Quickening his pace and resisting the urge to sing in public without the bolstering effects of beer, Christian swung round the railings, onto their path and in through the front door, which was already open. He dumped his backpack in the hall and it in turn spewed the chocolates and magazine onto the floor.
“Hi, honey, I’m home,” he shouted and, snatching up his peace offerings, started to run up the stairs.
“Christian.” Rebecca came out of the kitchen. She was red-eyed and pale-faced and she twisted the power bracelets on her wrist nervously.
He stopped midstride. “What?”
“She’s gone.”
He looked blankly at her.
“Ali’s gone,” she repeated.
“She can’t have,” he said. “She’s not well.”
“Her husband came.” Rebecca hugged herself and avoided his eyes. “He took her home.”
Christian raced up the stairs, burst into the bedroom and it was empty. Just as Rebecca said, Ali was gone. All Ali’s toiletries had gone from the top of the chest of drawers. The stuff she had always thrown over the Lloyd Loom chair—gone. He flung open the wardrobe. Gone. Gone. Gone.
The bed was made. No crumpling of sheets, no imprint on the duvet to show where she might have been. Christian lay down and stared at the ceiling. The ceiling with the commando’s foot crashing carelessly through. She was gone. His mind was so numb it refused to process anything else. Ali was gone. Gone. The copy of Good Housekeeping slipped out of his fingers and fell to the floor with a clatter. She would never know how to pack the perfect picnic or pickle her onions using only the power of red wine. Clutching the Quality Street to his chest, Christian Winter squeezed his eyes shut and cried for the loss of the one good thing in his life.