The Night You Left

by Emma Curtis

  Her brothers were expertly manoeuvring a football around the apple trees, while Nick sat a little way off, reading a book. She wished she knew what he was thinking.

  ‘Tom?’ Tim brushed grass off his bony feet. ‘He’s a great kid.’ He smiled. ‘Maybe you’ll get to meet him one day.’

  ‘Has Nick met him?’ Pansy asked.

  Hearing his name, Nick turned his head.

  ‘Yeah, Tom’s been round to the house,’ Nick said laconically, as if it was nothing.

  ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘You’re so lucky.’

  Taisie frowned at her, and Pansy caught her eye, mouthed, ‘Sorry’, then rolled over and dropped her head into her folded arms. Taisie sat up, leaning back to feel the sun on her face. She was wearing a bikini and she felt Nick’s eyes on her, but when she looked, his head was in his book. Tim, though – he had seen. Taisie wrapped her arms around her knees and pulled them close.

  Tim was a cross between David Beckham and Hugh Grant. He was old, like forty-five or something, but he was totally gorgeous. Even the twins were impressed and envied Taisie’s easy relationship with him. She had known him for years, but it was the first time he’d treated her like an adult. The best thing was, Nick was jealous of his dad. It was blatantly obvious. When Tim made any sort of fuss of Taisie or the twins, he went beetroot. Nick made her feel all cringy and angry, but his dad confused her. Often, the only way of getting through that was to be rude to him. Sarcasm helped too.

  ‘Who’s Tom Gale?’ Lorna asked.

  ‘Mum, you know who he is,’ Freya said. ‘He was on Parkinson last week.’

  Lorna shrugged. ‘I don’t remember. But I’m sure he’s wonderful.’

  ‘He is,’ Taisie said, deciding to give Tim the benefit of her support. ‘He’s a real artist, not someone who’s going to come and go in a flash. He’s got this great single out now. I’ve got it on my MP3 player. We can listen to it later if you like.’

  Tim stretched, and his T-shirt rose, showing his hips above the waistband of his shorts and the arrow of hair below his navel.

  ‘Loving your midriff, Tim,’ she said, raising her eyebrows. ‘Kind of you to share it with us.’

  He laughed. ‘Yeah, I know, I’m not sixteen any more. I should keep it under wraps in case I shock the kids.’

  His lightly mocking tone sent a dart of adrenaline through her body. Disturbed, she started plucking daisies and dropping them on to Pansy’s back, until Pansy flicked her thigh irritably. Taisie turned to Nick. He was looking down, but she could tell he was scowling. Then he lifted his head, raked his fringe out of the way with his fingers and held her gaze with eyes that were hot with anger. She was the one who blinked first.

  GRACE

  Monday, 16 April 2018

  WHEN I WORKED FOR A HOMELESS CHARITY YEARS ago, there were all sorts of reasons why people left their families but what they mostly boiled down to were money, sex, addiction or emotional problems. As far as I know, money and addiction aren’t issues for either of us; so that leaves sex and emotional problems. Could I be wrong about Nick? Could he be having an affair? I feel as though I’m tumbling.

  He wouldn’t; he loves me. I bite down on my lip and think back to the last dinner party, the last drinks, the last casual meeting while walking the dog, trying to picture Nick with the women we know. Most of the people we see are happily married. What about work? I realize I haven’t the slightest idea, but Nick was back early from his staff Christmas drinks, so I doubt there’s anything going on there. And anyway, I’d know. There would be signs. No way would Nick smile at me the way he does, that big beaming smile that embraces me. No way would he tease me and Lottie, joking that he’s at the mercy of our whims. No way would he have proposed. I press my fingers hard against my eyes. This is all wrong. Nick hasn’t run away from me; he’s out there, hurt and unable to get home.

  I take a sheet of paper and a pen and start to put down figures and tot up Nick’s day. We had compared our steps after Wimbledon. He had somehow managed to do five hundred more than me, and we couldn’t work out how that had happened. Nick had done almost four thousand, me more like three thousand five hundred. After lunch we’d taken Lottie to buy Hannah’s birthday present, adding another two and a half thousand or thereabouts. On Saturday night Nick stopped moving at eight thousand five hundred and forty-three steps, so that means he managed between one thousand nine hundred and two thousand two hundred steps. I open my laptop, type our postcode into the search engine and click enter. I pull up the map and mark a radius around our house.

