Florence has chosen a quirky venue down one of the cobbled side streets in the city centre. It’s all high ceilings and Victorian tiled flooring. The circular bar is mahogany and marble, above it are hanging baskets of trailing ivy and strings of fairy lights. A waiter drifts past, carrying a tray of cocktails in plant pots and propagation glasses. It’s busy. I move through the crowd, searching for her. Two women brush past me. They are too similar to be anything other than sisters. Elbows hooked, laughing. This time of year, I see sisters everywhere. Pairs of women, safe in the knowledge that at the end of every bad date, or party or day, there is a soul out there born of their blood who will love them always.
Loneliness seeps into me and despite the heat, I am cold. The fact is, most people don’t understand what it is to be terrified. Truly terrified. To lose someone to a man with a mask, brandishing a blade. Waxing lyrical won’t make them feel it, either. Words are powerful. Experience is more. And because of that, I can be in a crowd of people – strangers or family and friends, even people who’ve known me my entire life – and feel as though I’m standing by myself. Alone. That word doesn’t carry enough gravitas. There isn’t a word big enough or wide enough or sturdy enough to bear the weight of its meaning.
Florence is already waiting for me at a table across from the bar, biting her signature, red-painted lips as she scrolls through her phone. I slam the shutters down on all the negative feelings, reminding myself I’m not alone. I’m here, now, with my chosen family. Her inky, collarbone-length hair and thick fringe is chic and glossy. She’s wearing a black-studded leather jacket over a silk, ivory camisole and a burnt orange skirt with a lace hem. By comparison, my little polka-dot dress and heels feel far too obvious.
‘You’re late,’ she says by way of greeting.
‘Only five minutes …’
‘Seven,’ she corrects as I sit down opposite.
‘How can you go about your life never being late?’
‘The same way you go about yours never being on time.’
We smile at each other. ‘Missed you,’ I say.
I order us two cocktails and we slip easily into conversation. Florence is filling me in on her latest audition but stops mid-flow, eyes narrowing. I twist in my seat to follow her gaze. My friend Gemma is weaving through the throng towards us, grinning at me. The lavender dress she’s wearing is beautiful against her dark skin.
‘Happy end of term!’ says Gemma, raising her glass.
We met at a little village primary school during my first placement five years ago. As the only staff members under the age of forty-five, we had things in common, bonding over our love of Gilmore Girls and our hatred for the emotionally abusive pinnacle of toxic masculinity that is Jess Mariano.
I get up and hug her. ‘Here’s to six weeks of bliss.’
Gemma turns to Florence and says warmly, ‘Good to see you again.’
Florence gives her a cool, barely polite smile in return. They’ve only met a handful of times but Florence took an immediate dislike to her. The thing is, Gemma is all spontaneity and tarot cards and hot yoga – everything Florence was before she got engaged to Daniel. Now, Florence is all organisation and home decor and weekends spent with Daniel’s family in Kensington.
‘If I’d known you were coming here for a drink, too, we could’ve organised something,’ says Gemma.
And before I can respond, Florence chimes in, her tone too smug to be charming. ‘It’s actually an annual gathering. Caitie and I do this every year.’
‘Oh …’ She glances between the two of us. ‘Is it a birthday or …’
A dark yellow queasiness rises within me. She doesn’t know about my missing sister. Or that Florence and I have been meeting up on the eve of The Anniversary for almost a decade. Gemma doesn’t know the murkiest, saddest parts of my life.
Silence hangs between the three of us. Realising she isn’t clued in, Gemma is awkward and hurt. A child in the playground being told they can’t join in. ‘I can give you a call tomorrow?’ I say, rushing to dispel the tension. ‘We could go for brunch this week? Or coffee?’
She glances only briefly at Florence, as though waiting for her to object, before nodding at me. I give her my friendliest smile to make up for Florence’s thin-lipped one. Once Gemma’s disappeared to rejoin her group, Florence says, ‘She doesn’t know, does she?’ with a look that tells me she’s satisfied she’s still the main friend.
