by Paula Daly
Trying not to dwell on my conversation with Felicity, I step inside the School of Psychological Sciences. To my right there’s a run of offices, perhaps five or six in total, the doors all closed. Names are clearly displayed, and it’s immediately evident that everyone here is a doctor. It occurs to me there should be a way to tell the difference between a PhD graduate and a medical doctor. Like, in the States, they use the initials MD. Medicinae Doctor.
I study the names, but nothing rings a bell so I keep walking along the passageway. There’s activity coming from the far end. A sign hanging from the ceiling overhead reads ‘Reception This Way’.
The reception area has a large curved desk in a blond beech laminate with two rows of funky art deco chairs in front of it. The smell of polyurethane resin hangs in the air, and the carpet beneath my feet is shedding. Clearly, a renovation has taken place.
I approach two women at the desk. One is in her mid-sixties, nesty hair, glasses on the end of her nose, crepe skin around her gullet – you could teleport her to any doctor’s reception in the world and she’d fit right in. She would tell you, abruptly, that no, the doctor does not do home visits unless it’s an absolute emergency, and yes, there is a thirty-pound charge to countersign your passport application.
The other woman is early twenties. She’s wearing two sets of false eyelashes and has drawn a big brown beauty spot on her left cheek, à la Marilyn Monroe.
I approach Marilyn and say in an overly apologetic voice, ‘Hi, so sorry to trouble you, but I used to attend here . . . some time ago . . . I’m hoping to find some information on a former student.’
‘We don’t give that out,’ says the woman next to her, without looking up from her work.
‘No,’ I say, addressing her now. ‘I completely understand that policy. But it’s not personal information I’m searching for. I’d like to just have a chat with one of the professors. Would that be possible?’
‘Try the main admin office,’ comes the brusque reply.
‘But I’ve driven down from Cumbria, and it’s a professor I really—’
‘Have you?’ she says flatly. ‘Admin’s out the main doors, turn left.’
Signalling that the conversation is over, she gets up from her seat and carries a file across to the row of cabinets behind her. She pulls out a drawer and begins flicking through the folders, tutting loudly to suggest that someone (I’m guessing Marilyn) has returned a document to the wrong place.
I look back to the young receptionist. I give her my best defeated look, to which I expect her to smile sympathetically. Or else roll her eyes dramatically, like, See what I have to put up with here? That old sourpuss?
But she doesn’t. She puts her hands up on either side of her head as if she has a pair of ass’s ears, then widens her eyes to convey something.
‘What?’ I mouth silently, and she waggles her hands. Bucks out her teeth and gestures with a flick of her head in the direction I’ve just come from.
I have no idea what this means, but I do as she says. Head back to the passageway, and it’s only when I reach the third door along that it makes sense.
Dr Phil Hutch.
The ass’s ears were bunny ears.
I dilly-dally outside the door for a moment, my rehearsed speech floating around the top of my head in a cloud of sound bites. I can pull out fragments of sentences, but where has my actual speech gone?
‘Shit!’ I say, under my breath, just as the door handle levers downwards. I pretend I’m mid-knock as a tall gentleman in a shirt and tie, bit of a paunch, Buddy Holly specs, walks straight into me.
‘Whoa!’ he says in an accent I can’t immediately place. ‘Almost knocked you straight off your feet there.’
He smiles at me warmly, a flicker of interest in his eyes, and I think: Bingo! A flirt.
My luck is in.
‘Have you got a moment?’ I ask.
‘Always got a moment for a pretty face,’ he replies. ‘Come on inside. What can I do you for?’
As we stand, I regard him, hold his gaze for an extended moment. I smile, but I’m immediately thrown by the colossal blackheads across his nose. They are really quite something; they pucker his skin. Like strawberry seeds raised over the flesh of the fruit.
‘Your accent,’ I say, gathering myself as we sit, ‘it’s really . . .’
‘Phoney?’ he offers.
I laugh. ‘I was going to say “interesting”. Where are you from?’
