by Emma Curtis
‘I’m going to go,’ I say to Anna as they inspect the array of cakes, flapjacks and brownies. ‘I need to phone Nick’s parents. I should have done it yesterday, but I thought he’d walk through the door. I can’t believe he hasn’t. Thanks for listening, and sorry I had to ask you that. I know it’s ridiculous.’
‘You can talk to me any time. Will you text me if he comes back? I’ll be worrying.’
I hook my bag over my shoulder. ‘Please don’t tell anyone about this.’
‘Of course I won’t.’
‘Right. Well, thanks.’ I feel as bewildered as I did when I stood on her doorstep an hour ago.
‘Hey, don’t leave,’ Cassie says, turning to me as she pays the cashier for a pot of tea and a flapjack.
‘Sorry, I need to get back to work.’
She gives me an odd look, glancing past me to where Anna appears to be texting frantically. ‘Evan’s been trying to get hold of Nick about a Chelsea match.’
‘He’s not well.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry about that. What’s up?’
‘Food poisoning, he thinks. Sorry, I have to dash. I’ll tell Nick about Evan.’
Nick has been gone for thirty-six hours. I call the police but the officer I spoke to on Sunday is in a meeting and no one else can update me on progress. She calls me back fifteen minutes later and I tell her about the minimart CCTV. She says they’ll look at it, if necessary.
‘Can I suggest you use social media? Get the word out. It can produce results. People will be interested in a successful City man going missing. Maybe speak to the Metro or the Evening Standard?’
I freeze. ‘No,’ I say too sharply. ‘Please don’t involve the press. He wouldn’t want a fuss made.’
‘But Ms Trelawney, we have limited resources. If you put out a plea to Nick to contact you, or someone else if he doesn’t want to do that, just to reassure us all that he’s alive and well, it can’t do any harm.’
‘I’ll think about it.’ I hope she can’t hear the note of panic in my voice. ‘And you won’t talk to them before I do, will you?’
She hesitates. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘It is.’
I release my breath as I disconnect the call. An image flashes into my mind, unwelcome and quickly thrust away. A knife. Blood. A gasp of pain and surprise. The last thing I need is the press digging into my past.
TAISIE
July 2000
THREE DAYS IN AND TAISIE FELT SO MUCH BETTER. IT was a little to do with Nick and a lot to do with his father. Unlike the boys her age who tried too hard, Tim was just Tim. He had this magnetism, this aura. She had sort of forgotten how old he was, or she’d matured since she’d been here, and maybe he had even regressed. The twins were dead impressed that he was in the music business, and kept wandering past him in their bikinis, singing snatches of pop songs, hoping he’d discover them. He managed a couple of bands that Taisie had slightly heard of, but he knew EVERYONE. The stuff he came out with: even Lorna’s eyes were out on stalks.
The first evening that Taisie spoke to Nick at dinner time, he had been so surprised he almost jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t been expecting it at all. She just said, ‘Can you pass the salt, Nick?’ and he looked stunned, like she had been away for three years. He got the picture quickly enough. He only existed in the company of adults. He was sitting opposite her and next to Izzy, who was so relieved to be able to talk to him she was chatting like a magpie. It was obvious she had a crush. So sad. Nick was hardly going to be interested in a pale little thing like her.
‘A restaurant,’ Angus was saying. ‘What kind of restaurant?’
Tim lit up, like he’d been given his cue. ‘Rock themed. I’ve got some great people involved, producers and musicians who want to put their name to it. Obviously, Tom Gale is my big endorsement.’
‘Restaurants are extremely risky,’ Angus said.
The voice of doom. Taisie glanced at Nick automatically, forgetting they weren’t communicating. The twilight heightened his resemblance to his father. It made her stare. He caught her eye, then looked away, back at Angus. She felt a stab of unhappiness.
‘But there are an awful lot of them doing well,’ her dad said. ‘It’s a risk, but I think Tim’s plans are really interesting. It’s a zeitgeisty kind of place.’
Angus leaned back in his chair, his shirt collar falling away to reveal a tanned throat and lots of chest hair. In the swimming pool the hair on his shoulders would float on the surface while he swam. Taisie was ashamed of her fascination with this. It had never bothered her as a little child.
