A NEW COUPLE has moved into the flat downstairs. They’re very much in love. It’s their first home together and their happiness seeps up through the floorboards, their little room and everywhere. I hear their muffled laughter in what is now the kitchen. They shop together, nattering to each other as they lumber their Lidl bags down the area steps.
How sweet, that they’ve festooned their tiny yard with fairy lights! It’s a summer’s evening; I can see them down there, drinking Prosecco and checking their mobiles. Oh, to begin again. That’s what I said to Jeremy, before we kissed. What if we just started out again and had another life? My tenants have taken my place and I feel protective of them, wishing them better luck than I had.
It’s eighteen months since Jeremy died. For a long time I couldn’t face opening his boxes. Finally I unpacked them and hung his clothes in my wardrobe. His other possessions – the collage, the photos and trinkets – I’ve put on my shelves. I simply couldn’t bear to throw them away. I’ve placed a candle in front of them, which I light from time to time. This might be borderline weird, but there you are. Google ‘death rituals’ and you’ll find a lot weirder.
I’m on the internet now, researching a book about food in Renaissance art and pondering, yet again, about getting a dog. My life has long since reverted to its former state – the same, yet profoundly different. At least I’ve stopped bursting into tears in the middle of John Lewis, and these paintings of glistening sweetmeats are actually making me hungry. I’m toying with the idea of flying to Melbourne and spending Christmas with Sasha but haven’t summoned up the courage to ask her.
I’m thinking how ridiculous it is, to be nervous of one’s own daughter, when the phone rings.
It’s Maureen, a friend of Bev’s from her nursing days. I glimpsed her briefly at the memorial. She wastes no time in small talk.
‘I’ve seen her,’ she says.
‘What?’
Nobody’s seen Beverley since that day. She simply disappeared. It’s not a missing person’s case, the police haven’t been informed, because Bev’s made contact with various friends by email. She’s told them she’s travelling, I’ve always been a bit of a gypsy, but there have been no blogs and no photos. She’s hinted that she’s visiting old friends around the world and sorting out what to do with her life. Maybe she’ll go to live in France.
What is she going to do with her life? Sooner or later she must resurface but I suspect she’ll have changed her name because she knows I’ll be looking for her. Needless to say, my emails to her have gone unanswered. I’ve told nobody the truth; I suspect they’ll think I’m mad. After all, there’s no proof, no evidence, nothing. And our Bev a murderer?
Sooner or later I’ll find her. And now Maureen has done the job for me.
‘I decided to try online dating,’ she says. ‘Since Robbie passed away I’ve been on my ownsome, and I know it’s hard for women our age but I thought I’d give it a whirl, dip my toe in the water. I mean it’s not much fun, is it, cooking for one? So I lied about my age, apparently everyone does, and I decided to check out the competition. That’s when I saw her. She’d lied too, she said she was fifty, fifty years young, she said, and she called herself Twinkletoes.’ Maureen laughs. ‘Rather appropriate, in the circs. But I recognized her. Different hair, but it was Bev all right.’
Twinkletoes, it seems, is looking for a man in the Kent area. He must have a GSOH and enjoy both long country walks and snuggling up in front of the fire with a glass of wine. And he must love animals. I’m petite, 5’4”, slim and tactile, I discover, when I log on. My friends tell me I look young for my age. I’ve just come out of a long relationship and I’m looking for romance, with the possibility of a long-term commitment.
And there’s her photo. Her hair’s darker, and cut short, pixie-style. It suits her. To my surprise I feel a momentary throb of sympathy. She’s lonely too! Join the club.
This passes in a flash.
Kent. So that’s where she lives.
I enlist my gay friend Lennox as bait. He doesn’t know the reason but he’s always up for a lark. We set up his profile together. He calls himself Teddybear. Teddybear lives in Ramsgate with his three dogs and six cats. We throw in a tortoise for good measure. Recently divorced, Teddybear is tactile and widely travelled, with a GSOH – lotsa laughs.
He puts a wink onto her entry and promptly, even eagerly, gets a response. Hi, love ya profile! Tell me about your doggies and moggies. What’s their names?
