Local Girl Missing (15 page)

It’s almost as though he’s trying to spook me into going home and I’m suddenly struck by a thought: could Mike have sent those letters in a bid to make me leave? But that’s ridiculous. I never told him where I was staying. I stare at him while telling myself to stay calm. Being back here has made me paranoid. Mike would never do such a thing, and he knows nothing about Jason or our past.

I was a fool to think things would be the same between me and Alistair. That kiss has changed everything.

There is so much to say about Alistair, to try and explain. The way I feel about him is so complicated. I’ve tried to block my own father out, but flashes come back to me sometimes, mostly in my dreams, or my nightmares: his dark, hooded eyes always shadowed by anger or disappointment, his Geordie accent, his black donkey jacket with the shiny panel. I remember that shiny panel from the amount of times he had his back to me, usually when he was storming from some room or slamming out the house.

Alistair, in comparison, was the dad I always wanted. Blond and smiley, with a cheerful demeanour and encouraging words. He loved his daughter more than life itself; you could see it in the way he always made time for her, always answered her questions patiently. There were occasions, when we were teenagers, when I thought he was a little unfair, like when he tried to make Frankie feel guilty for going out. He would stand
in the doorway to her bedroom while we were pulling on our shoes or brushing our hair, and say, almost petulantly, ‘Where are you going? Are you leaving me on my own again?’ And he would seem disappointed when we said yes. He would try and make light of it, turn it into a joke. But even at sixteen I could tell he didn’t find it very funny. Then Frankie would have to go over to him, her arm sidling around his waist, and tell him that we wouldn’t be long, that maybe when she came back they could play a board game. Her readiness to appease him made me want to roll my eyes, but it also made me feel sick with jealousy.

We always had an easy banter. There was a flirtatious note to his voice when he spoke to me that wasn’t there with Frankie. I had a crush on him but was too young to really be aware of it. I just knew I liked him, that I thought he was attractive, that I would have happily stayed playing board games with him rather than walking around town with Frankie. Yet I couldn’t ever say that to Frankie. She would think it was gross if I ever admitted to her that I quite fancied her dad.

But after I kissed him my feelings for him changed. It had felt wrong, it had felt sleazy. He was twenty-seven years older than me. A proper grown-up.

And today it took another turn.

All week we had managed to avoid each other. I knew things had changed; we had crossed a line and could never go back. He would never just be Frankie’s dad again. But when Maria rang and asked if I’d do
another extra shift today, I thought it couldn’t do any harm. After all, Alistair has been staying with his dad all week and even if he was at the hotel, I knew I’d have to face him sooner or later.

I was pulling the duvet cover across the bed in Room 11, making sure to tuck the edges in under the mattress like Maria had taught me. The room was stifling, right up in the eaves. Sweat pooled in my armpits and my pink T-shirt stuck to my back. I was grateful for the denim shorts I was wearing. I was bending over the bed when I felt a hand slap my bottom hard. I stood up in shock, my bum cheek stinging. At first I thought it was Frankie mucking about, but it was Alistair who stood next to the wardrobe, grinning at me, as if slapping my arse was a normal everyday occurrence.

‘Nice bum,’ he said, to my horror. Just because we had mistakenly kissed didn’t give him the right to touch me. I tried to laugh it off, although my heart began to stutter in my chest. I turned away from him to fluff up the pillows, hoping he would take the hint and go. Instead he grabbed me around the waist and started kissing my neck.

‘Oh, Sophie,’ he mumbled, his voice husky and full of longing. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you.’

I tried to pull away from him. ‘Alistair … stop …’

He spun me around so that I was facing him, his hands on my hips. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t want this, I know how you feel about me,’ he said. He tried to push his lips onto mine. It was all happening so fast.

‘Get off me.’ With all my strength I pushed against
his chest and he went staggering backwards, shock in his green eyes.

