I Found You

by Lisa Jewell

  As Lily sits with the phone cradled beneath her chin pressing redial, redial, redial, she builds up a mental image of the woman who is not answering her phone. She has dark hair, like Carl, and his sharp cheekbones; she looks young for her age, is wearing maybe a silky blouse and tailored trousers. Again, she wonders, why does she not know what her husband’s mother looks like? Why did she never ask? Why are there no photographs in this flat? Who is this man she married? What is she doing here?

  After an hour of sitting cross-legged on the bed calling Carl’s mother, Lily begins to feel a rage building deep within her. It comes from the same place that her tears come from: the soft pit of her belly. She hurls the phone across the room and watches as it hits the wall and splits in two, expelling a piece of plastic that rolls deep under the divan bed. She growls in frustration and gets to her hands and knees, her fingers clawing at the narrow gap between the thick new carpet and the underside of the bed. She can’t locate it so she pushes the divan across the carpet until it reveals itself. There’s the piece of plastic. And there’s something else. It’s one of Carl’s smart little silk knot cufflinks, bottle-green and claret. She holds it in the palm of her hand and stares at it. She sees him standing there, as he does every morning, pulling down the cuffs of his immaculate business shirts, popping the knots through the buttonholes, smiling down at her. And she remembers how she used to feel: so proud of this handsome, grown-up man with his serious shirts.

  She rests the silk knot on Carl’s bedside table and concentrates instead on fixing the bloody phone. The piece of plastic appears to have snapped off from somewhere – she can’t work out where – and the two sides of the phone refuse to click together without it. She holds it together with an elastic hairband and attempts to redial Carl’s mother, but there’s no connection. She has broken the phone. She lets it fall on to the bed and she groans. All the people who might try calling Carl – his mother, his sister, his office, Russ – have this number.

  She showers, washes her hair and gets dressed. Then she picks up her mobile phone and texts Russ: I have broken the house phone. This is my mobile phone. Please use this number if you need to speak to me. Thank you. Lily.

  Then she taps Carl’s mother’s number into her mobile and waits for the incessant ringing to begin again. But instead, within three rings there is a click and then a woman’s voice, uncertain and quiet, saying, ‘Hello?’

  Thirty

  The time is six eighteen. The house is silent. Alice tries to go back to sleep but it’s impossible. She is too energised by the intense joy of waking with her hands entwined inside another person’s hands, the reassuring warmth of a body lying by her side: not the body of a small girl in loose-fitting pyjamas, not the bony parenthesis of an ageing greyhound, but a man’s body, contoured and solid, filling her bed from pillow to foot. The morning light catches the autumn tones of his hair, the glints of gold in his five-day stubble. He has a spray of reddish freckles across his chest, a soft covering of auburn chest hair, smooth arms, a deep dip down the centre of his back where there are more freckles. He smells of sea spray and her brand of fabric conditioner. He smells of them.

  She thinks through the steps and stages that brought them together last night, the quiet walk back along the beach, the rawness of him after his revelation about thinking he might have killed someone. Alice’s own immediate and completely instinctive certainty that he was wrong, that those big, soft hands could never have hurt anyone and that she is not making a mistake letting him into her life. Her hand finding his, just to reassure herself, and the way he’d looked at her: surprised and touched and scared. But he’d squeezed her hand gently with his and then he’d brought it to his mouth and he’d kissed it. Not just kissed it, but inhaled it. He’d been shaking slightly, the way Griff sometimes did when a strange noise unnerved him. She’d drawn him towards her and he’d buried his face into her neck and tightened his arms around her waist and they’d rocked together for a while. It had not been too many steps between there and her bedroom.

  ‘You’ll have to go back to the shed,’ she’d said after, ‘I can’t have one of the kids walking in and seeing you here.’

  ‘I know,’ he’d said. ‘Of course.’ Then somehow he’d used this as an invitation to start all over again. She couldn’t remember falling asleep. She doesn’t know if anyone came in while they slept. She didn’t hear Kai coming home and suspects that he didn’t. Dawn is pink through her thin curtains and she can hear the polite click of claws outside her room: Griff, waiting patiently for her to let him in. Sunday morning. She should wake Frank up, ask him to leave before Romaine gets up. But the soft warmth of his body is too tempting. She tiptoes from the bed and jams a chair underneath the door handle. Then she scurries back, the morning air cold against her naked skin, and throws herself back into her still-warm bed.

