by Emma Curtis
‘He’ll come home,’ I say.
She drags her hand out from under mine and wedges it between her knees. ‘He’s all we have.’
Her tone of voice is odd, and I can’t help wondering if there’s a double meaning to her words. I think about the money that’s been leaving Nick’s bank account for God only knows how many years. He is all they have between them and what? Losing their home? Destitution? I have no idea how desperate they really are.
NICK
July 2000
HIS BODY FEELS HEAVY. HE SHAKES HIS HANDS, MOVES every limb to unlock his joints, then crawls out of the eaves space and crouches at the top of the stairs listening to the house. He hears Rory squeal with laughter, and thudding footsteps. Then he frowns and touches his lips, the wisps of his dream dissipating to reveal which parts were real. Izzy kissed him while he slept. Shit.
He crawls on to the landing and looks out of the window, in time to see her vanish round the side of the swimming pool changing room. Christ. Why did girls have to be so dramatic? He’d better check she’s OK. He runs down the stairs unseen, listening for the adults as he grabs a raincoat off the hook in the boot room and shoves his feet into wellington boots. The murmur of female conversation makes him hold his breath, but no one appears. He lets himself out through the side door and runs, enjoying the cooler air and the rain on his face after the oppressive stuffiness of the cubbyhole.
His feet leave dark imprints in the grass, then wet patches on the paving that surrounds the swimming pool. The rain breaks the surface of the water, thousands of rings spreading. A dead wasp undulates, buffeted by the wake of an ever-expanding circle. He runs on, holding his breath as he passes the fermenting stink of the compost heap and ducks with relief into the shelter of the woods.
He calls Izzy’s name but there’s no answer, just the rhythmic sounds his feet make as they hit wet mud and leaves, and his breath as it puffs in and out of his lungs. He stops, his hand pressed against a tree, doubled over with a stitch, panting. The river is audible above the rain now. He sets off again, following the path until Izzy’s skinny figure appears through the trees. She has her back to him.
‘Izzy!’ he shouts. ‘Iz!’
She turns slowly, squinting at him through the rain. It’s hard to make out her expression, but he smiles anyway, wanting to reassure her that they’re still mates; to reassure himself.
‘You look like a drowned rat,’ he says, walking towards her.
As he comes closer he sees fear written on her face. It stops him in his tracks. Does she think what happened in the cubbyhole was his fault? Is that what she’s going to tell the adults when they want to know why she’s dripping wet? Shit. He’s got to make sure that doesn’t happen. No one’s going to believe his story over hers, because no one is on his side apart from his parents. Possibly Angus too, he thinks, but even Angus might not support him when he sees the state Izzy is in. He takes a step forward and she screams at him to go away.
GRACE
Monday, 23 April 2018
‘DRAWN A BLANK THERE, I’M AFRAID.’ DETECTIVE Inspector Marsh has come to see me after interviewing Nick’s boss. ‘There’s been nothing irregular – the company accountants have been scrutinizing any transactions Nick’s been part of. They’ve been at it since Thursday and have found nothing to suggest any illegal dealings; so far, at least. I think you can rest easy on that score. Nick was a model employee: intelligent, trustworthy and exceptionally good at his job.’
I don’t feel relief, because I never doubted Nick’s integrity, but I’m glad it’s been officially confirmed. It’s a tick in a box. The police can move on to the things that really matter, the things I’ve been insisting are relevant.
Marsh tugs Toffee’s collar absently. The dog gazes up at him.
‘You’ve been around the block, haven’t you, boy?’ he croons, running the pad of his thumb over the inch-long scar that crosses Toffee’s nose, while my fickle little mongrel gazes at him slavishly. ‘I’m sure I’ve arrested someone who looks just like you.’ He twitches the file again. Opening it and flicking through the meagre sheaf of papers, as if something useful might appear. ‘What about your female friends?’
‘What about them?’
‘We can’t rule out the possibility that there’s a woman involved.’
