The Day We Disappeared (27 page)

‘Stephen,' called a
man's voice in the background. ‘Lunch!'

‘Who was that?'

‘Dad.'

‘Oh! I thought he was on the
Xbox?'

Stephen sighed. ‘He is, but
luckily for him he has a son who can cook. I just asked him to stir the gravy while
I spoke to you. Now he's wearing an apron as if he's spent the last four
hours slaving away at the Aga.' He chuckled. ‘He's a bugger, my
old man. I reckon we can introduce you now. He seems to have got his head round the
idea of you and, actually, he's not been too depressed today.'

I was happy to hear it. ‘Good!
Maybe we can pop over to see him when we're back from Paris.'

Stephen agreed. ‘I'd better
go,' he said. ‘I don't trust Dad alone in the kitchen for long.
Love you, little one, speak later.'

I went to put on the P, but stopped. I
didn't know why,
but I felt a bit
disappointed. Pumpkin was our private name but it also reminded me of Tim.

I left the necklace on my bed, sitting
prettily in the jade green swirls of my Sri Lankan bedspread, and promised myself
I'd not be such an ungrateful girl in future.

Dearest Kate,

I'm not sure about leaving you a letter on Stumpy's door. What
if Joe gets at it first? He'll never shut up. Literally, we'll
have to tolerate his sniggers and double-entendres for the rest of
time.

On careful reflection, though, I've decided to go ahead anyway. I know
this is how you start each morning and I love that. I know you'll find
this letter, and you'll read it right here by the door and Stumpy will
try to eat it and you'll turn round and kiss him. I hope you'll
smile. I hope you'll be feeling as mad with excitement as I do at this
moment.

We kissed last night. Six and a half long hours ago, if you're
interested in fine detail.

I can't believe it! Me and Kate Brady, with all her wild red hair and
her cheeky chat and that glowing, lovely smile. We kissed over pork pies in
a windy wintery field and it felt so good I carried on doing it for an hour
without needing my crutches.

Kate, I'm going to lay my cards out. This probably isn't very
smooth but – as you've noticed by now – I'm about as smooth as a
field of sheep. I entertain dreams of one day being a normal member of
society – of being able to pick out an outfit, for example, that
doesn't make me look like a mannequin from the farm shop. Or of one
day being able to just walk into a room and chat with people, all casual and
engaging.

Small steps, though. For now I'm still learning – and I'm
learning a lot of these things from you – and because I'm still
learning, I'm going to say it straight:

I think you're wonderful, Kate Brady, and I'm mad about you. You
saved me from self-imposed death-by-self-pity when I was in hospital, and
you saved me from my marriage by barging into this farm and showing me that
women can actually be lovely. Respectful, thoughtful, kind; all the things
my wife, bless her soul, was (is) not. You even saved my horse's life
when Maria tried to end it. You saved my mum's life when she was at
her wit's end. You saved us all, you mad Irishwoman. Even Ana Luisa
likes you, although she would no doubt try to take that terrible secret to
her grave.

I'm feeling very impatient about when I might be able to kiss you
again. (I'm not hiding in Stumpy's stable watching you read
this, by the way. I've gone back to bed.) But I want so badly to smell
your hair and feel you here in my arms. All alive and funny and obstinate
and sweet.

I can't wait to start our future together. I think about you literally
all of the time.

Please will you be my girlfriend?

Thanks. Love Mark x x x x x x

I can't leave, I thought, as
Stumpy started trying to eat the letter, just as Mark had predicted, and I laughed
and kissed him, just as Mark had predicted.

I can't leave this place.

I was going to have to tell Mark
everything, every single thing, and then I was probably going to have to call the
police myself.

Panic expanded in my stomach. I
don't want to! I don't want to talk to them! I don't want to talk
to anyone!

Stumpy rested
his muzzle on my shoulder.

‘Maybe I'll give it a couple
of days,' I told him. ‘See what happens.'

He let off a big, bored sigh.

The sudden sound of an engine on the
drive made me jump, but it was only the feed merchant's van.

I steadied myself against Stumpy's
door with a shaking hand. Yes, I had to stay. Every part of me knew that. But it
could prove one of the most stupid and dangerous decisions of my life.

‘This is the wrong check-in
desk,' I said, scanning the row of BA signs above us. ‘This one's
for New York.'

‘It is, my Pumpkin. We're
going to New York!'

I gaped at Stephen. ‘Eh? But I was
there when we booked the tickets! We're definitely going to Paris!'

Stephen grinned. ‘The problem is,
you have an embarrassingly wealthy boyfriend, who sometimes can't control
himself. He wanted to treat you to something super-special, and take you somewhere
you'd never been, so he kind of cancelled the Paris tickets and booked some
New York ones instead.'