  ‘Hurry,’ she whispers into Frank’s ear. ‘You need to go.’

  He rouses and grimaces and says, ‘Shit. Sure. Sorry. What time is it?’

  ‘It’s quickie o’clock,’ she says, pulling him on top of her and dragging the duvet over their conjoined bodies to hide them from unexpected visitors. ‘Be really, really quiet.’

  He kisses her, morning breath and all, and she kisses him back, as though her life depended on it, as though it was the last kiss of her life.

  By the time Romaine wakes up it’s quarter to seven and Frank is safely tucked away in the shed. Alice lies in her empty bed, sated and shell-shocked, Griff curled contentedly at her feet.

  The atmosphere in the cottage that morning is hard to judge. Kai is hungover, Romaine is shattered, Jasmine is prickly and Frank is edgy. Alice, meanwhile, is full of sex; her whole body is wired with it. She’s showered herself thoroughly but she knows she still smells of it. Her mind keeps replaying sections of the night before: his hazel eyes fixed on hers, his thumbs firm against her hip bones, gentle fingers pulling a loose hair from her wet lips, strong hands clamped against her skull pulling her face back to his, murmuring her name into her ear, the moon shining mercury-hot through the curtains.

  The images are vivid and hot and pulsate through her as she stands at the hob, turning slivers of bacon and filling the kettle and drying her hands on the worn tea towel and throwing words at her children. She glances at Jasmine. Does she know? Did she hear? Can she feel it in the very air? Is she, as she’s been told so many times, a bad mother?

  ‘I’m going to walk up to that house,’ says Frank, bringing his used coffee cup to the sink and rinsing it.

  ‘The one on the cliff?’ she replies.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure it’s derelict.’

  ‘I know. You said. But I think it’s vital. I really do.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  She sees Jasmine arch an eyebrow.

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I really want to.’ It emerges almost as a groan; she’s still so full of desire for him.

  She ignores the poisonous energy radiating from Jasmine and grabs her bag and a coat. ‘We’ll only be an hour,’ she says, not giving anyone a chance to say anything, not giving the dogs a chance to realise that there’s a potential walk on offer. ‘I’ll get some fresh bread on the way back. Bye.’

  It’s almost ten but the morning still feels new; the metal railings are covered with dew, the moon is a fading, Vaselined smudge on the horizon. Alice wants to take Frank’s hand, but all her bluster and bravura of the night before has dissipated and she’s vulnerable and unsure and remembering why she hates this shit. They walk separately for a while, breathing in the new air, breathing it out again in clouds of vapour. She takes him the back route, away from the sea, up the cobbled alleyways and the winding lanes to the main road that leads out of town. They pass the Hope and Anchor, the oldest pub in town, a smuggler’s inn that’s been there since 1651. Frank stops.

  ‘I’ve been to this pub,’ he says.

  She looks at him with concern.

  ‘I’ve be
en to this pub,’ he says again.

  ‘Right,’ she says, ‘in which case, we’ll come here for lunch. OK? They do a brilliant Sunday lunch. Yorkshire puddings the size of footballs. I’m not kidding.’

  He looks at her blankly.

  ‘You don’t know what a Yorkshire pudding is, do you?’

  He squints. ‘Is it something to do with toffee?’

  ‘God bless you.’ She laughs and the awkwardness shifts and he laughs and takes her hand and they walk like that all the way to the house on the cliff.

  Frank feels nauseous: lack of sleep, too much red wine the night before, too much strong coffee this morning, and on top of all of that, the stomach-turning vertigo of remembering. All that steadies him is Alice’s hand inside his, her strong presence at his side as they climb the hill outside the town together. It appals him how much he needs this woman. Was he like this before? he wonders. Would the ‘him’ from before have had any interest in this slightly worn woman with bags under her eyes and a stomach that flops over her waistband? Maybe in his own life, the adult life he’d lived for twenty or so years before he washed up on Alice’s beach, maybe he was a player. Maybe he had a young girlfriend – maybe more than one young girlfriend? Maybe he only liked a certain type of woman? Maybe the ‘real’ him would laugh out loud at the thought of the ‘fugue’ him rolling about in bed with a forty-something mother of three?

