Carly gave Leah a sweet, it was only fair. She hesitated before she took the last one for herself, untwisting the purple wrapper, placing the hard shell of blackcurrant that would soften into liquid on her tongue. ‘God, I’m so sick of these. I’d kill for a Big Mac.’
‘Ooh, Carly. You have to broaden your palate.’ Marie perfectly imitated her father. Carly clutched at the chance of a moment of lightness.
‘Remember when Dad ordered scallops for me in the Maldives and I thought it was some sort of berry on top but it was caviar?’ She pulled a face.
‘Fish eggs!’ Marie squealed. ‘You ate the actual eggs of an actual fish!’
‘You can’t talk. What about the frogs’ legs you had in Cannes?’
‘I liked them.’ Marie rubbed her tummy. ‘They tasted just like chicken. Don’t you wish you’d tried them, Carly?’
Since her mum had married her stepdad, holidays in damp, rented caravans and chicken nuggets for tea had been replaced with trips to Monaco and roasted game. Carly was grateful her mum was happy and her new dad was so generous – she’d never even met her biological dad, but though her stepdad treated Carly exactly the same as his biological daughters, sometimes she missed the old days. She’d only been small but she remembers she and Mum eating dinner with their fingers in front of The Simpsons, just the two of them. Her mum had never said as much but Carly thought she missed those days too. Sometimes when her stepdad was out and the twins were in bed she would wink at Carly and dig out a bag of chicken nuggets and chips she had hidden at the bottom of the freezer. She would shake them onto a baking tray and while they were cooking Carly would retrieve the bottle of ketchup hidden at the back of the fridge and squirt it into bowls. They would snuggle up on the sofa, their hands dipping chips into the red sauce and Carly thought sometimes that was when she was happiest. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her sisters, because she did, but the ritual was something that was just hers and Mum’s. TV and junk food in their pyjamas. She preferred it more than dressing up and eating the miniature meals she had tried at Michelin-starred restaurants. The twins loved all the fancy food but then they’d been brought up on it. Even at their tender age the twins could sit without fidgeting through a five-course meal, always using the right cutlery.
‘Carly!’ Marie nudged her and Carly realized she hadn’t replied. ‘I said, do you wish you’d tried frogs’ legs? They tasted like chicken.’
‘I’ll tell you what tastes like chicken,’ Carly said.
‘What?’
‘You! Carly pounced on her sister and raised Marie’s arm to her mouth, pretending to chew on it like Bruno would a squeaky toy. Leah squealed and dived on Carly, tugging at her until Carly turned her attention to Leah, tickling her until she screeched with laughter that bounced off the walls and returned to their ears loud and shrill.
‘You taste like poo,’ Marie said to Carly, a wicked glint in her eye. She sprang to her feet and Carly played along, chasing her around the room, dividing her attention between the twins, swiping at both, but purposefully catching neither.
‘Stop!’ Carly held up her hand. Marie launched herself at Carly’s legs, still in the game.
‘Shhh.’ Carly was deadly serious. ‘Do you hear something?’
An engine.
A door slamming.
Footsteps.
Someone was coming.
Oh God. Someone was coming.
Was it help or was it them?
Fruitlessly Carly looked around for somewhere to hide the girls. Why had they been talking about bloody food when they could have been building a barricade from the rubbish and mattress. Something to shield them from immediate view. In her mind she imagined Moustache stalking around one side of their hiding place while they crawled out from the other end, ran through the open door…
‘Carly, I’m scare—’
‘Shhh.’
From outside a voice, barely decipherable.
Fear pin-pricked Carly’s skin.
The pound-pound-pound of boots on concrete.
A muttered, ‘I’ll take care of it.’
Them. It was them.
Terror rose in Carly’s throat as she listened to them growing closer and closer.
And then…
The sound of three bolts sliding open.
Chapter Twenty
Leah
Now
Archie and I eat alone. George has another meeting. Am I being selfish by not doing the TV interview? The money would mean George wouldn’t have to be out all hours but the thought of exposing myself in front of viewers for cash seems sordid and dirty. Not much of a step up from one of the webcam channels Tash caught Barry watching at work, one hand stuffed down his trousers, when he thought the office was empty.
‘Do you have to go out tonight?’ I ask.
George hesitates. I can see he is torn.
‘Sorry,’ I try to smile. ‘You go. I’m just worried about Marie and—’
‘Marie will be fine. It’s not as though she hasn’t disappeared before. She’s resourceful. Please don’t worry about her, Leah.’ He brushes his lips against mine. ‘Have you made an appointment with Francesca yet?’
‘No. But I will. I know I’m not… easy again. But it’s not an easy time.’
‘I know.’ He shrugged on his coat. ‘I’ll try not to be too late.’
After I’ve bathed Archie and put him to bed I sit on the landing outside his bedroom, spine pressed against the cold wall, listening to him chattering to his soft toys. Telling them that it will be his birthday soon and he’ll be five.
‘I’ll be almost a grown-up but I’ll still cuddle you,’ he says.
Loneliness engulfs me at the thought of my baby growing, slipping away. Archie will be starting school next September and this only seems a step away from him leaving home. I pad downstairs. The lounge is too quiet and so I settle myself in the kitchen with a coffee, the soft hum of the fridge company of sorts. I’m edgy. It’s natural I will be, but I know there’s more to my inner turmoil than anniversary anxiety.
Marie.
Again, I try her mobile. Again, I leave a message.
Where is she? Something is wrong.
I call Tash, wanting to talk everything through with someone impartial. Carly’s as emotional as I am at the moment.
Tash doesn’t answer.
I have to try and find Marie.
Carrying my coffee, I make my way into George’s office. His computer glows as I shift the mouse, Google already loaded. I open a new tab and search for theatres. For the next couple of hours I ring around, asking if they have a production running for the next six weeks. If they know of an actress who has broken her ankle. If they’ve heard of Marie.
Drawing a blank, I try drama companies next and although I reach a few people who know Marie, who have worked with her in the past, none of them know where she is right now.
Despite the police believing she’s gone on tour, I’m not convinced. There is somewhere I could go for answers. The thought leaves a dragging feeling in my stomach but tomorrow, however anxious it makes me, I have to try.
It’s late. My eyes are stinging. I close the webpage and then decide to shut the computer down altogether. It’s gone eleven and George won’t be working any more tonight. One by one I close the tabs, until I stumble across something that shakes me to my core.