand on my leg and jolt with shock. Isabel is sitting there, her head cocked, her mouth smiling. The television screen is dark and blank.

  ‘Bedtime, chérie.’

  Christmas Eve passes in a blur. Still hung-over, miserable and uncommunicative, I curl up on Mum’s battered old sofa and watch TV or read. Isabel soon lets me know how underwhelmed she is. On Christmas morning, I emerge having slept for another twelve hours, determined to make more of an effort. I feel better physically, in that my headache has lifted at least, but I still find it hard to talk, hard to think of anything to say. It’s easier with my nephews, so I join in with them, admiring the contents of their stockings and instigating a game of Cluedo.

  After a brunch of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon on crusty granary bread, we go for a walk along the River Mole, Dominic and Milo grumbling and dragging their feet and generally behaving as though they are being tortured. My brother Mark is due at two with his new wife, three daughters and two stepdaughters. I’m looking forward to the mayhem.

  Isabel’s boys are indistinguishable to me; their skin honey-toned and their brown hair floppy. Milo, the eldest at eight, is half an inch taller than Dominic but as they are almost always on the move or slouched on the sofa with their smartphones, this is not much help. My sister lets me know who is wearing what in the morning, but sometimes they mess with my head, swapping shirts for fun. They know I can’t tell them apart, but don’t know that it’s caused by anything other than their aunt’s rank stupidity.

  My other point of reference is that Dominic has a habit of stuffing his hands into his pockets when he’s talking to an adult, whereas Milo hooks his thumbs into his waistband; a real cool dude. Eric, my brother-in-law, is a dream. Not only does he have an accent as thick and stretchy as a Salvador Dalí clock, but he is half Ghanaian, half French and bald.

  ‘How’re you doing?’ Isabel asks. She’s been casting me worried looks all day.

  We’re prepping vegetables for this evening’s feast. I peel another potato, slice it into quarters and drop it into the big pan where it bobs amongst its fellows. Isabel strips the outer leaves from Brussels sprouts and cuts crosses into the green flesh of their stumps. She has lost the argument with Mum about slicing them in half and steaming them. The kitchen smells of roasting turkey, stuffing and the cloves that Mum insists on adding to the bread sauce even though neither Isabel’s boys nor my brother’s girls like them. There are other aromas: mulled wine, mince pie filling, the log fire in the sitting room.

  ‘Better than when I got here.’

  ‘You’ve had a shock.’

  For a moment I think she means what happened to me, then I realize she’s talking about Guy. That makes me feel even more guilty.

  Isabel puts an arm around me and I flinch. She notices and withdraws. ‘You haven’t told me about the party yet. I suppose if you got that drunk, it wasn’t as bad as you expected?’

  I tease a blemish from a potato with the tip of my knife and so avoid looking at her. ‘No, not really. It was fun.’

  ‘And?’

  I eye her warily.

  She sighs. ‘Did anything happen? Did you meet someone? Is that why you’re so tired? You were up all night shagging. Come on. Give me some gossip, for Christ’s sake. I spend my life with small children, I need to live vicariously through my little sister.’

  I am trying hard not to react, but I can feel him on me, feel his fingers inside me, his mouth all over me. I have to force myself to be the girl that Isabel knows; not the new Laura, the broken and shrivelled creature I’ve become overnight.

  ‘Then you’re doomed to disappointment. I went home alone.’

  She looks at me a while longer and then gives up and goes back to her sprouts. I finish peeling the potatoes and carry them in the heavy saucepan to the stove to be parboiled before they are roasted. Mum’s trick is to simmer them for seven minutes precisely, drain the water – keeping some by for the gravy – throw in a dessertspoonful of Colman’s mustard powder, put the lid back on and give the whole thing a good shake. When they cook, the outsides become golden and crusty, the mustard disappears and can’t be tasted. I focus on this, to take my mind off the images from that night that keep flashing through my brain. He was circumcised. The memory springs out of nowhere. The information isn’t going to be much use to me, but I file it away all the same.

  I put the pan on to boil and stand watching it. Isabel switches the radio on, but I don’t listen. I am locked inside my head; desperate. He is stroking me, my breasts, the inside of my thighs. Who is he? My breathing becomes irregular and my hands tighten into fists.

  There is something else, something unpleasant that I’ve tried not to think about because it’s bad enough already. When I bundled up my clothes that morning, to put them in the wash, my knickers were missing. They were nothing special – I hadn’t been expecting to go out partying that night, after all – they were standard black cotton Marks & Spencer, faded by countless washings. I checked down between the bed and the wall, amongst the tumbled heap of bedding that I had ripped off, and under the bed; they were gone. I almost gagged as I imagined him fingering them in his pocket, bringing them to his nose.

  There’s a tap as Isabel puts her knife down on the kitchen table and the screech of chair legs against tiles. The noise snaps me out of it and I realize that the potatoes are boiling over. She nudges me to one side with her hip and takes them off the heat, removes the lid and pokes them with a fork then puts them back with the gas turned right down.

  I move away from her, take a chocolate-chip cookie out of the tin and lean against the counter nibbling it. My relationship with my sister has never been straightforward. When we were younger I felt removed from her because there was Mark between us. There never seemed to be a time when all three kids got along. It was only when I entered my twenties that we became close and now it feels as though I may lose her again because this looming horror has come to sit between us and I can’t tell her. I don’t want her to know that I put myself at risk or that something ugly has happened to me.

  ‘You don’t look happy,’ she says. ‘You’ve got shadows under your eyes.’

  ‘I’m OK. Just a bit stressed at work.’

  Isabel waits, her eyes on my face. I envy her being able to read it so accurately.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you get it over with and tell me? You never know, I might be able to help.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’ That came out harder than I meant it to. I rinse a cloth out under the hot tap and start wiping the table, moving aside newspapers and keys, Nintendos and spectacles.

  ‘Fine.’ She stalks out of th
e room.

  I go for a run on my own, and no one says anything, although I can imagine they didn’t hold back once the door closed behind me. I pound up the hill and dog-leg through the genteel residential streets. Brown, waterlogged leaves attach themselves to the soles of my trainers and rain creeps under my zip-up jacket and tickles my forehead. Christmas trees stand in bay windows, draped in fairy lights and baubles. I feel a world away from reality. In eight days’ time Gunner Munro will be open for business and I will have to deal with what comes next; I will have to breathe the same air as the man who assaulted me.

  And there’s the question of Pink-Shirt. In my endless, looping post-mortem of that evening, I accept that I could have discovered his name one way or another. It wouldn’t have been impossible. The truth is I didn’t want to break the mood because I so rarely have a connection with a man. I didn’t want to say something stupid and lose him. But now I have because how can I be with him after what has happened?

  And what about him? The man. There are things I need to say to him; things I hope his inner voice is telling him already.

  You should be ashamed of yourself.

  Why did you do it, you inadequate piece of shit?

  I am coming for you.

  I’ve come out without keys, so I ring the doorbell. Eric opens the door. He gives me a worried smile.

  ‘Where’s Isabel?’ I ask.

  ‘In here,’ she calls from the sitting room. She meets me halfway. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ I say, making myself hug her. ‘I was out of order.’ I lower my voice so that Mum, who is in the sitting room with the new arrivals, can’t hear. ‘I’ll tell you all about it; but not yet. It’s too raw.’

  There is a pause while she digests this. I can read her thoughts. What does she mean by raw? Raw is not a positive word; raw is bloody and it stings when you touch it. And will the time ever be right to tell her? At this point in my life, I can’t imagine it.