I stared at him. ‘We're
going to New York? Seriously? But what about that visa thingy?'

‘Um, I kind of applied on your
behalf using your passport,' he confessed. ‘I hope that wasn't too
naughty of me …'

‘Oh, my God!'

‘And I'm afraid I've
been really naughty and I've not booked us in somewhere mad and bohemian.
I've booked us in somewhere extremely cool and expensive, and we're
going to be really vulgar and eat in all the most expensive places and buy
absolutely anything we want. Okay?'

I laughed, a
slightly mad cackling sound. ‘OKAY!' I shouted. ‘THAT IS SERIOUSLY
OKAY!'

I had been to New York, in fact, about
ten years ago during a layover from New Zealand, but had only been there ten hours
and had made the mistake of going to Times Square. After several weeks' hiking
in the glacial calm of the South Island mountains, I had felt overwhelmed and lost.
Some mentalist had grabbed my arm and shouted at me about THE WHITE BIRDS while
I'd been queuing up to buy a crappy fruit salad in CVS Pharmacy and I'd
completely freaked out and run five blocks with my giant rucksack on my back. Then
I'd sat on a pavement and cried, until an unsmiling cop had told me to move
on, presumably thinking I was a hobo.

‘I know you're upset about
how things have been with Le Cloob,' Stephen said, ‘and that's
part of why I wanted to treat you. Remind you that some people, aka me, think
you're amazing.'

I grabbed him and kissed him, right
there in the first-class queue. Which was not a queue, so really we were just
kissing in front of the nice lady.

After staggering around in a jetlagged
fug I finally started to fall in love with the city. Stephen had booked us into the
very poshest suite at the Nomad, complete with private roof terrace and expansive
views of the city. We were served fantastic breakfasts that seemed to appear as soon
as we woke up, and Stephen even talked me into a shopping trip.

The slight problem – although really it
was quite a big problem – was that Stephen's New York office, which had
been causing all of the trouble lately,
had got wind of his arrival in town. At least once a day, Stephen received a call he
couldn't ignore and – swearing, apologizing and promising he wouldn't be
long – he would have to get into a big, posh American-style car heading for the
FlintSpark offices. Every time I told him I didn't mind.

And I sort of didn't, but sort of
did. I was learning to love New York, learning to fall into step with its energy and
speed, but only with Stephen next to me. He was completely at ease in the city: he
could hail a cab in seconds and knew where everything was, whereas I just sort of
skulked around, feeling bewildered.

What could I say, though? The trip must
have been costing him an appalling amount of money. And when he was with me, he was
lovely. He even braved the suite's big bath with me, in spite of my recent
(and not insignificant) fart-transgression.

So I said nothing. ‘I'm
fine,' I told him, then stayed in the hotel until he was free again.

On New Year's Eve, Stephen had to
go and firefight for several hours. He'd taken the work summonses reasonably
well so far, but I could tell that this call had made him angry. He marched away
from me, swearing into his phone, and came back sparking with anger like a loose
cable.

I didn't like it. Although
neither, I reminded myself, did he.

As an apology, he sent me to the Bliss
spa for an outrageously decadent afternoon, although I'd rather have stayed at
the hotel. It felt odd, having nice women working away at my horrible feet and
witch-like talons. I
worried about
Stephen and concentrated so hard on trying to relax and enjoy myself that, of
course, I didn't enjoy myself in the slightest.

By seven p.m., when we were meant to be
leaving for a restaurant, there was still no sign of him. At seven forty-five a
bell-boy came up with a box containing a lovely cashmere shawl. ‘Wrap yourself
up and snuggle,' said the typewritten note. ‘It's chaos here. Will
get away as soon as I can. Am so sorry.'

I watched
Law and Order: SVU
and ate a big kale salad. They were wild about kale in this city.

Nine thirty-five p.m.

Stephen sent me a string of
furious-sounding messages, apologizing, raging, swearing.

Nine minutes past eleven:
I am
sacking everyone
, he wrote.
They have let me down in just about every
way.

Finally, at eleven fifty-five, Stephen
arrived back. He was the angriest I'd ever seen him. I could feel it straight
away, a nasty, crackling energy that filled the room. Pre-emptive fireworks were
already spiralling up into the sky across Manhattan and a banner was running across
the bottom of the TV channel, telling me – in case I hadn't noticed – that it
was five minutes to NEW YEAR!

‘What happened?' I called.
He had marched straight through to the bathroom, saying he needed the loo. He
clearly did not. He went in, locked the door – which he never did – and then there
had been a horrible angry silence.

‘Stephen? Are you okay,
darling?'

Nothing. New Year struck and a great
eruption of fireworks lit the sky; tiny
whumps
of sound through our
triple-glazed windows.

