‘It looks like you’re cooking meth,’ I said because it did.
And in his final act, he tossed some sugar granules on top with a flourish. ‘Voilà!’
The laughter inside me erupted. ‘What? What is it? Ethan … Oh my god …’
‘What?’ He laughed because my laughter was contagious even though he wasn’t even in on the joke yet.
‘It … it looks like something you’d feed to inmates in an Uzbekistan prison or … or at an eighteenth-century orphanage.’
He poked at the sludge on the plate and sighed heavily. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘What the fuck have I done? I followed the recipe!’
‘What? Blindfolded?’ I was howling with laughter as I picked up the plate and waved it around. ‘Please, sir,’ I squeaked. ‘Can I not have some more?’
We collapsed into shared hysterics and leaned our heads together. We laughed so hard our stomach muscles ached. For a moment, I forgot you were missing, and it felt so good. So good.
Ethan dipped his finger into the sugar and swiped it across my nose. ‘You’re evil,’ he said. ‘Evil!’
It made me think of our first date. I don’t believe I ever told you about it; you would’ve been at uni then, occupied with drinking and lectures and your exciting new friends. Ethan took me to a cooking class in Bath. I thought, how original, what an interesting story to tell my friends. On the train, we talked and talked, conversation spilling out, connecting in a way I’d never connected with anyone. We talked so much, we almost missed our stop. In class, we touched each other at every opportunity we got; his hand on mine, showing me how to fold one ingredient into another even though he had no idea himself, my finger brushing sugar off his lower lip. And while everyone else was egg-washing pastry, Ethan leaned forward and kissed me, right there in the middle of class. After, he took my hand and didn’t let go for the rest of the session.
And there, as we stood in our expensive, beautiful kitchen and I looked into the eyes of my expensive, beautiful husband, I kissed him.
‘Love you, Ada.’
I smiled. ‘I love you too,’ I whispered, clutching on to him, clutching on to this moment.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’m taking you out for some real breakfast. We’ll go out of town. Somewhere special.’
It was impossible to go anywhere in Crosshaven now without people staring or bringing you up. Ethan was so thoughtful. ‘Great.’
We went. We ate. For three hours, I was not Adaline Archer, the sister of that missing girl. I was Adaline Archer, the woman who eats professionally made French toast with her thoughtful, handsome husband.
But when I came home, you were still missing, and Ethan went back to work.
Chapter Nineteen
17 Days Missing
Elodie Fray
I haven’t seen another living person in sixteen days, and I think I’m going crazy. Jack should’ve been here three nights ago, but he hasn’t turned up and I can’t contact him. There’s a phone in the house but I can’t risk calling in case the police are monitoring people’s devices and it might look just a little suspicious if Jack mysteriously gets a call from a supposedly empty cottage in Cornwall.
I’m running really low on food and it’s not like I can simply pop to the shops. After I ran out of the fresh stuff Jack had stocked the fridge with before my arrival, I started eating like a student again: frozen pizza, pasta, beans.
Tomorrow is my birthday. Jack promised he’d be here for it. Although he doesn’t like to travel for work, he often has to. Knowing he’d need a reason to keep popping to and from Cornwall, Jack got in touch with a few potential clients in the area and now he’s designing an annex for a retired banker in St Ives. I keep wandering over to the window hoping to see him outside, leaning against his car, ankles crossed, with a bottle of something heady and an easy smile; but disappointment drops like a stone in my gut because he isn’t here.
I look for something to wear and wish I had choices outside of Jack’s clothes. When you’re trapped in your Monday to Friday desk job in restrictive office attire, the idea of spending every day in pyjamas is a selfish, luxurious fantasy. In reality, you start to feel institutionalised. I pluck a baby blue shirt from the pile Jack left me. It smells of him: sandalwood and leather. I slip it on, and it falls mid-thigh. I wonder how many of Jack’s bed buddies have wandered around in his shirts the morning after.
I get a flash of Jack and the petite blonde. The memory of them together is like stepping into a hot bath; at first it’s uncomfortable, jarring, then the sting of pain melts into pleasure and I sink into it, remembering the way Jack’s hips moved as he thrust in and out of her, the golden tan of his naked back, hard muscle sliding beneath skin, the smell of sex so thick in the air I could taste it.