‘What?’ He looked panicked as it dawned on him that he’d misunderstood. ‘Sophie, I thought you felt the same.’

I pushed my hair back from my face, feeling flustered. ‘Alistair, I have a boyfriend. You’re my best friend’s dad. You’re married …’

He came towards me again, his face softening. ‘I know, I know, there are a lot of things against us. But I can’t stop thinking about you. Having to see you around the hotel, in those little shorts …’

I swallowed the bad taste in my mouth. What had I started with that blasted kiss?

‘I want to touch you, I want to hold you and kiss you. Make love to you.’

If I hadn’t felt so repulsed I would have laughed out loud. This was Frankie’s dad talking this way. Frankie’s dad! It was surreal.

‘Alistair, the kiss was a mistake …’

He stepped away, confusion all over his face. ‘What do you mean?’

Why wasn’t he getting it into his thick head?

‘I don’t feel the same way, I’m sorry …’

‘But you’ve fancied me for years. Maria used to tease me about it when you were a teenager. And then you come back here after three years away, an ugly duckling turned into a swan …’

What did he seriously think was going to happen? That I’d have an affair with him? That I’d get off with
him up here in Room 11 while his wife and daughter were elsewhere in the hotel? I stared at him, thinking he had lost it.

‘I did have a crush on you when I was a teenager,’ I said finally. ‘A silly schoolgirl crush. But that’s in the past.’

‘Last week you kissed me, Sophie.’

‘How many times have I got to say this? It was a mistake, Alistair. I was upset. It shouldn’t have happened and I’m sorry if I made you think I wanted more.’ I was embarrassed that he was talking to me in this way. He was Frankie’s father, for goodness’ sake – surely he should be the grown-up here and realise that it was just a moment of madness.

But it was as though I’d slapped him. ‘I know you want me, Sophie,’ he said in a rush. ‘I know you feel the same. You’re just feeling guilty. And that’s understandable. That’s what makes you such a fantastic person. That’s what makes me love you.’

Love me? Surely he wasn’t serious? How could I tell him it wasn’t love he was feeling? It was lust, and infatuation. He probably doesn’t have sex with Maria as much as he’d like, a young girl kisses him and he gets ahead of himself, starts believing he’s in love.

But I just stood there and shook my head. ‘I’m in love with Leon,’ I said.

‘Leon? That little runt I’ve seen you with down by the beach? He’s just a kid.’

I sighed. ‘Alistair, so am I.’

‘You’re a woman, Sophie. You need a proper man.’

The conversation was making me more and more
nauseous. I moved away from the bed and to the small attic window, desperate for air. The room had a sea view and from where I stood I could see the Grand Pier and the beach packed with bodies. I longed to open the window wide and scream for someone to help me. Not that I felt in any danger, not really; I was embarrassed more than anything else. I wanted to be down on the beach with Frankie, acting like normal young girls, not up here with some middle-aged man with a hard-on.

‘Alistair … I’m sorry if I’ve given you the wrong impression,’ I said, continuing to look out of the window. I felt close to tears.

The bedroom door slammed, making me jump. When I looked around Alistair had gone.

I awake the next morning with Mike curled up next to me in the double bed. Nothing happened between us, Soph. I didn’t think it was fair to sleep with him. I wanted comfort, that’s all. Is that so wrong?

By the time I’m showered and dressed, Mike is up and in the living room, lighting the fire. He’s wearing my lilac dressing gown, which is much too short on him, the cuffs up by his elbows and the hem just reaching his knees.

‘Wow, this place is cold,’ he says unnecessarily as he blows out the match. ‘What do you want to do today? I’d quite like to explore. I’ve never been here before …’

‘Mike.’

At the warning tone in my voice he looks up and I see disappointment etched into his features. ‘You’re going to tell me to leave, aren’t you?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘And you’re not going to come with me?’

‘I need a few more days, that’s all.’

