Lights flash green in the half-light. Something rattles. My mobile vibrates on the coffee table. Shadows fall through the large glass window and dance on the pale floorboards, while outside a black expanse of nothingness hangs over the canal. The sofa creaks as I sit up and rub my eyes, confused to have fallen asleep as the afternoon crept away. Then I remember the photo shoot, my exhaustion, the excitement of creating my first book cover, how it isn’t a dream.
‘Hello?’ My voice croaks. A clicking noise, followed by a woman’s voice.
‘Gracie?’ Only one word and I’m wide awake, my body taut. I dig my fingernails into my hand. ‘Hello, Gracie, is that you?’
My hand wobbles as I put the phone up close to my mouth.
‘Wrong number,’ I say, and end the call.
The tick of the clock is loud, as if it’s beating in my head. I switch on the lamp, stare at the glow it casts on the floor and hug my arms around myself in a vain attempt to get warm. I make myself a hot drink, take it out onto the balcony, my fingertips white against the red of the china mug I am clutching to my chest.
Boats huddled along the banks make sinister shapes at this hour and the dark canal is still. Lights from the office block opposite gleam on the water, and I tell myself the voice on the phone could belong to anyone. But only one person ever called me Gracie.
Scratching sounds of a key in the door alert me to Richard’s arrival and I take a deep breath, attempting to push her voice to the back of my mind before I go to tell him about the rest of my day. Everything apart from the phone call, that is. He can’t know about that.
The following morning, Richard helps himself to a large portion of the granola I made yesterday, and I’m pleased with the way the creaminess of the oat and yogurt matches the colour of our new Smeg fridge. He eats while he stands, checking his phone at the same time.
‘This is good.’
‘My followers thought so too.’ I grin as I remember the explosion of little hearts on Instagram.
‘Are you baking today?’
‘Later. I’m being interviewed this morning, remember, the journalist I told you about? We’re meeting in Highbury. I’ll wait for the rush hour to finish, catch the later train.’
‘Wish I had that option. But my car is due any minute,’ Richard glances back at his phone, ‘in exactly ten minutes’ time – traffic is going to be hell. Can’t wait, sorry. I’ve got a meeting in Finchley this afternoon, I’ll ring you later when I know what time I’ll be home.’ He kisses my cheek and then he’s gone.
The fridge buzzes into the silence of the kitchen and I wipe up the little trail of coffee he’s left on the marble work surface. I wash the china mug in the sink, wishing he wasn’t working late again – we don’t get enough time together these days, and I’m missing him. The cupboard door is open and I close it, restoring order to the kitchen ready for my baking session this afternoon. Everything needs to be perfect.
It’s a short walk to Camden Station to catch the ten o’clock train. Enclosed in the apartment lift, I remember the phone call and wonder if it was her. What if she’s following me? The walk feels different now she is back in my head – a glimpse of red is her coat disappearing around the corner, heels clipping the pavement behind me are her footsteps, but when I turn around, of course she isn’t there. I wouldn’t expect to recognise her voice after all this time, but I do. Why would she call? The thought propels my feet to move even faster, and I don’t see the man stepping out from a cafe until I’ve crashed into his cup, causing coffee to slop in milky drops which land with precision on his black woollen coat. His face twists in surprise and my hand clenches around the pack of tissues I carry in my pocket, offering it to him.
‘Shit! I’m so sorry. Can I get you another?’
He dabs at his coat. ‘No, it’s fine.’ He inclines his head towards my pale designer jacket. ‘It could have ruined yours, which looks a lot better quality.’ Then he’s gone and I take a moment to breathe hard, as I have taught myself to do, before I follow the other commuters into the station.
There’s a Metro newspaper on the seat next to me and I snatch it up, determined not to speculate any longer on what was probably a wrong number. As I unfold the front page, I wish I hadn’t, because the headline MISSING TEENAGER jumps off the page at me. Again I attempt a moment of mindfulness but all it does is heighten the noise of slamming doors and loud announcements telling me the train is about to depart, and when I go back to the paper I’m compelled to read about a thirteen-year-old who has gone missing after an outing with her friends. Charlotte is in my thoughts once again – she’s there hiding at the back of my mind as I read about the weather and the traffic, trying to distract myself from the image of the Dorset cliffs which lurks in my mind. The man opposite me has an irritating cough and I press up against the window and close my eyes, not wanting to breathe in his germs or read any more about missing girls.