  So now I have a fairly good idea of how far he walked before he stopped. I visualize the routes that I know he takes, to shops, to the station, to friends’ houses. Toffee whines at my feet, as anxious as me.

  I clip on his lead and leave the house, striding north, phone in hand, tapping the screen to check the app every few seconds, dog-legging through wide, tree-lined streets. We are conservation here, red-brick, detached double-fronted Victorian villas, far enough from central London to have been built with a generous gap between them. Nine hundred steps brings me to the edge of the Common where I let Toffee off his lead. He scampers around, racing up to other dogs, but he doesn’t stray out of earshot. One thousand three hundred more steps take me to the far side, where I linger by the bus stop, looking across at the minimart, the gift shop, the estate agent’s and the Costa. It’s full of women chatting over their lattes, prams beside them. I imagine Nick crossing the road at a stroll, with no particular aim. Or was he hurrying; needing to be somewhere, to talk to someone? Was it a woman, or a man? Did he owe something? Loyalty or money? Love or sex?

  I cross at the lights and walk to the Queen’s Arms, bracing myself. Even though I’m now incredibly scared it still feels a little embarrassing to be in a pub asking if they’ve seen my man.

  I show the barkeeper a picture of Nick on my phone, and to my surprise and relief she nods.

  ‘He came in on Saturday night, but he didn’t stay long. He had one drink and left.’

  ‘Did he talk to anybody?’

  ‘Not so’s I’d notice.’ She starts to wipe down the bar.

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘All right, I suppose, maybe a bit dejected. He sat over there.’ She indicates a table in the corner. ‘No one joined him.’

  All I can think of is that word. Dejected. ‘Do you remember what he drank?’

  ‘Whisky. A double with ice.’

  ‘Really?’ Nick has never been interested in spirits – a tot of brandy in a hot chocolate on a winter evening, but that’s all.

  From there I check the shops that would still have been open. The manager at the minimart wasn’t in on Saturday night, but says that if Nick did come in it’ll be on their CCTV. He takes my number and says he’ll check when he has a chance. He gives me a pitying look as I leave, like he thinks I’m deluding myself. I can imagine what he’s thinking: the boyfriend’s done a bunk. It’s tough, but people do that shit.

  In the off-licence, the owner says good afternoon, hands on the counter, leaning forward. He knows me.

  ‘Didn’t see him,’ he replies to my enquiry. ‘Are you sure he came in? Didn’t go to the competition?’ He tips his chin in the general direction of his rival, the minimart.

  I blush. ‘Maybe.’

  He smiles and shrugs. ‘Use us or lose us.’

  I leave quickly and hesitate at the kerb, not knowing whether to keep walking. He could have gone off in any direction. He could have got into someone’s car and been driven away – someone he thought was a friend but who meant to harm him. Christ, I think, it must be money. What if he’s hiding a huge debt, or found himself in a situation he could see no way out of. Except one.

  One thousand five hundred steps take me to the station. He either caught a train, or he walked further.

  I walk east, past the school to the streets of smaller workers’ cottages beyond it. These are painted in pastel shades, though some of the newer arrivals have gone for a Farrow and Ba
ll palette. In estate-agent speak the area is called the Garden Triangle because all the streets are named after flowers and shrubs: Primrose, Forsythia, Larkspur, Clover, Camomile. Anna Foreman’s house is in Camomile Avenue. Maybe she did see him on Thursday evening. She might have recognized Toffee tied up outside the minimart and gone up to pet him. Everyone likes my dog – he’s a great one for offering a paw – then Nick came out and she introduced herself. Maybe she saw something.

  Anna’s house is pale pink with cracked tessellated tiles leading to an olive-green front door. Down this street the residents are amicably competitive about their tiny front gardens. There’s a rose showing signs of bursting into leaf, clambering up the wall. In June it will dance with white blooms tinged with yellow.

