The Perfect Couple (ARC)

by Jackie Kabler

  gently from a polished metal sphere perched on top of a stone plinth, next to which sat a huge

  glass-topped table, six wrought iron chairs tucked underneath it. The outdoor dining area had

  been given an exotic, tropical feel more reminiscent of Bali than Bristol thanks to artfully

  planted bamboo, phormiums and tree ferns, the space illuminated at night by hundreds of tiny

  lights dotted among the foliage. At the front of the top terrace, steps led down to the lower

  level, where on either side of the back gate bay trees swayed gently in the wind in tall graphite

  pots, and raised herb beds lined the walls; our very own kitchen garden in the heart of the city.

  Even on a wet Saturday in March, and even when I was feeling so utterly miserable, a tiny

  shiver of pleasure ran through me.

  ‘A fountain! There’s a fountain, Danny!’ I’d squeaked when we’d first walked in through

  the back gate, and he’d laughed and squeezed my hand. We’d wondered why the letting agent

  had suggested meeting at the back of the house instead of at the front door, but it suddenly

  made perfect sense. It was stunning.

  11

  ‘It’s more of a water feature, but OK. You and your fancy courtyard fetish,’ Danny had

  whispered as we were led indoors, both of us knowing instantly that no matter what the interior

  was like, this place already had me hooked. He was right; I’d always yearned for a courtyard

  garden. A peaceful place to entertain friends, to sit in the sun with a glass of wine on a summer

  evening, to lounge with a book on a Sunday afternoon, and no lawn to mow? Pretty damn

  perfect in my book.

  We’d had a lovely home in London, but as so often in the capital, a place in a central

  location with any sort of decent outside space was hard to find. We’d made the small roof

  terrace of our apartment as beautiful as we could, but the Bristol courtyard had seemed huge in

  comparison.

  ‘There’s even a proper bicycle shed, look, down there in the corner of that lower level. I

  can finally stop having to chain my gorgeous bike to the front railings and you can finally quit

  moaning about how it lowers the tone,’ Danny had said, and I’d clapped my hands and done a

  little happy dance, making him laugh.

  That Saturday though, as I stared out of the window, I could see that, just as it had been

  since I came back from my trip, the smart wooden lean-to where his beloved bike usually stood

  was empty. I looked at the blank space for a few more seconds, my vision blurring, then jumped

  as a cold, damp nose nuzzled my hand.

  ‘Hey, Albert. Where’s Danny then, eh?’ I whispered, and he cocked his head, eyes fixed

  on mine, and whimpered. I didn’t blame him; I felt like whimpering myself. My stomach

  churning, my eyes dry and scratchy from crying and lack of sleep, I glanced at the empty

  courtyard one more time then turned from the window and started pacing again. Albert stood

  watching me for a moment, then whined softly and trotted off to his bed in the corner of the

  kitchen.

  12

  On Friday night I’d finally ordered pizzas, picking at mine as I constantly refreshed my

  emails, expecting an apologetic message from Danny to pop into my inbox at any moment.

  When nothing came, I’d finally, grumpily, assumed he was pulling an all-nighter, and had gone

  to bed, noticing as I crawled under the duvet that he’d even changed the bedding while I was

  away, the pillow case fresh and crisp against my cheek. His bloody job, I thought. He loved it,

  but I wasn’t always so keen. Danny was an IT security specialist, analysing and fixing systems

  breaches, defending companies against online hacking.

  ‘I fight cybercrime. I’m basically a security superhero,’ he’d announced with a theatrical

  wave of his arms on our first date, and I’d rolled my eyes, grinning and, if I was honest, not

  quite understanding what he did at all, while still being secretly impressed.

  What the job meant in reality though was long hours and frequent emergency call-outs,

  and although this would be the first such occasion in this new job, it wasn’t that unusual for

  him to have to work through the night if something had gone wrong with an important client’s

  computer system. When we first met he’d been working for a company in Chiswick, in west

  London, earning a healthy six-figure salary. When we’d talked about leaving the capital, I’d

  assumed it would mean Danny accepting a lower wage, but that hadn’t been the case,

  something that had surprised me until I realized that his new firm, ACR Security, had itself

  relocated from central London a couple of years back, taking advantage of the lower rents in

  the UK’s eleventh biggest city.

  ‘Makes sense,’ Danny had said, when he’d first floated the idea of us moving out of

  London. ‘There’s a great job up for grabs in Bristol, and the internet’s the internet, my job’s

  going to be the same anywhere, same pay too. And think how much further our money will go

  without London prices, you know? And you can do your job from anywhere too, can’t you,

  Gem? You’d love it, I know you would, the quality of life would be so much better. Bristol’s

  a lovely city, and you’ve got Devon and Cornwall just a few hours down the road, and the

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  Cotswolds not far in the other direction, and it’s a uni city so there are plenty of good bars and

  restaurants, and the architecture’s gorgeous …’

  ‘OK, OK, you’ve sold it to me, let’s do it!’