Lily, the journalist, is smart in her designer suit, her high heels tapping along the pavement as we walk. I’m glad I chose to wear my fitted dress and heels; my long blonde hair is neatly swept up.
‘There’s a new gluten-free bakery down the road, I thought that would suit you,’ she says, waving her hand in the direction of Upper Street.
‘Perfect. I’m trying out a new recipe for banana bread this afternoon, so it will be good to check out the competition.’ I add a laugh, but it’s a little forced; memories of the phone call and the missing girl are not entirely erased from my mind.
‘Their cakes are amazing.’
‘I’ll be interested to know how they sweeten them, whether they use all-natural ingredients like I do.’
Lily chats about her own attempts to go gluten-free as we take the short walk along the busy street. I relax as an unexpected ray of autumn sunshine warms my hair.
‘So how does it feel to be such a successful food blogger?’ she says, as we carry our herbal teas over to a table at the back of the bakery, where the smells of freshly baked bread and cinnamon are reassuringly familiar.
‘How do you quantify success? Having hit a certain number of followers? Yes, that’s happened, but I’ve been so busy I haven’t really had time to stop and think about it. I love doing what I do, it means so much to me to make a success of my life, and getting to indulge my passion, I know I’m lucky to be able to do that. Not everyone gets that opportunity.’ I break off a piece of my date loaf, crumbling it onto the plate. I look at her studying me and I wonder if she thinks my success is all down to Richard. ‘It’s taken a long time and a lot of hard work to get where I am today. It’s not as glamorous as it looks.’ I laugh, and Lily smiles back. I talk her through today’s post, which will take up the rest of my day – the shopping, the testing, the photographs. ‘I spend a lot of time selecting ingredients,’ I tell her, ‘and standing in a hot kitchen, repeating a recipe over and over until it’s perfect.’ Her red fingernails tap at the keypad and I answer her questions until our cups are empty. It’s only when I think we’re done that she catches me unawares.
‘Can you tell me a little about your background?’
I push my plate away, the crumbs no longer acceptable, like a blemish on smooth skin, but she’s unaware. Words spill from her glossy pink lips.
‘What’s the story behind your success? Did you learn to cook at home, with your mother? Where is home – originally, I mean?’
Lily’s eyes are wide, eager to find out something new about me. A part of me admires her approach, unlike the majority of interviewers, who are more interested in what it’s like being married to a handsome politician. I shake my head, wrapping my silk scarf around my neck to indicate our time is up, dismissing her question.
‘That’s not how it happened for me.’ I force a smile, knowing it’s important she believes me. ‘I trained in nutrition, before setting up my own business. When we first got married, we used to eat out all the time, but when people started recognising Richard it became less enjoyable for him. He loves the public, but there’s a limit when the interest intrudes into your personal life. I’d forgotten how much I love creating my own recipes, so I started cooking more at home, and somehow I became the face of clean eating.’
‘It must be hard, having such a perfect image to live up to.’ We both smile, but I don’t let her see the frisson of anxiety her words bring up. ‘You say “somehow”, but how much of your success do you attribute to being the wife of Richard Sutherland? So many food bloggers jostle for attention, but very few hit the big time.’
My shoulders tense at the inevitable question, but I look her in the eyes as I speak. ‘There’s no doubt that Richard being who he is works to my advantage, but I’m sure I’d have got here regardless. I’ve worked like crazy. It might have taken a little longer, that’s all.’
‘Of course,’ she says as she switches her iPad off. ‘I’m sure the book will speak for itself. You mentioned Richard and how he deals with being recognised. How do you handle it?’
For a moment I experience a stab of alarm, before realising what she means.
‘It’s not a problem for me.’ I flash her a smile and stand up.