There’s a photo on his desk. Two boys, tanned and healthy-looking, each posing for the camera while straddling a jet-ski. The water beneath is brilliant aquamarine.
‘I was born in New York,’ he replies, ‘but I’ve been here for . . .’ he waves away the words with his hand as if he can’t be bothered to count up the years. ‘I like to think I have the mid-Atlantic accent of Cary Grant, one of those old Hollywood stars,’ he says, ‘but I’m told I sound affected, more like Naomi Campbell.’ He reaches across the desk, proffers me his hand. ‘Phil Hutch.’
‘Natty Wainwright. Pleased to meet you. So, you’re a doctor of psychology?’ I ask him.
‘For my sins.’
‘And you’ve worked here for . . . for how long?’
Still smiling, he furrows his brow. ‘Are you a reporter, Miss Wainwright?’
‘Gosh, no! Goodness.’
He sits back in his chair, crosses one ankle on to the opposite knee and grins. I’d put him at around fifty-four. Firmly middle-aged but with a certain something – charm, I suppose. I imagine he’s one of those lecturers who can make a student feel special, make them feel he’s one of them. I’ve never really trusted this type. Always much preferred teachers who didn’t try to befriend you, who didn’t have favourites. The ones without an ego who were simply there to teach.
‘I’m not a reporter,’ I tell him, dipping my head a little and blinking coyly. I’m not naturally playful on a first meeting, but I sense this is the way to go. ‘I’m looking for information on a former student – she was here quite a while back,’ and I moisten my bottom lip.
‘Not sure I’ll be able to help with that,’ he says mildly. ‘Lotta people pass through these doors.’
‘She was here for some time. She stayed on to do a PhD.’
‘Oh,’ he says, his tone brightening. ‘Well then. Perhaps I can help.’
He turns to the monitor and types in his password. Waits. Glancing at me, he rolls his eyes, ‘Terribly slow, this morning,’ he drawls, and resumes typing.
‘The person’s name is Eve Dalladay, but you would have known her as Eve Boydell.’
He pauses. His shoulders tighten. It’s an almost imperceptible change in his demeanour, but it’s a change nonetheless.
‘A PhD, you say?’
‘Yes.’
His eyes remaining fixed on the screen, he says, ‘You’re certain? Because I can’t recall a student by that name.’
‘She would have attended here in 1997 – well actually, she was here the year before but had to drop out on account of illness. Her family were from Alderley Edge, Cheshire.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘More champagne consumed per square mile in Alderley Edge than anywhere else in the UK.’
‘So I’ve heard,’ I say. ‘Must be all the footballers’ wives.’
He clicks the mouse a couple of times and frowns. ‘You’re sure your friend didn’t do the undergraduate course and then attend elsewhere? Because that does happen.’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘there’s nothing listed.’
Something tells me he’s lying. Either that, or there really is no record of Eve – which isn’t totally impossible given that there’s no trace of her on the internet either.
‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you, Miss Wainwright,’ he says brightly, signalling that our meeting is now over. ‘And I’m sorry, but I really must be going. I’ve a first-year lecture to deliver in ten minutes.’ He turns off the monitor, but I can hear the hard drive continuing to
hum.
‘Pavlov’s dogs?’ I ask.
He smiles. ‘Amongst other things. What is it exactly you want to know about this former student anyway? Because, even if she was in the system, I couldn’t give you any personal information. Have you tried her parents?’
‘It’s her parents – well, actually, her father, who I’m trying to locate,’ I lie. ‘It’s an odd situation, but Eve and I were very close at university, have remained close, more by phone than anything else. She turned up on my doorstep a couple of weeks ago very distressed, after having broken up with her husband in the States. And then she just disappeared.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, there’s no trace of her. I’ve tried calling all the numbers I have. Numerous times. Tried to locate her, but I can’t find anything. And I’m worried. Really worried.’
‘You’ve been to the police?’
‘Of course. They’ve filed a missing persons report, but I keep getting the same line: If a person wants to disappear, they’re well within their rights to do so.’
‘She’s not with her parents, then?’
