by Emma Curtis
I’m so surprised I hit him, not hard, just my palm against his chest. He grabs my hand and holds it there. I look up into his face. His smile is so wide, it makes my mouth stretch too.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am. I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.’
He is shot through with adrenaline; I can see it in his eyes. I ignore the tiny voice warning me that such a huge swing of the pendulum, from withdrawn to an almost manic excitement, is odd, especially in the light of his behaviour over the last couple of days. I ignore the voice because this is what I desperately want.
He smiles and strokes my hair away from my face. ‘Do I get an answer?’ He looks so hopeful it brings a lump to my throat.
I lean over and kiss him. ‘Yes. Yes I will. Shall we tell Lottie?’
He blinks and looks away, shielding his eyes so that he can see her. ‘Can we wait until tomorrow? I want to buy you a ring first. I want that to be how we tell her. Can’t you picture her face?’
He turns and smiles winningly, and I melt. I can absolutely picture it. I’ll hold out my hand, let the gems twinkle in the sunlight, and she will spot it and squeal, and throw herself at both of us.
I put my arms around his big shoulders and kiss him. He looks down and something in his expression makes my heart ache. He looks haunted.
‘Grace, I want—’
But he doesn’t have a chance to tell me what he wants, because Lottie shouts from the gate to the cafe where she’s tying Toffee up. We yell back that we’re coming, and sprint, holding hands. Toffee lifts his paws in the air and scrabbles at my jeans, caught up in our excitement.
I watch Nick, my big, handsome bloke, being mercilessly teased by Lottie and I think how lucky I am. I love his integrity, his everyday courage, his way of looking at the world. He doesn’t anticipate problems like I do, he deals with them as they arrive. Faced with turbulence he becomes preternaturally calm; he prioritizes, fixes, solves. He makes me feel safe.
Then a cloud floats across the sun and I shiver. My childhood taught me that the ground can collapse beneath me without warning. It happened to me twice. I gaze at Nick’s face, and he smiles back, his eyebrows raised in query. I shrug with a grin and turn away.
Everything is fine. We are getting married. I’m happy.
Even if I don’t deserve to be.
It’s only the next morning, after everything’s fallen apart, that I remember this moment, and the odd intonation in his voice. He wanted to tell me something.
NICK
July 2000
GOD, WHAT A BUNCH OF STUCK-UP COWS. TAISIE, WHO he’s always thought of as his closest friend, and the twins, Pansy and Freya, make him feel like a second-class citizen. What is he even doing here? They arrived at about seven on Saturday evening because his dad had stuff to do earlier. They sat in traffic all along the motorway and he had to listen to his parents arguing. Jesus. Two weeks of this. His mum said it would be a fantastic opportunity for him to meet new people, get some country air and stay in a lovely house, but he’s not brain-dead. This is about his father getting two weeks of some rich guy’s undivided attention. Money, money, money.
The house itself isn’t so bad. A sprawling grey stone pile that looks like a film set, cheered up by some sort of climber, leaves fluttering in the breeze. There’s a big arched door at the front that no one uses much. You step into a hall that is pitch dark after the sunshine, and that leads to a rabbit warren of rooms. There’s a library, Angus’s study – out of bounds – drawing room, kitchen, a snug with a narrow set of servants’ stairs leading off it and, best of all, a games room with a snooker table, dartboard, table football and a cupboard full of board games, packs of cards and puzzles. Upstairs there are so many bedrooms he doesn’t think he’s counted them all, and three tired-looking bathrooms with yellowed enamel baths and worn-out carpets. It’s all quite grotty, but that’s OK. It means you can put your feet up on the sofa and slob around without anyone yelling at you. Outside there’s an unheated swimming pool – for a millionaire, Angus is seriously tight-fisted – a tennis court and woodlands that lead to a river where they can kayak. There’s a housekeeper – Mrs Burrows – who he likes. She’s nice and doesn’t mind them raiding the biscuit tin.