  Or maybe he was a virgin?

  No, he thought, remembering the previous night, no, he most definitely had not been a virgin.

  Where will all this end? He’s pretty sure he killed someone. And if he has, it’s bound to come out eventually. It’s inevitable. There’ll be a body, or a missing person. There’ll be a witness. The police will come for him. Then there’ll be a wife, or a girlfriend, possibly a child, or even a dog. There’ll be a flat or a house with his things in it, a job with a desk with more of his things in it. There’ll be parents, siblings. There’ll be a court case. He’ll go to prison. And then what will happen to this sweet, vital thing between him and Alice? Where will it go?

  He puts his arm round Alice’s waist, pulls her closer to him, rests his cheek against the crown of her head. She yields to him; their bodies blend; they walk in sync.

  The house is not quite derelict. It’s dusty-looking; last year’s autumn leaves are mulched on the gravelled driveway, cobwebs glittering in the hedges that surround it. The pale stonework is patched green and streaked brown. But there are curtains in the windows, flowers in the beds. It looks like a house that has been absent-mindedly forgotten about, rather than deliberately abandoned.

  Frank stands for a moment at the entrance. There is a rusting, studded chain draped across each side of the carriage driveway. He steps over one and his feet crunch against the gravel. Alice follows him.

  ‘What a pretty house,’ she says.

  It is a pretty house. Symmetrical, with generous windows and good proportions, Coade stone mouldings and Doric columns, a half-cartwheel fanlight above the front door.

  Frank searches his psyche for the part of him that remembered living here when they were on the beach last night. He feels neural trails fizzing through his brain, pathways trying to re-form, flickering like lightbulbs with loose connections, then dying. Then coming back to life. Then dying again. He starts to feel cross, kicking at the gravel with the toe of his shoe.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘I’m so sick of this,’ he says. ‘So fucking sick of it.’

  ‘Not remembering?’

  ‘Yes,’ he softens, ‘yes. Not remembering. I was so sure last night. And now …’

  ‘Come on.’ She tugs him gently by the arm. ‘Let’s go and look. You never know. The door might be unlocked. Maybe inside will open up some memories.’

  He follows her down the driveway and then they are at the door. He plants his feet firmly on the stone steps, trying to root himself into the energy of the place, as though stone has memory, as though it might remember his feet. He clasps the large brass hexagonal knob that sits in the centre of the door. He holds it for a while. He closes his eyes. And then he sees it: dead lilies in a vase; a beautiful girl in a blood-red evening dress, fine blonde hair in a falling-down bun. She’s smiling at him, offering him her hand, pulling him through this door.

  Thirty-one

  1993

  Tony opened the door of the cottage and peered at the small crowd of drunken people standing outside.

  ‘Dad,’ said Gray, ‘I’m going to Mark’s aunt’s house. For a party. Kind of thing.’

  ‘Not a party,’ Mark interjected, sounding remarkably sober for someone who’d been drinking tequila shots for the last hour. ‘Just a gathering. Some friends.’

  Tony gave Gray a look of utter confusion. He looked from Mark to Gray and then behind himself at Gray’s mum, who had just appeared.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Mum.

  ‘Gray wants to go to a party. With Mark.’

  ‘Not a party, Mrs Ross. Just a gathering. Just us. These are old friends of mine from home. And my aunt will be there.’

  Tony stared at Gray incredulously. Gray stared back at him steadfastly, his jaw set hard. He was going to this party if it killed him.

  Then Izzy cut in with, ‘Does your daughter want to come too? It would be so nice to have another girl.’

  Kirsty popped up then behind Mum and Dad and threw Gray a questioning look.

  ‘Ah, there she is,’ said Mark. ‘We’re whisking your brother off to a small gathering. At the house. And Izzy wants you to come, too.’

  ‘Er …’ Kirsty gestured at her pyjamas. ‘I don’t think so.’