‘That’s why I’m here. Eve’s mother died when she was twenty-three. It was her dad she was closest to . . . but he remarried and I’m not exactly sure what happened but I don’t think Eve got along with his new wife. I think it played a part in her decision to move to America.’
‘And if you can trace her father—’
‘Then he might know where she is.’ I look down at my hands. Make my voice soft and tender. ‘I just need to know that she’s all right. That she’s not lying in a ditch somewhere . . . and no one seems to care that she’s disappeared, and . . .’ I sniff a little. Make as if I’m rooting for a tissue in my pocket.
He opens the top drawer of his desk. Hands me a box of man-sized Kleenex.
‘Thanks,’ I say, and blow my nose. ‘I don’t know what else to do.’
‘You must be terribly worried,’ he replies gravely.
There’s a short period of silence. His face is concerned, serious, but as I regard him I see him wince involuntarily as if in response to a private thought. As if he’s torn in some way.
I’ve come here hoping to shed some light on Eve’s whereabouts after I left university. Hoping to find anomalies in her life story. It occurred to me last night that Eve’s version of my attack on her in the car park might just be the tip of the iceberg. She may well be a compulsive liar, and if I’m to prove to my family she’s not who she says she is, then I need evidence. Because no one gets to be a Doctor of Psychology – teaching students, treating clients – without leaving some sort of paper trail.
Phil Hutch clears his throat. His palms are pressed together in the manner of prayer. ‘I really wish I could give you something to go on, but it’s’ – he looks away sadly – ‘it’s as if your friend never actually studied here, never mind graduated . . . I’m so very sorry I’m unable to be of use, but—’
There are two sharp raps on the door, and we’re both startled. ‘Phil,’ comes the stroppy voice. ‘I’ve got UPS at the desk delivering some equipment and they won’t take a signature from me, it’s got to be a head of department, can you—’
It’s the dragon from reception. ‘Oh,’ she says, her narrowed eyes settling on me, ‘it’s you.’
I smile meekly, but my heart quickens under her stare.
‘What are you doing in here—’ she starts, but Phil Hutch is out of his chair in a split second, guiding her from the office by her elbow. Which is odd. Why the urgency?
‘Shan’t be a moment,’ he says awkwardly as the door closes behind them.
I take a couple of long, unsteady breaths. Put my hand to my neck and feel that the skin there is hot to the touch. I know without looking I’m covered in blotches. I am rubbish at misleading people . . . never could have been an actress.
I should go. I should go right now before Phil Hutch returns and I trip up with my story about Eve’s disappearance. Yes, leave now, Natty. Stand up and walk out the door.
But that hard drive is humming. It’s calling to me, softly, hypnotic . . . See what secrets I hold, Natty . . .
I swallow my trepidation and stand, opening the door just a fraction to check the passageway is clear. The carotid pulse in my neck is throbbing wildly.
Okay, I’ve not got long.
I move around to Phil’s side of the desk and switch on the monitor. I’m so jittery that I knock over the waste-paper basket with my foot. The screen goes from black to . . . what the hell?
Up pops Ladbrokes betting website.
He’d not even been looking at student records as we spoke. Christ, I am so easily hoodwinked by people in authority.
I close the window, and I’m now looking at some kind of homepage for the psychology faculty. It’s not easy to read, and I can’t really make sense of—
There are muffled voices outside the door. I freeze and listen.
Do I pretend that I’ve not been snooping?
No. I’m never going to get this chance a second time. Screw the consequences. I must set about finding Eve as fast as I can.
Within minutes, I have her.
27
SAFELY BACK AT the car park, inside the van, I calm myself. There’s activity all around me: students in and out of their brightly coloured Fiat 500s, their Mini Countrymans. I notice their easy laughter, their sense of entitlement, their good teeth.
A woman reverse parks a clapped-out Ford Escort to my right. She gets out; she’s in her mid-fifties, looks harried. Her right wing and door are dented to such a degree that she can’t lock the car; she tries twice and gives up. Doesn’t even notice my presence as she strides away, clutching a stack of folders to her chest. She must be a lecturer. I observe her in my rear-view mirror – suede boots almost as old as her car, tatty chunky-knit cardigan, woollen tights that should have been thrown out last year, and as I watch I think what a strange state of affairs it is, when students have more free cash than their teachers.