‘Zeitgeisty, Sean?’ he repeated.
‘Yes. Catching the wave.’
‘And what about when the wave’s gone?’
Tim laughed. He had a sexy laugh, sort of throaty and gravelly. ‘We catch the next one, my friend.’
Angus flinched, but Tim seemed not to notice, or if he did he didn’t care.
‘Realistically a new, gimmicky restaurant has a two-year life. Once that’s over, it’s rebranded, overhauled, renewed. And off we go again.’
‘With more costs,’ Angus said.
That’s when Cora finally chipped in. ‘Vision, passion, the willingness to take a risk plus investment, is what makes a man wealthy. Plodding along keeps him comfortable, but dead inside.’
‘Hear hear,’ Taisie’s dad said. ‘Well said, Mrs Ritchie.’
Was he flirting with Nick’s mum? That was gross. She glanced up and realized that Tim was watching her. He gave her the subtlest smile; a twitch of his lips really – barely even that – but it felt like a secret had passed between them.
GRACE
Monday, 16 April 2018
I DEFER RINGING NICK’S PARENTS FOR AS LONG AS I CAN. I tidy round with little enthusiasm and minimal energy and have something to eat. Eventually, I run out of excuses and begin to feel guilty. No matter what Cora thinks of my relationship with her son, she is his mother. I’d prefer to speak to Tim, because he’s easier to talk to, but it’s Cora who answers the phone, gushing into the mouthpiece.
‘Grace dear, how are you?’
The question throws me. ‘I’m fine. I … Have you spoken to Nick recently?’
‘I spoke to him last week. Why?’
I swallow. ‘What did you talk about?’
‘This and that.’ She tuts. ‘Is everything all right, Grace? You sound odd.’
‘Sorry. Sorry, it’s just …’ I pause. I can hear her breathing. I walk out of the kitchen, hoping against all logic that he’ll suddenly appear and I won’t have to have this conversation. ‘There’s no easy way of saying this, but Nick went out on Saturday evening and didn’t come home. I wondered whether you had heard from him, or even if he had turned up on your doorstep. I mean, obviously he hasn’t.’
Her pause is almost as prolonged as mine was. ‘When you say went out, do you mean he walked out on you? Have you had a row?’
‘No, nothing like that. Everything is fine. He went out for a walk.’
‘He goes for evening walks without you?’ She makes it sound disreputable.
‘Not every evening,’ I say. ‘But that’s not the point, Cora. I don’t know where he is and I’m worried.’
‘Have you tried phoning him?’ She can’t quite hide her patronizing tone.
‘Yes, over and over. His phone goes straight to voicemail. Are you sure he didn’t say anything unusual?’
‘As far as I remember, he was his usual self. Did he have the dog with him?’
Toffee is another of Cora’s bugbears. She cannot understand why I’ve lumbered her son with an ugly little mongrel, when I could have chosen a much more attractive animal with a proper pedigree.
‘No. I thought it was a bit odd at the time.’
‘Oh dear. This is very distressing. Let me get my thoughts together.’ She hands the phone over to Tim, whispering, ‘It’s about Nick, she doesn’t know where he is.’
Nick took me to meet his parents three months after w
e started seeing each other. He told them about Lottie in advance, wanting them to get used to the idea before they met me. He had also told them that I’d been orphaned at a young age and had spent a year in the care system. I’d argued against it – I came from a world they knew nothing about; one that they would never have expected to brush up against; a world of poverty, benefits and deprivation, but he said it was important to him that I could be myself and assured me that his mother, a lawyer, knew exactly what poverty looked like. I was pathetically anxious to be liked, so I didn’t really see the merits of that strategy. If she knew about it, then she wouldn’t want me near her son. I didn’t say that to Nick though.
Their smiles were in place when they came to the door of their pretty country house. They had left London and settled in rural Leicestershire once Nick had gone to university. Nick was hugged and kissed, and so was I, though Tim’s hug was several degrees warmer than Cora’s. I was wearing tight jeans and a woolly sweater – nothing controversial – and Nick had bought me an oilskin coat and a pair of hardy walking boots. One of the first things Cora said to me was, ‘Isn’t that Nick’s sweater?’ then, turning to Nick, ‘Didn’t I buy it for you for Christmas, darling? It was rather expensive.’ She might as well have said, ‘What are you doing with it?’