I turned off the
TV and stared at the darkening screen as I worked out what to do. I didn't
like anger. I especially didn't like angry men. Red flags were unfurling.

I slid a foot out of bed, then slid it
in again.

Stephen came out five minutes later, his
face set in a smile that didn't quite make the grade. ‘Sorry,' he
said quietly. ‘A very bad day at the office. Not that I should have had to be
in the fucking office on New Year's Eve when I'm on fucking holiday.
I'm fucked off. I'm really fucking fucked off.'

I was frightened by the snarling energy
coming off him but I held out my arms anyway. It wasn't reasonable to expect
him never to get angry, just because of my Stuff. He paused, then turned away.

‘Let me have a shower,' he
called. ‘I'll have a shower and I'll turn my phone off. Even if
the entire New York office goes up in flames, which it looks like it fucking might
do, we'll enjoy what's left of the night.'

‘Okay,' I said to the
bathroom door, which had once again closed in my face.

Poor Stephen. I wondered if he'd
ever imagined it being like this, when he'd started FlintSpark all those years
ago. That he'd be pulled and stretched in all directions by people in suits
all over the world, needing him in meetings, needing him to make decisions, needing
him to authorize unimaginable sums of money.

He emerged once more, and once more I
held my arms out.

‘Jesus! Can you stop … Can you
please stop being so
nice
?'

I stared at him, my heart pounding.
‘Sorry?'

He looked at me
for a very long time.

‘Sorry,' he said.
‘Sorry, darling Pumpkin. I think I should just go to sleep. We can start again
in the morning, yes?'

‘Okay,' I whispered.
‘That's fine.'

At two a.m. I was still awake, lying on
my back as Stephen slept soundly beside me. His chest rose and fell rhythmically,
the anger drained and spent.

Pull yourself together
, I told
myself. It wasn't as if he had threatened me.

Twenty minutes later, I heaved myself
out of bed and padded over to my phone, which had been buzzing with
Happy New
Year!
messages since seven o'clock when midnight had struck in
London. I thumbed through them, smiling absently.

Nothing from Tim.

I checked my email. Claudine had sent me
a message in the last hour. I frowned. What on earth was she doing awake at this
time? It must be seven in the morning in the UK. She was not the type to party all
night.

‘Urgent,' said her
email.

I opened it. And even though my life had
changed the moment Stephen Flint had walked into my office, I only realized it
now.

Annie, I have bad news. Forgive
me for the brevity of this message. I have to tell you. Stephen is dating
online. I have a profile myself which is how I know. It's a long story but
I can tell you that he is active right now. In fact, he has been trying to
persuade me to go on a date with him in the last
twenty-four hours. I am dating with a blurry
picture, because I am married, and he must not have realized that it is me. I am
ashamed of this, and a lot of things I've done lately, but this is not the
time to talk about me.

I am so sorry. This is awful. I
will try to explain better when I see you. Please do not tell anyone I have an
online dating profile, and please come home. I am attaching a screengrab of his
profile so that you know it is not just me being a nasty old skunk. He is
cheating. And I think he has been since you met.

When you told us about Stephen I
was already aware of him and I'm afraid I already had reason to believe
that he was bad news. I suspected then and I know now that he is everything
people hope CEOs are not, Annie – ruthless, dishonest, manipulative … It would
not surprise me if he was a psychopath. Many men in his position are; I read a
book about them recently. I have watched you grow more and more dependent on
him; I have watched you push everyone else away and sink gradually back into
your old fears and paranoias. And I cannot help but think that this is his
fault, not yours. I am quite sure you have convinced yourself that you're
just mentally unstable, but my feeling is that he has made you feel that
way.

I do not want you to worry that
he is unsafe, because I am sure he is not, although I do think it is better not
to confront him while you are out there alone without any support. My advice is
to slip away, come home, let me explain everything and then we can decide
together how you should proceed. I am here for you.

Again I am so sorry. I have
battled with myself for weeks about how much of this I should tell you, but I
needed evidence, Annie. Now I have it.

Come home. Love, Claudine

I put my phone down and found myself
holding one of my toes. I stared at it, as if it belonged to someone else.

I picked up my phone and read
Claudine's message
again, opening
the screenshot of Stephen's supposed dating profile. There he was, an arm
around me. All but my plait had been cropped out.

It was impossible that this could be
true. Claudine must be trying to ruin my trip, the little cow. What was
wrong
with her?

I read her message a third time, and
felt a deep, lurching movement in my stomach, as if a door marked
‘horror' had opened just a crack.

There was a helicopter flying near our
hotel. A hum from the temperature control. A little drip from the shower that
Stephen hadn't fully turned off.

And the sound of his breathing. Big,
handsome, lovely Stephen. Asleep in bed, metres from me.