‘I think I’d know if he was having an affair. I definitely would if it was a friend.’ I draw up a mental list. Kit, Mara, Susanna, Cherry and Cassie. Of all of them Cassie is the one Nick knows best, the one I’m closest to, but she’s not the type. I wouldn’t believe it of any of them. And Anna, of course. She’s never far from my mind.
‘What about casual liaisons?’
‘Highly unlikely.’ Nick goes on business trips, but I can’t imagine him sneaking into a female colleague’s hotel room or picking up someone in a bar.
Marsh looks at me pityingly. ‘He left the family home only hours after asking you to marry him. Maybe it’s as simple as a case of cold feet.’
‘A bit extreme, don’t you think? Nick is honest. He would have said something.’
‘Men can be cowards when it comes to women.’
‘It has nothing to do with that, nothing directly at least. It’s to do with the past. I’m convinced that the holiday, those three families getting together, and a child dying, is at the heart of this. Something threw Nick so badly that he had to leave. The brother of that little girl got in touch with him, and two days later he was gone.’ Day Zero, I think suddenly; and it fits. The day of Nick’s departure now has a name. ‘How much more do you need?’
Marsh gives Toffee a pat, scratches his nose, then picks up his phone. ‘I’ll be having a chat with Lorna and their daughters tomorrow morning. But not formally, you understand. The trouble is, Ms Trelawney, we have no evidence that a crime has taken place, so any interviewing or following up has to be fitted in alongside more pressing investigations.’
When he goes, he takes Nick’s computer and laptop with him, loading them into the boot of his car. I wander back up to Nick’s study and gaze at his empty desk. I’m losing more of him by the day.
Later, while I’m in John Lewis looking at flooring for work, I get an email from Nick’s company. In the Subject box it says Re: Absenteeism. It had been sent to Nick, cc’d to me, presumably because they knew there was a good chance it wouldn’t reach him.
23 April 2018
Dear Nick
We regret to inform you that your employment is being terminated, effective from 31 May 2018 unless you return to work with an acceptable reason for your absence by Monday, 30 April. This decision has been reached with great regret.
Upon termination, all benefits associated with this position will cease to be valid. You are requested to return your company car, laptop computer and any other property belonging to the company before 31 May to the Human Resources department. If this is not done, the property will be collected from your address on 1 June 2018.
Please keep in mind that you are bound by our confidentiality policy. Any information that was received during the course of your work, regarding our customers, company, partners, etc. must not be disclosed to any party. Such information must also be deleted from all personal devices. In addition, you have signed a non-solicitation clause as part of your employment contract. This binds you until the date specified.
You are entitled to your salary up until 31 May 2018. Severance pay will amount to £9731.00 and will be paid on 30 June 2018. Because you are in breach of the terms of your contract, you will not be entitled to any other compensation.
This decision is non-reversible. We advise you to refer to our disciplinary action policy. If you have questions or would like any clarification, the Human Resources department remains at your disposal for up to seven working days after your last day of employment.
Yours sincerely
Philip Colville
Head of Legal
Financial Logistics
Monday, 30 April is next week. I cannot b
elieve that after all his loyalty and hard work, and frankly, all the money he’s made for that company, they could send this, without even a phone call. The tone of the email is so cold.
I push open the doors to the stairwell where it’s quiet, away from the busy shop floor, and call the office. I get Phillipa on the phone. I’m spitting I’m so angry.
‘I know,’ she says. ‘We’re all absolutely horrified here. The police came in, Management called a meeting and that was that.’
‘They’re total shits. Can you put me through to Angus?’
‘I can’t, Grace.’
‘I’m sorry? I don’t understand.’
She breathes out. ‘He’s asked me not to. He will get back to you, only not today. He wants you to have a chance to absorb it first.’
‘Oh, lovely. He doesn’t want a messy scene. What a coward.’
‘Grace, please don’t overreact.’
‘Overreact! Nick has only been gone a week and I get this?’
