It’s not difficult to get away. I often have Sunday afternoons to myself. The girls see friends; Dan plays golf. It’s fairly clockwork and I can be assured of peace to the extent that I often fall asleep. It’s golden time. It’s what gets me through the week ahead. So, I’m not happy about giving it up.
Jess Jackson just texted me the address, but I already know where the storage facility is. Rosie dated a boy last year who lived nearby, and I used to drop her there to meet him. I wasn’t going to let on to Jess that I knew the place, however. I won’t be her puppet.
People often make that mistake with me. They see blond, lipstick, heels and think I’m stupid, and maybe they’re right in that I left school without passing any exams. Perhaps I dress this way to compensate for the fact that I’m not the sharpest tool in the box, as Dan puts it.
Women with limited earning potential have to work extra hard if they want to marry well; everyone knows that. My options always were and always will be limited. Not one qualification to my name and I don’t even own a passport—am petrified of flying and crossing water. Yet no one would ever wonder why Dan is with me, not when I look like this. Naturally, I keep my mouth closed as much as possible, especially in Bath, where everyone has a PhD.
But it would be a mistake to think of me as a walkover.
I’ve no idea whether Jess meant what she said about going to the police. Yet I can see that I’m going to have to turn up because I don’t know her well enough to be sure she won’t follow through. I can’t afford to take any chances.
On my way to Stone’s Storage, I listen to Otis Redding singing “These Arms of Mine,” thinking of my mum. She’s the reason I like soul; she loved all the old classics too, except that they weren’t old for her but current. Growing up, I hated being out of sync with her, longed to be the same age, sisters.
I do have a sister, Fiona, but we don’t see each other very often. That happens, as people age and have families of their own.
Even so, I always felt a stronger connection to my mother than Fiona—adored her, wanted to walk in her shoes. She started a hope chest for me when I turned eleven—linen, baby blankets—in preparation for marriage. I used to open it secretly at night, daring to touch the laundered cotton.
I don’t know what happened to my hope chest. When Mum died, our flat was thrown into disarray. Fiona handled it all. I was too distraught to be of much use, but I did make a point of salvaging the cocoa tin.
I arrive at the storage facility sooner than intended, so wait in the car until Otis has finished singing. My hands are damp, and I’ve a nasty metallic taste in my mouth.
Stone’s is a large glass-fronted building. As I reapply my lipstick, Jess and Priyanka appear on the other side of the glass, inside the reception, waiting for me.
My stomach turns over. This could be bigger than anything I’ve ever faced before, bigger than losing my mum.
I don’t care what we find inside this place. I’m not giving up everything I’ve worked so hard for. I’m not losing my hope chest and my brighter future for a second time.
We gather in the wide corridor. I imagine this is what a police station looks and feels like, with harsh lighting, spongy flooring, door after door. The metallic taste is back and I clear my throat, telling myself I’m never going to know what a police station feels like, nor will anyone in my family.
Jess seems just as purposeful today, yet something about her is softer. As she grapples with the door, rattling the key in the lock, there is glitter on her cheek—tiny stars gleaming. I wonder whether she has children, whether she works. Yet at the same time, I don’t want to know. My job is to get in here and out again unscathed, and back before Dan finishes golf.
I check my watch as Jess continues to tussle with the door, cursing. Her puffer jacket is oversize, like a man’s, and makes her legs look doubly skinny in jeans. She’s wearing scuffed sneakers and her hair is light brown, straight, fine. I’ve never known anyone to look so old and young at the same time. I couldn’t put an age on her if I tried.
Beside me, Priyanka is leaning against the wall, playing with her phone. It hurts my neck looking down at her, she’s so small. I would never dye my hair pink, but I’ll admit that on her it looks sensual, exotic, if that’s the look she’s going for.
And then she drops her phone into her tunic and smiles up at me, and I look elsewhere—at the door, which is unlocked at last.
Jess gives it a kick and an elbow, since something seems to be obstructing it on the other side. I make no move to help, but rock on my heels to keep warm, adjusting my tote on my shoulder.
I’m peering into the sleeve of my glove to check my watch again, when Jess hurtles forward, the door suddenly giving way. So, I don’t see what it is that she’s gasping about until I move forward, following them inside.
“Oh my God!” she says, feeling for the light switch.
The smell is putrid. Sour mildew, paint, pizza. I pinch the tip of my nose, backing away, but Jess clutches the sleeve of my coat. The light flickers, blinks, clicks on.
“Not so fast,” she says. “We’re doing this together, remember?”
How could we forget? Must she be so obsessed?
“Ready?” She’s still holding my sleeve. I’m too busy staring around me at the contents of the room to shake her off.