OUR HOUSE IS SET BACK FROM THE ROAD BEHIND A low red-brick wall with black railings. The front garden is paved in York stone divided geometrically by low box hedges. It was much admired when I first created it, after seeing something very similar in a garden in Chelsea.
Sometimes I feel such a fraud. The women round here know very little about me. As far as they are concerned I’ve only existed since Lottie started at Cedar Heights Primary. They think I’m this sorted woman with an enviable job in property and a wealthy banker partner; a woman too busy and in demand to give up her time to read with the children. If only they knew. Volunteering at the school, whether it’s reading with the kids or doing lollipop lady duty, requires a criminal record check.
Under the window is a wooden bench, silvered with age, that no one ever sits on. Its job is to look pretty and rustic, which I have a feeling might be a little pretentious, but I like it, so I don’t care. I don’t see its two occupants until it’s too late to turn round. And where would I have gone anyway?
‘Hello,’ Cora calls, as I cross the street. ‘Now, I know you said not to come, but I couldn’t sit still.’ As if to prove her point, she’s up and off the bench, hurrying towards me. ‘Have you heard anything?’
Tim strolls over, looking handsome and a little seedy, with his stubbly chin and floppy hair; the ageing public schoolboy. Lottie runs to him and he scoops her into a bear hug. I feel a little envious. I could do with a hug right now, and Tim’s greetings are so enthusiastic.
Tim is like Nick, a tall man with broad shoulders. Cora is around five foot six, with thick, wavy blonde hair. She always wears trousers – I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in a dress or a skirt, even at a function – and favours expensive fabrics and classics. Cora in the winter is all muted cashmeres, in the summer subtle beach tones; white trousers with stone-coloured tops that drape and pleat in a way that flatters her figure. Today she’s wearing a calf-length, silver quilted coat. They both have wheelie cases – his black, hers navy. I try to hide my dismay, but Tim gives me a wry smile.
‘No, but I’m about to call the police now,’ I reply. ‘You really shouldn’t have come all this way.’ It’s a good three-hour drive from their village.
‘We thought we could make ourselves useful,’ Cora says. ‘Presumably you have work? We can stay here in case something happens.’
I stand at the gate, my bag clutched against my stomach. ‘Well …’
‘Nick might turn up while you’re out and need our help.’
‘That’s very kind, but if he’s in trouble I’m not sure he’d appreciate a welcoming committee. He definitely wouldn’t want any fuss.’
‘I’m not fussing,’ she says. ‘I’m concerned for my son.’ She looks me up and down. ‘You’re looking well, Grace.’ The slight tightening around her lips tells me it isn’t a compliment.
‘I’ve been at work,’ I say, stung. ‘I’m wearing make-up. I’ve barely slept.’
‘Of course. I didn’t mean anything by it, dear. I’m sure you’re worried sick.’
‘Worried and confused,’ I say.
Tim pats my shoulder. ‘Of course you are.’
‘The thing is,’ Cora explains as she hustles past me, the wheels of her suitcase clacking on the path, ‘we were meant to be staying with friends for three weeks, and we’ve rented our house out with Home Swap. Have you heard of them? Our neighbours use them, so we thought we’d give it a try. They clean before and after and you get a lot of money. Last time we did it the place was cleaner than we left it. Wasn’t it, Tim?’
‘Spick and span.’
‘Only the problem is, our friends have rather let us down. A family crisis, apparently. So, we’ve nowhere to go, and since you’re in this fix and we’re so worried about Nick, we thought we could turn a disaster into an opportunity.’
An opportunity? I am speechless. I fish in my bag for my keys. Are they going to stay for the full three weeks? Nick wouldn’t have allowed that; they would have driven him insane.
I do have to go to work tomorrow, a contract signing and a last check on a house in Chelsea before an American tenant and his family take up residence, but there’s no need for Tim and Cora to stay. I’m always back in time for Lottie and on the rare occasions that I’m not, Cassie takes her home.
‘Nick wouldn’t have objected,’ Cora says.
‘I don’t object,’ I say. ‘I’m just a bit surprised. You should have let me know.’
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Tim asks. ‘We’ll keep out of your way.’
I wonder how they plan to do that. Stay in their bedroom?
‘We have plenty of London friends to catch up with,’ Cora says, following Lottie inside. ‘Not that I feel in the slightest bit sociable, but I think the three of us sitting round waiting for the phone would be too morbid.’
‘Four of us,’ Lottie says as she slides her rucksack off her shoulders and drops it to the floor.
‘Lottie, why don’t you go up to your bedroom for a few minutes and let your mother and me talk.’
‘I want to hear what you say. And I’m hungry.’
I glance at Cora, my eyebrows raised. Lottie goes into the downstairs toilet and closes the door behind her.
‘I just worry,’ I whisper, ‘that you two suddenly appearing is going to make Lottie think it’s worse than it is.’
‘How much worse can it get?’ Cora demands. ‘My son has gone missing.’
