Jo whips out her phone, quite used to her heart racing every time she hears it ring or ping.
It could be news.
She’s also used to the rush of adrenaline burning through her body, dissipating in disappointment as soon as she sees her screen.
It’s not Will. Not her missing husband.
Afterwards, she’s left feeling frustrated, drained and useless, each false alarm a mini-trauma, though no one would know this to look at her. Barely a flicker of her eyes these days, and her palms hardly sweat any more. She wonders if her friends and family know what they do to her with their well-meaning calls and texts.
But each time, she thinks as she fumbles with her phone, each time is one call closer to getting news. To knowing where he is.
Jo remembers her counsellor telling her to look on the bright side, to stay positive. What are you talking about? she’d thought, mentally shaking her head, almost wanting to lash out as tears welled through a forced smile. Not helpful. Not even close. The woman clearly had no idea how she was feeling. But, a year later, she can see that maybe it was helpful, albeit in the simplest of ways.
Fake it till you make it, the counsellor had said, making Jo wonder if she’s not doing as well as she thought – that she still needs to fake it because, even now, she’s still not making it.
But what is it she is supposed to fake – Will’s return, as if nothing has happened? She could do that, she supposes. Pretend he’s there when he’s not. In fact, she often does, although she can’t help it. Has no say in when he comes. She sees him lying beside her in bed, hears him singing in the shower, smells the deliciousness of his Friday-night classic – jerk chicken with rice and peas, the thick, sweet smell seeping through the house. Happiness seems so long ago. As if it belonged to someone else.
No. She’s sick of faking life.
‘Easier said than done,’ Jo mumbles as she answers her phone. She trips on a raised paving slab, almost running into a man wheeling his bike along.
‘What is?’ comes the voice down the line.
‘Oh… oh, nothing,’ Jo says, regaining her footing. ‘Just me thinking out loud.’ She glances back at the man with an apologetic look. She’s relieved it’s just Louise calling. She doesn’t think she can cope with do-gooders as that day approaches. She doesn’t want to use the word anniversary. Ever. That implies something to celebrate, to share, to mark another milestone. She hates it even has a date – a date she has no choice but to remember, live through for the rest of her life. It’s tattooed on her soul.
Wednesday 20 May.
Sometimes she wishes Will had never existed, that they’d never met, and she hates herself for that.
‘Well, don’t,’ Louise says. ‘Thinking is dangerous, especially out loud.’ She laughs. ‘What are you doing?’
Louise. Her best friend. Straight to the point.
Jo slows her brisk walk – more in tune with how she’s feeling, finally stopping and leaning on the railings of a park. Should she reveal that she’s retracing the steps of the last walk she and Will took together the day before he vanished, that she’s wondering if she might catch a trace of his aftershave on the breeze, spot a tissue or receipt from his pocket blowing along the pavement?
Should she mention that she’s got a bagel in a paper bag, clutched in her right hand – salmon and cream cheese, the same as they’d had that day – most likely destined to end up in the park bin because she’s not had an appetite in nearly a year?
Should she let on that, if she’s honest with herself, she’s hoping to catch a glimpse of Will amongst the lunchtime crowd, that even if it’s not really him and just a figment of her exhausted mind, or someone who vaguely resembles him, simply imagining he’s there would be enough?
‘Getting lunch,’ Jo replies, gripping the paper bag. It’s a ritual she feels she must perform each day, even if food rarely passes her lips. Maybe a bite or two if she’s in the mood. She hates how thin she’s become, how she’s taken to wearing baggy clothes to hide the jut of her collarbones, the sharp blades of her shoulders, the lack of tone to her once-fit legs. Her chestnut hair falls in straggly layers around her shoulders.
‘Well, don’t fill up too much,’ Louise goes on. ‘You’re coming round for dinner tonight.’
‘I am?’