  In truth, he hadn’t really had to work very hard to convince me. He was right that as a

  freelance journalist, I could pretty much work from wherever I wanted to, and London didn’t

  have any great hold on me anymore. It was too busy, too stressful, and in recent years I’d often

  craved a gentler life, more greenery, less noise. And so he took the job he’d been offered, and

  we’d packed up our modern apartment just off Chiswick High Road and moved into this lovely,

  high-ceilinged Victorian semi with the wonderful courtyard in the leafy Bristol suburb of

  Clifton. We’d only been married a year, and had still been renting in London, not wanting to

  commit to a huge mortgage until we’d decided where we wanted to settle. Even though Bristol

  felt right to both of us, we didn’t want to jump into buying there too soon either, wanting to

  give ourselves time to make sure we were both still happy with our jobs and the Bristol lifestyle

  and to find the perfect forever home.

  ‘We’ll rent, just for a year or so. Somewhere nice though. Best part of town,’ Danny had

  said as we’d scrolled excitedly through the property listings online, amazed at how low the

  rents seemed compared with what we’d been paying in Chiswick. And so it all came together

  perfectly, and after just a few days, I knew I was home. Danny appeared to feel the same, even

  if his working hours were just as long as they’d been in London, something I hated but had

  grown to accept.

  Even so, I’d been so looking forward to seeing him on Friday night that I’d felt miserable,

  sleeping badly, waking every hour to see if the empty space in the bed next to me had been

  filled by his warm, weary body.

  When he still hadn’t called by nine o’clock on Saturday morning I’d started to really

  worry. This wasn’t right. Pushing aside my reluctance to appear the na
gging wife, I’d looked

  14

  up the switchboard number for his company and dialled it. It had gone straight to voicemail,

  informing me that ACR Security was now closed and would reopen at 9 a.m. on Monday, and

  advising that clients with an urgent issue should call the emergency number on their contract.

  ‘What about wives with an urgent issue?’ I’d shouted down the phone, then ended the

  call, my heart beginning to pound. If his office was closed, where the hell was Danny? Had he

  had an accident on his way home? That flipping bike. I’d always thought it odd that he didn’t

  drive, but he’d shrugged cheerily when I’d asked him about it.

  ‘Never needed to. Plenty of good public transport in Dublin when I was a student. And

  then London … I mean, who drives in London? Congestion charge, parking is ridiculous …

  ah, bike’s the way to go, Gem. And we’ve got your car, haven’t we, when we need it? No point

  wasting money on two.’

  He had a point. But I still worried about him commuting on that thing. And so when I

  couldn’t track him down at his office, and after I’d tried to Skype him half a dozen times only

  to find he was offline every time, I started to ring the hospitals. There seemed to be only a few

  in Bristol with accident and emergency departments, and after I’d ruled out the children’s and

  eye hospitals there were only two left, Southmead and Bristol Royal Infirmary. My hands

  shaking, I called both, but neither had any record of a male with Danny’s date of birth or fitting

  his description being admitted in the past twenty-four hours. For a minute, a wave of relief

  washed over me, before fear gripped me again. If he wasn’t at work, or hurt, where else could

  he be? If he’d decided on a last-minute trip to see a friend, he’d have called me, wouldn’t he?

  But that was just so unlikely, when he’d promised to be there when I got home, cooking dinner

  for me. So maybe he was at work, after all, and the office switchboard had just been left in

  weekend mode. But why hadn’t he answered my email, or contacted me to let me know where

  he was? Surely, however busy he was, he’d have had time to do that? He’d know how worried

  I’d be.

  15

  Breathing deeply, trying to keep on top of the anxiety which was threatening to

  overwhelm me, I tapped out another email.

  Danny, where are you? I’m seriously worried now. I’ve tried your office but it’s just

  going to voicemail. PLEASE let me know you’re OK? Gxx

  I pressed send and checked the time. Midday, on Saturday. I hadn’t heard from him since

  the goodnight email he’d sent me at about eleven on Thursday night, the one I’d read in my

  hotel room. Just over thirty-six hours. It just wasn’t right, wasn’t normal, not for us. Should I

  call the police? But what if he really was just frantically busy at work, trying to fix some sort

  of online disaster for a major client, totally losing track of time? Imagine his mortification if

  the police suddenly turned up at his office, the sniggers of his new work mates, the mutterings

  about neurotic wives. No, I couldn’t call the police; it was too soon. I was being silly. He’d

  reply to this latest email any minute now, and everything would be fine, I told myself. By this

  evening we’ll be snuggled on the sofa drinking wine and laughing at me and my stupid over-

  reaction.