Taisie had said it was fun down there, that her family had been visiting the Moodys every year since she was a baby. Her mum went to university with Lorna Moody. It’s Lorna’s house and the furniture has belonged to generations of her family and can’t be changed. It’s sacred or something. They actually live in Kensington, but also own a chalet in Switzerland and a villa in Anguilla.
Taisie said they could camp in the woods if they wanted. She even said the twins were great; friendly and cool. A bit of dramatic licence there. Cool, yeah, but not in a good way. More like cool as ice. And friendly – if you can call looking him up and down before cracking an excuse for a smile, friendly.
Things he does not want:
He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to be forced to bear witness to his father’s attempts to hard-sell his latest venture. He wants to be back in London, preferably under Westway, on his skateboard.
He doesn’t want to watch his mum struggling. She and Jess Wells have always been close, but Lorna Moody has known Jess from before babies, and they keep going down Memory Lane and talking about people his mum hasn’t met and the fun they had at university. Taisie’s mum is a different person here. Yesterday afternoon he heard them all talking, then Jess said to Nick’s mum, ‘Cora, you look tired. Why don’t you put your feet up and read a book? We won’t mind.’
Not subtle.
He doesn’t want to be sneered at and talked down to by Taisie and her precious mates. He doesn’t know what’s got into her, but she’s changed overnight. He doesn’t even know if it’s something he’s done, or if she’s got PMT or what. You’re not friends with someone since nursery and then go off on one for no reason. He supposes getting off with Rosa after he and Taisie had kissed only the weekend before wasn’t a great idea, but Rosa cornered him and stuck her tongue down his throat.
He draws a deep breath and lets it go; no matter what, Taisie is his oldest friend and upsetting her is a big deal. He’s used to her – she’s the only girl he is used to – and the last thing he wants is to lose her friendship. Yeah, she has flashes of temper and can be unreasonable, but she makes up for it by being his friend and by being fun. At least she used to. Maybe that’s it. She’s changed and expects him to change with her and is cross because he won’t play her games. Should he have kissed her? She’s gorgeous but he finds it uncomfortable to think about her in that way. He still feels weird about their drunken kiss at the barbecue. It felt incestuous, although of course it wasn’t. Whatever. They know each other too well.
If it is about that, then there’s not a lot he can do. She’ll come round eventually.
GRACE
Monday, 16 April 2018
‘IS NICK BACK?’ LOTTIE SAYS SLEEPILY AS I OPEN HER curtains.
I am barely awake myself, still groggy from the sleeping pill I took at two in the morning. Sunday was an awful day. A trip to the police station elicited nothing but a confusing set of statistics and a request to wait. Nick has been classed as absent. He won’t be officially missing until Thursday. Picking Lottie up from Cassie’s house, I couldn’t face saying anything. Cassie looked utterly exhausted, her house was in chaos and she was practically throwing children and sleeping bags at their parents. Explaining to Lottie why Nick wasn’t there was impossible. I thought about telling her that he’d gone to visit his grandmother who hasn’t been well for a while, but in the end I couldn’t sustain the lie. Lottie asks too many questions.
‘No. Not yet.’
She pulls the duvet over her head. I sit down and wait with my hand on the curve of her shoulder until she peeps out. I feel like getting under the covers with her.
‘When’s he coming home?’
‘I don’t know, darling. But
soon, I hope.’
‘Doesn’t he love us any more?’
I pull her into my arms. ‘Of course he does. He loves us both very much. I know he’ll be missing you a lot.’
She starts to cry, and I stroke her hair. Children don’t like uncertainty; they want to know what’s going to happen and when, and most of all, they want to know who’s in charge. I don’t have the answer to the first two questions, but the answer to the last has to be me, I am in charge, and I’m not going to let her down by spiralling into panic myself.
I chuck in a wash, fold away the dry clothes and cram Nick’s shirts into the ironing basket. We have a utility room; a source of amazement to me. In the tiny kitchen of the flat I shared with my mother, the washing machine was next to the fridge and the clothes horse was a constant feature, something pushed out of the way, bumped into, tipped over. When I moved into Gran’s council house, there was a bigger kitchen with a wooden clothes airer above the sink. The room was always dark because our clothes would block the light from the small window. She took me in after my school finally recognized that there was a reason I smelled unwashed, stole other kids’ snacks and was unable to concentrate, and she gave me a home, too, when Mum died. For all her grumpiness and complaints, I miss her. She could be very funny. Gran’s jaw would have dropped if she’d seen where I ended up. Banker’s wife. That was not supposed to be my destiny.