I remember the feeling of the air going out of me, of my eagerness slipping away, of my whole perspective changing. I held tight to my daughter, but any thoughts I’d had on how I’d behave, what I’d chat about, melted to nothing.
I get it; I would worry if Lottie brought home a male equivalent. I was twenty-two, but I felt so much older. I had spent time on the periphery of society, and Cora sensed that even if Tim didn’t. There was nothing that they could show off to their friends about, unless it was my grit and determination, so I try not to be angry or to judge. In fact, part of me grudgingly admires Cora. She’s made of the same stuff as my grandmother: tough, hard-working and doesn’t bear fools easily. But that acceptance has come with hindsight. At the time I was devastated.
When we left, Lottie, normally chatty, didn’t speak for the entire journey. Nick and I talked, but there was a constraint between us that hadn’t been there before. When we got home he scooped Lottie up, pulled me into his embrace and held us tight.
‘We don’t have to do that again for a long time,’ he said with a heartfelt sigh.
As long as they don’t interfere in our lives, I can bear the odd mean-spirited remark without reacting. For better or worse, we’re stuck with each other and I will always try to be nice, for Nick’s sake.
‘Grace?’ Tim’s voice is deep and resonant, like an actor’s. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Oh, Tim.’
It’s a relief to talk to him. Unlike his wife, he listens to my story without me feeling like he’s holding the phone away from his ear.
‘That doesn’t sound like Nick,’ he says.
‘Exactly. It’s not like him at all. I honestly don’t know what to do next.’
‘Have you informed his office?’
‘I’ve told them he’s ill. I didn’t want to turn it into a catastrophe when he might reappear at any moment.’
‘Do you want us to come up?’
‘No, that’s really kind of you, but not yet. I just wanted you to know so that you’d keep an eye on your phones. He may try and get in touch with you.’
I hear Cora’s voice in the background, but not what she’s saying. She takes the phone back, and I imagine her nudging Tim away with her hip.
‘If there are any developments, I’d appreciate it if you would tell us immediately. This is not all about you, Grace.’
That hurts. It’s not the impression I thought I was giving. ‘Of course it isn’t. Why would you say that?’
‘Because thinking about other people has never been your strong point, has it?’
Do not react. She’s his mother. She’s still trying to get her head round what’s happened. I close my eyes, count to three. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll call you if I hear anything at all.’
I unlock and slide open the doors to the garden and step outside. The spring sunshine warms my face. Leaf buds, still tightly wrapped, nobble the branches of the trees; the grass needs its first cut. I turn and look up at the house. It’s always seemed so solid, but now I imagine it falling apart, bricks and glass cascading down. He’s only been gone a day and a half, and already I’m feeling a chill. It’s as though I foolishly assumed that the winter was over, and an overnight frost has attacked the green shoots.
At five, I call Nick’s office and tell a few more whoppers. I warn Phillipa not to expect him before Thursday, saying that he’s too sick to come to the phone. I lie and lie and lie. When she asks if he’s getting his emails, I say no. He hasn’t been able to get out of bed. He vomits everything up. He has diarrhoea.
‘Surely he should be in hospital,’ she says. ‘He must be terribly dehydrated.’
‘The doctor’s coming to do an assessment this evening. They don’t want him to come to the surgery, in case it’s Norovirus.’
There’s a long pause. Phillipa coughs. I wait, my hand gripping the phone, sweating against the plastic.
‘All right,’ she says slowly. ‘I’ll call in the morning. Grace, is everything OK?’
‘I’ve spent the past twenty-four hours cleaning up sick, but otherwise everything’s fine and dandy, thank you.’ Too glib, I think, wincing. ‘Sorry, it’s been a little stressful here.’
‘I can imagine. Well, give him my love and tell him we’re coping fine and he’s not to worry. Focus on getting better. If we have any problems Lewis will phone him. Hopefully he’ll be able to take a call, at least.’
