I DEFER RINGING NICK’S PARENTS FOR AS LONG AS I CAN. I tidy round with little enthusiasm and minimal energy and have something to eat. Eventually, I run out of excuses and begin to feel guilty. No matter what Cora thinks of my relationship with her son, she is his mother. I’d prefer to speak to Tim, because he’s easier to talk to, but it’s Cora who answers the phone, gushing into the mouthpiece.
‘Grace dear, how are you?’
The question throws me. ‘I’m fine. I … Have you spoken to Nick recently?’
‘I spoke to him last week. Why?’
I swallow. ‘What did you talk about?’
‘This and that.’ She tuts. ‘Is everything all right, Grace? You sound odd.’
‘Sorry. Sorry, it’s just …’ I pause. I can hear her breathing. I walk out of the kitchen, hoping against all logic that he’ll suddenly appear and I won’t have to have this conversation. ‘There’s no easy way of saying this, but Nick went out on Saturday evening and didn’t come home. I wondered whether you had heard from him, or even if he had turned up on your doorstep. I mean, obviously he hasn’t.’
Her pause is almost as prolonged as mine was. ‘When you say went out, do you mean he walked out on you? Have you had a row?’
‘No, nothing like that. Everything is fine. He went out for a walk.’
‘He goes for evening walks without you?’ She makes it sound disreputable.
‘Not every evening,’ I say. ‘But that’s not the point, Cora. I don’t know where he is and I’m worried.’
‘Have you tried phoning him?’ She can’t quite hide her patronizing tone.
‘Yes, over and over. His phone goes straight to voicemail. Are you sure he didn’t say anything unusual?’
‘As far as I remember, he was his usual self. Did he have the dog with him?’
Toffee is another of Cora’s bugbears. She cannot understand why I’ve lumbered her son with an ugly little mongrel, when I could have chosen a much more attractive animal with a proper pedigree.
‘No. I thought it was a bit odd at the time.’
‘Oh dear. This is very distressing. Let me get my thoughts together.’ She hands the phone over to Tim, whispering, ‘It’s about Nick, she doesn’t know where he is.’
Nick took me to meet his parents three months after we started seeing each other. He told them about Lottie in advance, wanting them to get used to the idea before they met me. He had also told them that I’d been orphaned at a young age and had spent a year in the care system. I’d argued against it – I came from a world they knew nothing about; one that they would never have expected to brush up against; a world of poverty, benefits and deprivation, but he said it was important to him that I could be myself and assured me that his mother, a lawyer, knew exactly what poverty looked like. I was pathetically anxious to be liked, so I didn’t really see the merits of that strategy. If she knew about it, then she wouldn’t want me near her son. I didn’t say that to Nick though.
Their smiles were in place when they came to the door of their pretty country house. They had left London and settled in rural Leicestershire once Nick had gone to university. Nick was hugged and kissed, and so was I, though Tim’s hug was several degrees warmer than Cora’s. I was wearing tight jeans and a woolly sweater – nothing controversial – and Nick had bought me an oilskin coat and a pair of hardy walking boots. One of the first things Cora said to me was, ‘Isn’t that Nick’s sweater?’ then, turning to Nick, ‘Didn’t I buy it for you for Christmas, darling? It was rather expensive.’ She might as well have said, ‘What are you doing with it?’
I remember the feeling of the air going out of me, of my eagerness slipping away, of my whole perspective changing. I held tight to my daughter, but any thoughts I’d had on how I’d behave, what I’d chat about, melted to nothing.
I get it; I would worry if Lottie brought home a male equivalent. I was twenty-two, but I felt so much older. I had spent time on the periphery of society, and Cora sensed that even if Tim didn’t. There was nothing that they could show off to their friends about, unless it was my grit and determination, so I try not to be angry or to judge. In fact, part of me grudgingly admires Cora. She’s made of the same stuff as my grandmother: tough, hard-working and doesn’t bear fools easily. But that acceptance has come with hindsight. At the time I was devastated.
When we left, Lottie, normally chatty, didn’t speak for the entire journey. Nick and I talked, but there was a constraint between us that hadn’t been there before. When we got home he scooped Lottie up, pulled me into his embrace and held us tight.
‘We don’t have to do that again for a long time,’ he said with a heartfelt sigh.
As long as they don’t interfere in our lives, I can bear the odd mean-spirited remark without reacting. For better or worse, we’re stuck with each other and I will always try to be nice, for Nick’s sake.
‘Grace?’ Tim’s voice is deep and resonant, like an actor’s. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Oh, Tim.’
It’s a relief to talk to him. Unlike his wife, he listens to my story without me feeling like he’s holding the phone away from his ear.
‘That doesn’t sound like Nick,’ he says.
‘Exactly. It’s not like him at all. I honestly don’t know what to do next.’
‘Have you informed his office?’
‘I’ve told them he’s ill. I didn’t want to turn it into a catastrophe when he might reappear at any moment.’
‘Do you want us to come up?’
‘No, that’s really kind of you, but not yet. I just wanted you to know so that you’d keep an eye on your phones. He may try and get in touch with you.’
I hear Cora’s voice in the background, but not what she’s saying. She takes the phone back, and I imagine her nudging Tim away with her hip.
‘If there are any developments, I’d appreciate it if you would tell us immediately. This is not all about you, Grace.’
That hurts. It’s not the impression I thought I was giving. ‘Of course it isn’t. Why would you say that?’
‘Because thinking about other people has never been your strong point, has it?’
Do not react. She’s his mother. She’s still trying to get her head round what’s happened. I close my eyes, count to three. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll call you if I hear anything at all.’
I unlock and slide open the doors to the garden and step outside. The spring sunshine warms my face. Leaf buds, still tightly wrapped, nobble the branches of the trees; the grass needs its first cut. I turn and look up at the house. It’s always seemed so solid, but now I imagine it falling apart, bricks and glass cascading down. He’s only been gone a day and a half, and already I’m feeling a chill. It’s as though I foolishly assumed that the winter was over, and an overnight frost has attacked the green shoots.
At five, I call Nick’s office and tell a few more whoppers. I warn Phillipa not to expect him before Thursday, saying that he’s too sick to come to the phone. I lie and lie and lie. When she asks if he’s getting his emails, I say no. He hasn’t been able to get out of bed. He vomits everything up. He has diarrhoea.
‘Surely he should be in hospital,’ she says. ‘He must be terribly dehydrated.’
‘The doctor’s coming to do an assessment this evening. They don’t want him to come to the surgery, in case it’s Norovirus.’
There’s a long pause. Phillipa coughs. I wait, my hand gripping the phone, sweating against the plastic.
‘All right,’ she says slowly. ‘I’ll call in the morning. Grace, is everything OK?’
‘I’ve spent the past twenty-four hours cleaning up sick, but otherwise everything’s fine and dandy, thank you.’ Too glib, I think, wincing. ‘Sorry, it’s been a little stressful here.’
‘I can imagine. Well, give him my love and tell him we’re coping fine and he’s not to worry. Focus on getting better. If we have any problems Lewis will phone him. Hopefully he’ll be able to take a call, at least.’