I walk into the kitchen and pick up the kettle, angling it under the tap. ‘According to the police,’ I say above the sound of water gushing, ‘Nick is “absent”, not missing. He won’t be missing for at least another twenty-four hours. Until that time, please could we underplay this, for Lottie’s sake? I understand why you’ve come – you’re anxious – but she’s upset enough as it is, and this is just adding to the drama.’
‘Excuse me—’
‘Now, Cora.’ Tim steps forward, like a referee coming between two warring footballers. He takes the kettle from me, places it on its stand and flicks the switch. ‘There is nothing to be gained by upsetting each other. Let’s sit down and talk this through. Have you eaten anything, Grace?’
‘Not a lot.’
Trust Tim to be the one to notice. He leads me to a chair and sits me down, then makes me a cheese and chutney sandwich. I am so close to tears that his kindness almost pushes me over the edge. Lottie comes in, takes two slices of bread out of the packet and puts them in the toaster.
We sit in silence round the kitchen table while Lottie eats her toast, then when she starts removing the contents of her book bag, Cora finally loses patience.
‘Lottie, please. Go and do that in the sitting room or your bedroom. I’m sorry, dear, but the grown-ups need to talk.’
‘Mum,’ Lottie objects, her jaw set.
‘Sorry, darling. Just for ten minutes.’
She scowls, but she does as she’s told. I follow her into the hall, feeling guilty for not sticking up for her.
‘It’s not her house,’ she says fiercely. ‘She can’t tell me what to do.’
I close the kitchen door. ‘Shh. Keep your voice down. She’s just worried, Lottie. She’s Nick’s mum. We have to be kind to her.’
‘She’s not always kind to you.’
I pause, surprised. I didn’t think it was that obvious. ‘That’s just her way. She doesn’t mean it.’
I speak to the police and am told that the detective in charge of Nick’s case is out. Even though I press for information, I’m put off. But at least I have a meeting now; with a DI Marsh.
Cora has been listening to every word. ‘You should have let me make that call,’ she says. ‘I know how to deal with them. I’d better come with you tomorrow.’
Toffee trots over and puts his paw on her knee. She removes it and brushes imaginary dirt off her trousers.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m going on my own.’
She sighs. ‘If that’s the way you want it. Now, tell us everything that’s been going on.’
‘I don’t know where to start.’
A wave of sadness catches me off guard. What if he doesn’t come back? What will I do without him?
‘Why don’t you start from the beginning,’ Tim says.
The thought of going through it again makes me well up. I’ve held it together since Sunday for Lottie’s sake – I even managed not to cry in front of my friends – but I’m struggling now.
Tim gets up and pulls me into his arms, which makes it worse because, like his son, he possesses broad shoulders that are designed for crying on. His sweater muffles my sobs. Then Cora’s voice breaks through Tim’s murmurs of sympathy.
‘Pull yourself together, Grace. Your hysterics aren’t going to help Nick.’
Tim’s arms loosen, and I turn, wiping my eyes on my sleeve.
‘Right,’ Cora says. ‘What happened?’
I splash cold water on to my face and dab it dry with a clean tea towel. ‘I don’t know. I’ve gone over and over it in my head, but it doesn’t make sense. We spent a lovely day together. Then in the evening he said he wanted to go for a walk. He didn’t come back.’
‘It’s a little odd to go out for a walk without the dog, don’t you think? And why didn’t you go with him?’
‘I had just run a bath. And I honestly don’t know why he left Toffee behind. It did seem strange at the time.’
‘It implies that he knew he wouldn’t be coming back, doesn’t it?’ Cora says.
I sigh heavily. ‘I already feel bad enough, Cora.’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing you’ve done,’ Tim soothes me. I feel the glance he throws at his wife. ‘We want to help. People don’t walk out on their families for no reason.’
‘He hasn’t walked out on me.’
‘Well, that’s what he appears to have done, isn’t it?’ Cora says. ‘He’s left the house and not come back, not left a note, not called you or sent a message. We need to examine why that might be. If you’ve quarrelled, you’d better tell us.’
‘We haven’t quarrelled.’
‘Maybe he’s under pressure, financially, I mean, and hasn’t been able to tell you.’
I shake my head. ‘I know all about our finances. Nick doesn’t keep any secrets from me. Any pressure is shared.’
She snatches at that. ‘So, there has been pressure?’ She looks around. ‘There must be a problem if you can’t afford help.’
‘Cora,’ I say, riled. ‘This is my house and I like it the way it is.’
I don’t have help in the house, despite its size, despite my and Lottie’s tendency to create mess, despite Nick’s careless attitude towards our possessions, because I don’t want it. Gran was a cleaner and the stories she would come home with were a source of wicked delight to me. I loved the gossip, loved it when her lip curled in disgust at someone’s nasty habits, loved her huffs of exasperation, loved her bitchiness. That’s why I’d rather live with dust, thanks all the same, than have someone judge me and mine.
