‘Maybe.’
In the same pocket is another photo of Claire and Milo, this time with Holly and the blond boy from the Thai photo. They’re all smiling and bundled up in layers, hints of a snowy landscape behind them. They look like a family. There’s another photo too, of Milo holding a rope above his head with a reindeer in the background, the sky a dewy pink overhead.
I quickly shove the photo back into the pocket and flick through the rest of the atlas, finding postcards with short messages scrawled on the back from someone called ‘Daddy Bo’. There are more tourism leaflets too, ticket stubs from concerts around the world, old photos of what looks like Claire as she was growing up against different backdrops: a tiny cherub-faced girl of about six who I presume is Claire with another blonde girl – her sister? – jumping in the air under a bushy olive tree. Then there’s another showing Claire as a pretty teenager, one slim brown leg slung over a wild-looking horse while the other leg balances on a plastic box, hands clutched tight onto the horse’s speckled mane. She’s high up on some mountain overlooking hundreds of dark green pine trees and a huge sparkling lake, and next to her is a man who has her brown eyes, shaggy blond hair and a deeply tanned, lined face.
They look like a happy bohemian family on their travels. How different Claire’s childhood was from mine. Our holidays consisted of trips to the UK’s miserable seaside towns, invariably always choosing the one rainy week of the summer. We’d hire a freezing cottage with hot water that never worked, and Mum would set her easel up in whichever room had the best view of the windy, rainswept sea. It would have been wonderful to enjoy horse rides on stunning mountaintops and visits to olive groves. My life feels very small in comparison.
But then I’ve made two lives, haven’t I? Our three small lives shine bright enough together.
Sam turns to the last map – a map of Australia – and pulls out a small painting of a snake curled around itself, its skin covered with red and yellow dots against a fiery orange background.
‘Here’s another photo of Holly James,’ Sam says, pulling out a photo from behind the painting. Holly’s leaning against a large tree, a hazy red landscape behind her. ‘That’s the Red Centre in Oz,’ he says. ‘I went there a few years back.’
‘What’s it like?’ I ask, leaning forward. I remember watching a documentary about the Red Centre in the middle of the night once while feeding Chloe the week she was born. I’d yearned to be there, anywhere but in the UK’s freezing cold with a husband who barely lifted a finger to help and a baby who didn’t seem to stop screaming. I felt guilty when daylight came, cuddling Chloe close and whispering there was nowhere I’d rather be right then.
‘It’s one of the most fascinating places I’ve been,’ Sam says now. ‘I remember the long sparse dusty-red roads the most. Kangaroos would bounce along beside us as we travelled from place to place and then, suddenly, a huge mountain range would appear.’ He smiles. ‘It was so hot when I went, I needed to take a swig of water every five minutes. It felt like I could smell the heat sometimes, you know? A dusty, scorched kind of smell.’
That’s just how I imagined it as I’d watched the documentary that winter night. Scorched and dusty. Somewhere I could only dream of visiting.
‘That’s it,’ Sam says, gently placing each item back in the pockets, scraps of Claire’s exciting life.
I sigh. ‘Nothing much to help us.’ I lean back in my chair, feeling frustrated. ‘I think Mum would be mortified if she knew I was the sole person in charge of finding her.’
‘Why’d you say that?’
‘I spend my days cleaning jam off the walls and explaining why it isn’t a good idea to put orange juice into the CD player, that’s why. She’d have been better off with someone like Claire Shreve as a daughter; she’d know where to look.’
Sam smiles. ‘You’re doing a great job, Louise. I’m sure your mum’d be delighted to know you’re on the case.’
‘I doubt it. I always get the impression she doesn’t think much of me, to be honest.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Why not? Isn’t it healthy to face the truth? Won’t it just infect me, keeping it all inside? A hippy like you would think that anyway.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Hippy?’
‘I meant it in a nice way!’ I say, feeling mortified. I hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Anyway, I did mean it in a nice way. Sam seems so caring, so thoughtful.