‘Yet,’ she says, and we kiss goodbye as if we are old friends.
She’s about to go when I place my hand gently on her arm. ‘I want you to know I’m not all hard work and no play. Cooking is my passion, it’s fun. I’m living the dream – my dream – and this success has exceeded my expectations. I’m so happy.’
‘Any plans for the weekend?’ she says as we make our way to the cafe door.
‘Holiday research. I’m planning a surprise minibreak for Richard – this is strictly off the record, but I know I can trust you.’ I laugh and she nods, giving an exaggerated wink. ‘A few days away as soon as the election’s over and we can breathe again. I’m thinking Rome, or Florence. He’s been looking for a new piece of art for our lounge. I know some lovely little galleries.’
‘Keep me posted,’ she says with a smile. ‘The article will be up sometime this month.’
I’m thoughtful as I watch her disappear into the crowds, wondering why her last words make me nervous, hoping I can trust her. As I move through the street, exasperated by the slow pace at which people walk, I wonder for the first time since I moved over from France whether I’ve made a mistake coming back here. But I wasn’t to know how successful Richard would become, how high his expectations would be. My shoes clatter on the tiles as I enter the station and lose myself amongst the commuters. If only I could lose my thoughts so readily.
It’s only later, when my first batch of bread is in the oven, that I check my mobile. There’s a missed call from the same number as the night before, but no message. I’m not sure how long I sit and stare at the phone, wondering why she’s got in touch now, after so many years, when the smell of burning jolts me from the sofa. But it’s too late, the banana bread is ruined.
By the time I’ve created a bread I’m happy with, the light is fading outside and I decide to postpone the photo shoot until the morning. Pacing around the flat isn’t enough to release my energy so I get changed into my sports gear. Our apartment’s canal-side location – making it perfect for running – is one of the many things that attracted us to it. I work out I can manage fifteen minutes each way and I’ll be home before it’s fully dark.
Black water glistens as I hurry down the steps to the canal-side. Fewer people are down here in the evening and I glance around to see whether I am alone. A man disappears into the gloom ahead, and a woman is unlocking a bicycle further back. I transfer my keys to my pocket and set off at a steady pace.
The cyclist overtakes me, red curls blowing in the wind, and I slow my pace, reminded of the girl with red hair from my past watching me, in that silent way she had. I’ve only been running for five minutes when a drop of rain lands on my forehead, sliding into my eye. I wipe the water from my face; I hadn’t thought to check the weather before I came out and the thin T-shirt I pulled on offers little protection against the elements. By the time I reach the point where I’m turning around, the shirt is sticking to my shoulders and the wind is picking up.
I increase my pace and follow the canal as it flows alongside the park. Not far to go now. The flats are visible, their balconies with ‘desirable views’ stacked one on top of the other, the matching window boxes resplendent with pink blooms. Not a hint of originality. Most of them are in darkness, cold and unwelcoming. The dark cloud hovering overhead bursts and rain pelts down on me. The wind picks up, gathering leaves and twigs as it hurtles past, and I wish it could carry me along too, and drop me at home, warm and safe.
There’s a tunnel ahead and as I enter it a bicycle bell sounds behind me. A female cyclist is approaching too fast, and I move aside to make space for her. There’s a whoosh of air as she cycles past, so close, her arm brushing my shoulder. As she turns to look at me I recognise the woman I saw earlier. I stumble against the wall, feel the cold brick through my top. Darkness presses in on me and I sprint back to my flat, collapsing against the flat door, panting hard, sweat clammy on my back.
It takes a few moments to get my key in the lock. A white square glows on the doormat, an unaddressed envelope. It isn’t sealed and I slide the contents out. There’s a picture postcard inside, the seafront at Lyme Regis. My legs feel unsteady and my pulse races like a stopwatch. No stamp, nothing written on the back.
The intercom buzzes three times, which is Richard’s signal he’s home. I shove the postcard into my pocket and dash upstairs.