  But Gray could see her looking over his shoulder at the two glamorous girls in their high-street evening dresses and Mark’s equally handsome mate in his half-unbuttoned shirt and his Spanish tan. They made an impressive-looking group.

  ‘Come on,’ said Izzy. ‘It’ll be fun.’

  Kirsty bit the soft part of her lip. ‘But it’s late,’ she said.

  ‘It’s only ten. Not even. Come on.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Tony and Pam exchanged a look.

  ‘Please!’ said Izzy. ‘We’ll wait for you to get dressed. It’ll be fun.’

  Tony looked at Gray sternly. Gray shrugged. If Kirsty wanted to come that was entirely up to her. He wasn’t about to persuade her. But neither was he going to dissuade her. He just wanted to go now, get to the house, have another drink, carry on the conversation he and Izzy had been having in the pub just now, the conversation during which she’d barely lost eye contact with him, had allowed their shoulders and their knees to touch on several occasions without attempting to reposition herself and had told him he was both ‘adorable’ and ‘fascinating’.

  ‘OK, then,’ said Kirsty.

  Tony and Pam shot her a panicked look.

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘It’ll be fine.’ Then she turned back to the group. ‘Give me two minutes. Actually, one minute.’

  ‘We’ll get her home early,’ said Izzy.

  ‘And safely,’ said Mark.

  ‘Gray,’ said Dad, ‘I want you both back here by midnight. Midnight,’ he repeated.

  Gray tutted. If Kirsty wasn’t coming they’d be more lenient. ‘Fine,’ he said.

  ‘And if you’re not I’ll be up at that house to humiliate you. OK?’

  ‘God,’ he muttered, ‘yes. OK.’

  Kirsty appeared in a pink T-shirt, a hooded jacket and jeans, her hair combed to a shine and her mouth pink with gloss. ‘OK?’

  Gray saw her exchange an awkward look with Mark. Then Mark looked at him and smiled.

  ‘Come on,’ said Gray, ‘let’s go.’

  The lilies in the hallway were dying. Their heavy white heads had drooped, leaving dustings of yellow pollen on the pale tiled floor and a deathly, stagnant odour. No dogs ran to greet them. The house was still and silent.

  ‘Where’s your aunt?’ said Gray.

  ‘What?’ Mark replied absent-mindedly.
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  ‘Your aunt. Where is she?’

  ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You said she was here.’

  ‘Well, maybe she is,’ he countered. ‘Maybe she’s asleep.’

  They all followed Mark through to a room at the back of the house. It was a small, square room with an open fireplace, a sofa and two big armchairs and there, in the corner, a fully fitted mahogany bar. Mark leaned down, lifted a flap on the panelling, hit a switch and the whole thing lit up. There were bottles of spirits attached to the wall, shiny cocktail shakers, shelves of cut glasses, a tub of drinking straws and glass swizzle sticks, an ice tub with silver tongs, a small sink, a small fridge filled with beers and wine, and three bar stools with red leather seats.

  ‘Right,’ said Mark, standing behind the bar, his hands clasped together. ‘Who’s for what?’

  The girls asked for gin and tonics; Alex asked for a whisky sour; Gray asked for a beer.

  ‘What about you, Kirsty?’

  ‘Do you have any Coke?’

  Mark laughed. ‘Whoa, little one, bit early in the night for that!’

  ‘I meant, like – no, I meant Coca-Cola.’

  ‘I know what you meant,’ he said, smiling at her indulgently. He slid a CD into a player beneath the bar and hit another switch. Immediately the room was filled with the sound of A Tribe Called Quest. Gray looked around and saw four speakers, one in each corner of the ceiling. Mark turned up the bass and the beat thrummed though the floorboards, through his feet. He popped the cap off a beer for Gray using a bottle opener screwed to the side of the bar and passed it to him. Gray drank it fast. Izzy and Harrie were sitting at the bar on the stools, whispering and giggling conspiratorially into each other’s ears while Mark made their cocktails. Kirsty stood at Gray’s side, sipping her Coke through a straw, bobbing up and down slightly to the beat of the music.

  ‘Why did you come?’ he whispered in her ear, loudly to be heard over the deafening music.