I quickly change the subject. ‘Excited for the wedding?’ In just seven weeks, Florence will be a married woman. At twenty-six, most of my friends are either married or engaged. It feels like only yesterday we were lamenting about our university deadlines and the pains of a lecture scheduled at the ungodly hour of nine in the morning.
‘As long as my mother sticks to wine and you don’t make me late to the ceremony, it’ll be brilliant.’
I nod solemnly. ‘My main duty as maid of honour is to ensure Susan doesn’t down bottles of tequila behind the bar.’ Florence raises one, reproving eyebrow. I try not to smile, keeping my expression as grave as possible. ‘And my other pressing duty is to keep excellent time,’ I add. She narrows her eyes and I flash her my most magnificent smile. ‘Promise.’
Our drinks arrive, served in terracotta pots with smoking dry ice and edible flowers in buttercup yellow and cornflower blue. Just for a moment, I’m back in the wildflower meadow on that last perfect afternoon, watching Olivia cartwheel in the setting sun. I can still smell the sunscreen on my skin, feel the waning heat of the afternoon warming me, hear her tinkling laughter that reminds me so much of windchimes.
A slow-waving hand appears in front of my face, tugging me from my reverie. ‘Are you listening?’ asks Florence.
‘Yes,’ I lie, blinking away the memory. But I don’t blink it away fast enough; she sees the undercurrent of sadness that threatens to pull me under.
Her face creases with sympathy. ‘Caitie—’
‘Did you and Daniel settle on double-barrelling?’ I say, cutting her off before she can ask me if I’m OK; my missing sister is a wound I don’t want to reopen. The conversation with Laura has thrown me, that’s all.
She takes a breath, as though she wants to pursue it, but we have a rule that during our anniversary get-together, we don’t discuss Olivia, so leans into my change of subject. ‘Absolutely. Though he wants us to be Odell-Fox.’ She pulls a face, as though this idea makes as much sense as changing their name to Mr and Mrs Hitler.
I laugh. ‘What’s wrong with Odell-Fox?’
She lifts her chin. ‘Fox-Odell is better.’
I shake my head. ‘Nope. Odell-Fox. Definitely. I’m with Daniel on this one.’
Hey eyes glint mischievously. ‘Well, I’m going to tell him you agree with me, anyway.’
I raise my drink. ‘Best way to start a marriage is with deception.’
She grins.
The evening unwinds. We order two more cocktails and I realise how lucky I am to have Florence. When I was little, I coveted the friendship she and my sister had. They walked around Stonemill arm in arm, their bond as easy as breathing, heads bent close together, laughing louder than anyone else. Then Olivia disappeared and Florence started coming to the house to check on me. Before, I was just Olivia’s annoying little sister, but after, we became family. Sometimes, I can’t sleep for thinking about Florence disappearing, too.
‘And what about you and Oscar?’ she asks now. ‘Are you still planning on taking his name?’
‘I am.’
She rolls her eyes as though I’m betraying all of womankind. The thing is, Arden is so closely tied to The Disappearance at Blossom Hill House and the infamous case of the missing Arden girl, that the name is stained. Changing to Fairview is like shaking up a snow globe so I’m left with neatly covered, untrodden ground. A fresh start.
‘So, how’re your wedding plans coming along?’ she asks.
‘Great,’ I say shortly. ‘Fine.’
‘So you’ve finally got a date then? Booked a venue? Chosen a dress?’
At the mention of all the things I’ve failed to do, anxiety flutters in my chest. I don’t examine too closely why I’m dragging my heels and I don’t want her to, either, so I say something I know will send her off on a tangent. ‘You sound just like my mother.’
She pulls a face. ‘Jesus. A fate worse than death.’