Sounds filter up as Richard bashes around in the kitchen, and I look once again at the postcard – the jaunty angle of the boat with the red sail on the beach, the perfect blue of the sky. But it’s the cliffs in the background which draw my attention, make me hold onto the dressing table to steady myself. Our beautiful bedroom is reflected back in the mirror, the pure white furnishings, the splash of crimson from the designer fabrics in the wardrobe, shoes piled up in boxes, a hint of expensive perfume in the air. Everything I have worked so hard for. I can’t afford to lose it, I can’t. I push the postcard to the back of my underwear drawer, closing it with a thud.
‘Stop being dramatic, Grace,’ I tell my reflection, before walking to the mezzanine stairs. I pause to look down at the vast open-plan space, full-length windows spanning the far wall. But the satisfaction I normally get from looking at this gorgeous apartment eludes me.
Richard sprawls on the sofa, two glasses of wine in front of him, and he pulls me into a hug.
‘Let’s watch the news,’ he says, ‘something’s going on in Ash Fenton.’
‘I can’t believe that.’ Nothing ever happens in the sleepy village where Richard’s parents live. I press the remote and the breaking news story slides across the screen:
POLICE SEARCH FOR MISSING GIRL, 13, IN BUCKINGHAMSHIRE VILLAGE
I squeeze my eyes shut. Not this again.
‘I read about this earlier, but I didn’t notice where she was from.’
‘I can’t believe this is happening in my constituency. The whole village is out looking for her. Wouldn’t be surprised if Mum and Dad don’t go and help. You know what they’re like.’
A reporter is speaking to camera, the village green behind him marred by clusters of people milling around, news vans and equipment ugly against the pretty green. Richard continues speaking but I no longer hear his words. The rest of the news plays out in front of me: refugees from war-ravaged countries, equally distressing. The weather follows: a woman presenter with a maroon dress and matching lipstick moving her mouth and pointing at a complicated map. But I don’t see any of it, still too shocked by the reminder of the upheaval of a missing person in a small town.
Richard falls asleep, his head snug against my shoulder, so I mute the sound on the television and log on to my laptop, checking out my latest post on Instagram. Thousands of likes cover the page, and tears spring into my eyes as it hits me. I am making a success of this; all my late nights and determination are beginning to pay off. Richard grunts, and I put my hand on his arm, drawing comfort from his presence. My eyelids prickle and words wiggle on the screen as my eyes close and images muddle together in my head. The red sail of a boat; the journalist and her questions; Richard’s trusting eyes. I’m about to log off when a name jumps out at me and I gasp, waking Richard.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ I turn the screen away from him as he rubs his hands over his eyes, stretching out his legs. Richard switches the sound up on the television where the missing girl is back on. A photograph appears on the screen, the usual school shot, a white Alice band in her long blonde hair, a toothy grin for the photographer, school tie knotted in place. A chill rushes through my body as I note the likeness to Charlotte for the first time. Richard sits up, alert, giving me a shocked look.
‘It’s her, Christ, I don’t believe it.’
I freeze. ‘Who?’ What does he mean? How can he know her?
‘Emily Shaw, remember? The girl who interviewed me for work experience a couple of months ago. Mum knows her from Girl Guides – she set it up. She must be worried. I’ll give her a ring in the morning.’ Lines crease his forehead as he switches the TV off. ‘I’m going to bed. Are you coming?’
‘Soon.’ I pull him towards me for a kiss.
The image of the girl fades from the screen but not from my mind. I’m wide awake now, and as soon as Richard’s gone I go back to the comment left by OrchidGirl: it’s nothing to do with the recipe for blueberry and chia mousse I posted yesterday.
Gracie, it’s me: 07775435555
It’s the number from last night, and I’m glad Richard has gone upstairs because although I thought I was prepared for this moment, I’ve been caught out. The walls of the flat crowd in on me and I push the balcony doors open, needing to be close to the canal, the poor substitute for the sea of my childhood, which I can never go back to. Silver slivers of water ripple in the artificial lights watching over the canal. I focus my gaze on a black silhouette, which for a moment I fancy is her. As I stare out, I realise that no matter how much I’ve managed to convince myself that the past would stay buried, the threat that lives deep inside me has resurfaced. She’s back, like I knew she would be. And my whole life could fall apart unless I stop her.
