‘And I told you about the fake baby, the wall of newspaper clippings and the conversation I overheard. God, Charlie, why, for once, can’t you be more supportive? You’re just like my mother.’
He opens his mouth to say something but closes it again. Rufus is standing in the doorway with his backpack.
‘Right, well, we’ll see you on Sunday,’ says Charlie, his voice thick.
I kiss Rufus’s forehead. ‘Have a great weekend. Love you.’
‘Love you too,’ he says, flashing me a smile and I watch in silence as they trudge down the hallway.
Happy anniversary, I think, as Charlie follows Rufus out of the door.
I’d wanted to talk to Charlie about Rufus, but what would be the point? I used to love how optimistic Charlie was about life. That was one of the things that first attracted me to him. But as the years have gone by I’ve realized it isn’t optimism: it’s plain ignorance. Charlie never wants to hear anything negative. He wants to live in a world that smells of roses, where everyone gets along, where there are no gripes or anger or resentment. I tried to talk to him about Rufus at the time but he refused to believe anything was wrong. Just like he doesn’t want to hear anything negative about the Morgans. Psycho kidnappers disguised as respectable Boomers have no place in Charlie Fletcher’s life, not when he’s living his very own version ofThe Truman Show.
I refuse to spend the day brooding or thinking about our wedding. I apply for some more jobs and check my emails, delighted when I see I have an interview next week for a retail-assistant role at a trendy clothes shop in Cabot Circus. I haven’t worked in retail for a long time but it could be a good way of supplementing my income andmeeting new people. I need to broaden my circle of friends, and stop letting what happened in the past with Simone prevent me from trusting people.
I log on to Facebook and my heart picks up speed when I notice that Oliver has replied. I click on his message. I can see he’s signed off as Ol, which was what I always called him. And two kisses. Two.
Then I read the message with growing unease.
Hi, Lena
It’s lovely to hear from you. Thank you for getting in touch. You’re probably not aware but nobody has seen Simone for a while. We are all worried about her, as you can imagine. Please call me on this number as I would love to talk to you further about this.
Best wishes
Ol xx
Simone is missing.
44
LENA
January 1999 London
Of course I didn’t want to believe Dan. I wanted Simone to be everything I first thought her to be. So I ignored the warning signs, which were small at first. The odd white lie here and there, silly things mostly, things that could be overlooked, like pretending she’d watched a programme on TV when it later transpired that she hadn’t. Or saying she’d seen a band and backtracking in front of Dan. To begin with I found it endearing that she was trying to impress me. I already had imposter syndrome and felt like a small fish in a very large pond. I had to think on my feet: the labour ward was so fast-paced and every day was different. My placement was for six weeks but by the end of the first week, despite it being more exhausting than any placement I’d had before, I found I enjoyed the hectic atmosphere, thrived on it even. It gave me a buzz and the days sped by. Simone told me she’d been a midwife on the labour ward now for two years. It was only later I wondered if it was another lie.
By the third week Simone and I were becoming inseparable, spending all our time off together. I didn’t question why a more senior midwife – my supervisor, no less – wanted to hang out regularly with a nineteen-year-old trainee. I was at that stage in life where I was trying to work out who I was, while Simone was cocksure and confident. I hoped some of her vivacity would rub off on me. Not that I got the chance to see her much at work. She would come and check on me during the day, but she had her own duties to perform and I was mainly doing dogsbody stuff: running around after the more experienced midwives. I did get to assist on a few of the ‘easier’ labours, if there is such a thing. I rarely had to work weekends but Simone usually had a shift either on a Saturday or a Sunday. That didn’t stop her going out a lot and I wondered where she found the energy, until I saw her pop a pill on the bus on the way to work one morning. She’d winked at me as she did it, called it her ‘pick-me-up’, and I didn’t ask any questions, refusing one when she offered it. I was never interested in dabbling with drugs.
Even though we tried out many different bars and clubs together, her favourite was always the humid Camden venue with its sticky floor, sweat-covered walls and dry ice that made my eyes water. She seemed to know so many people there and, usually, I was stuck talking to Dan at the bar while she went off to some badly lit corner with a random guy. One night I saw her deep in conversation with a man I hadn’t seen before. He didn’t look the type to hang out at dingy Camden clubs. He was older, late thirties, handsome in that clean-cut way and, instead ofthe ubiquitous band T-shirts and dark jeans everyone else wore, he had on a smart shirt and chinos.
‘Who’s that guy?’ I asked Dan.
‘Her dealer?’ His large-set shoulders lifted half-heartedly, and his eyes, like two currants, wouldn’t meet mine. ‘I dunno, do I!’ But something about the way he avoided looking at me made me think he did know who the guy was and probably regretted what he’d told me on the night I first met him. He’d tried to backtrack since, by telling me he’d been drunk and that I mustn’t say anything to Simone. He’d looked scared as he’d said it, which made me wonder if he’d just been trying to make trouble. Or that he was bitter and jealous, and maybe wanted Simone for himself.
Simone chatted to the smartly dressed man for a good forty-five minutes or so and I was starting to get fed up with Dan. We’d already run out of conversation and both had stood at the bar, moodily nursing our drinks, for twenty minutes. For the first time I’d begun to wonder if I should refuse to come back to the club next time Simone asked. I felt out of my depth with her, as if I was walking a tightrope of danger, which was simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying. My feet were aching and the cheap beer was starting to wear off. I pictured Kerrie and my other housemates in our cosy living room, with the ripped sofas and the ugly carpet, lounging around watching a film on the telly, tucking into a takeaway and gossiping about different people on their respective courses. I missed them and I wanted to go home.
Just as I was contemplating leaving, even if it did mean having to trek back to Walthamstow on my own, Simonecame over to me, smiling proudly. The older man she had been talking to had been replaced by a younger, more attractive guy with an unruly mop of shaggy black hair, tight black jeans and facial piercings. ‘Lena, meet Oliver. My little brother.’
‘Hey.’ He elbowed her in the ribs good-naturedly. ‘You make me sound like I’m twelve!’
I instantly perked up. I couldn’t really see a family resemblance. Oliver sidled over to me and offered to buy me a drink. Over more cheap beer he told me he was in his final year at Manchester University studying politics and was just back for the weekend. Simone wandered off again, but this time I didn’t care. I was enraptured by Oliver. He had a public-school accent, much like Simone’s (even if she tried to hide it with Mockney), yet he talked like he was anti-establishment and had a piercing in his eyebrow that I found extremely sexy. When the club closed at 2 a.m. and we couldn’t find Simone he offered me the sofa at his place in Muswell Hill.
‘Shouldn’t we try to find your sister? Something might have happened to her.’
He laughed, as though the prospect of anything bad ever happening to Simone was ludicrous. ‘She’s a lone wolf. She might end up back with Jasper.’
‘Jasper?’
