When the dinner is almost ready, I set places at the dining-room table we never sit at, put on some music and light a couple of candles. The only thing missing now is my husband. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s writing, but it’s past eight and I want to spend what’s left of the evening together. He won’t mind once he knows we’re having lamb, it’s his favourite. I head out into the garden, the cold slapping my cheeks. The lawn is a bit slippery in places and it’s hard to see where I’m going, the dim light from the shed struggling to light my way.
‘Good evening, resident writer,’ I say in a silly deep voice as I open the door. My smile soon fades when I realise the shed is empty. I stand there for a while, looking around as though Paul might be hiding, then I glance back outside, peering around the garden in the darkness as though he might jump out from behind a bush and yell, Boo!
‘Paul?’ I don’t know why I’m calling his name, when my eyes have already informed me that he is clearly not here. I feel panic rise up my chest and tighten around my throat. He isn’t in the house either, I’ve been home for a couple of hours now, I would have seen or heard him. My husband who is always here has gone and I’m so consumed by myself, I didn’t even notice he was missing. I must not overreact. I’ve always had an overactive imagination and a tendency to fear the worst in any given situation. I’m sure there will be a simple explanation for Paul not being here, but the voices in my head are less optimistic. I run back to the house, slipping and sliding on the muddy grass.
Back inside, I call Paul’s name again. Nothing. I call his mobile. I hear a faint ringing sound from upstairs. Relief floods through me as I realise it is coming from our bedroom, maybe he’s having a nap, perhaps he wasn’t feeling well. I run up the stairs and push open the bedroom door, smiling at my own ridiculous panic. The bed has been made and he isn’t in it. He never makes the bed. Confused for a moment, I dial his number again. The familiar ringtone begins, I’m in the right room, but the sound is coming from the closed wardrobe. My hand trembles slightly as I reach for the handle. I tell myself I’m just being silly; I’m sure there is a perfectly normal explanation for all of this – Paul isn’t in the wardrobe, we’re not children playing hide and seek and this isn’t some horror film where there’s a body in the cupboard. I twist the handle and open the door to his wardrobe. Nothing. I dial his number again and see the glow of the phone through the pocket of his favourite jacket. The mystery of the missing phone is solved, but not the missing husband. I spot an expensive-looking pink gift bag, partially hidden beneath the row of jeans and cotton tops that Paul calls his ‘writing uniform’. I pull it out and stare inside, carefully unwrapping the tissue paper hiding its contents. The black satin and lace feel foreign on my fingertips, the sort of thing I used to wear. A Christmas present for me perhaps. Not the sort of thing he normally buys. The bra looks a bit small and I check the label. It’s the wrong size, I hope he’s kept the receipt.
I come back downstairs in a daze and make sure the oven is off. In the middle of my routine, the now-empty bottle of white wine catches my eye and produces a moment of recognition. It’s one of Claire’s favourites. She’s been here. I put my hand over my mouth, run to the kitchen sink and throw up. When nothing more will come, I spit, turn on the tap and wipe my face with a tea towel. I check the oven three times, then grab my bag, quickly checking the contents. ‘Phone. Purse. Keys,’ I say, deliberately, out loud when my eyes confirm their presence, as though things are only real when we speak them. I start to leave but stop in the hallway, opening the bag again. ‘Phone . . . Purse . . . Keys,’ I say, more slowly this time, my eyes resting on each item long enough for me to believe what I’m seeing. Even so, I check them one last time before closing the door behind me.
Claire lives just under a mile away. It’s not too far to walk, but I should have worn a coat – it’s freezing. I hug my arms around myself as I march along, staring at the pavement. I get a faint whiff of gas as I pass a row of houses that all look the same; it snakes up my nostrils then down inside my throat, making me feel nauseous, so that I walk a little quicker. Claire has lived on this road for a long time, they own the house now, as well as the garage next door, where David works. The street is so familiar to me that I could walk from here to her front door with my eyes closed. But I don’t. My eyes are open and the first thing I see is Paul’s car. It’s quite distinctive. A second-hand green 1978 MG Midget, lovingly restored to its alleged former glory. He bought it with the advance for his first novel and he loves it almost as much as I hate it.
I march up the drive with a tightness in my chest, feeling like I might have stopped breathing altogether. I have a spare key for Claire’s house in my handbag but feel uncomfortable just letting myself in. She gave it to me, hoping it would prompt an exchange. It didn’t.
I ring the bell repeatedly, wanting to get this, whatever it is, over and done with as soon as possible. The cold hurts my hands and I can see my breath. Inside, I hear a child start to cry and I see the blurry image of an adult getting bigger through the frosted glass. Claire’s husband yanks the front door open and greets me with the kind of expression I reserve for door-to-door salesmen. I’m not sure why we don’t get along. It isn’t that we don’t have anything in common – we have Claire – so maybe it’s the opposite.
‘Hello, Amber. Thanks for waking the twins,’ he says, without even the hint of a smile. He doesn’t invite me in. My brother-in-law is a big man with small amounts of time and patience. He’s still wearing his overalls.
‘I’m so sorry, David, I wasn’t thinking. This might sound a bit strange but is Paul here?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘Should he be?’ He looks tired, dark circles under his eyes. Being married to my sister has aged him. She calls him David so we do too, but everyone else calls him Dave.
‘His car is here,’ I say. David peers past me at the car on the garage forecourt.
‘Yes, it is.’ He doesn’t elaborate, and when I don’t say anything in response his frown deepens, as though it might break his face. He looks down at my feet and I follow his stare. I’m still wearing my slippers. Two grubby felt pug faces look up at me, their stitched eyes seem full of equal amounts of wonder and pity. They were in the kids’ section at the supermarket, but they fitted and I liked them.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks.
I think about his question and give him the most honest answer I can come up with. ‘No, not really. I don’t think I am. I need to talk to Claire. Is she home?’ He stands up a bit straighter and looks confused, then something ugly spreads across his features.
‘Claire hasn’t been here all day. I thought she was with you.’
Before
Wednesday, 13th November 1991
Dear Diary,