‘Right,’ Tim says. ‘Let’s go back to what happened at the weekend. Did he say anything? Did he appear worried or preoccupied? Was there anything at all that was different?’
‘Yes, there was.’ I look at them both. Tim nods encouragement, Cora waits, alert. ‘Nick asked me to marry him.’
Neither of them say a word, but Cora’s face is a picture of dismay.
‘I said yes,’ I add.
‘Well,’ Tim rushes forward and hugs me. ‘That’s wonderful news. Congratulations.’
‘Thank you.’ My voice sounds hollow.
I glance at Cora over his shoulder. She’s smiling thinly. ‘I’m so pleased,’ she says, sounding anything but.
I’ve imagined this moment, without Nick’s unexplained absence, of course, and thought about how they would react and how I’d respond. I knew it would be hard, but I didn’t foresee the physical ache that would come with Cora’s lack of enthusiasm. I’ve never really had a mother – at least not a fully functioning one – and Cora is not going to fill that space.
‘So you see,’ I say, my smile wavering, ‘we are very happy. Everything’s been going well. That’s why it’s so strange.’
Cora pushes back her chair and gets up. She goes to the sink, rinses a cloth under the tap, then starts to wipe down the surfaces.
‘Cora, there’s no need to do that.’
‘Come and sit down, darling,’ Tim says. ‘That can wait.’
‘I have to do something.’ She holds the cloth in both hands, twisting it. ‘My son has inexplicably disappeared. Good men don’t do that without a reason.’
‘But he has disappeared,’ I point out, ‘and he is a good man.’
‘In that case, he has secrets, Grace. There must be something he hasn’t told you.’
‘Nick’s as straight as a die,’ Tim says. ‘There’s no way he’d do anything that wasn’t above board.’
We get through a desultory supper, then Lottie finishes off her homework while I run a bath. Immersed in hot water, I let the tears dribble down my face. They tickle, and I blot them with the hot flannel. I feel as though I’ve let the enemy into my house. Cora is toxic, and Tim, a pussycat compared to his wife, tends to say what he thinks people want to hear. What do they hope to achieve, apart from making me feel stressed and defensive? I bend my knees and sink deeper into the water, holding my breath as my face is submerged. I keep my eyes wide open. The ceiling shimmers and dances. I come up again when my lungs start to strain. We lead such a normal life. It’s me and Nick, and Lottie and Toffee; it’s suppers together and walks in the park.
On Saturday afternoon he asked me to marry him, and that evening he went out and didn’t come back. Did he know what was going to happen? Maybe he did. Cora is right: why else would he have left Toffee behind? My head is swimmy from the heat. He must have been going to meet someone. I have a glass of wine beside me. I reach for it with wet hands and drink it slowly, letting reality sink in. Nick Ritchie has left his family in limbo, with no clue, no information, no signpost. One moment he’s here; next, he’s gone. He could have hired a car or caught a train or a plane. Oh shit. A plane. He could be out of the country. His passport. I almost go flying when I get out of the bath. I dry myself off, throw on the trackie bottoms that Nick thinks are hideous, a tee and a long cardigan and pad down to his study.
The large brown envelope containing our passports and birth certificates is kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. I delve inside. Three passports. I slump in the chair, not knowing whether what I’m feeling is relief or horror.
Nick’s screensaver is a photograph of me and Lottie on a near-deserted beach in Cornwall, towels wrapped hastily round us, faces still wet from the sea. I type in his four-digit passcode and the image disappears as I’m welcomed in.
Hello Nick
Most of Nick’s emails are work related, and I’ve seen them already. There are several from Evan from last week, trying to arrange a trip to the Queen’s Arms to watch next Saturday’s Chelsea match. But there’s something new. A message from an Alexander Wells.
Hi Nick. We still OK for Wednesday morning? Probably easiest if I meet you in the Starbucks on the corner of Eastcheap. 11 a.m. It would be really helpful for me to talk to you about what happened. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you’ve got to face up to things, or they bring you down.
Alex
I click on reply and begin to type a message letting him know that Nick won’t be meeting him tomorrow, then I slowly delete it. I respond instead with ‘See you there.’
What does Nick have to face up to? I’ve never heard of Alex Wells. All I know is where he is going to be at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. And – my heart races when I think this – Nick might turn up for the appointment.
Lottie pokes her head round the door.
‘Can you come and kiss me goodnight?’ she asks. ‘It’s nearly nine o’clock.’
‘Is it?’ I say, surprised. ‘I’m sorry, darling. Have you cleaned your teeth?’
I follow her into her bedroom and read a chapter of The Amber Spyglass, although my mind is elsewhere and the words make little sense.
When I come downstairs, Tim and Cora are on the sofa in the sitting room watching the television. Cora has taken my spot and Tim is sitting where Nick normally sits, with the little table in front of him where Nick’s phone and bottle of beer should be, so I have to sit alone on the armchair. They aren’t touching. When Nick and I sit there, even though I frequently lean into the corner, my feet are always against his thigh. I yearn for that physical connection, miss it so badly it burns.