I am wired. Ready to take on that bitch Eve, and, now that I know where to go next, I’m filled with the certainty that this will be over by bedtime. She will be gone and I’ll have my family back.
With the key in the ignition, I’m about to set off when I feel my mobile vibrate in my pocket. It’s a message from Felicity, asking where I am. ‘Back soon,’ I reply and hit send. And it’s then that I notice there’s a voicemail from Alice. It must have come through when I was in Phil Hutch’s office. ‘Mummy, it’s me,’ she says.
She uses ‘Mummy’ when she’s unhappy, or vulnerable, or she wants something. Any time there’s heightened emotion going on. Which I suppose is pretty much all the time with Alice.
‘Mummy, I need to speak to you. It’s really important. Felicity won’t talk to me. She’s gone really quiet and moody, and it’s not me. At least, I don’t think it’s me. I suppose it could be me, but if I’ve upset her then I don’t know how . . . I think she needs you. I think something bad has happened and she won’t spill. Anyway, gotta go,’ she says, dropping her voice to a whisper, ‘I should be in first period by now but I thought . . . Oh, I miss you, Mummy.’
I close my eyes and heave a heavy sigh. Clearly, Felicity needs me. Clearly, Alice needs me. But I can’t forfeit this new lead. It’s too valuable. I cannot leave yet.
Pushing away the guilt of deserting my children, again, I turn the ignition and put the van into reverse. As I glance down something catches my attention and I see that the fuel warning light is illuminated. Great. Just great.
I slam the steering wheel with my fist in frustration. Then look up at the ceiling of the van as if addressing God directly: ‘Cut me some slack, will you?’ I yell. ‘I’m really trying here!’
Ten minutes later, and I’m queuing on to the Shell forecourt, rain hammering, aggressive drivers sandwiching me to the front and rear. And I’m quietly shitting it, because I don’t know which side my fuel cap is on.
If I’d been thinking clearly when I saw the warning li
ght, I’d have jumped out of the van and had a quick check. As it is, it’s inevitable I’ll drive to the wrong side of the pump. When I do, my only option will be to leave the petrol station, rejoin the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the dual carriageway, do an illegal U-turn at the lights and double back.
So I get out. Just as the van in front pulls forwards. I’m caught in the should-I-shouldn’t-I action of a cricketer at the stumps, undecided whether to check or to get back in.
I move to the rear of the van and eventually spot a flap next to the passenger door. And of course the fool behind feels the need to sound his horn. How could he not? Moments later, though, I’m at the pump, filling the tank, happy with myself for getting back on track. But still reeling from the information I found. Because, listen to this: Eve was thrown out of university.
A few months after I left Manchester, Eve was found to be having an affair with a professor (no prizes for guessing which one), and she left the course after studying for less than a year. With no qualifications, and certainly no doctorate to speak of.
Which begs the question: How has she managed to forge a career for the last fifteen years out of a subject about which she has no clue?
I shudder to think.
No doubt Eve would have some smooth answer ready if I were to go accusing her of lying about her job. And, besides, I managed to stumble upon something a lot more interesting.
Eve’s parents are not listed as living in Alderley Edge, home of the Cheshire millionaires, but in Bolton. Bit of a difference.
I’m supposing (and I could be way off here) that 32 Wilkinson Street is not the affluent area she claims but more likely to be within a row of red-brick terraced houses. So that’s where I’m heading now. It’s not far. Once out of Manchester, I should be there in half an hour.
I replace the fuel pump and totter across the forecourt to pay. Once inside, I take my place behind the queue of people: men in suits; builders wearing Mastic-smeared jeans and those strange yellow work boots. There’s a woman with a high ponytail in a pink Juicy Couture tracksuit near the front, a vivid yin-yang tattoo at the nape of her neck.
