‘She’s a stunning girl,’ he says. ‘And we’re proud that all the members of today’s search party are fuelled by our organic coffee, ready to get stuck in. We just hope she comes home safe.’
Then, to my disbelief, Hannah is on screen. And it’s not just the Crosshaven pavements that’ve had a spruce because Hannah is wearing false eyelashes and her hair’s been blown out. ‘Elodie is actually such a sweetheart.’
My mouth falls open. She can’t be serious.
‘We weren’t just colleagues. We were more like sisters, you know? And we just—’ Her voice breaks and she brings her fingers to her mouth as though to suppress a sob. Her eyes are expertly misting with just enough wash of tears to make them glisten. How many times did she practise this in the mirror? ‘We just … we want her home.’ The camera cuts to video clips of people trudging slowly through dense thickets, armed with long sticks to comb through the overgrowth for my body. Then there’s a flash of a familiar profile – his long, straight nose and tuft of white hair peeking out from beneath his flat cap – George. He’s with the search party. I didn’t even think George would worry about me. I didn’t think I meant that much to anyone outside of my family, Jack and Margot. George shouldn’t be out there. What if he trips and falls in the woods? What if he gets hurt? What if he gets lost?
And for the rest of the day, as morning slides into afternoon, guilt creeps beneath the gaps of me. If I let it, it’ll swoop in and take over. So I distract myself, I switch on the radio, take a shower, get dressed – Jack’s top swamps me and I have to roll up the sleeves several times – and make myself dinner, taking my time clearing up afterwards, the radio turned up loud to drown out my thoughts. But, as late afternoon dissolves into night, I can’t ignore the twisty feeling of guilt. I can’t sleep. But if I give in and leave now, it won’t just be me in trouble, it will be Jack too. What he did was wrong, but he did it because he loves me. Because he might be the only one who does.
And then I think of Noah. The engraving on the bottom of the vase; he wanted me to be an author more than he wanted anything else.
You want to die having never done what you love?
My resolve hardens.
I can do this.
I will do this.
I have to.
Chapter Eighteen
13 Days Missing
Adaline Archer
On Friday morning, I woke to the smell of frying bacon, and smiled. Ethan was cooking. He never cooks. His mum didn’t teach him, preferring instead to do everything for her prized pup. Whenever I see her, she asks questions like, ‘Are you feeding my Ethan well? Is my Ethan going to work with ironed shirts? Are you taking good care of my Ethan?’ My Ethan. As though he is merely out on loan.
For the first time in years, Ethan was taking time off work. Since your disappearance, he’s been really attentive, kind, and I’m grateful. I only have two single friends, and their dating horror stories of fat, balding men looking for wife number three makes me want to cling to Ethan and never let go. I’m lucky to have a husband who loves me. Who wants children with me. Who takes time away from his hectic, important career to look after me.
‘Fuck,’ Ethan yelped, his finger catching on a too-hot pan as I entered the kitchen.
I gaped at the mess he’d made, the egg white dripping off the counter and onto the floor, the fallen bag of flour, the cinnamon smeared across the glossy white tiles.
‘What in god’s name is that?’ I asked, staring at his efforts. Inside the pan was a soggy, yet somehow burned, grey mass.
‘French toast,’ he said, as though it was perfectly obvious.
Laughter bubbled up inside me. ‘Please tell me you weren’t planning on feeding me that?’
‘What? It’ll taste great!’ He picked up the pan and confidently tipped its contents onto a plate. The grey mush slithered onto the porcelain. We stared. Then he grabbed a lighter from the drawer and started burning the top of whatever the hell this thing was to ‘give it a crust’.
‘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