‘This morning he decided to do a dirty protest behind the sofa,’ she says, ‘just took his pants off and left them there, fully loaded. Not sure I’m ever going to get it out of the carpet. Anyway, how are you? How did it go yesterday? I left you a couple of messages.’
I want to tell her everything, to sit down with her with a glass of wine and go over the whole story from start to finish.
‘Sorry I didn’t get back to you, it was a bit of a crazy day yesterday—’
There is a fresh explosion of screaming at the other end of the line, small voices rising in competing howls of protest, followed by Tara’s exasperated voice asking one of them to stop doing something to his brother.
‘Say sorry to your brother,’ she says firmly. ‘Say sorry.Or there’ll be no TV and no iPad and you’ll go to your room until tea-time, do you understand?’ There is a pause in the hostilities and an inaudible response from whichever of her sons she’s telling off, then she comes back on the line. ‘Sorry, Ellen. What were you saying about yesterday?’
I close my eyes and lean against the kitchen wall, hit by another wave of fatigue. I don’t even know where to start the story, explain how I went through the looking glass and ended up in a police station interview room. I don’t even have the heart to ask if I can crash in her spare room for a few days.
‘Long story,’ I say instead. ‘Listen, it sounds like you’ve got your hands full. I’ll let you go. Give me a call later after the boys are in bed?’
‘If they survive until bedtime,’ Tara says with a humourless laugh. ‘OK, talk later. Take care, Els.’
Maybe I should move into a hotel for a few days instead. I google a few that are local. How long for? A couple of days? A week? I’m in the process of buying Richard out of his share of the house and money’s been tight anyway since he left. Can I justify the extra expense? I bookmark the pages to look at later.
There’s a message on the answer machine from my mum, the only person I know who still uses the landline. I make a note to call her back later. She’s on her own and prone to worry, to catastrophise every situation; I can’t remember when I started censoring myself when talking to her, but it’s been a while now since I just sat and told her the unvarnished truth.First the parent lies to the child, I think,then the child lies to the parent.
I find my iPad and search for news about Mia and Kathryn. The latest story on the BBC relates that the baby has been ‘found safe and well’ but doesn’t identify her. Presumably the media is restricted in what they can report because of the involvement of a child whose anonymity is supposed to be protected. The grainy CCTV image of me at Marylebone features lower down the story and I wonder briefly what my mum or Tara – or my work colleagues, for that matter – will make of it if they recognise me. But I haven’t got the headspace to worry about that right now. A half-dozen other news websites are all carrying the same basic details and the same quote from Detective Inspector Stuart Gilbourne of the Major Crimes Unit. ‘We are still very keen to hear from Kathryn Clifton to confirm that she is safe. If you think you’ve seen Kathryn, or have any information on her whereabouts, please contact the police on 101.’ But some of the heat has been taken out of the story with the news that Mia is no longer missing; the articles less prominent, lower down the page, the stories more factual and concise. A missing woman is far less newsworthy than a missing infant, I suppose. I scour all the stories for any more information about Kathryn. There is very little, just a few generic facts and a picture that looks like it was grabbed from her Facebook account. No quotes from family members, friends or from a partner. She’s twenty-four years old and from Buckinghamshire, but apart from that the story is strangely light on details.
None of them say she is Mia’s mother.
It seems weird that there are no pleas from family for her safe return. Surely it must have been her family who raised the alarm that she and Mia were missing? Who else could it have been?
The landline rings with its unfamiliar tone and I reach for the handset, thinking it’s my mum calling again. But it’s my ex-husband instead: Richard’s voice filling my ear, deep and full, as familiar as my own.
I try to be calm whenever we speak, refusing to let him see the scars he’s left me with.
‘Richard,’ I say, wondering whether he’s seen my picture in the news.
‘I’ve been trying to reach your mobile but I couldn’t get hold of you,’ he says, sounding concerned. ‘I was going to leave a message. I thought you’d be at work.’
‘Day off in lieu today, I’ve been . . .’ It doesn’t seem right to tell him, to share this new piece of my life with him. ‘Been busy sorting some things out. Mobile’s been switched off for a bit.’
‘Is everything OK? You sound tired.’
‘Fine. Just work stuff.’
A silence, then he clears his throat.
‘Listen, Ellen, I wanted to let you know about something, before you . . . hear about it from anyone else.’ He sounds reticent, almost apologetic. ‘The thing is, I – we, I mean Francesca and me – have got some news and I thought it best that you hear it straight from the horse’s mouth rather than—’
‘I know, Richard.’ I’d rather not hear him say it out loud.
‘About her being—’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, right.’ He doesn’t ask me how I know. ‘Sorry.’
I close my eyes, force the words out.
‘I’m happy for you. Honestly. Both of you.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
