‘Please tell me there’s news?’ I say.
Chapter Twenty
Fourteen Days Before
Gemma
I arrive home at 8.45 p.m. This is the earliest I’ve been for a while. Georgio insisted on closing up for me tonight. Told me to get some rest because I look so tired.
Nick’s in the shower. My dinner is in the fridge, a portion of lasagne I batch cooked and took out of the freezer this morning. Nick’s already eaten by the look of the dirty plate in the sink. I’ve tried to encourage him to put things straight into the dishwasher, but he doesn’t listen.
I check my phone while my food rotates in the microwave. The nasty messages seem to have stopped. Perhaps the person guessed I was going to report them. I sit at the kitchen table and reach around my bump. The baby is turning right over. It’s the weirdest sensation, as though my body doesn’t belong to me any more.
‘You’re back early,’ Nick says. He’s dressed in one of his smarter pairs of black jeans and a white T-shirt, a cloud of spicy cologne wafts towards me. I didn’t know he was going out.
‘Georgio insisted. Says I look tired.’
‘You do, are you feeling all right?’ His phone buzzes and lights up.
‘I think so. Could probably do with an early night.’ The microwave pings. I don’t know if Nick heard me, he’s looking at his phone. The tiniest hint of a smile passes his lips.
‘I thought I might chill out in front of the soaps.’ I click open the microwave door.
He looks up, stuffs his phone in his jeans pocket. ‘Why don’t you go up to bed after you’ve eaten?’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Meet the lads for a pint, so don’t stay up.’
* * *
I settle in front of the TV with my dinner on a tray. Missy curls up next to me. I don’t usually watch MasterChef but it’s better than silence. My mind is whirring. There was something about that look on Nick’s face when he read his phone. I can’t put my finger on what it was exactly. I turn over to Gogglebox and try to push it out of my mind.
The thud of the front door closing wakes me up. I can’t believe I drifted off on the sofa. I guess it’s midnight if that’s Nick just coming in. I check my watch. It’s 9.40 p.m. It can’t be. It must have stopped. Nick’s clattering around in the kitchen. I press the remote control and the time on the TV says 9.41 p.m. He’s only been gone forty minutes.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask, when he comes into the living room holding a large measure of whiskey in one hand and the bottle in the other. I can smell it from here. I twist my fingers together.
‘Why are you still up?’ He clonks the bottle on the table next to the tray with my dirty plate on. He drops down on the sofa opposite.
‘I dozed off.’ My one note of laughter is greeted by silence. Normally he’d laugh too, but he’s frowning, his face like thunder. He drains his glass then tops it up with another generous measure.
‘Has something happened?’ I stroke my bump. The muscle in his cheek is twitching. He’s not been like this for ages. I wish I’d stayed at work. My body has turned to jelly. I should get up, pretend Georgio has called and go and get in my car.
‘Nothing that concerns you.’ He leans forward and spits the words at me. A waft of cologne mixed with sweat catches in the back of my throat. He grabs the TV remote off the table and switches over to Top Gear. I daren’t move. He keeps topping his glass up and eventually his eyes shut. I stand up as quietly as I can, but Missy jumps down, sending the Sky remote clattering to the floor. Nick’s eyes flick open. He leaps off the sofa and grabs her tail. She hisses and scratches him. He grabs at her again, pushing over the coffee table. Everything crashes to the floor. I scream as the corner of the table catches my side, knocking me back onto the sofa. Missy dives away and out of the room.
He grumbles something to himself and picks the whiskey bottle off the floor and collapses back in his chair. I press my hand to my side and climb the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-One
22 July 2018
Scarlett
When I reach home after my lunchtime run the next day, a warm sweet smell welcomes me as I open the front door. Mum has whipped up a batch of fruit scones. Amy is already back from her shift, legs tucked under the table, buttering a thick layer on a huge stack cut in half, chatting away. For a few seconds they don’t even notice me. Without thinking I snatch the half scone from Amy’s hand and scoop a spoonful of jam from the jar, smearing it lavishly then take a bite. It’s my job to spread jam and lick bowls. I feel ashamed of myself and the stab of jealousy in my chest. I should be more forgiving, learn to share, at least make the effort.
Mum’s always made me feel special but has been sure to point out there are children less privileged than me who deserve all the good things I have. I’m never allowed to leave a scrap of food on my plate for this reason. Mum used to say she should have had another kid, then she wouldn’t have spoilt me so much. There was no way that was ever going to happen. It would mean her actually committing to one of the blokes that comes round.
I’ve asked her why she didn’t settle down and have one if she thought it was such a good idea, but she never gives me a straight answer. Maybe she secretly only wanted one child. Some people do so they can give all their love and attention to a single son or daughter, not a rabble of squabbling kids. Isn’t that what parents moan about? And I’ve read that childbirth can be so traumatic that women can’t bear the thought of going through it again. An image of Cole’s heavily pregnant wife invades my head. It looks so uncomfortable and totally gross. I don’t want kids for ages, until I’m in my thirties at least. And I want my children to have a dad that stays around. Not like mine. What if he chose to leave and wants nothing to do with me? Is that what Mum’s protecting me from? When I find out where he lives, what’s stopping him from slamming the door in my face? He might have another wife by now, other kids. He might not have told them about me. Deleted from his history. I could be his dirty little secret or he could deny he’s anything to do with me at all.