So Bev and I, aka Teddybear, enter into a correspondence. She tells me that she has her own little business, a beauty spa on wheels. She travels around the countryside selling products and offering aromatherapy and make-up sessions. She’s even thinking of starting her own line of body lotions. I picture her in her shiny new Beetle, bought with her husband’s running-away money – the second vehicle, curiously enough, for which I’ve been responsible.
Teddybear tells her that he’s a sucker for a massage – they make me positively purr with pleasure. Twinkletoes replies, I can see you’re a very sensual person, just like me. Lots of Englishmen are so tense; they’re scared of their bodies, aren’t they?
I sit at my computer. The screen says that Twinkletoes is online now. I can almost hear her breathing. It’s the weirdest feeling, knowing she’s sitting there, waiting for my response. For we’re already flirting.
Bev doesn’t hang about. The next email she suggests we meet for a coffee in Ramsgate. I’ll be in that area on Thursday. Say eleven, at Franco’s?
Where’s that? I type.
Sorry, I thought everyone knew Franco’s. Corner of Broad Street and Church Row.
She thinks I’m local, of course. Stupid me, I reply. Franco’s it is. See you there.
Her reply pings in, quick as a flash: Can’t wait!
Have you noticed how people who want to find themselves move west – to Cornwall, to Wales – where there are artists’ colonies and yoga retreats? People who want to escape, however, move east. They have something to run from, something to hide; they’re metaphorically blown there by the prevailing wind and are only halted by the sea – itself suggesting the possibility of further flight. A washed-up coastal town in Kent seems as good a place as any in which to disappear.
And reappear as someone completely different.
I tried to paint my nails this morning but my hands were shaking. On the train, the tea kept spilling when I raised it to my lips. For a moment, I actually thought I was going to be sick.
And now I’ve arrived in Ramsgate. I’ve Googled Franco’s. It’s not far from the seafront. A blustery wind’s blowing and the air is clamorous with gulls. They stand on a concrete wall, big heavy beasts, feet planted apart, eyeing me with hostility. I’ve been to Ramsgate before, when I was young, but I’m still disorientated from last night’s dream where I was in another Ramsgate altogether. With me was a man I didn’t recognize, but I was so fiercely in love with him that I could hardly breathe. He was holding my hand as we walked along the promenade, the waves dashing against the beach. He said I’m taking you to Franco’s and we’ll make love there. When we arrived, Franco’s was a warehouse. Inside it was piled with packing cases. First I’ll give you a present, my darling, he said. He crowbar’d open one of the cases. Inside were rows of gold ingots. Fooled you, he said, and when I turned round he was gone.
In reality Franco’s is an ice-cream parlour and coffee bar. In other circumstances I would admire its art-deco charm. I’m lingering down the road, behind a bus shelter. It’s five to eleven; she won’t be there yet, it would look too eager. And there’s no sign of her yellow Beetle, though of course it could be parked in another street.
The minutes pass. I won’t go in first, of course, because if she saw me sitting there she’d scarper. My mind’s a blank. Maybe snipers feel this, when they’re waiting for their prey. I read the graffiti, scrawled on the shelter, but I don’t take it in. I’m the sniper and Bev is my enemy. Our long adventure has come to this, and the questions I’ve stored up, all these months, have been wiped clean by fear.
It’s starting to rain. A man passes, muttering, holding a newspaper over his head. Two girls come out of Franco’s, look up, and hurry off round the corner. I’m dying for a pee. Bev calls it spending a penny.
By eleven-fifteen I realize she’s not coming. She’s standing me up – she’s standing Teddybear up. She’s had second thoughts. She’s smelt a rat. Or, more likely, she just likes manipulating men. I can twist them around my little finger. Play it mean and keep them keen. She’ll email him later, with a lie, and this will fan the flames of his desire.
Actually, I have no idea why. She’s a murderess. Who knows what goes on in their heads?
At eleven-twenty I give up. She’s escaped me, yet again. I’ll have a coffee and go to the loo and take the train back to London.
So I cross the road and walk down the street, past an amusement arcade and a charity shop, and push open the door of Franco’s.
There’s only a few customers in the café. I hardly bother to look at them as I make my way to the counter.
And then, in the corner, I see her. She’s just a few feet away from me, scrolling through her mobile.
She looks up. There’s a brief pause.
‘Ah,’ she says. If she’s surprised, she’s not showing it. ‘So it’s you.’