If I lie still maybe my heart will stop jumping and last night’s dance music will quit thumping in my head. In a sitting position, I count to five, opening my eyes. My throat feels raw, as if I’ve been yelling. It’s possible.
Through sticky eyelashes I make out two empty wine bottles sprawling on the floor, and a large red stain decorating the carpet. My dress is hanging over the back of a chair and the contents of my bag are a mess on the carpet. A sheet of paper lies next to the ashtray on the glass table. Breathing makes me feel like throwing up.
Gingerly I place my feet on the floor, switching on the bedside lamp. I am wearing one sock and my vest is inside out. Now my eyes are focusing, I see that the piece of paper is a note and I pick it up. The slight movement makes my head swirl.
SEE YOU IN THE CROWN AT 8. J
So Jodie was here, with her raven-black hair and blue eyes which make my insides dance. The red numbers on the digital clock tell me it’s 7 p.m. I’ve been asleep all day. Something important taps at the edge of my mind, and I massage my forehead, trying to tease it out.
Did we argue? Is that what’s making me feel sick? I see the dance floor at Highlights: I’m spinning, my arms wild and loose, people watching and laughing. A blonde girl, her hand on Jodie’s arm, fingers tracing Jodie’s snake tattoo, which slithers from her wrist to her shoulder. I wanted to thump her. Maybe I did? Then I remember, me hunched in the corner, a mess. The look of exasperation in Jodie’s eyes, the look I’ve seen so many times before. I bolt to the bathroom and throw up.
It’s already time to go out, but I can’t leave looking a state. Dry shampoo is the answer, and I brush my red curls out so my hair looks less like a bird’s nest. I slap some foundation onto my face and paint my eyes black. Dark jeans and jacket. A quick shot of vodka, and I’m out of the flat.
The smell of beer and grease hits me as I walk into the pub. It’s Jodie’s favourite, and if she’s here, I’m good with that. A group of rowdy youths surround the pool table, and a boy flashes his tattooed arms as he chalks up the pool cue. Two men argue, voices raised, in one of the dark corners. It’s the same old scene and the music is loud, pulsing inside me. A lazy smile crosses Jodie’s face as she clocks me walking towards her, and I slow my pace, shift my hips a little, before leaning forward. Then we’re kissing each other hard. I get a hit of whisky from her lips.
‘I’m late, sorry,’ I murmur into her hair.
‘You’re always late. The usual for Molly,’ she calls to the barman. We sit by the window, looking out over Camden High Street, where the pavement is crowded with characters. A group of teenagers, all zips, piercings and black clothes, are looking at Amy Winehouse T-shirts for sale; the stall owner is openly watching them, his tired green Mohican drooping to one side.
‘I feel rubbish, I need some paracetamol.’ I scrabble around in my bag, but all I find is half a packet of throat sweets and some chewing gum.
‘Get that down you,’ Jodie says, ‘you know it always makes you feel better.’ Ice is piled high in the glass of neat vodka Jodie places in front of me.
She picks up her lighter and taps it on the table. The sound is like a woodpecker on the side of my head.
‘I was meant to be taking it easy last night. Two drinks, max.’
‘Shut up, Molly. You’re a laugh when you drink. Well, mostly. You got into a right state at the end of the evening. Do you remember?’
Heat burns my cheeks and I drink some vodka, holding the glass to my face, but the cold doesn’t take away my embarrassment. ‘Yes, but forget it, you know what I’m like when I’ve had too many. I’m sorry.’
She narrows her eyes. ‘You’re seeing the shrink, right?’
‘She’s not a shrink, she’s a counsellor.’
‘Whatever,’ Jodie leans forward. ‘Because last night you were going on about being desperate, not being able to confide in her, in anyone, about time not making it easier… but you can talk to me, babe, you know you can, whatever’s wrong.’