Florence and Mum have a complicated relationship. Mum is grateful to her for taking me under her wing after the disappearance. She was glad I had someone close to my age to talk to. Over time, though, she grew jealous that I opened up to Florence more than I did to her. She accused me once, during those difficult teen years, of trying to replace Olivia. Not wanting to hurt my mother the way she hurt me, I bit back the barbed retort, ‘Actually, it’s you who keep trying to replace me with Olivia. To erase me completely until all that’s left is her.’
‘As much as I hate to agree with Clara,’ ventures Florence. ‘She’s right to ask questions. I mean, you’ve been engaged for nearly three years.’
‘That’s not long,’ I say, defensive.
‘I was engaged five minutes when I started googling wedding venues.’
‘You’re a planner. You like to plan.’
She takes my hand and squeezes. ‘I just want you to be happy.’
‘I am happy. I love Oscar.’
‘I know you love him. Everyone knows. The two of you are sickening together … So why haven’t you set a date?’
I bite the inside of my cheek until it aches, wishing she would drop it but when it’s clear she won’t, I lie, ‘We’re going to view a venue next weekend.’
She’s sceptical. ‘You are?’
‘Yes,’ I lie again.
‘Great! That’s exciting. Which one?’
‘Priston Mill,’ I offer, thinking fast.
She’s nodding slowly. I see the cogs turning, trying to work out if I’m telling the truth. The stab of guilt I feel for being dishonest fades as she says, ‘Honeymoon plans?’
I close my eyes against a potent mix of foreboding and exhaustion. ‘Don’t.’
‘What?’ she says with feigned innocence.
‘You already know. I’m excited to go to York.’
‘Wouldn’t you rather go to New York?’ she enthuses, leaning forward, eyes bright. ‘Or the Maldives? Or Greece? Or Italy?’
Yes, I think. ‘No,’ I lie.
She dismisses my denial with a roll of her eyes. ‘It’s not like you’re on a super-tight budget.’
‘Florence, please.’ I know she cares. I know she just wants the very best for me. But I don’t have the emotional reserves for this conversation. Not now.
‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ she goes on, ignoring my plea. ‘Clara is so anxious about you travelling, going too far afield, but her daughter was snatched from home. From her own bedroom. So why does it matter if you travel to Mexico or Timbuktu?’
We’ve had this conversation before, and even though I know my lines, it’s an effort to recite them. ‘Anxiety is very rarely rational.’
‘Your mother is the reason you didn’t go away to university. The reason you didn’t study what you wanted to study. And now you’re spending your honeymoon in dreary old England just to placate her.’
‘Mum didn’t ask me not to go abroad for our honeymoon.’
‘She didn’t have to. She just worried her bottom lip and you gave in.’
Mostly, Florence understands me better than anyone. She knew Olivia. Loved Olivia. And she thinks she sees me so clearly: my desire to please people, mostly my mother, outweighing my own personal hopes and ambitions. But there are things she doesn’t see. Things I force to the very bottom of myself. A truth so ugly, I sometimes struggle to look in the mirror or sit quietly in my own company: it is my fault Olivia has been missing for sixteen years. If I had acted sooner, if I hadn’t frozen in that doorway, if I’d run downstairs and called the police or my parents instead of cowering until they returned, Olivia would have been found. The man in the Venetian mask would have been caught. This is the reason I bend to my mother’s will. I owe my parents the daughter they lost. That stayed lost because of me.
‘Caitie, are you OK?’
I try to blink away my dark thoughts but they linger like black smoke. ‘I’m fine.’ It sounds forced, even to my ears. ‘But you did break our only rule for tonight. You talked about her.’
‘Not directly. Not really.’ She looks down, stirring her drink with the metal straw so the ice clinks. ‘I just want you to be happy. You deserve to be happy, Caitie.’ Her eyes find mine. ‘You do believe that don’t you?’
And even though I don’t, I nod. I’m tempted to confess to her how I truly feel, but she will only comfort me, assure me it wasn’t my fault. I don’t need her well-intentioned lies. I know the truth. It lives inside me, razor sharp and cutting.