‘A career?’ she asked, which was a perfectly reasonable question, but the word ‘career’ threw me off.
‘Not exactly a career,’ I backtracked, ‘just a job.’
‘What do you think the difference is between a career and a job?’
I opened my mouth then closed it again, nervous to speak in case I got the answer wrong. ‘A career is more intense. It requires more skill than a job.’ I sighed. ‘I suppose I’ve never considered myself intelligent enough to have a career. Up until I met Ethan, I was just a PA. Elodie is the bright one. I didn’t go to university.’
Harriet scribbled another note. ‘You can be bright without having gone to university.’ She paused, letting that sink in. Then, out of the blue she asked, ‘Do you think you’d make a good mother?’
‘No.’ It was honest. I think I am too critical, too detached, too much of a perfectionist to be a good mother. Maybe you agree, Elodie. Maybe you don’t. How will I ever know if we don’t find you? ‘My sister would make a good parent. She’s always been more nurturing than me. Warmer. Grandad told me once if we’re different parts of the same flower, Elodie would be the petals and I’d be the thorns.’
Harriett was silent and thoughtful. ‘Are you afraid of failure?’
‘Isn’t everyone?’
‘If you don’t try, you’ll never succeed.’
‘But if you’re a bad mother, it’s not like you can return the child. It’s not a dress from Whistles.’
I could’ve sworn Harriett was suppressing a smile. ‘No, a child is not like a dress from Whistles.’
‘I’ll have to get over it, I suppose, because I don’t want to live the rest of my life feeling like I’ve let my parents down.’ I picked at imaginary threads on the hem of my silk shirt. ‘I did everything right. I got the husband, the house, the car, the fucking marble countertops in the kitchen. I got everything my parents told me I needed to be happy.’ Emotion throbbed in my chest and I felt on the brink of tears again. ‘What’s wrong with me? I should be happy. Ethan is a good man; why aren’t I happy?’
‘We can’t live our lives for other people,’ she said rationally. ‘Do you think your parents would want you to have a child just to make them happy or do you think they would take greater satisfaction in seeing you do things that make you happy?’
‘They’d want to see me do things that make me happy, I suppose.’
I wasn’t sure if this was true. After you graduated and moved to London, our parents raved about you to anyone who’d listen. Then you gave it all up. And they became obsessed with you finding a husband, a house, a career they could tell their friends about. They knew writing your book made you happy, but they wanted you to play it safe. I must admit, I was a little smug when you quit your job and moved home because the focus was finally on me. Spiteful and petty, I know. It’s as though our parents have put us in a race, they’re the people at the start-line, firing the gun. ‘But I could turn my whole life upside down doing things that I think would make me happy only to discover I was better off before.’
Harriett shrugged. ‘That’s the risk we all take when we make changes.’
‘I’m scared,’ I admitted. ‘I’m scared to change anything in my life in case I end up worse off. Perhaps I’ve been using my parents’ expectations as an excuse to make safe decisions. Perhaps now, especially now, they wouldn’t care if I was childless and single as long as I was happy. Perhaps it doesn’t even matter what they think as long as I’m happy with my life.’
Harriett gave me a look that told me I’d finally made it to the gingerbread house of revelations. ‘You’re a lot brighter than you think, Ada.’
Chapter Thirty
34 Days Missing
Elodie Fray
The storm is here.
Jack and I are in the attic room at the very top of the house. It’s gabled and angular. There’s a big cast-iron bed and antique drawers, and a reading nook complete with a dark green velvet armchair and large gold lamp, switched off. The only light is from the candles on the sideboard, flickering golden in the dark. Above our heads are solid wooden beams. I reach up and run my finger along one, remembering a time when I stood in this exact spot, too small to do so. Jack stands in front of the big French doors that lead out onto a tiny balcony. I go to him and stare out at the ink-black sky above and the raging sea below; it thrashes against the rocks with wild fists.
Jack is excited. Breathless. And when he glances at me, I’m sure my eyes are glimmering too. As a little girl, I always embraced wet days. Ada would stare sulkily out the window, but I would have my wellies and raincoat on and out I’d go; puddle-jumping and twirling, mouth open wide and head thrown back to catch droplets on my tongue. I thought I’d always dance in the rain alone. Until Jack.
The French doors are ajar. The air feels full, like every particle is charged and vibrating. We wait. Jack takes my hand, strong and warm and so familiar it makes my throat ache.
And there it is: a streak of hot silver splits the sky. It’s the start of a symphony; a second later comes the low crackle of thunder rolling above our heads and the first drops of rain which ping against the French doors like bullets, and the wind picks up, shaking the glass in its frame with frenzied fingers.
We settle in, sitting down with mugs of hot chocolate, and I decide this is better than TV. My longing for home is forgotten. The truth is, when I’m with Jack, I am home.
I stretch my legs out in front of me and touch the delicate lace hem of the shorts – I’m wearing the silky green pyjamas Jack bought for my birthday. I have good legs, I think, admiring the way the flickering candlelight casts shadows on the contours of my calves. My gaze drifts upwards. Jack is staring at my legs too.
Coming to Wisteria has shifted something between us – before my disappearance, the idea of Jack staring lustfully at my legs would have been absurd, but now …
He clears his throat and turns his focus towards the night sky. ‘We pulled it off.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The plan.’ He gestures widely. ‘This.’
‘Can we really say that before I’ve written the book and signed a contract?’
‘We pulled it off,’ he says again.
I don’t reply. I am instantly nervous; I try very hard not to think about the questions the police will have once I’m found. I worry about messing it up, getting caught out. But I can’t think about that now.
‘I can’t wait to see your name on a book,’ he says.
‘If I have to work this hard to become an author, maybe I just don’t deserve it.’
‘You’re talented enough to do it, Fray. The market is the problem, not your ability.’
‘I know it’s all about luck, and what’s selling right now, but maybe it’s just not meant to happen. What if we do all this and I still don’t get the deal?’
‘You’re going to get it. They want true crime; you’ll give them true crime.’
‘Half-true crime. True-ish crime.’
‘Is there a market for that?’
My smile is wan.