His shoulders slump. ‘Why do I get the feeling I’ve been used, huh, Fran? I came here hoping to sort things
out between us. When you let me stay I thought you might have changed your mind about us.’

I take a step towards him. ‘I haven’t used you …’ But my words sound hollow. Of course I’ve used him. I’ve not slept so well since being back in Oldcliffe. Even the baby’s cries in the early hours of the morning didn’t bother me. I felt safe in his arms in spite of any misgivings I had about him yesterday.

I’d asked him how he found out where I was staying, and he said he’d found the note I’d made of the address on the kitchen table. I remember scribbling it down on the notepad but I was sure I’d crumpled it up and thrown it away after I’d typed it into my phone. Did Mike go through the kitchen bin? An image of Jean going through the dustbins outside flashes in my mind. What was she looking for?

I shift from foot to foot, feeling uncomfortable. A weak light filters through the cream curtains. A pool of wine has formed around the base of a bottle of Pinot Noir. It looks like blood.

‘I’m going to have a shower,’ he says gruffly. ‘Then I’ll be out of your hair.’

I go to the bay window, pulling the curtains aside. The sky is a dense white, but at least it’s not raining. Instead a layer of ice has coated the windscreen and roof of my car. I avoid looking towards the pier because I can’t bear the thought that you might be there, watching me.

I can’t be depressed – this is nothing like what my mum experienced – but maybe the grief and guilt I
feel about your death has manifested in delusions. Since I received that call four days ago, I haven’t been able to stop talking to you. Maybe it’s being back in Oldcliffe again. This town is so intrinsically linked with you – with our childhood, our teenage years, the accident with Jason and your disappearance – that it’s only natural I’m going to be thinking about you all the time, isn’t it? I can hardly remember a time when I was in Oldcliffe without you; a brief period before you moved here, and an even briefer time after you disappeared and we left for London. In those first few months you went missing there was still hope; that you would turn up, shamefaced, admitting that you’d had a row with your mum, or were upset by how things ended with Leon and had just gone away for a few days. But you didn’t turn up, did you? Until now.

Mike finds me in the kitchen, spooning cereal into my mouth. He looks fresh in a clean jumper and jeans.

‘So, you really want me to go then?’ he says.

I swallow down the muesli. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You don’t sound very sorry.’

I take a deep breath. ‘I didn’t ask you to come.’

He stares at me, hurt in his eyes. ‘I can’t believe how cold you can be, Fran. I agree with you, this relationship isn’t going to work. When you do eventually decide to come home, I won’t be there.’

I lower my gaze. When I look up again he’s gone, slamming the door behind him.

You always said I treated my boyfriends badly and you were right. I didn’t set out to hurt them. My relationships always started off well enough, until they fell in love with me and then, in my mind, they became needy and unattractive. Except with Christopher. My ex-husband was fiercely independent and never needy – so much so that he ended up having sex with someone else.

Maybe I would have felt that way about Leon if he’d fallen in love with me. As it is he despises me, that much is obvious from yesterday. And what about your brother? Would I end up treating him badly too if he reciprocated my feelings? You would probably say yes and remind me of how I treated him when we were younger. I’m not proud of it, Soph. I like to think that I’ve changed, it’s just that I haven’t found the right person who challenges me yet. Who refuses to take my crap. Maybe that person is Daniel.

At least I thought it might be Daniel until I remember last night. I was sure he was with Leon. Could I have been wrong?

I need to get out of this apartment that still smells of Mike. I shoulder on my coat and wrap a scarf around my neck. With my hand grasping the doorknob I steel myself, as though mentally preparing for a fight. Will there be another anonymous letter or a sinister gift left on the doormat? Or will you be waiting for me at the end of the driveway again? Who knows what I’m going to face. Gingerly I turn the handle and tiptoe to the top of the landing. There is only Jean downstairs, but after embarrassing myself in front of her yesterday I can’t
risk bumping into her today. I squint, trying to determine whether there is anything on the doormat or hanging out of the letter box. I feel almost giddy with relief when I see nothing. I make sure to lock my door before quietly making my way down the stairs, stopping midway when I see Jean come out of her door. She has her back to me as she bends over the welcome mat.

