‘I’ll say. I just feel so … so …’ I grasped for the word, to understand the swirling in the pit of my stomach. No doubt you’d know instantly, you’re so much more in touch with your feelings than I am. ‘Alone,’ I said. ‘I’m so alone.’
I was glad we were on the phone so he couldn’t see my teary eyes. Ethan hates it when I cry. He says women only cry to end a fight.
‘Well, you’re not alone,’ said Christopher. ‘Even if you feel like you are.’
We rang off, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how Ethan dismissed me. Perhaps he was just tired. Had a long day. We’d talk about it when he was out of the shower and then maybe I wouldn’t feel so guilty for opening up to Christopher.
I finished cleaning and went upstairs. Ethan was already asleep, sprawled across our king-sized bed. I stood over him, hurt, then I got changed into pyjamas, banging about louder than needed in a pathetic, passive-aggressive attempt to wake him before climbing into bed beside him. I scrolled through my phone, through all the well-wishers, through the people I haven’t spoken to since secondary school, through strangers and friends alike. I don’t know if they’re kind-hearted or morbidly fascinated. I didn’t reply to any of them, but I did think, look at all these people who want me to talk to them about you, about how I’m coping, and look at my husband who’s snoozing soundly.
From my nightstand drawer, I pulled out Elodie, the tiny Sylvanian rabbit. I’d gone up into the attic earlier and brought her down, saddened I’d left her up there all alone for so long. I fell asleep with her held tightly in my hand.
In the morning, Elodie was still there, but my husband wasn’t.
Chapter Twenty-Two
18 Days Missing
Elodie Fray
Today, I am twenty-nine.
Before I can let my lack of achievements creep up on me, I push them aside. I shower, dress, and head downstairs. ‘Do You Love Me’ by The Contours – the soundtrack to my youth – blares loudly from the kitchen. The smell of sugary batter hits me as soon as I step inside. Jack is at the stove, making pancakes. He rolls his shoulders, his back muscles rippling beneath his T-shirt. ‘Happy birthday, Fray,’ he calls. In one smooth motion, he tosses the pancake into the air – it spins, crisp and golden – before landing in the pan. He bows, pleased with himself, and I clap.
Surrounded by balloons filled with copper-coloured confetti, jugs of wildflowers and birthday bunting, we eat together. But guilt mixes with the maple syrup and fluffy pancakes because, even with all the effort Jack has made, I’m missing my family. Knowing it wouldn’t be fair to admit this, after all the effort he’s gone to, I eat and smile and thank him over and over. When we’re done, he says, ‘What’s next?’
‘Cake please.’
‘Who said I have cake?’
‘It’s a birthday, there’s always cake. It’s a cardinal, birthday-celebration rule. Besides, I saw muffins.’
‘Muffins are addictive. Sure you want to start down that dark path, Fray?’
‘Because they’re a gateway drug?’
‘Absolutely. One minute you’re biting into a blueberry and poppyseed and the next you’re sitting in your chocolate-ganache-stained pants strung out on gateau and wondering what time of day it is.’
I laugh.
‘Anyway,’ he whispers. ‘Close your eyes.’
I do as he says. The insides of my lids are painted red by the sun streaming through the window. I hear him behind me. A cupboard door opening. Something being taken from it. The rustle of tissue paper. Then, I hear the smile in his voice, as soft as silk against my ear. ‘Open them.’
A mint-coloured box sits on the table in front of me, tied with a thick cream ribbon. There’s a prickle of excitement as my fingers catch the satin. Inside is a green lace dress. Expensive. Beautiful.
‘Jack, this is stunning.’
‘And this too,’ he says, producing a smaller, second gift box from behind his back.
Inside is a pair of dark green silk pyjamas. I haven’t worn women’s clothes in weeks and I’ve never owned pyjamas as beautiful as these.
‘To replace the ruined ones.’ The set I was wearing the night I was taken were from a supermarket.
‘You really shouldn’t have.’
Jack’s mobile rings. He pulls it from his pocket and frowns at the caller ID. ‘It’s the St Ives banker; I’ve got to take this. Reception is better out front.’