NICK
July 2000
HE KNOWS IT ISN’T REAL BUT, EVEN SO, HE’S TERRIFIED, pinned to the bed by sleep paralysis while snake-headed demons swoop at him from the picture hanging on the wall. It’s an oil painting of an elderly woman with a bonnet and the purple weeds of a Victorian widow. In his bedroom at home he doesn’t have anything on the walls, no posters or photos. He took them down after the nightmares started.
Nick shuts his eyes tight and imagines his limbs moving, concentrates so hard that it feels as though his mind might burst. His foot twitches first, and with that the demons vanish, and relief floods him. Then he can move his arms, his torso, his legs. He shakes his feet under the sheet, opens and closes his fists, twists his neck from side to side and relaxes back with a sigh.
Sometimes, maybe once every couple of months, his brain wakes up before his body. He’s paralysed. It’s seriously unpleasant, but it’s become so familiar that he can get through it. This additional waking problem is something else, though. The creatures appear real and they come straight for him and, because he’s awake but still dreaming, he thinks he’s going to die. It’s fucking terrifying. No kidding.
He wonders whether Taisie’s vindictive, spiteful game is going to go on, or if the others will get bored with it.
He gets up and goes to the loo, peeing for a long time, his hand pressed against the wall. There’s no sound yet from downstairs. Back in his room he takes the picture down and hides it in the wardrobe, where it can’t bother him again, then twitches open the curtains. It’s dawn. With a groan he gets back into bed and pulls the sheet and blanket over him.
Angus clearly does not believe Tim’s bullshit stories. He thinks Nick’s dad is a jerk and he’s already sussed that it’s his mum who’s keeping a roof over their heads. Angus can see straight through Tim, and the sad thing is, Tim doesn’t get it; he thinks he’s rolling them all over and tickling their tummies. Can’t he see that Angus is successful because he’s fucking intelligent and knows a chancer when he sees one?
Apart from the whole ‘pretend Nick doesn’t exist’ scenario, because it hasn’t been forgotten, cancelled or deferred, he also has this crap to deal with. It is blindingly obvious that the Moodys are wishing them a million miles away. Why the hell did Taisie’s mum and dad suggest they come? Or did hi
s father wheedle an invitation? Despite his and Taisie’s families being so close, they’ve never actually been away on holiday together and it’s intense. It’s like everyone has turned their emotional dial up a notch. There’s a real bromance going on between Taisie’s dad Sean and Tim. Jesus, get him out of here. Then there’s his mum feeling threatened by Lorna Moody, who is much more attractive. A slender brunette with a pair of oversized sunglasses permanently pushed up into her hair.
The only person in this entire place who is on his side is Izzy. She’s the only one with the guts to deviate from Taisie’s strict instructions. It’s all about loyalty with Taisie. He knows because Izzy told him that she’s practically blackmailed every one of them into this.
The days seem endless, the heat turns sultry, pressing in on him so that Nick finds himself longing for an autumnal breeze. He gradually grows accustomed to sitting in a silent vortex while the others enjoy themselves around him. It’s a bizarre kind of kaleidoscope with him in the centre feeling both acutely self-conscious and invisible. Sometimes he touches his skin, presses his fingers into the muscles in his thigh or arm, so the pain will remind him that he’s there, not trapped in a claustrophobic dream.
He could shrug it off – Angus is great to talk to, really interesting and sound, but he’s often in his study working; Nick thinks he’s probably avoiding his father – but it’s getting him down. When people deliberately shut you out, when they walk past you as though you aren’t there, when they talk through you and over you, it starts to make you doubt your own worth. It’s so fucking stupid. All because Taisie can’t bear the fact that he might not fancy her. Of course he does, but it’s not a particularly comfortable feeling. It feels wrong, bordering on incest. But the worst thing is the way she behaves around his dad. He’s known her since she was a toddler. He’s seen her naked in the paddling pool, for Christ’s sake. The whole thing makes him sick. Tim humours her up to a point, but fortunately he has the sense not to respond, at least most of the time. When she gets all flirty with him, his dad starts mucking around with the younger kids, and has them in stitches.
