GRACE

Saturday, 14 April 2018 Day Zero

HE DIDN’T TAKE THE DOG.

I check my phone to make sure I haven’t turned the sound off by mistake and missed a message, but there are no notifications. Nick said he wouldn’t be long, he just needed to clear his head, but he left before nine and it’s gone eleven. I knew something was amiss when I came down to find Toffee shut in the kitchen.

I peer up and down the street from my position in the large bay window. Beside me, his front paws on the windowsill, Toffee yawns widely and gives a gruff little yelp. The stillness of suburbia is usually a comfort, but tonight the windows in the houses opposite give me back nothing but blank stares, as if they don’t want to get involved. I shiver and turn away, swiping my thumb over the In-Step app to check Nick’s stats. His numbers aren’t rising. He isn’t moving.

I sometimes wonder if I’m the only one who does this; who watches the numbers change, imagining where the members of my small group are, what they’re up to, who’s with who. It wouldn’t occur to Nick, but the others, well, maybe.

I crouch and stroke Toffee’s head, then pull him against me until he gets fed up and wriggles out of my arms, his nails catching at my dressing gown. I added Nick to the app recently because he’s been moaning about his sedentary job. Since then he’s taken over Toffee’s early Sunday morning walks, leaving me to linger in the warmth of our bed. I doubt that’s going to happen tomorrow; he’ll want to sleep in after this. I smile to myself. Unless I kick him out.

My smile vanishes. This isn’t funny. I can’t sit around fidgeting any longer; I run upstairs and put my clothes back on and let myself out into the night.

The sky is clear and there’s a thin crescent moon rising above the Common. The street lights cast a soft orange glow over the pavements and colour the leaf buds on the trees. I follow the route Nick is most likely to have taken, avoiding the Common, both because it’s scary after dark, and because without the dog he will have had no reason to go there. When I reach the parade I’m surprised at how many people are out and about; a late worker on his way home from the station; someone coming out of the minimart; a couple walking their dog. When I get to the pub, I pick Toffee up, push open the door and do a quick circuit, then leave once I’ve established Nick’s not there. There’s no way I’m asking the landlady if she’s seen my boyfriend. That would be embarrassing.

Fiancé, I think, with a jolt. He’s my fiancé now. After seven years together, seven years of Nick helping me raise my daughter, today he asked me to marry him and I said yes. That’s why this is so weird. With Lottie at a sleepover we should have been spending a romantic evening together; instead I’m all worked up, pounding the streets in search of him, dragging a reluctant dog along with me, trying not to think the unthinkable: that he’s with someone else.

A cool breeze lifts my hair and sends a small piece of litter scuttling into the doorway of the estate agent’s. A young couple leave the burger restaurant, crossing the road towards the bus stop. Behind me someone pushes open the door and I jump out of my skin. A man comes out, telling a story over his shoulder to the woman following him. She laughs and lights a cigarette.

Sirens wail in the distance and I wait, watching the main road that flanks the Common as the blue lights flash. He’s had an accident. I imagine a hit-and-run, Nick’s body flying, his head smashing into the kerb. I hold my breath as two police cars speed by, but they don’t stop.

Toffee strains at his lead, wanting to get back to his nice warm bed. I walk away from the parade into the residential streets and soon find myself at the end of Camomile Avenue where Anna Foreman lives. The lights in her cottage are out. I linger in the shadows for a few minutes, crouched beside Toffee, my hand on his head to keep him from getting anxious. I watch her door then walk away, angry at myself. My suspicions are laughable; awakened by such a tiny thing. Nick wouldn’t. He’s the most loyal person I’ve ever met.

I type out a message. Where are you? I’m getting worried. Two minutes later I still haven’t had a reply. My phone is hot in my hand.

He might be back when I get home. Oh God, I hope so. And if he’s not, then he will be some time during the night. I imagine waking up to find his warm body beside mine, the excuses he’ll make. Then normality; downstairs to let Toffee out into the garden, coffee on to brew, and the familiar slow routine of a Sunday morning. That’s normal. That’s what will happen. All this is just a wrinkle. It’ll smooth itself out.

The house is silent, Nick’s keys aren’t in the dish, and his coat isn’t hanging from its hook; their absence as tangible as the objects themselves would have been. I unwind my scarf, remove my coat and hang them up. In the kitchen, I check In-Step again, as Toffee yawns and settles back down in his bed. Nick hasn’t moved.

In desperation, I call our local A & E, but they’ve had no one in who matches Nick’s description. An odd mixture of relief and disappointment churns through me.

Should I call the police? If I do, it makes it real. If I don’t, I may regret it. But they’ll think I’m pathetic. They probably get calls like this all the time: some clingy woman can’t sleep because her boyfriend hasn’t come in. I lay my phone down in front of me and switch on the television, scrolling through Netflix until I find something to take my mind off the time. It’s past two o’clock when I finally can’t stand it any more and crack.

The voice on the other end of the line is a woman’s; her tone is sympathetic but professional. I answer her questions and feel her lose interest.

‘I’ll get a message to Control, but he doesn’t sound as though he’s at risk.’

‘But he hasn’t come home.’

She sighs. ‘Come into the station in the morning if he hasn’t returned.’

I’m a cliché, a needy girlfriend. She thinks I’m an idiot, a time-waster; either I’ve forgotten he’s told me he’d be staying out, or he’s playing away.

I shut Toffee in the kitchen, then sit on the bottom stair and watch the door until I grow cold, then I give up and go to bed. I drift off, waking at regular intervals, reaching for my phone, checking for messages.

Birds are singing, the morning light is a pale shimmer at the edges of the curtains. I open my eyes, forgetting, then touch the emptiness beside me, the smooth, cold pillow, the cool sheet. He hasn’t come home.