‘At seven,’ she says. ‘No need to bring anything except your cheery self. Archie’s inviting a work colleague. He’s new at the hospital but they’ve played squash a few times and—’
‘No, Louise,’ Jo replies as firmly as she can manage. What she really wants to say is Christ, Lou, what are you trying to do – destroy me? Not only are you playing matchmaker with some innocent guy who would run a mile if he knew the truth about me, but you have just informed me, unwittingly or not, that Archie has a new squash partner. A squash partner who’s not Will.
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘So, what, you’re going to sob into your pillow with a bottle of cheap wine, maybe trawling the missing persons websites if your tears stop long enough for you to actually see straight?’
Jo waits a beat, a technique she’s learnt to employ these last few months. Fake it until you make it…
‘Yes.’
‘Jo, when are you going to—’
‘Sorry, Lou, got to go.’
Jo hangs up, not with any kind of angry flourish or jab of her screen. Louise will know from the tone of her voice that the boundary is set, that she is not furious with the world like she used to be (she has little energy left for that) but having dinner as part of a cosy foursome during the anniversary month is not something she can cope with. And yes, she’d rather sob into her pillow with a bottle of Echo Falls on the bedside table while scrolling through the faces of missing persons. One of them might, just might, be Will.
‘Hey,’ comes a voice beside her. A hand on her back. Jo freezes. ‘Fancy some company?’
‘Oh… sure,’ she replies, turning to see Beth. Part of her wonders if she’s followed her from the workshop, tailed her to the bakery and stalked her to the park. It happens too often – bumping into people she knows, well-meaning phone calls, friends ‘popping in’. Jo also wonders if Louise has had words with everyone in her life, organising some kind of rota for keeping watch. She imagines they have a WhatsApp group to coordinate whose turn it is.
She was fine at lunchtime. Spotted by the park. Didn’t eat her bagel though. Who’s on night duty?
She loves Louise for caring, for always being there for her.
‘There’s some real warmth in that sun today,’ Beth says, holding up a brown paper bag with the same bakery logo on as Jo’s. ‘Shall we go and sit down over there?’
‘Why not?’ Jo says, really wanting to be alone. But Beth is a harmless girl, quite new to the workshop and good at what she does. She wonders how much she knows – what, if anything, Margot has told her about her situation.
‘You know, Jo, I really admire your…’ Beth stops, prawn sandwich against her lips. She stares at the sky for a second. ‘How you—’
‘You don’t have to say it,’ Jo interrupts. She doesn’t want the pity. ‘It won’t make any difference, but thanks for your concern.’ She smiles.
Beth raises her eyebrows as she nibbles at the sandwich, staring at Jo. ‘I was just going to say that I really admire your flair for making something amazing on a budget,’ she continues, unfazed.
‘Oh.’ Jo shrugs and swallows, even though there’s nothing but the taste of guilt in her mouth. ‘Thank you.’
‘Where did you train?’
‘London,’ Jo says. ‘It’s where Margot and I met. After our course, we moved up to the Midlands and started Sew Perfect.’
‘That’s cool,’ Beth says, chewing. She stretches out in the sun – her legs clad in cream flares, feet in scuffed brown ankle boots. ‘Respect to you both.’
Jo unwraps her bagel, taking a bite. Eating, she has decided, is easier than talking.
‘And look, I know I haven’t known you that long, Jo, but Margot told me about… about you know, and I just wanted to say—’
‘You don’t have to say anything, Beth,’ Jo says with her mouth full, knowing it was coming. She holds up her hand in a stop sign, smiling. ‘Really.’
She’s just being nice, Jo. Give the girl a break. It’s hardly her fault your husband didn’t come home from work. And not her fault it’s almost a year since the first prickles of concern that afternoon had swollen into a full-blown fever by the next morning. When are you going to accept that he’s not coming back, that he didn’t want you? Jo shakes her head, trying to silence the voice.
‘So, remind me again where you worked before you joined us?’ Jo asks, quite used to changing the subject. It was Margot who interviewed Beth a couple of months ago, saying she was just what they needed to move their little business forward.
‘I was at college,’ Beth says. ‘And before that, I was a teaching assistant.’
