He placed toasties on plates before looking at me. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you. As soon as I picked up your voicemails and messages, I came right back.’ He proffers the plate. I take it. ‘I rang your dad and he told me the charges were dropped.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Thank you. We should sit down and talk about—’
‘I don’t want to fight. In fact …’ With a boyish grin, he whipped tickets from his back pocket and held them up with a flourish. ‘We’re going to a show tonight. So have a bath, slip into something gorgeous and I’ll take you out.’
‘But—’
‘Let me make it up to you. Let’s just have a night out.’
Ethan doesn’t like conflict; he erases it like a shaken-up Etch A Sketch and replaces it with a luxurious gesture.
‘Please.’ He came close. Put a loving hand on my arm. ‘We can talk tomorrow. I promise.’
I felt myself warming. He’d apologised. He’d made an effort. Rejecting him now might make things worse.
I smiled. ‘I’ll go get ready.’
In the taxi on the way to the venue, Ethan nonchalantly informed me his client and his wife were joining us.
Sometimes I hate my husband and wonder what the fuck happened to the man I fell in love with. I’ve never admitted to anyone how I sometimes feel about Ethan, but it’s like the question of a tree falling in the woods, if you never read these letters, have I told anyone at all?
‘Is that why you came home and apologised, so I’d help you entertain your guests?’ I asked, irritated he’d tried to disguise a business meeting as a romantic treat.
‘Don’t sulk,’ was all he said.
Chapter Thirty-Five
45 Days Missing
Adaline Archer
Autumn seems to have happened overnight; the trees are bursts of orange, red and mustard. True to British weather, it rained last night, transforming the roads into glossy black mirrors, and turning the fallen leaves into piles of mush along the kerbside.
This morning, I waited impatiently for Ethan to settle into his study to catch up on work. Then I fed him a lie about going to do the food shop and hopped in my car.
We never did talk about our argument. Every day, Ethan has worked, and every night, he’s either worked late or been out with clients. Yesterday evening, at his request, I joined him. His client’s wife was so mind-numbingly dull, I had drunk a lot to make her seem more interesting. I’d have been better off with a brick for company. At least you can draw a smiley face on a brick.
At home, Ethan was all over me. I was so drunk and so lonely and so tired of thinking about you, I threw myself into sex with him.
Afterwards, while Ethan slept, I stumbled to the bathroom and vomited pink champagne into the toilet then wept on the bathroom floor. All I could think about was that you were gone, and our family was decaying all around me, that you are my sister, and we weren’t as close as we should have been, that not knowing what happened to you is a fever I can’t soothe. Guilt and frustration mixed with the rich food of the restaurant Ethan had taken me to and I vomited again until my stomach was empty and my throat was sore.
This morning, I realised, not only had I been patchy with my contraceptive pill lately, I’d had unprotected sex followed by sickness so, if I didn’t want a baby, I needed the morning after pill. Of course, I couldn’t just nip into the local chemist. If people in Crosshaven didn’t know me before you went missing, they do now. I drove to a supermarket nearly forty minutes out of town.
With the pill tucked away in my handbag, I made to leave the supermarket but realised I couldn’t go home empty-handed or Ethan would question why I’d left for a food shop and come home with nothing. Grabbing a basket, I started filling it with blind abandon, knowing I needed to get out to the car and take the pill sooner rather than later. Then, in the toiletries aisle, I spotted Jack. Yes, your Jack. Even at thirty-one, he is every inch the private-school boy, isn’t he? They all look alike: jaunty quiff, strong jawline, broad rugby-playing shoulders.
The panic at seeing Jack in the supermarket was immediate. The pill in my bag felt like a neon light. I started to back away. He looked up. Our gazes locked. He seemed panicked too, but we’re British and it’s rude not to say anything.
‘Ada,’ he greeted me, his smile forced.
‘Jack,’ I returned with a short nod. Only then did I notice the yellowing bruise around his eye. ‘What happened to your face?’
‘Bike accident.’