‘You should have been honest from the get-go,’ she sighs.
‘I know,’ I say, swallowing my anger. This is not her fault. ‘I’m sorry, I really am, but I was trying to protect him. Why didn’t you warn me about this?’ She and Nick have worked together for five years. We went to her wedding.
‘He may come back,’ she says. Her voice becomes conspiratorial. ‘Look, Grace, I don’t know what’s going on, but Angus and Nick had a massive row on that last day.’
My nerves tingle. ‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘I couldn’t. Discretion is highly valued here. I wouldn’t dream of gossiping about conversations between Angus and his employees.’
I reluctantly decide it wouldn’t be politic to ask her why she is now. ‘What did they argue about?’
‘I don’t know. I walked into Angus’s office and walked straight back out again. They were right in each other’s faces.’
I remember now that he was at home when I got back from school with Lottie on that Friday. He claimed he had left work early because he had a presentation to focus on. Is this the real reason – that he needed to draw a line between the blistering row with his boss and his home? If so, why didn’t he want me to know about it? Surely that’s what being someone’s partner is all about.
‘Grace?’ Phillipa says.
‘It’s OK. Thanks.’
I end the call and run down the stairs and out through the back of the shop to Cavendish Square where I’ve parked the Vespa. I check my watch: it’s just gone one o’clock. It’s my week for school pick-ups, but if I hurry I can get to the City and still be back in time.
TAISIE
July 2000
‘NOT PLAYING WITH THE OTHERS?’ TIM SAID.
Taisie’s eyes were glued to his face. She seriously thought she might collapse in a heap. ‘I’m pretending to. But it’s a bit childish for me.’
He laughed, and she laughed back, although she was worried that he was laughing at her, not with her.
‘You are so charming,’ Tim said.
‘I’m not really. I’m actually a nightmare. You should talk to Mum. Well, actually, you shouldn’t.’ She was babbling, nervous as hell, caught in his gaze.
‘Well, if you’re a nightmare, you’re the fun sort,’ he said.
Taisie shivered happily. He didn’t say anything else and she couldn’t think of anything to say. She waited, feeling like an idiot, thinking she should go, calculating where Izzy would be, but wanting a few more seconds of this agony. Then he made an odd groaning sound, as if it was a huge effort to keep his hands off her, and that clinched it. With more confidence than she felt, she touched his cheek and he grabbed her hand and pressed his lips into her palm. Oh my God, she thought, the feelings that pulsed through her … she couldn’t describe, but her knees practically buckled.
‘We can’t stay here,’ he said. ‘We’ll be found.’
He stuck his head into the hall, checked there was no one around, then propelled her across the parquet floor and into Angus’s study, his hand on the small of her back.
‘No one would dare come in here,’ he said, closing the door.
She stood, frozen, her heart thumping, unsure what exactly was going on, whether she wanted it, or whether she should get away.
‘Anastasia,’ he murmured.
The way he said her full name sent shudders through her. He pulled her in to him and kissed her on the lips. First softly, then harder, his tongue pushing between her teeth. When his hand crept under her top, touching the underside of her breast, she thrust him away, shaking her head, suddenly shy.
‘What’s up, baby?’
‘I didn’t think you liked me.’
She bit her bottom lip, and he tipped her chin up with his finger.
‘You’re fishing for compliments. You know perfectly well that I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you.’
He bent to kiss her again, and she kissed him back, letting her tongue press tantalizingly against his before wriggling out of his clasp.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to go.’
She looked at the door, then back at him, imploringly. Izzy would be at the river by now, waiting. She wished she hadn’t let her go. She hadn’t thought it through, only dwelt on the glorious aftermath. What if Izzy got impatient and came back to the house? Their parents would want to know what she’d been doing outside all by herself. Izzy caught colds easily; Taisie would get the blame.
‘No, I’m the one who should be sorry, sweetheart.’ Tim held her against him and kissed the top of her head, murmuring, ‘God, you drive me crazy.’