Teaching, Jo thinks, feeling the pang in her heart. Will was a teacher, she wants to say but doesn’t. Somehow, everything always comes back to Will. A teacher and an actor. When he wasn’t ‘resting’, she thinks with a smile. How he hated people saying that. Will never rested. He had one of those minds that never stopped, audible even when he was sleeping.
‘Ah yes, that’s right,’ Jo replies, recalling what Margot had told her about their new employee. ‘Local, wasn’t it?’ Jo asks, thinking the bagel actually tastes good.
‘Just south of here,’ Beth goes on. ‘At a little village school. My daughter is a pupil there and it was easy for childcare, you know, to be able to work school hours. Hardly my dream job, but when she was old enough to do after-school clubs, I did a dressmaking course at college, and here I am. Working my way up stitch by stitch. Oh, and now that her dad’s not being an idiot, he helps out more with childcare.’ Beth accidentally spills some Marie Rose sauce on her pale jeans. She wipes it but makes it worse.
‘I’ve got some Vanish back at the workshop,’ Jo says with a wink. ‘It removes everything.’ Even blood, she thinks, just as her phone rings again, making her jump as she answers it.
‘You’re coming,’ Louise says. ‘Seven o’clock at mine, or else.’ And she hangs up. Disappearing as if she was never there.
‘You know what you need?’
Jo stands there, her hand outstretched to Louise, the fabric of her vintage velvet kimono quivering in time with her shaking arm. Little flutters of pale pink and black. Me and Will, she’d thought when she’d seen it at the flea market a couple of years ago. She’d had to buy it and Will loved her in it, especially with skinny jeans, her high boots. He couldn’t keep his hands off her.
‘Earth to Jo…’
‘Sorry,’ Jo says, taking the glass of wine.
‘Fucking hell. Drink up. Stay over. Bed’s made up.’ Louise clatters the bottle back into the fridge.
‘I—’
‘What you need is a holiday. And random sex while on holiday.’ She stands squarely in front of Jo, hands on her lower back, the way pregnant women do. Behind her, Jo sees Archie stirring something at the stove, hunched over the pan, meticulously adding a measure of this, a pinch of that as if he’s performing an operation. The extractor hood hums noisily. Jo’s eyes flick to him for help, but he’s not looking. Likely not even listening.
So Jo sips her drink, silently squaring up to Louise with the briefest of smiles, knowing that she won’t hear her when she says that no, she doesn’t want a holiday without Will and she certainly doesn’t want sex with a stranger. No holiday is right for her without Will. What she needs is a holiday from her thoughts. What she needs is her husband back.
‘Can’t afford one,’ Jo says, perching on a bar stool. Managing alone is tough, but her nose is still just above the waterline, though none of the work they’d started on the house is completed, and the car still needs new tyres. And the bodywork needs sorting, she thinks, a chill running through her. Despite her best efforts, the balance on the credit card she’s had to take out gets worse each month.
In contrast, Louise and Archie’s trendy warehouse apartment is all aluminium and rusty iron girders. High ceilings with exposed pipework and doors with trendy, waxed paintwork add to the designer look. Original parquet floors are littered with huge patterned rugs, and expanses of wall are painted in the darkest grey with empty, chunky white frames hanging in clusters, almost as if she and Archie have no history to display in them, no fond memories to share. Just the grey showing through.
Will and I have history to display, Jo thinks. Oh, how much history we have! We could fill those frames with laughter and memories…
Louise is particular about her apartment, doesn’t put just anything on show. ‘Statement pieces only,’ she once said. ‘My interior designer said the space can take maximum impact so we shouldn’t clutter it with, well, clutter.’
The apartment (‘flat’ seems inappropriate, Jo has always thought) cost them a fortune but Louise had said it was ‘future-proofing’, explaining, with a hand on her belly, that they could be there for many years without the need to move.