Lottie’s eyes follow me as she eats her toast. I try to look unworried, but she’s ten, not five, and she knows what the implications are of Nick popping out and not coming back.
‘Will you call the school if he comes home?’ she asks, as she stacks her plate into the dishwasher.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Lottie. In fact …’ I pause. ‘Look, darling. I think it would be best if you didn’t say anything yet.’
She picks up my phone, glances at it and puts it down. ‘We could use code. You could ask them to get a message to me. You could say that my grandfather has pulled through his operation.’
She’s excited, imagining it happening, the drama of it.
‘Sorry, I don’t want people to know about this. Not yet at least. Not until we have more information. I don’t want people gossiping, when he might be back any minute.’
She looks at me, then nods her head.
‘Go on, up you go. Clean your teeth. Hannah’ll be here soon.’
I vacuum round upstairs and give the kitchen floor a sweep, then call Phillipa Travers, the office administrator at Nick’s work.
‘Phillipa, I am so sorry, I meant to call you, but it’s been one of those mornings and it went out of my head. Nick’s ill.’
‘We’ve been worried,’ Phillipa says. ‘He was supposed to be in a meeting this morning.’
‘Oh God. He did tell me that. This is my fault, but he was up all night vomiting and he went back to sleep, and then I had to get Lottie ready for school and walk the dog.’
‘Poor thing,’ Phillipa says. ‘Can I talk to him?’
I grimace. ‘He’s asleep and I’d rather not disturb him. I’m sure he’ll be in tomorrow, but I’ll pass on the message once he wakes up.’
I don’t care that I lied; I’m a good liar and I’ll lie for Nick. In his world you don’t wobble, because the moment you do, you’re perceived as weak. Nick would do anything rather than demonstrate frailty, physical or mental. And after all, this might all go away. Mum vanished for an entire week once, then walked in the door like nothing had happened. Nick will have some excuse. I go still. Do I really believe that? What excuse could possibly cover this apart from some terrible accident? I don’t want to think about it. He’ll come home.
Methodically I start to gather my things – my keys, sunglasses, notebook and digital recorder, tape measure and pencil – and line them up on the counter. These days I work for a property developer carrying out inventories, sorting out contracts, finding tenants, overseeing refurbishments. Rupert, my boss, gives me free rein but has high standards, as do his clients. The properties I manage are upmarket homes in the smarter boroughs and the tenants tend to be foreign, of high net worth and equally high expectations. If I’m doing an inventory I’m generous about it; these houses rent for thousands of pounds a week, so it doesn’t pay to be nit-picking. If the client is bringing their own furniture, I see to its installation. I make sure the fridge is stocked with basics before they arrive and that there are fresh flowers in the reception rooms. Attention to detail and a welcoming atmosphere make a lasting impression.
When I’ve got everything together, the worry comes surging back in and I collapse heavily on to a chair. I’m tired to my bones and it’s making me nauseous. I’ve been picking at food indiscriminately since Lottie went to school. Biscuits, an apple, cheese. Half a flapjack. A chunk or three of chocolate. Two cups of coffee and one mug of strong tea. My stomach is protesting.
I’ve got to get on. I tidy myself up. Straighten my top. One step at a time.
Outside, Mrs Jeffers, the woman who has lived in the house next door for forty-five years, stops to chat. It’s the last thing I want.
‘How are you two lovely people?’ she says, cradling her bulky shopping bag to her chest. ‘You must come round for supper soon.’
Diane has lived on her own in that vast house since her husband died nine years ago. She has a daughter, two sons and half a dozen grandchildren who visit from time to time, but she’s lonely. I sometimes have a coffee with her in the mornings. Nick will stop by and change a light bulb or clear the stretch of guttering overhung by one of our trees. In return, she keeps our spare key in case one of us gets locked out and keeps an eye on the house when we’re on holiday. She has two cats who torment Toffee.