  She doesn’t answer my knock. I try a couple more times and wait. I phone her landline and hear it echoing through the house. Her mobile rings out as well. I’m typing out a text, asking her if she wants to come round for a coffee, when she opens the door. She’s wearing painter’s overalls and her hair is tied back and partly covered by a scarf.

  ‘Grace,’ she says. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Are you busy? I thought I might pop in for a cuppa. I’m at a loose end.’

  Anna’s surprise shows in the way her eyes narrow, and I realize how odd this looks. We’re not on dropping-in-unannounced terms, not like I am with Cassie and the others. I first met her at a coffee morning organized by Susanna to introduce her to the neighbourhood. I didn’t warm to her then, and, to my shame, I’ve avoided getting to know her in case I can’t shake her off. There’s something not quite right, a slyness about her. Her throat and cheeks are flushed pink, but if I’ve caught her at a bad time, I can’t help that.

  What if it wasn’t the first time they’d met? Jealousy flickers into life. I haven’t felt this way since Douglas, as though a seam of it is running through my body, lighting up, a lurid green. What if she and he … I grit my teeth. I will kill her if it’s true.

  She grimaces. ‘Sorry. Any other time, but I’m getting behind on orders.’

  ‘Oh, well. That’s fine, I just wanted to ask you something.’

  I’m the one going red now. Her eyes are on my face, her eyebrows raised.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you happen to bump into Nick on Thursday evening?’

  ‘Nick? Is that your bloke?’ She frowns. ‘I’ve never met him.’ She tucks a loose strand of hair up under the edge of the scarf. ‘Why?’

  I study her face, trying to gauge if she’s telling the truth. She looks back steadily.

  ‘Sorry. I don’t know why I thought—’

  Her face softens. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘He’s …’ A tear squeezes out of my eye. I wipe it away. ‘Sorry, I haven’t had much sleep. He’s gone.’

  Her fingers move to her ear, twisting one of the pretty diamond studs. ‘Look, my house is a shit-tip, so don’t come in, but let’s go for a walk.’

  ‘What about your work?’ I say, sniffing.

  ‘It can wait.’ She picks up her keys from the shelf above the radiator, pulls the scarf from her head, letting her hair fall, then closes the door behind her.

  NICK

  July 2000

  ‘DO YOU WANT A GAME?’ NICK ASKS AS ALEX SAUNTERS into the barn.

  He carries on batting the table tennis ball against the raised end of the table. Alex wanders past him and picks up a child’s cricket bat he finds leaning against the wall.

  ‘Alex,’ Nick repeats. ‘Do you want to play table tennis?’

  Alex doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at him; in fact he hums to himself, like he’s the only person in the room. Then he turns round and walks out. Nick smashes the ball one more time, then lets it bounce past him and get lost amongst the bikes and sleds, croquet mallets and other garden paraphernalia that the Moodys store in here. He looks at the door, baffled, then goes after Alex. Outside the kids are setting up a game of rounders. He joins them. Taisie doesn’t look at him, none of them do. There’s an odd taste in the atmosphere. He’s beginning to see a pattern here.

  ‘Me and Alex will be captains,’ Taisie says. ‘I pick Pansy.’

  ‘Freya.’

  ‘Rory.’

  ‘Taisie! I wanted to be on your team,’ Izzy protests.

  ‘Well you can’t. You’re on Alex’s team.’

  ‘Anyone want an uneven number?’ Nick says, smiling from one to the other. No one catches his eye.

  ‘Right,’ Taisie says. ‘Heads we bat first.’

  He wanders over to Alex, who’s standing with Freya, who also looks as though she’d prefer to be on the other team.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asks.

  ‘Izzy,’ Freya calls. ‘Come on. Get over here.’

  He can feel how conscious she is of his presence. She’s trying to behave normally, but it’s like she’s suddenly been thrust on to the stage and asked to recite a poem in front of the whole school.

  ‘Is no one talking to me? Is that it?’

  He waits, then shrugs and wanders up to the terrace and sits on the steps, shading his eyes, which he keeps trained hard on Taisie, because he knows this is down to her. He picks at the grass, wondering how long they’re going to keep it up. The ball comes his way, hitting the ground and rolling to within a few feet of him, and Izzy comes running after it. She’s a crap runner, slow with an awkward, rolling gait. When she gets to him, she stoops to pick up the ball.