‘Space for several kids and top schools close by,’ she’d said, as if she’d had the foresight to map out her future with only good things in it, whereas Jo had not. ‘Plenty of room for when Speck is born,’ she’d said after finding out she was pregnant. Her bump was hardly a speck any more, but the name had stuck. Unlike her and Will, when the time had come Louise and Archie had had no trouble conceiving.
Though Jo, as she glances through the full-height Crittall glass walls making up one side of the kitchen, can’t imagine a child frolicking in the courtyard garden. Can’t even imagine a baby in a pram out there, let alone felt-pen walls or ice-cream sofas.
‘Garden’s looking good,’ she says, wanting to divert from the subject of holidays. Though it’s more Amazonian jungle than kid-safe haven, Jo thinks. And no room to kick a ball. It’s all philodendron and firepit. Painted wrought iron and Aperol spritz. Jo imagines a snake winding its way down the glass, its tongue flicking in and out.
‘Even just a caravan for a week? By the sea. You like the sea, Jo.’ Louise pulls out a stool beside her, leaning on the wooden top of the kitchen island as she balances herself. She’s not letting up on the holiday. ‘I’d offer you Mum and Dad’s little cottage, but they’re renting it out now. Airbnb.’
Jo whips back to the moment, smiling at Louise. ‘Yes, yes I like caravans,’ she says, knowing she would have refused the cottage even if it had been an option. She could never go back there – not after… She shudders, hoping Louise doesn’t notice. ‘They’re so cosy, aren’t they? The pitter-patter of the virtually guaranteed rain on the roof.’ Her voice quivers, sounding almost delirious as it transforms into a laugh. She’s trying, really she is, and ever grateful to Louise for trying to inspire her.
‘Will and I stayed in a caravan at Harlyn Bay a few years ago. An autumn break to miss the crowds.’ Miss the higher prices, she thinks but doesn’t say, even though she knows Louise and Archie aren’t like that, not in the least bit snobby. They like nice things, earn good money, but they like real, too. And they like – liked – her and Will. Part-time drama teacher and seamstress meet obstetrician and solicitor. But now they only have her to like, because Will is gone. Somehow Jo feels as if she’s failed their best friends, let the side down. Last man standing, playing with only half a team.
‘Oh, that’ll be Ted,’ Louise says at the sound of the buzzer, sliding off her stool and wriggling down her stretchy work skirt. Her tight top hugs her belly, her protruding navel the cherry on top.
You look beautiful pregnant, Jo thinks, watching her go to the intercom and buzz their guest in… You’re everything I hoped you’d be and more, everything I wanted to be. Louise and Jo had been friends since high school, then lost touch in their twenties. But fate had brought them together again years later. A woman, a wife, a lover, a professional… and soon to be a mother. Jo smiles. I’m so happy for you, Louise.
‘I’m so happy for you,’ Jo says as she shakes hands with Ted. Christ, did I actually say that? ‘Pleased… I mean, I’m so pleased to meet you,’ she adds, forcing a smile, seeing Ted’s confused expression.
‘You too, Jo,’ Ted says, his hand lingering around hers. Jo notices his easy manner, his kind eyes, and can see why Louise and Archie have befriended him. A replacement for their depleted portfolio.
Friends for all occasions, that’s what Will once said, lying in bed, Jo’s head resting on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him after they’d tried yet again. And it’s true – Louise matches her guests to the occasion like she matches her shoes to her handbags. Will reckoned they were their go-to ‘guests for all occasions’. Solid. Dependable. And always good company. The reliable old-timers. Jo had laughed, trailing her fingers through the tight black fuzz of Will’s chest. ‘We’re an awesome team,’ she’d said, kissing him, feeling so happy.
And now we are not, Jo thinks as Ted finally relinquishes her hand. Will and I are not awesome any more. Not a team. And neither am I happy. Ted goes over to Archie at the stove, taking the glass of wine Louise offers as he’s passing. Louise glances over at Jo, giving her one of those it’ll be ok winks while touching her belly.