‘Shall I spread the rest of the jam?’ I ask Mum, picking up the special wide knife so there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that this is my job. I don’t want Amy to think she can get one up on me, much as she’s my bestie. For all her faults this is my mum.
It’s always been me and her against the world. There’s never been anyone who’s come close to qualifying as a new dad. As far as I know. Much as she infuriates me, I love her to pieces. I just wish she’d be straight with me. I’m grown up now. Older than she was when she had me. There’s a photo in the bookcase on the landing of Mum holding me as a newborn baby. She has this vacant look in her eyes like a startled rabbit looking up at a camera’s flashing lights, baby bottle in one hand, me tucked awkwardly in the crook of her arm. I remember seeing the same kind of look on the face of a girl two years above me at school. She left when she had her first, at eighteen as well. The boy moved away with his parents. I don’t think he told his family. Is this what happened to my dad? Seems crazily young to become a parent.
When I confided in Cole about it, he said that fathers are hard done by. He thinks society lumps them all together, calls them absent fathers, piling the blame on them, but often it’s the mothers who’ve chucked them out. He says fathers have as much right as mothers to see their children. He encouraged me to go behind Mum’s back and search for Dad. Said I should get in touch with Fathers 4 Justice, but I don’t know, Mum seems so adamant that I shouldn’t know who he is. Maybe there is something about him I’d be better off not knowing. I’m wary of digging around and upsetting her. Amy said if he’s such a great dad, why hasn’t he contacted me? Good point.
I try not to think about Cole. I finger the half-broken heart pendant around my neck and wonder if he’s still wearing his. Wouldn’t she ask him about it? He must have hidden it somewhere. I know he doesn’t really love her. How can he when he loves me? He told me only last week at the hotel. It’s not possible to
love two people at once. Is it? Does him dumping me mean he’s trying to do the right thing, standing by her because she’s pushed him into a corner by insisting on keeping it? A tiny part of me does admire him for stepping up, but really, he doesn’t need to have a relationship with her to see his own baby. They can share the childcare if that’s what he wants. I don’t even mind being a step mum. I think I’d be good at it. I’d be more like a friend than another parent.
If he thinks I’m going to walk away, he can think again. I’m not giving up.
‘Have you thought any more about your birthday?’ Mum picks up a broken corner of scone and eats it. ‘I was thinking we could have a barbecue in the garden if it’s still hot?’
‘Can do.’ She’s just trying to be nice to me. Anyway, I can’t think that far ahead while all this is going on.
‘I want to do something. It’s your 21st.’
I want to cry all the time, but it’s easier to be angry.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ She knows what I’d really like for my birthday, but if she’s not willing to tell me anything about Dad, why should I bother?
‘I’ll do your hair and nails for you both.’
Cole told me right from the start that I’m his soul mate and no one will ever love me as much as he does – he said it’s not possible. I could see the pain in his eyes when he finished with me. All because of her. Well, I’m going to stick around and be there for him when it all goes wrong as I know it will. They split up before, so they will again. This time for good. They just need a helping hand. I smack the spoon down hard on the counter and red jam splatters everywhere.
‘Scarlett, what are you trying to do?’ Mum slides two lattes across the table toward us, made with her new filter coffee machine. Amy and I lick jam seductively from our fingers. Mum tuts but smiles at the same time. We eat two scones each. Afterwards, I’m fit to burst. I stick my stomach out and Amy pats it flat. We catch each other’s eye and start laughing even though I feel like crying.
Amy unashamedly scoffs one more scone. Mum doesn’t eat any; she’s trying to keep off the weight she’s lost.
Upstairs, I check my Insta account.
‘Ha, she’s already blocked me.’ I show her the screen.
‘Fine, so now create a new account, find a new profile pic and post more comments.’
‘So what else can we do?’
‘Okay, so for the second part of our plan you’re going to follow Cole and I’m going to follow his wife.’
‘So what – we note down their movements, see if we can find out how happy they really are, if there’s another bloke on the scene that could be the father?’
‘Exactly, then find a way we can come between them, so they split up again.’
‘For good this time. And I’ll be ready and waiting for him to come back to me.’
We drop the idea of a poison pen letter because the police would be straight round. I only know this because the weirdo at number eleven sent a letter to the old woman at number eighteen, accusing her of snooping on him. He threatened to kill her cats because they shit all over his garden. The police were round to him like a shot. Even Mum got involved and had to answer a load of questions about what she was doing on such and such day and where Dad was and when would he be home? I’d listened closely at the door, even though I knew the answer I was hoping for a different one. She said he wasn’t coming home ever. Does that mean he’s dead? Wouldn’t she tell me if he was? So, even if I find out his name, it might already be too late. I may never get my dad back.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Monday 13 August 2018
Gemma
The Liaison Officer, Greg Clarke, is holding a mug of tea in one hand, cradling it with his other. He has kind hazel eyes and lightly tanned skin. The sort of face that’s used to showing empathy over endless cups of hot drinks and biscuits. I sit near him. I don’t want to miss a word.