I clear my throat and she stands up, swivelling on her slippered feet to face me, a newspaper rolled up in her hand. It has a dark stain covering the end. ‘Hello, Francesca, love. I just came out to get the local newspaper.’ She waves it about to emphasise her point. Is it my imagination or does she look shifty? ‘Someone must have a subscription because it came last week as well.’ She shakes her head. ‘Who would waste money like that? Still, it means I can read it. I like to know what’s going on, even though I live thirty miles away.’ She chuckles. And then I notice a flash of pink plastic in her other hand.

I run down the few remaining stairs so that I’m standing in front of her. ‘Is that … a dummy?’ I point to her left hand.

She frowns down at it in her palm, as if wondering how on earth it got there. ‘Yes.’

‘But … you said you didn’t have a baby staying with you.’

She looks flustered. ‘I don’t … I just found it, sitting on the mat next to the newspaper.’

I stare at her in disbelief. Why would somebody post a dummy through the door? The letters and dog tags I
can understand; they were personal to me – to us, Soph. But this? This doesn’t make sense. Unless she’s lying and she really does have a baby in her apartment. But why would she lie?

‘Anyway, must get on. Need to visit our Graham at the hospital later.’ She closes her fingers around the dummy and pushes it into the pocket of her cardigan, then, with the newspaper clamped under her armpit, retreats back to her apartment, closing the door firmly behind her.

I’m too shocked to do anything but stand there for a few moments, staring at the door that she’s just closed in my face. I need to get out of here.

The air is freezing, the wind slapping my cheeks. As I’m about to get in my car I notice my right wing-mirror has been smashed. I take a deep breath. It looks as if someone has punched it; the imprint of a fist splintering the glass into shards that resemble a spider’s web. Mike? Surely he wouldn’t have done such a thing. But he was so angry when he left this morning.

Maybe Mike is right and I should just go home. But what if, in my absence, Daniel finds out what happened to you? I get behind the wheel and turn the heater on, watching as the ice on the windscreen slowly dissolves. When it’s all melted away I reverse out of the driveway, half expecting to see you in my rear-view mirror. Then suddenly I’m thrown forward in my seat as the car hits something with a sickening thud.

Oh God. Is it you?

I pull on the brake with a trembling hand and dart
out of the car. But thank God it’s just a dustbin. Did someone put it deliberately in my path or did I just fail to see it? With great effort I drag it out of the way, rolling it over the debris that has spilled out onto the road.
BEAUFORT
has been painted on the side of the bin. I haven’t taken any rubbish out to be collected yet, which must mean it’s Jean’s. Was she out here this morning messing with the bin? I dust down my coat and step over the empty egg carton and tin cans to get back into the car.

I need to get out of Oldcliffe, even if it’s only for a few hours. I turn left, down the bumpy hill and onto the coastal road. The old pier is on my right as I head through town.

As I pass the last few houses, I feel as though I can breathe again, the tension seeping out of me. I don’t know where I’m heading, I just keep driving until the road turns into a dual carriageway, and then a roundabout with directions. I take the exit for the M5 towards Bristol. I need to spend a few hours in a city, and Bristol is the nearest one.

The last time I was in Bristol, you were with me, Soph. We used to catch the train so we could go shopping. There never were any decent clothes shops in Oldcliffe unless you were over fifty. We’d spend hours walking around Broadmead, and inevitably venturing up to Park Street so that we could go into Rival Records.

