I had so many in the months just after. They’re always much the same. I come home and push open the door, unlocked. ‘Sophie,’ I call. ‘I’m home.’ Inside, it’s like she’d just passed through: a discarded school bag, books spilling out; her coat slung over the banister; hockey stick and tennis racket strewn on the floor, all the detritus of her school life. In the kitchen, I find a half-drunk cup of tea, the cupboard doors open, drawers pulled out haphazardly, like she’d been looking for something. I’d head upstairs, knowing, as you do in dreams, that I am only a step behind – that I’ll find her if I’m quick enough.
And so it unfolds, like clockwork: I go into the blue bedroom, find the wardrobe doors open, our winter clothes pulled onto the bed and shoes scattered everywhere, like a whirlwind’s passed through. It’s the same in the next bedroom, the sheets and the pillows heaped on the floor. In the bathroom, the towels are hanging off the rails, all the taps running.
Still I know that if only I can catch up, it’ll be OK. And so I keep going, passing through our bedroom now, where feathers are floating in the air; the mattress upturned, pillows ripped open, the long mirror smashed. I keep looking. And then, I climb the last flight of stairs, heading up to her bedroom, the door still ajar. I push it slowly, fear at last seizing me …
And then I wake up, like I always do and remember: she’s gone. Really gone, I didn’t find her, I tell myself, as I pull open the bedside table drawer and rummage for the little packet that can soothe me. It used to drive me crazy, her mess. I’d follow her about, tidying and chatting. But now, I never catch up.
5
Sunday’s a waiting game. Despite the bad night, I’m full of nervous energy. I tidy the kitchen, half-heartedly, then check the fridge. It’s embarrassingly empty. You get used to throwing family-sized packs of juice and pasta into the trolley, those big supermarket sweeps, but it’s alarming how quickly you can end up living off scrambled eggs and wilting lettuce. Suddenly annoyed with myself – what if she did come back, what would she think of all this? – I pick up my car keys.
On my way into the village, I ring Dad on the hands-free. ‘I’ve some news, about Sophie—’
‘They’ve found her?’
I wince to hear the lightness in his voice. ‘No, not that. But I picked up a call at the charity last night. It was her, I’m sure of it.’ I quickly fill him in on what’s unfolded, giving him the facts.
He’s typical, careful Dad, asking me questions about how long the call was, what time it came, what the police said. ‘And what about the connection – was there any delay on the line?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘It was a terrible line. Crackly.’
He pauses. ‘But it’s a good sign, isn’t it? You said if people ring the helpline … that’s what it’s for. That they’re trying to reach out. It’s a step closer.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I just – I do worry. She just sounded … not herself.’ I don’t want to mention what I think she said about ending contact, how the call’s raised my hopes and scared me at the same time. I forget how old he is. But I’m not prepared for what comes next.
‘Katie, this call – I can see you’re excited—’
‘Excited’s not the word I’d use, Dad.’
He’s not going to be put off course. ‘But what if – what if it’s not what you think.’
‘You think I got it wrong? That I didn’t really get a call?’
He stays calm. ‘No, no, I’d never think that. But what if – maybe you misheard her, you said it was a bad line. Can you really be sure, hand on heart, that it was Sophie? That it wasn’t another young girl, ringing about her parents. And you so wanting to hear from her …’
I can’t believe this. ‘I’m not imagining it. She said my name and Mark’s down the phone. She did, she said my name.’ I can hear how I sound, my voice getting higher.
‘OK.’ He sounds sad. ‘But even so. I just don’t want you to … to get too carried away, even if it was her. It’s been a long time, since Sophie left, and now Mark’s gone too. You’re all alone, in that house. I don’t know whether you’re looking after yourself.’
I don’t like it when he gets like this. It’s better when he’s telling me about what he’s just picked up from B&Q or bits of gossip from the bridge club. Dad’s done so well since Mum died, and he was left suddenly unmoored by the loss of his laughing, exuberant wife. I suspect, from careful references to his ‘new friend Trish’ at the club, that he’s recently taken another step forwards, and I’m happy that he’s building a new life. The only problem is, he wants me to do the same.
‘So what’s Clive been up to now, any news from the club?’ I say, changing the subject.
‘He’s been busy showing off his new car. Walnut dash, very nice.’ Clive, kicking off with some rather orange hair dye, sounds to be well into the throes of a late-life crisis, and enjoying every moment.
But Dad won’t be distracted. ‘Well, try not to worry, if you can. That’s promising, it really is. Let me know as soon as you hear from the police.’ He pauses. ‘Have you spoken to your sister?’
I try to keep my voice light. ‘No, I haven’t caught her yet.’
‘I’ll be going round there today for Sunday lunch. You’re welcome of course, you know. The boys would love to see you too, they’re growing up so fast.’
‘Please don’t guilt-trip me about my nephews, Dad, not just now.’
‘Just give her a ring, perhaps. When you can.’
‘I’ll try. But you can tell her about Sophie’s phone call, when you see her. I’ve got to go anyway, I’m just pulling in.’ Another lie. ‘See you soon.’
‘Bye, sweetie.’
Don’t get too carried away. My thoughts are whirling, as I walk through the car park, the hot tarmac filling the air with that pitchy smell – Sophie loved it. If only Dad knew where my mind could go. I know what happens to girls on the streets, I am all too aware of the stories. Drugs, men, bad decisions. And then the decisions get worse, to get money, to survive.
But not my Sophie. I won’t think about that, I’ve trained myself not to spiral down that dark hole of possibilities. If she’s talking, lucid, phoning home, it could be worse, I tell myself. Much worse.
She’s alive. She called me. She’s reaching out. That’s all I need to think about, for now.
I will buy a chicken and cook a proper roast for myself. I used to make lovely, careful meals all the time for the three of us, thumbing through my sticky-fingerprinted Jamies and Nigellas.
But I haven’t made it halfway down the vegetable aisle when I spot the highlighted head. This is why I stopped coming here at weekends. I turn smartly on my heel to head towards the doors.
‘Kate! Kate! Is that you?’
Too late. I lift my eyebrows, paste on a smile, and turn round to her. ‘Ellen, hi. How are you?’ I hope my emphasis can pass as enthusiasm.
‘Oh, you know, busy, busy, as always. I haven’t seen you for ages. How are you?’
‘Fine, thanks. How’s the family, your …’ I grasp fruitlessly for the names ‘… boys?’
‘They’re great, Neil’s just had more exams, so we’re holding our breath and hoping, he has worked very hard. But he’s loved being on the wards.’ I nod, smiling. I cannot picture him at all. She tilts her head, her face more uncertain. ‘And, you?’
‘Everything’s fine, thanks. I’m keeping busy.’ I wish I’d put on make-up today, that I hadn’t just pulled my hair back in its usual ponytail.
‘Oh really?’
‘Mm, I’m still at the charity, I work on the helpline there, you know.’ It’s not an outright lie. I didn’t say I was full-time. Or paid.
‘You know,’ she says carefully. ‘I’m doing a lot with the tennis club now, the social side and a bit of charity fund-raising. You should come along. Actually, what are you doing Thursday night?’
I know that crowd, and I had quite enough of them in the months afterwards. ‘Thanks so much,’ I say brightly. ‘I’ll have to have a look at my diary.’
Not brightly enough. Ellen’s mouth hardens into a little straight line. ‘Well, you do that.’ She gives her trolley a push, more for show than for the sign she’s going anywhere. ‘I’m only trying to help. It’s just … you out there in that big house. Lisa’s very worried, you know,’ she adds, tucking in her chin and looking up at me meaningfully.