Several weeks ago, she asked Jo to be Speck’s godmother. Jo said yes, even though she didn’t want to be. Didn’t want to be any kind of ‘mother’ if it wasn’t a part of Will. They’d been trying to conceive naturally for the best part of two years and had finally succumbed to getting help, with their first round of IVF scheduled. And then Will disappeared.
‘So you two met at work?’ Jo says when they’re eating. She lays down her knife and fork, glancing between the two men. She doesn’t want to appear uninterested.
‘On the squash court, to be precise,’ Archie says, raising his eyebrows. ‘But yes, Ted’s in the department.’
Jo looks at Ted’s hands, seeing they’re equally as clean and smooth as Archie’s. Big, capable hands, and she wonders how many babies they’ve delivered. Archie quoted her his stats once – it was in the thousands. Jo would only like one baby and now, at thirty-nine, falling in love with someone as deeply as she loved Will is not going to happen before her time is up. She can’t betray Will’s memory, even though she hates him for disappearing, pretty much wants to kill him for leaving her – if he isn’t already dead.
‘So go on, fess up. Who beat who?’ Jo asks, forcing a smile.
‘He’s good,’ Ted says. ‘But not yet good enough.’ His confidence doesn’t just show in the tone of his voice but in the way his shoulders sit broadly in his fitted pale blue shirt, his strong forearms, his purposeful laugh and those kind eyes. He’s nice, Jo thinks. But not nice enough. Not Will. She knows Louise has arranged tonight on purpose. Thinks it’s time for her to move on.
‘There’s a casual ongoing competition between staff,’ Archie explains. ‘I was hands-down winner until Dr Mason muscled in.’ He laughs.
‘Everyone needs a good shake-up from time to time,’ Ted bats back, eyeing Jo over the rim of his glass. Jo feels a sweat break out.
‘Excuse me,’ she says, retreating to the toilet, leaning her head back against the door when she’s alone, sighing out. Will, Will, Will… she thinks. You’d like it here tonight, your cool wit quite able to take on Dr Mason and Archie. Your smooth voice out-smoothing the pair of them, me watching you, loving you, appreciating you. Maybe I didn’t do that enough. Appreciate you.
She flushes, washes her hands and returns to the table, steadier now she’s had a moment. She has to go with them, the ‘moments’. Succumb to time out, reset herself, however long it takes. Sometimes it’s days of shutting herself away.
‘Louise tells me you’re planning a holiday,’ Ted says as Jo picks up her knife and fork again.
Jo flashes her a look. ‘She did?’
‘Can’t you tell she needs one?’ Louise says, getting away with it only because of the caring undertones.
‘I’m fine,’ Jo says by way of defence. ‘It’s just the cost of it. You know…’ She smiles again, a brief glance up from her plate. ‘Holidays are expensive and every penny counts right now.’
‘Have you ever thought of house-sitting?’ Ted says. ‘It’s free and there are some beautiful places to be had. A pal of mine does it. You know, one of those drifter types who gets off feeding other people’s dogs and living their dreams by proxy. He’s a writer. Well, he wants to be a writer, hence the “no fixed abode” all being part of his bohemian image.’ Ted laughs. ‘But seriously, it could be an option for you.’
‘That’s a great idea, Ted,’ Jo hears Louise say as she tries to imagine herself in someone else’s home. She can’t.
‘Well, I…’
‘You should investigate,’ Archie chimes in. ‘I bet there are websites.’
‘Indeed there are,’ Ted says. ‘Sitters and owners are all rated and have feedback so you know what you’re getting into. You could pick somewhere by the coast or the Lakes. Even overseas.’
Three against one, Jo thinks as she listens to the well-meaning chit-chat, zoning out, their voices fading as she imagines going on holiday – just her and Will. They’d been planning a break on the South Coast but hadn’t managed it, other commitments getting in the way. She catches her breath as she sees him standing over by the fireplace, elbow leaning on the mantelpiece, watching her with smiling eyes. Proud eyes.
Jo shakes her head, taking a sip of her drink. And, when she looks up again, Will is gone.