‘How are you both holding up?’ He looks at me, then Nick. Just his asking the question sets me off crying again. I dab my eyes with a tissue.
‘I feel nauseous all the time, like something’s stuck in my gullet.’ I automatically rub the area of my chest below my neck. ‘It’s the waiting, not knowing and every moment keeps going around in my head, trying to sift through everything she said to me in case I missed a clue.’
‘Keep going through it. You might come up with something. What about you, Nick?’ Greg drinks a mouthful of tea. Nick walks round the room and shrugs.
‘I can’t believe Gemma gave Thomas to some girl she works with, who she hardly knows.’ He stabs his finger in my direction, as though he’s wishing he had a knife in his hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says quickly, and digs his hand in his pocket.
‘I know this is difficult but that’s not going to help you, Nick. If it is anyone’s fault it’s Rosie’s.’
‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that he’s my son, my baby boy.’
‘We’re doing everything we can to find him.’
I stare at my lap. There’s no point trying to explain to Nick how Rosie had become someone I could trust, who listened to me, was kind to me, because he won’t listen. His way of coping is blaming me.
Greg drinks some tea and clears his throat. ‘We’ve spoken to all the stallholders in the market today and to as many of the supermarket employees and shoppers as we could. A couple of people remember seeing Rosie pushing Thomas’s pram, but none saw where they went or which direction.’
‘None at all?’
‘We’re checking all the CCTV in the immediate area. We’re hoping it will throw up some clues.’
‘Hoping?’ Nick is still standing, anger flashing in his eyes. I wince. ‘I thought you’d have a bit more than that by now. Our son could be on a boat to France or a plane to the Middle East.’
I shudder at his suggestion.
‘There’s no indication that this is a child trafficking situation.’ Greg’s voice is quiet and calm. He pulls a notebook and pen out of his pocket.
‘How can you be so sure about that?’ Nick struts around the room, hands on hips. I grimace.
‘It’s not the way they normally operate.’
Nick is silent. He sits on the arm of the sofa nearest to me.
Greg flicks through his notebook. ‘There’s one thing, but we don’t know for certain if it’s significant yet.’
‘Go on.’ Nick folds his arms.
‘The CCTV in the supermarket shows another girl acting suspiciously near the entrance, checking her phone, browsing through magazines but not appearing to really look at them. It could be the girl you told us about who followed you to work. When we inspected the footage of Rosie again, her head lifts slightly as she passes this girl. And when Gemma is looking around for Rosie outside, the girl seems to be watching her from the foyer. It’s possible she is an accomplice.’
‘And do you know who she could be?’
‘Not yet, but we’re pulling all our resources into this one, I promise you. I’m confident we’ll find something soon.’
‘It might be too late by then,’ Nick grumbles, crossing his arms tighter.
‘Unfortunately, because of all the tents up, no one saw if they took the escalator down to the underground car park or to the charity shops around the square.’
‘Isn’t there CCTV down there?’
‘Only a few of the cameras seem to be working, but we’re going to look at all the footage available.’
Nick shakes his head as though it’s Greg’s fault.
Greg turns a page.
‘Like I said, we’re covering all bases as fast as we can.’
I try to silence the niggling little voice in my head that’s asking: What if it’s already too late?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Eleven Days Before
Gemma
It’s been a long evening, one of our busiest yet but I enjoy the buzz, the atmosphere. The good weather seems to bring out the best in everyone.
Nick calls in on his way back from watching a football match at the pub. He promised he wouldn’t drink too much after last night. He promised to make it up to me with this weekend away.
He waits by the door. The moment I’m free I go over.
‘I’ve had a text from Maggs saying she can’t look after the bloody cat now.’ He takes his phone out of his pocket.
‘Oh no, did she say why?’
He reads the message. ‘Called away, Dad’s ill again, won’t be back till next week.’
‘Who else can we ask at such short notice? Ben and Becca are away too, so are next door.’
‘It’ll be fine on its own, won’t it? If it’s hungry it’ll catch something to eat.’
‘Missy’s domesticated. She relies on us feeding her.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ He grins. ‘I think you’ll find she’s eating somewhere else too.’
‘That doesn’t mean we can abandon her. She’s my responsibility.’
‘Trust you to take in a needy rescue cat.’
‘She is not needy.’
‘Then let her fend for herself. It can’t do her any harm. Leave a bit of dried food out for her in the kitchen and a bowl of water. The cat flap will be open so she can come and go as she pleases.’
‘I can’t do that. I promised the rescue centre I’d care for her properly. Anyway, she doesn’t deserve that.’
‘Well, you’d better sort something out because I’m not going to lose my deposit.’
‘I’ll think of something.’ I look around for Rosie, but I can’t see her. They’re waiting for their coffees at table eight. ‘You must meet our new girl.’ I step away, looking around. Where’s she gone?
The Face At the Window Page 8