She put her hands against his chest and pushed him away reluctantly. He smelled so lovely, she wanted to bury her nose in his shirt.
He dropped his hands with a sigh. ‘Are you cross with me?’
‘No!’ She could hardly be cross with him when her lips were throbbing from his kiss. ‘I liked it. I’ve never been kissed like that before.’ She blushed, embarrassed at how naive she sounded, but the hungry look on Tim’s face reassured her. She was already anticipating the possibility of more.
He smiled softly, took a strand of her hair and carefully tucked it behind her ear, brushing her cheekbone with his fingers. ‘I care very much about you, Anastasia. But we need to keep this secret.’
‘I won’t tell anyone. I swear.’
GRACE
Monday, 23 April 2018
THE OFFICES OF FINANCIAL LOGISTICS ARE OFF Fenchurch Street. The lane is so narrow that I have to leave the Vespa on the main road, and I don’t get much of an impression of the building as I approach, just my reflection in the glass wall. I enter through revolving doors into a cavernous space and walk up to a shiny desk manned by three receptionists. It’s an old-fashioned concern dressed in sparkly new clothes. They moved to this building a year ago, but Nick preferred the familiar scruffier offices down the road.
I head over to the desk because I’ve been clocked by the security guard, his attention drawn by my shifty behaviour. I place my helmet on the polished glass surface and ask for Angus Moody. I am still fuming. I understood the message behind the standard format. Let’s draw a tidy line and move on. Well, I am not a tidy person.
The receptionist studies her monitor. ‘Do you have a meeting? I don’t have a note of it.’
I feign surprise that she could possibly doubt me. ‘Yes, I do. One thirty.’
‘I’ll call his PA,’ she says. ‘She’ll be able to help you.’
That’s the last thing I want. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ I say, maintaining my professional demeanour. ‘I’ll give him a call.’ I turn on my heel, trying for an air of offended aplomb and march to the revolving doors. As I go out a group of men and women come in, so I keep going round, following them back inside and trying to camouflage myself in their midst. The security guard isn’t fooled and eyes me with hostility, moving forward as I hurry to the lifts. As luck would have it, one set of doors sweeps open and I dart in, cramming myself in
to the corner. The group get in with me, the doors closing before the guard can reach them, and the last thing I see is him glaring at me and lifting his walkie-talkie to his mouth.
I scrutinize the brushed-steel buttons. Someone presses five, someone else presses eleven.
‘Oh damn,’ I say. ‘She told me which floor Angus Moody is on, but it’s gone out of my head.’
‘Fourteen,’ someone says, and presses that button.
I release my breath. After the excitement, reality hits. The security guard will by now have asked the receptionist who I’d wanted to see and will have relayed that message upstairs. Someone will be waiting for me. My stomach rumbles loudly, demanding lunch, and everyone pretends not to have noticed. I watch the numbers rise, then on impulse get out at the eleventh floor.
‘You wanted fourteen,’ the helpful man says. ‘This is eleven.’
‘I need the exercise,’ I say with a smile, as the doors close again.
I find the door to the stairwell and walk up three flights to the top floor, inch open the door and peer out. There are two people conferring outside the lifts. The security guard and Phillipa. I wait until they step forward, the lift door opening, and then I dart out and walk down the carpeted corridor, spot the ladies’ room and go in. I count to ten then open the door a crack. There’s no one there. I hurry down the corridor, noting the portraits hanging on the walls, the dark-grey carpeting, the masculine feel of the place. I knock twice at Angus Moody’s door, a loud, confident rap and turn the handle before anyone inside has a chance to respond.
Moody is on his phone. He watches me walk in and carries on with his conversation. He shows no surprise, so he must have been warned. I stand in front of his desk, feeling like an idiot, revved up and deprived of my moment.
He finishes his call. There’s a knock and Phillipa comes in, looking flustered, but Angus waves her away. He waits until the door is closed, then smiles at me.
