I wish it had been porn on Andy’s laptop. I could shrug it off if he was interested in various questionable acts he’s never mentioned wanting to try. People’s internet browsing histories are a murky business at best. I would imagine most would rather do a naked lap of Trafalgar Square than have to unveil their list of visited websites. No one wants the truth to come out that they clicked onto the Daily Mail’s site.
After seeing the name ‘David Persephone’ in Andy’s history, I continue scrolling through the rest of the things he looked for.
I Googled Andy before our first meal out together. I stalked his social media and looked through his juice bar’s webpage. I found out everything I could about him because, like it or not, that’s how things work nowadays. It’s easier than asking questions. To find the answer, put the question into Google, and there it is.
Andy’s history from the past few days includes visits to the websites of various wholesalers and suppliers. He did an Ocado shop and browsed The Guardian. He likes the BBC website and spent time on Twitter. Much of it is normal… except there is a huge gap in the history from Sunday evening. I have no idea where Andy was but, at the time I was getting my award, he wasn’t using his laptop. There is no activity from 4 p.m. through to Monday morning.
It proves nothing, of course – except that the final thing he looked for on Sunday was ‘David Persephone’. Hours after that, I was seeing the ghost of my dead husband.
I glance away from the laptop towards the door and the stairs beyond. There’s no sign of Andy getting up. I could go and ask him why he was searching for David, but it’s another of those lines in the sand. I’d have to tell him about going through his browser history and where would that leave us?
While I was travelling to the venue on Sunday, Andy read almost two-dozen articles about David’s disappearance. He spent almost two hours in total looking through details. I’m there too, of course. The devastated wife with all the questions about where my precious husband had gone. I always found it a surprise how quickly things went away. One minute, the police and the media had a sustained interest in David vanishing; forty-eight hours later and it felt like nobody cared. A week on and the only people who remembered were those who knew him.
Andy and I have talked about David in the past and it’s natural that he’d be curious. My concern isn’t so much that he is looking at these articles, it’s that he’s looking now. What’s changed?
There is a creak from the stairs, so I snap closed the lid of Andy’s laptop and push it back underneath the coffee table. I’m leaning back on the sofa, casual and carefree, when Andy appears in the doorway. He stretches high and fights a yawn.
‘How did you sleep?’ he asks.
‘Good. You?’
‘Perfectly.’
I don’t know why couples talk about sleep. We take the most boring of subjects and somehow drag it out to be a daily conversation piece. I’m not convinced anyone cares anyway.
I watch Andy go through his routine. He pours almond milk onto his cereal and sets it to soak while he sets the espresso machine to heat. With that bubbling, he checks the news headlines on his phone and then, when the green light appears, he turns the dial to set the coffee pouring. As that’s filling a cup, he pours a glass of juice that would’ve been prepared the night before. He’s done that just in time for the espresso cup to fill, so he turns off that machine and quickly disposes of the grinds into the bin. After washing the filter, he then carries everything to the table. Finally, he fetches the laptop and takes that to the table, ready to browse the news properly.
He does all this with little emotion or even thought, I suppose. Like a robot fulfilling its programming.
It’s not to think of David and all that happened. All I did. There’s a part of me that unquestionably liked the unpredictability. With Andy, it’s all stability and certainty.
‘…want anything?’
I blink back to the sofa, realising that Andy’s talking to me.
‘Pardon?’ I say.
‘Do you want anything?’ he asks.
I clamber off the sofa and try to remember where I put the BMW keys. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I say. ‘I have classes later. I’ll text you.’
‘Do you need help packing for the weekend?’
‘I don’t think so.’
He gets up from the table, probably wondering why I’m suddenly rushing. I’m not sure I can explain it. I should ask him why he was searching for David but know that I won’t.
My phone buzzes and I glance down to see the text from Jane:
I need to see you. Urgent.
Hyperbole is unlike her, so I quickly thumb back a message while Andy watches:
Your place? Mine? What’s up?
‘Everything all right?’ Andy asks, nodding towards my phone.
‘I’m going to stop by Jane’s on the way home.’
He nods acceptance and then pulls me close. His fingers clutch my back, but I start patting his almost straight away, wanting to be released.
‘If you see that guy from last night, call the police,’ he says.
It takes me a second to remember the son of the guy hit by my car.
‘I will.’
My phone buzzes once more and it’s almost as if I can feel the urgency of what’s come back. I resist the urge to check.
‘I’m looking forward to moving in,’ I say.
‘It will be a new start for both of us.’
I’m not completely sure how it’s a new start for Andy – but I would love it to be true. I should have let my flat after what happened with David. Life changed – except that it didn’t.
Andy kisses me on the forehead, though that’s as passionate as it gets. ‘See you at Jane’s later,’ he says. ‘It should be good.’
I’d forgotten that she’d invited us over. I’m not sure if I can agree that it’ll be good – but I nod along anyway.
I head for the stairs to grab the rest of my things, which is when I check the message from Jane.
It’s such a shock that I stumble over the bottom step and clatter my knee into the one above. I have to pull myself up and act like it never happened. A clumsy child with out-of-control limbs. I read the message a second time, but it hasn’t changed, and it’s just as heart-stopping as it was the first time:
I think I saw David.