My eyes won’t meet hers. Different eyes flash into my mind. I drain the rest of my glass, get to my feet. ‘Forget it, seriously.’ I lean forward and kiss her, hoping to convince her. ‘Ready for another?’
Jodie lines up some coke as soon as we get back to my flat, and I open a bottle of wine. My hand is unsteady and a ruby droplet falls onto the counter. It looks like blood. A girl’s face flashes into my mind. I frantically sweep my hand across the work surface and the drop vanishes.
I put some music on, snort some coke and at last I feel in control. I’m hoping Jodie will forget my earlier mood, so I lean my body along hers and press myself against her, smiling as I look into her eyes.
‘That’s better,’ she says, ‘I hate it when you’re miserable.’
It’s only later, when Jodie has gone back to her real girlfriend who we don’t discuss, that I think about what she’s said. I blow out a trail of smoke, watch it coil up towards the ceiling, wishing I could blow my fear out of me and watch it float away. Yes, I’ve got my weekly appointments with Janet, my counsellor, but I won’t be able to tell her anything. My brother Darren’s cheeky grin flashes into my head followed by a pang of sadness. We used to spend hours chatting, despite him only being little back then – at least he gets why I’m like this. But even he won’t want me to ring, not after last time. No, there’s only one person I can talk to, and lately the need to speak to her is bursting inside me.
My head feels as though it’s thick with wool when I’m woken by the sun sneaking through a tear in the blind, and I lie still until I’ve worked out what day it is. It’s my day off, and all I have to do is see Janet, my therapist, in the afternoon. My foot lands on an empty wine bottle as I climb out of bed and it spins across the floor, out of control. It clinks as it hits the metal bin, a clanging sound which hurts my head. I make a snap decision to spring-clean today; it doesn’t matter that it’s autumn. It’ll make me feel better and I’ve got to get my shit together. I open all the windows to let fresh air in, stick the TV on and drink a cup of strong black coffee while I try and wake up.
For once I’ve surfaced early enough to catch the news, and I doze through a segment on a royal visit to a local academy school where pupils wriggle in excitement in front of a princess. I bet they’re disappointed she isn’t wearing a sparkly crown. The coffee starts to work its magic and I stretch my legs out, resolving not to drink today. The man on the screen looks familiar, and I remember the pamphlet shoved through my door: Richard Sutherland wants me to vote him in as London Mayor. I imagine his looks will get women voting but they are wasted on me, his super-white teeth and hair combed back into a slick style. I can’t even remember the last time I bothered to vote. But the news item isn’t about him. The woman on his arm has model looks. In the first shot her face is turned towards her husband, but as she turns to camera the newsreader announces that Grace Sutherland’s first book is about to be published, and then she’s on the screen being interviewed and I forget I’m holding a cup until cold liquid hits my foot. I swipe it away, not taking my eyes off the TV. It’s her. A blade slices through my stomach and I reach for a cigarette. I watch those familiar lips speaking in an unfamiliar accent, but she can’t hide from me so easily – I’d know her anywhere. I knew I’d find her eventually. Adrenaline lights me up inside.
The flat looks different when I’ve finished. Under a pile of clothes I find a ten-pound note, which adds to the high I’ve been running on ever since I saw her. I decide to nip across the road to Abdul’s shop and treat myself. I only drink a tiny swig of vodka before I start my internet search, but this time it’s different. This time I know her name.
At first I don’t believe it. After wondering for years where Grace is, knowing I shouldn’t look but feeling unable to stop myself – bam – she’s on TV. Online, she writes a blog. She’s all over the internet. You couldn’t make it up. She tells the world where to find her. How could I have missed her? And how could she, after everything? Her Instagram feed reveals that just this week she had an interview with a journalist for Eat Clean, whatever that is, visited her publisher to discuss book covers and the rest of the week she’s going to be at home, cooking and posting details and photos for anyone who wants to look. Well, I certainly do. Can you believe it? It’s a pinch-myself moment: Grace is cooking in her kitchen and I can watch her doing it. There are even YouTube videos. There’s no way I’m going to the counsellor now. I switch my phone to silen. . .
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