I switch the radio on, the sounds of ‘Begging You’ by the Stone Roses shocking me for a moment. You loved this song. My eyes flick towards the radio and I
frown. Why is it on Radio 2 when I always have it on Classic FM? You wouldn’t understand, you hated classical music. And so did I, back then. But I find it soothes me now. But this song, Soph, it takes me right back so that I’m there, in The Basement, with you on that packed dance floor, the smell of smoke and sweat and bodies filling my nostrils. I can remember how I felt; that surge of adrenaline coursing through me, the beat vibrating through my body as we danced with abandon, alcohol lowering our inhibitions, arms flung in the air, the lights flashing through the smoke. It’s so tangible that I’m twenty-one again. I can’t breathe. My heart starts pounding and I have to loosen the scarf at my neck before I reach over and turn the radio off.

Bristol city centre is almost unrecognisable since we were last here. I take the wrong exit on more than one occasion as I try and navigate the new streets. The roads by the Hippodrome have become pedestrianised; bars and cafés have popped up alongside the waterfront and there is a huge shopping mall called Cabot Circus, with, can you believe, a Harvey Nics. Oh Soph, we would have loved shopping there. Although I doubt we would have been able to afford much back then. I haven’t been here since the summer you died. You found out you got that editorial assistant’s job; you were so excited and wanted to buy some smart clothes. I recall the stab of jealousy I’d felt when you talked about moving to London. You were leaving me behind
and I sulked as we ambled around Broadmead. I’d followed you in and out of Oasis and French Connection, feeling more and more dejected and abandoned with every shop we went into. It was in Kookaï, in between the combat trousers and strappy tops, that you turned to me and demanded to know what was up. When I eventually admitted how I felt you hugged me and told me that I was more than welcome to come with you, that we could share a flat, that it would be fun. We could get out of Oldcliffe together. We had such plans.

But two weeks later you were dead.

The café in Park Street is large, modern, anonymous. And warm. We’re experiencing a cold snap according to the radio.

I settle myself at a small table by the window overlooking the busy street. People are scurrying past with oversized shopping bags, chins hidden by scarves and hats pressed down on heads.

I’m catching up on emails and phone calls when I get a text from Daniel:
Where are you? I’ve been to the apartment. No answer. D xx

It’s funny how, in a matter of days, we are so familiar with each other we can put kisses after our text messages. Before Friday I didn’t even have his number or any idea where he was living. He told me he’d managed to get my number from my hotel website, although thinking about it now he rang me on my mobile. But of course, Daniel is a journalist. He has ways of getting in touch with people, of finding information, that I don’t
have. Your brother is more hard-nosed than I remember and just because he calls me Lady Frankie and talks fondly of our past, I shouldn’t forget that.

I ignore his text and get back to my emails.

Then I’m interrupted by a call from my mum.

‘Hi,’ I say quietly so that the other customers can’t hear.

‘Frankie. I’ve been trying to call you for days …’ She charges straight in, not even asking how I am. ‘Are you still in Oldcliffe?’

‘I’m in Bristol at the moment but, yes, I’m still staying in Oldcliffe. The reception isn’t always that good—’

‘Anyway,’ she rushes on, ‘I thought you’d like to know there’s an improvement to your dad’s condition. Isn’t that great news? I told you he was a survivor, didn’t I? He’ll get through this.’

‘I’m so happy to hear that, Mum, I really am. But this doesn’t change anything, does it? He’ll still have the court case to face if he gets better.’

‘Why do you have to bring that up now? He’s innocent. We all know he’s innocent. I’m just about holding it all together, Frankie. And with you a three-hour journey away, well, it’s selfish. It really is …’

I close my eyes and listen to her tirade, letting her words wash over me. I know by now not to get offended by her criticisms. That her anxiety and depression can make her short-tempered. Of course she’s worried about my dad, she would be lost without him. She’s stuck by him through everything, I have to give her that. She doesn’t ask about you, or even about the
hotels; since Dad’s stroke, she hasn’t taken any interest in them. After semi-retiring two years ago, they’ve enjoyed the cruises and holidays to far-flung places that the profits allowed them.