  ‘Are you not speaking to me either, then?’ he says.

  She looks right at him. It’s an almost physical relief to be looked at and seen. She then turns and runs back. He holds her expression in his head and studies its different facets. Apologetic. Defiant. Embarrassed.

  GRACE

  Monday, 16 April 2018

  THE AFTERNOON IS WARM AND SUNNY, THE MAGNOLIA at the end of the road heavy with pale-cream and pink flowers, some petals already strewn on the pavement. Anna and I walk to the parade and she steers me into the cafe, buys us both a coffee and carries them to a table. I peel off my jacket and hang it over the back of the chair. It feels unnatural, as though the scene has been theatrically staged. Anna pulls her hair behind her shoulders, then rests her elbows on the table and weaves her fingers together.

  I study her in a way I haven’t before, as though she’s a potential rival. That she is attractive is beyond argument, but hers is not an easy face to look at; she’s challenging, too sexy, maybe; I don’t know. She has long black glossy hair, smoky eyes and full lips. Her cheekbones are pronounced, her jawline elegant. I find her both alluring and off-putting. I think most men would just find her alluring. Or scary. There is something sensual about her, and I suppose that’s what makes me uneasy. She uses her hair as a flirtation tool, flicking it back with her hand or a toss of her head, leaning forward so that it drapes over her face, winding a lock of it around her finger.

  ‘Do you think he’s left you?’ she asks, looking at me oddly. She’s probably wondering why I’m confiding in her and not in Cassie.

  ‘I don’t know. He went out on Saturday evening and he hasn’t come back. He’s not answering his phone.’

  ‘Have you checked the hospitals?’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve reported it to the police, but they think he’ll be back. According to their checklist, he’s just left. Look, I wouldn’t ask you this—’

  I stop dead. I should have thought this through. If I tell her, then she’s going to take herself off the app. I want to keep her there, trapped on my screen, where I can keep an eye on her.

  ‘You wouldn’t ask me what?’

  I’m thinking on my feet, but luckily that is one of my skills. ‘When he came back from his trip to the shops on Thursday evening he said he’d met a mum from the school and that they’d had a conversation. From the way he described her, it sounded like you. It’s a long shot, but he was a little taciturn afterwards, and I thought it might have had something to do with what’s happened now.’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘And what did
he talk to this mystery woman about?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t get that far.’ I rub my eyes and yawn. ‘I was distracted.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t got a clue. I’m not even sure I’d recognize your husband. You haven’t introduced us.’

  ‘We’re not married. You must have met him.’

  ‘Nope.’ Her smile is quick to arrive and quicker to depart; a sharp tightening of the muscles at the corners. ‘It’s tough being an attractive single mother. Other women feel threatened.’

  ‘I’m not … I don’t …’

  ‘Oh, I’m not accusing you in particular. It’s just a general thing, a feeling I get when I walk into a room. If I’m invited to a party I have to be careful not to let myself be monopolized by any of the husbands. I can feel their wives twitching, you know, and I can tell when they’re about to wander over, slide their arm through his, kiss his cheek, and draw him away.’ She puts on a mimsy voice. ‘“Oh darling, you must meet so-and-so.” It’s a whole production.’

  It’s so believable. How would I feel if Nick spent too long talking to Anna? Not great, frankly. I might find the way she plays with her hair irritating, but I don’t think Nick would. One hundred per cent I would go up and put my arm round him.

  ‘I don’t want their bloody husbands anyway. God. I can’t think of anything worse.’

  ‘What happened to Kai’s dad, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Prostate cancer,’ she says. ‘Three months from diagnosis to death. I barely had a chance to get used to the idea before he was gone. I was widowed at twenty-eight.’

  She says it so bluntly that I’m thrown for a second, but then I realize it’s a defence mechanism.

  ‘I’m sorry. How old was Kai?’

  ‘Five. Old enough for him to have memories.’

  The door to the cafe opens and Cassie comes in. She holds it open while Kit, another of our friends, man-oeuvres her baby’s bulky pram inside. They spot us and wave. I reach for my jacket.