‘It’s fine, it’s true,’ he says. ‘I would say something like that. But in your case, I’d actually say dwelling on those negative thoughts is infecting you. Buddhists see forgiveness as a way to keep yourself good and pure, resentment as a way of infecting yourself.’
‘I don’t resent Mum.’
‘I mean yourself,’ he says softly. ‘By suggesting she wouldn’t want you to look for her, that she didn’t think much of you. I think you’ll find it’s not true.’
I look down at my untouched sandwich. Maybe he’s right? ‘I guess there’s only one way to find out,’ I say, pulling stuff out of my bag to get to my purse.
‘Who’s that pictured with your mum?’ Sam asks as he picks up one of the photos I’d grabbed of Mum before going to the airport.
‘Mum’s best friend, Erin.’ They’re just teenagers in it, arms slung around each other, a harbour in the background, hair swishing about in the wind. Mum looks so young in it, so beautiful, just like I remember. ‘Why?’ I ask Sam.
‘She looks an awful lot like Holly James.’
I stare at Erin and realise he’s right: she has the same oval green eyes and vibrant red hair as Holly. I pull out the photo of Holly James from Claire’s atlas. Now I see them side by side, I can see just how similar they look.
‘Erin did have a daughter, but I never knew much about her. Surely Mum would have told me if her best friend was married to someone like Dale James though?’ I say. ‘Or maybe not. It’s not like we talked all the time, even before her silent treatment.’
‘It would explain the connection between your mother and Claire Shreve … and why your mother was so keen to come here.’
‘To find Erin through Holly?’
Sam shrugs. ‘Maybe. If she’d seen the photos of Holly in the press, she’d know exactly where she was. She might have come out here to find her, maybe even thinking Erin was here too.’
I look at the photo of Mum and Erin. So this all comes back to Erin again.
I sigh. Didn’t it always?
Chapter Seven
Venice, Italy
1998
Venice reeks of secrets. Its air is heavy with them; its narrow alleyways and shadowed canals tailored for them. As Claire strolled around Venice the May following that terrible evening in Exmoor, her heart was heavy with secrets: the feel of Milo’s fingertips pressed against her thighs, the way his skin felt against hers.
And as she looked at Ben across the table from her, all she could do was wrap a fist around her traitorous heart and squeeze the images away, images brought back with a vengeance as Milo’s court case for shooting his brother unrolled back in the UK.
‘Hello? Earth to Claire,’ Ben said, waving his hand in front of her face.
She looked up from the pasta she couldn’t eat. ‘Sorry. What were you saying?’
‘I think we should buy some masks. We can try that night market we passed yesterday?’
God, he was trying so hard. She mentally picked herself up and forced some of the thick creamy Bigoli pasta into her mouth. This was the path fate had steered her down; the one she’d started years ago with her husband, not Milo. Things were good. Things were safe.
‘Sounds great,’ she said, smiling.
They ate in silence before Ben looked up again. ‘You had another nightmare last night.’
Claire paused mid-chew. ‘What did I say?’
‘Same. Milo.’ His voice grew tight, strangling Milo’s name.
Claire tried to control her face. She’d said Milo’s name in her sleep?
&nb
sp; ‘Might be worth mentioning it to your therapist?’ Ben suggested.
‘Good idea,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
Ben smiled. ‘Good. I’m sure it’s very normal, the sleep-talking. But just in case.’
‘Of course.’
She looked out at the shiny black canal that stretched below their window beneath solemn night skies, the buildings across from them turned gaudy gold by yellow lanterns. In the distance, a gondola passed, a young couple giggling as they cuddled up to each other.
Claire hadn’t told Ben about what happened that night, nor the therapist he’d insisted she see. As far as he was concerned she’d been in the hotel’s toilets when Dale marched into the marquee and started shooting at the wedding guests before Milo accosted him, only coming out of the toilets when the police turned up. That was the way Milo wanted it told, after all.
‘You can’t tell anyone you were here,’ Milo had pleaded just after Claire had pulled Holly out from under the table and Milo’s sister Jen had appeared, trembling with grief and shock. ‘Do you understand, Claire?’ Milo had continued. ‘I don’t want you tangled up in this.’