Later, at home, having declined Louise’s offer to stay, Jo’s phone pings. Her hand reaches out to the bedside table, clattering her glasses and watch onto the floor as she frantically hoists herself up onto her elbow, fumbling for the lamp switch. Her heart thumps. It’s late. That’s a good sign… someone texting her late.
Will…
But it’s not.
I’ve signed you up. Have a look.
And then Louise sends login details for a website.
For what seems like the entire night, Jo lies awake, staring at the ceiling. When she’s certain sleep won’t come, she fetches her laptop, balancing it on her crossed legs as she sits on the bed. After she’s proved to herself once and for all that it’s a silly idea, that she really doesn’t want to be feeding pets and cutting lawns for other people, she’ll go on the missing persons websites. It’s been twelve hours since she last looked. A lot can happen in twelve hours – it took a lot less than that for Will to disappear, after all.
But then she wonders if Louise is right, if time away from home would help her recharge, help her heal. Even a single hour that isn’t filled with wondering where he is – either hating him for leaving his life, for leaving her, or grieving for him because he’s dead – would be a respite. And a respite, if she’s honest with herself, is what she needs more than anything.
Just, for the briefest of moments, not to have to think about Will.
Did you look at the website?
Jo glances at her phone screen. She can’t reply to Louise’s text right now. The alterations need finishing by lunchtime and delivering back to the theatre straight after. The tech rehearsal is scheduled for this afternoon and the last-minute adjustments are key to the entire production.
Well?
Jo wants to put her phone on silent but knows she can’t, never will. Just in case. If she’d had time to reply, she thinks as she changes the spool on her machine, then she’d have said Yes. House-sitting is not for me though but thanks x. Jo glides the fabric of the seam through the machine, removing the pins as she goes, each stitch taking her closer to the end of the day when she can go home and shut the front door on the world. She imagines Will is waiting for her, having made that amazing sticky pork dish of his (his mother’s recipe), the smell of it announcing his return even before she sees him. She talks to him every night. And he always answers.
Louise says I should do a house-sit, of all things, she’ll say later. Instead of a holiday. Doesn’t sound great, does it, cleaning up someone else’s cat mess?
Will would laugh then, she knows that. What, you’re going away without me? he’d reply before rolling his eyes, flashing her that smile of his. Jo would laugh for a moment, too, watch him standing there, wooden spoon in hand, twinkle in his eye. But then she’d start shaking her head, slowly at first as her eyes filled with tears, crinkling up as the sobs came.
Well, you went away without me… she’d scream, before hurling the pan across the room.
And when she opened her eyes, he’d be gone. Just as gone as he is now.
‘Oww!’ she cries, sucking on the bead of blood on her forefinger. Beth tosses the box of plasters her way, three pins held between her lips. There are many such boxes dotted about. No actor wants real blood on their costume.
What about South Wales? Didn’t you and Will go there once?
It’s clear Louise isn’t going to let up.
Can’t chat now. Crazy busy here, Jo messages back, but it’s too late. There are two drops of scarlet on the cream silk skirt.
When she gets home, the house is quiet. Of course. Jo closes the front door behind her, turning the key, putting the chain on then taking it off again, removing the key from the lock. If he were to return in the middle of the night, she wants him to be able to get in.
No cooking smells. No aroma of sticky pork in the air. No Radio 4 on for Will to turn down to a simmering background noise when she comes in, dumping her bag on the table as he gives her a kiss. Will usually got in before her – unless he was in a play, rehearsing or performing. Then it would be much later, sometimes the early hours. I couldn’t get out of the after-show party, Jo-jo, you know what it’s like… But when he was teaching, he was home by five. He would have turned the heating up if it was cold outside, or lit the coal fire in their small, square living room, plumping up the cushions on their saggy sofa, the one from Gumtree that was going cheap.
‘Hi,’ Jo says out of habit. She flicks on the kitchen light. It might be early May but it’s gloomy and wet outside. ‘How was your day?’
Year Seven we. . .
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