  I’d gone out briefly to collect Albert from the nearby kennels – I’d dropped him off on

  Wednesday night before I left on Thursday morning – Danny’s long and unpredictable working

  hours not compatible with dog care – desperately hoping that by the time we arrived home, my

  husband would be back, wearily brewing coffee in the kitchen or sprawled, exhausted, on the

  sofa after a long night in the office. But he wasn’t, and so at lunchtime, and uncharacteristically

  for me, because doing it too often made me feel fearful and anxious, I turned on the BBC Radio

  Bristol news. I’d worked in newsrooms for years before going freelance, covering so many

  stories that had shocked and sickened me, and although I’d become harder and tougher as time

  had gone on, more able to handle the horror of reporting on yet another stabbing, yet another

  senseless murder, there had come a point when the life I’d led back then had all become too

  much for me, and I’d simply walked out and left it all behind. I’d stopped watching the news

  16

  completely for months after I quit, stopped reading the papers, finding solace in my ignorance

  about the true state of the world, switching to lifestyle journalism when I returned to work,

  leaving crime and politics behind me. But now my husband had vanished, and so I turned the

  radio on, feeling shaky as I listened for stories about accidents, car crashes, unidentified bodies.

  There weren’t any, but in the afternoon, and feeling a little foolish, I slipped Albert’s lead

  on and went out to walk Danny’s route to and from work, some vague idea in my head that

  maybe he’d been knocked off his bike by a car and had been tossed, unconscious, into a hedge

  or alleyway. Ridiculous, even I knew that, in a big city where he’d surely have been spotted

  within minutes, but I did it anyway. I’d realized before we set out that I didn’t even know his

  exact route to work, or even if he took the same route every day – as a cyclist, there were so

  many options, so many shortcuts you could take. So I studied a map, picked what looked like

  the two most likely routes, the most logical roads to take to travel between our house in

  Monville Road and Danny’s office in Royal York Crescent, and did both, one one way, the

  other on the return. His office was clearly closed when I got there, but I rang the doorbell

  anyway, and peered in through the windows at unlit rooms empty of people, before turning

  round and heading home again, my sense of desperation growing. I found nothing on either

  route, of course. No bike, no helmet, no Danny.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon pacing around the house, staring out of the windows,

  yelling pointlessly at my absent spouse and intermittently bursting into tears. Finally, I checked

  the time – almost six o’clock – and made myself sit down and start making some more calls. It

  had been too long, and I needed help; I couldn’t handle this on my own, not any longer. I’d

  met a few people in the short time we’d been in Bristol, a couple of whom I already felt could

  potentially become good friends, but the relationships were too new, I thought, to burden with

  something like this. In terms of old friends, most of the couples we hung out with had originally

  been friends of mine, and I didn’t think that any of them would be able to help, not at that stage;

  17

  if Danny had gone away to visit someone without telling me, unlikely though that seemed, it

  would probably have been one of his own mates. I didn’t have contact details for any of his

  Irish friends, but I found numbers for two of the colleagues he’d been palliest with in his old

  job in London, and for his former boss. They all sounded a little bemused – no, they hadn’t

  heard from him since he’d left, but … you know what this job’s like, he probably has no idea

  what time it is or how long he’s been head down at his desk, he’ll probably turn up in a couple

  of hours, don’t worry, Gemma. Keep us posted though, OK?


  I wished I had an out-of-hours number for Danny’s new boss, just in case, but I didn’t,

  and I couldn’t even remember his name. So – family, then? Danny had a cousin in London, but

  the rest of his family lived in the west of Ireland, and after some consideration I decided against

  calling them, for a while at least. I’d never felt that comfortable around his cousin Quinn, and

  his mum, Bridget, was tricky at the best of times. His dad, Donal, had died not long before we

  got married, and Danny had never been close to either of his parents; there was no point in

  sending Bridget into a panic if, in the end, there was nothing at all to worry about. I didn’t call

  my parents either – they were nervy types, both of them, and I couldn’t handle their distress,

  not on my own, not while I was feeling so horribly anxious myself. And so I kept dialling other

  numbers, and when Danny’s friends couldn’t help, I decided to phone a few of my own after

  all, not so much to ask if they’d heard from my missing husband but for advice, for comfort,

  although I found little of the latter.

  ‘Shit, Gemma, that’s worrying. I’d be calling the police, if I were you.’

  ‘Oh Gem, darling, how awful! Do you want me to come down? Just say the word. But

  I’m sure he’ll turn up soon, it probably is just a work thing …’

  ‘Bloody men. But Danny’s usually so reliable, isn’t he? I don’t know what to think, Gem.

  Maybe give it until tomorrow and then report him missing? You don’t … well, I hate to ask,

  but you don’t think he’s got another woman, do you?’

  18

  It was something that hadn’t crossed my mind until then, and when I’d put the phone

  down after speaking to Eva, one of my closest friends, I swallowed hard, trying to consider the

  possibility. No, it just couldn’t be true. Since we’d moved to Bristol we hadn’t had a night apart

  until Thursday when I’d gone on my press trip, and we’d spent every second of every weekend

  together too, sorting out our new home. When would he have had time? We’d been pretty much

  inseparable most of the time before we moved too … we were still virtually newlyweds, after

  all. Well, not entirely inseparable; we’d obviously had the odd night apart, work trips and ‘girls’