‘But—’
He’d grabbed her shoulders and looked into her eyes, his own dark gaze desperate. ‘Claire, I’m begging you, please don’t say anything. You went to the toilet, heard the noise, locked yourself in. Please promise me that’s what you’ll tell the police? Please?’
She’d looked into his eyes for a few moments, trying to wrap her head around what he was asking of her. Was he doing it for her, a married woman, so the kiss they’d shared didn’t somehow get out? It felt like more than that, like he didn’t want her tainted with what his brother had done.
A tear escaped one of his eyes and she nodded, mute, watching as it slid into the cut on his cheek, mingling with the blood there and turning it pink. It was all she could do right in that moment, agree with a man cradling his dead brother.
‘Go,’ he’d said, shoving her away when she’d tried to touch him.
When the police arrived, she’d watched them take Milo from the marquee, his face blank and smeared with his brother’s blood. Afterwards, she’d been shuffled into the inn’s dining room with all the other wedding guests, her mind a mush of Milo, of the blood, of the terrible screams. In the confusion of the night, she wasn’t even questioned by the police: an inexperienced officer who’d since been the subject of a bashing from the media had told her and a few others they could go home. She’d wanted to tell the police the truth, of course. But Milo had been so vehement and she really wasn’t thinking straight. So she just kept quiet.
Stupid, stupid girl.
She’d regretted it ever since. It had been difficult avoiding the story for the past few months. At first, she’d been desperate to fill in the gaps of what had happened that night by watching the news reports and scouring the papers; how Dale had strode into the marquee and started randomly shooting at the wedding guests before finally finding what some of the media were saying was his target: Sarah, the beautiful bride. If it hadn’t been for the fact that most of the guests were gathered at the back of the marquee at that moment for the buffet, there would have been more injuries; deaths too. He’d injured a further six people. He’d then gone to find his own daughter, Holly. It was at that point that Milo appeared, according to the papers, and wrestled the gun off his brother, shooting him by accident in the process. Holly had witnessed everything.
Ben lifted his fork towards her, a bloody piece of boar’s meat on the end. ‘You’re right, it’s delicious. I need to try more of this exotic food! Want to try some?’
‘No, it’s okay, I’m actually not that—’
‘I insist,’ he said, the fork coming towards her. ‘You won’t regret it.’
She forced herself to lean over to take a bite, her stomach churning as she tasted the blood on her tongue. She usually loved boar’s meat, first tasting it when she was just six during a visit to an olive tree orchard in the heart of Umbria. As she chewed it now, she realised it was nothing in comparison here in Venice and double the price.
She swallowed it down anyway, quickly taking a sip of overpriced red wine, then forcing a smile. ‘Yes, it’s nice.’
She’d promised herself she’d make the effort but as each day went past since she and Ben had agreed to make it work, it was getting harder and harder not to regret her decision to stay with him. The horror of what she’d seen that day in Exmoor had made her vulnerable and desperate for safety and stability – something she knew Ben could offer. She’d known it had been selfish, thinking like that, and had resisted his attempts to get back together at first. But he’d persisted and it had felt so easy.
Not now. Now it was even harder than before Exmoor.
That night, she couldn’t sleep. She tried to read but the words blurred before her eyes, the red wine she’d had earlier making her head woozy. So she turned the TV on with the volume down, flicking through the channels. Suddenly, Milo appeared on screen. Claire clutched the remote control tight to her chest. It was the same footage that had appeared on TV from a few hours after the shooting: Milo walking down the path from the farm, head down, hair matted with blood; stitches now binding the jagged cut that tore across the top of his cheek. Cameras flashing, the journalists who’d managed to get there jostling for position. Emblazoned at the bottom of the screen was Exmoor Wedding Shooting. Then beneath it: Milo James in court for brother’s manslaughter.