‘We will,’ I say, smiling gaily and feeling utterly desperate. ‘Perhaps next week.’ I put on my helmet and swing my leg over the motorbike. I zip around on my beloved red Vespa. It saves a lot of hassle.
Home feels echoey and strange when I get back. I call out for Nick and my voice sounds tentative, almost embarrassed. I stand at the bottom of the stairs, listening, my blood rushing. But there is no sign of him. I wander into the kitchen and drop my bag on the side, and see his jumper folded over the back of the sofa, where it’s been since Saturday afternoon. I have nothing, not a clue as to why this has happened. I sit down, put my phone in front of me and push my fingers through my hair, leaning into my hands. All I have is an app, a friend, a coincidence. I tap In-Step and it lights up my screen. I tap Group. Anna has done fifteen hundred odd, I’ve done two thousand – well under my target, but steps are not exactly a priority right now; Nick is at zero. He isn’t moving, or he has switched off his phone. I call him, and my call is redirected to voicemail, where I leave another message.
‘Nick, please tell me what’s going on. I’m freaking out here.’
TAISIE
July 2000
TAISIE SHOVED HER HANDS INTO HER POCKETS AND her shoulders drooped. How was she going to get through this? She had never fallen out with Nick before, and it made her feel lonely. If he had apologized she would have forgiven him, but he was so arrogant. Pansy and Freya were great, but once she was back in London she would be at a loose end. Rosa wouldn’t be back from California for another week – not that she would call her anyway, after what she had done – and she wouldn’t be able to hang out with Nick either. It was all spoilt between them now. He had spoilt it.
She knew what she was going to do. It took a day to figure it out, but it was the perfect thing. Nick didn’t much like being alone – growing up, he was always in their house – so they would pretend he wasn’t there. The others took some persuading, but when Taisie told Pansy and Freya what a two-timing bastard he was, they were on her side. The boys could be bribed. Izzy required more work.
‘What’s he done?’ she asked. ‘I thought you liked him.’
‘I might have done once, but that was before he decided to treat me like shit.’
She frowned. ‘Nick’s not like that.’
&nb
sp; ‘So you like him better than me?’
‘No. But it’s not fair. We’re supposed to look after each other, not leave someone out. Mum won’t let you do it.’
‘Oh, but that’s the fun of it, Izzy,’ Taisie groaned. ‘When the adults are around, we behave normally. Like nothing’s happened. You can act, can’t you?’ She heard a note of desperation in her voice and pulled it back. ‘It’s just that he hurt me a lot, and he needs to know that you don’t treat girls like that. You don’t ask someone out then get off with their friend.’
‘Did he really ask you to go out with him?’
Her scepticism was irritating. ‘Are you saying I’m lying?’
It suddenly felt overwhelmingly important that she got all of them onside. He had made her feel small and insignificant, like her mum always did. She was neither of those things; she just wanted to be respected.
Izzy scrutinized her. ‘But you told me you didn’t even want him in the first place.’
‘That’s irrelevant. Grow up.’
Izzy mulled it over, her tongue caught between her teeth, her eyes all frowny and worried. Then she took a deep breath, as if she was about to dive into the sea. Taisie loved her little sister, but she was like a nun, or a headmistress, all high principles and over-developed conscience. She nearly died when she was a baby and it made her some kind of saint or something. It was so annoying.
‘How long for?’ Izzy asked.
Taisie smiled. ‘Until I decide to stop.’
‘Tell us about Tom Gale,’ Taisie said. ‘Is he hot in real life?’
They were in the garden lying on rugs and sunloungers after a morning spent messing about on the river. She ached from kayaking and had been sunbathing. Freya and Pansy lay beside her, their whispers making her drowsy. The twins were petite and pretty, not identical but very alike. They had freckles and great figures, thin enough to have a gap between their thighs. Taisie was closest to Pansy, but they came as a pair.
