‘IS NICK BACK?’ LOTTIE SAYS SLEEPILY AS I OPEN HER curtains.
I am barely awake myself, still groggy from the sleeping pill I took at two in the morning. Sunday was an awful day. A trip to the police station elicited nothing but a confusing set of statistics and a request to wait. Nick has been classed as absent. He won’t be officially missing until Thursday. Picking Lottie up from Cassie’s house, I couldn’t face saying anything. Cassie looked utterly exhausted, her house was in chaos and she was practically throwing children and sleeping bags at their parents. Explaining to Lottie why Nick wasn’t there was impossible. I thought about telling her that he’d gone to visit his grandmother who hasn’t been well for a while, but in the end I couldn’t sustain the lie. Lottie asks too many questions.
‘No. Not yet.’
She pulls the duvet over her head. I sit down and wait with my hand on the curve of her shoulder until she peeps out. I feel like getting under the covers with her.
‘When’s he coming home?’
‘I don’t know, darling. But soon, I hope.’
‘Doesn’t he love us any more?’
I pull her into my arms. ‘Of course he does. He loves us both very much. I know he’ll be missing you a lot.’
She starts to cry, and I stroke her hair. Children don’t like uncertainty; they want to know what’s going to happen and when, and most of all, they want to know who’s in charge. I don’t have the answer to the first two questions, but the answer to the last has to be me, I am in charge, and I’m not going to let her down by spiralling into panic myself.
I chuck in a wash, fold away the dry clothes and cram Nick’s shirts into the ironing basket. We have a utility room; a source of amazement to me. In the tiny kitchen of the flat I shared with my mother, the washing machine was next to the fridge and the clothes horse was a constant feature, something pushed out of the way, bumped into, tipped over. When I moved into Gran’s council house, there was a bigger kitchen with a wooden clothes airer above the sink. The room was always dark because our clothes would block the light from the small window. She took me in after my school finally recognized that there was a reason I smelled unwashed, stole other kids’ snacks and was unable to concentrate, and she gave me a home, too, when Mum died. For all her grumpiness and complaints, I miss her. She could be very funny. Gran’s jaw would have dropped if she’d seen where I ended up. Banker’s wife. That was not supposed to be my destiny.
Lottie’s eyes follow me as she eats her toast. I try to look unworried, but she’s ten, not five, and she knows what the implications are of Nick popping out and not coming back.
‘Will you call the school if he comes home?’ she asks, as she stacks her plate into the dishwasher.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Lottie. In fact …’ I pause. ‘Look, darling. I think it would be best if you didn’t say anything yet.’
She picks up my phone, glances at it and puts it down. ‘We could use code. You could ask them to get a message to me. You could say that my grandfather has pulled through his operation.’
She’s excited, imagining it happening, the drama of it.
‘Sorry, I don’t want people to know about this. Not yet at least. Not until we have more information. I don’t want people gossiping, when he might be back any minute.’
She looks at me, then nods her head.
‘Go on, up you go. Clean your teeth. Hannah’ll be here soon.’
I vacuum round upstairs and give the kitchen floor a sweep, then call Phillipa Travers, the office administrator at Nick’s work.
‘Phillipa, I am so sorry, I meant to call you, but it’s been one of those mornings and it went out of my head. Nick’s ill.’
‘We’ve been worried,’ Phillipa says. ‘He was supposed to be in a meeting this morning.’
‘Oh God. He did tell me that. This is my fault, but he was up all night vomiting and he went back to sleep, and then I had to get Lottie ready for school and walk the dog.’
‘Poor thing,’ Phillipa says. ‘Can I talk to him?’
I grimace. ‘He’s asleep and I’d rather not disturb him. I’m sure he’ll be in tomorrow, but I’ll pass on the message once he wakes up.’
I don’t care that I lied; I’m a good liar and I’ll lie for Nick. In his world you don’t wobble, because the moment you do, you’re perceived as weak. Nick would do anything rather than demonstrate frailty, physical or mental. And after all, this might all go away. Mum vanished for an entire week once, then walked in the door like nothing had happened. Nick will have some excuse. I go still. Do I really believe that? What excuse could possibly cover this apart from some terrible accident? I don’t want to think about it. He’ll come home.
Methodically I start to gather my things – my keys, sunglasses, notebook and digital recorder, tape measure and pencil – and line them up on the counter. These days I work for a property developer carrying out inventories, sorting out contracts, finding tenants, overseeing refurbishments. Rupert, my boss, gives me free rein but has high standards, as do his clients. The properties I manage are upmarket homes in the smarter boroughs and the tenants tend to be foreign, of high net worth and equally high expectations. If I’m doing an inventory I’m generous about it; these houses rent for thousands of pounds a week, so it doesn’t pay to be nit-picking. If the client is bringing their own furniture, I see to its installation. I make sure the fridge is stocked with basics before they arrive and that there are fresh flowers in the reception rooms. Attention to detail and a welcoming atmosphere make a lasting impression.
When I’ve got everything together, the worry comes surging back in and I collapse heavily on to a chair. I’m tired to my bones and it’s making me nauseous. I’ve been picking at food indiscriminately since Lottie went to school. Biscuits, an apple, cheese. Half a flapjack. A chunk or three of chocolate. Two cups of coffee and one mug of strong tea. My stomach is protesting.
I’ve got to get on. I tidy myself up. Straighten my top. One step at a time.
Outside, Mrs Jeffers, the woman who has lived in the house next door for forty-five years, stops to chat. It’s the last thing I want.
‘How are you two lovely people?’ she says, cradling her bulky shopping bag to her chest. ‘You must come round for supper soon.’
Diane has lived on her own in that vast house since her husband died nine years ago. She has a daughter, two sons and half a dozen grandchildren who visit from time to time, but she’s lonely. I sometimes have a coffee with her in the mornings. Nick will stop by and change a light bulb or clear the stretch of guttering overhung by one of our trees. In return, she keeps our spare key in case one of us gets locked out and keeps an eye on the house when we’re on holiday. She has two cats who torment Toffee.
‘We will,’ I say, smiling gaily and feeling utterly desperate. ‘Perhaps next week.’ I put on my helmet and swing my leg over the motorbike. I zip around on my beloved red Vespa. It saves a lot of hassle.
Home feels echoey and strange when I get back. I call out for Nick and my voice sounds tentative, almost embarrassed. I stand at the bottom of the stairs, listening, my blood rushing. But there is no sign of him. I wander into the kitchen and drop my bag on the side, and see his jumper folded over the back of the sofa, where it’s been since Saturday afternoon. I have nothing, not a clue as to why this has happened. I sit down, put my phone in front of me and push my fingers through my hair, leaning into my hands. All I have is an app, a friend, a coincidence. I tap In-Step and it lights up my screen. I tap Group. Anna has done fifteen hundred odd, I’ve done two thousand – well under my target, but steps are not exactly a priority right now; Nick is at zero. He isn’t moving, or he has switched off his phone. I call him, and my call is redirected to voicemail, where I leave another message.
‘Nick, please tell me what’s going on. I’m freaking out here.’