He’d been arrested that night, sources telling journalists that the detective in charge hadn’t ‘felt right’ about Milo’s version of events, something backed up by the fact locals told the media the two brothers had a fractious relationship when Dale had returned from the Falklands. But policeman’s intuition and idle gossip weren’t enough for the Crown Prosecution Service to charge him for murder so manslaughter was the charge in the end. Milo was granted bail, not deemed to be a threat to the public.
Claire had done so well to avoid news of the shooting after her initial desperate need to learn more had worn off. But the past few days it had been everywhere and right now, it was like Milo was right there in the hotel room with her as he stared out of the TV screen. She’d seen the very same footage on the early morning news the day after the shooting. She’d been staying at her sister’s. It was on the way back from Exmoor and that was the excuse she’d used at the time. But the truth was, she couldn’t possibly return to the home she shared with Ben, despite his desperate phone calls to her after he’d heard the news. Apparently the idea of losing her had made him regret his request for them to have a break from each other. Her mind had been too rammed full of what had happened in Exmoor to face him … and of the moments she’d shared with Milo. He’d made her feel like she had before her father died, buzzing with the promise of future adventures. She’d sent him a letter a couple of weeks after that, telling him she was there for him if he needed to talk. It hadn’t seemed right to just cut off contact. She got a note back very quickly on a grubby bit of paper, just one line: It’s best we forget what happened between us. Sorry. M
Her whole body had burned with humiliation after reading that. She realised she had no choice but to treasure those few days as a special memory, nothing more. So she gave up on him, even when she got a couple of phone calls from anonymous numbers and all she’d hear was soft breathing on the other side. She refused to allow herself to believe it was Milo, the memories of the way he’d touched her that night, the catch in his breath as he’d held her turning into figments of her imagination, wisps of smoke swept away on a wind of tragedy.
And it had worked for a while as she focused on her job, agreeing to more press trips than ever. But when she’d got back with Ben, she couldn’t help but compare the two men: where Ben dreamed of a bigger house and a new car, Milo dreamed of mango farms in distant lands; where Ben tuned out when she talked to him about the countries she’d visited, Milo had listened, eyes intense; where Ben thought life couldn’t be whole without chi
ldren, Milo thought it might just open up more possibilities.
She peered up at the TV screen again just in time to see Milo lash out at the cameraman in front of him, swiping at his face like a wolf might. Next to her, Ben stirred but didn’t wake. She pressed her finger on the off button and ran into the bathroom, closing the door and sitting on the edge of the bath, taking in deep gulps as her nails pressed into the enamel. This couldn’t keep happening. She had to get on with her life; a life on the right path with her husband and the future they could create together.
The mask Ben handed her the next evening was a sad white one with black feathers dipping over its right eye.
‘Like it?’ he asked. ‘We can hang it in our downstairs bathroom, would look nice with that Eiffel Tower statue we got a few years back.’
She thought of their bathroom – or, as Ben proudly told friends who visited, their ‘shrine to travel’ – rammed full of all the souvenirs Ben insisted Claire brought back from her trips, as well as items he bought during their holidays. It made her cringe whenever she was in there.
‘If you want it,’ she said absent-mindedly, trailing her hand over another mask, a red one with a long nose and silver sequins around its eyes. She picked it up and pressed it against her face, turning to Ben. He laughed, and pulled her into a hug, the nose of the mask poking into his cheek. She made herself laugh too, focusing on how handsome he looked when he laughed like that, his smile deep and wide, his green eyes sparkling. She reached up, sweeping his strawberry-blond hair away from his forehead. His grip tightened, his face growing serious.
‘Shall we go back to the hotel?’ he murmured into her ear.
An older couple watched them, smiling at the happy young couple. But when she looked into Ben’s eyes, she felt nothing. Why couldn’t she find the roar of emotions she used to feel for him?
‘Masks first, young man,’ she said, swallowing down the doubts. ‘Then I have to take some scenic night-time shots for the magazine.’
‘I’m very lucky,’ Ben said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and winking at her. ‘Not many people can say they get free holidays as part of the marriage package.’
The Atlas of Us Page 13
