I close the door and take the next room on the left. The single bed is unmade, the duvet cover shoved back. The wardrobe door is slid open and I can see a few items of clothing hanging up; a blue T-shirt, a cardigan and a white blouse. A couple of jumpers are on the shelf above, the arm of one hanging down, as if it’s been shoved up there in a hurry. Several empty coat hangers are in the bottom of the wardrobe, along with a pair of trainers. I go over to the bed and perch on the edge, opening the drawer of the bedside table. I have a sense of déjà vu. It was only the other day that I sat on Alice’s bed at home in the UK, looking in her bedside table. That time I found the photograph of her and Luke. I wonder what I’ll find this time.
I slide the drawer open, but it contains what amounts to rubbish: half a packet of tissues, a hair clip, a pot of red nail varnish and a biro. I open the next drawer. There’s a notebook, a small white spiral type. I flip open the cover. The first page has the word ‘WORK’ written in capital letters across the top of the page and underlined twice. Underneath is a list of dates and times. I assume it’s for the diner. I turn the pages, one by one, and most are much the same. I come across a couple of pages with reminders of things to do, or names of people. I bend the edge of the notebook and fan the pages with my thumb so they flick through quickly. They all appear blank. Nothing very interesting or incriminating. I’m just about to throw the book back into the drawer, when I see an official-looking envelope. It’s already been opened, so I take a look inside. It’s a payslip from the Beach House Diner to Martha Munroe, dated a couple of months ago. I put it to one side and notice a piece of paper. What strikes me is that it looks out of place with the rest of the items in the drawer and, indeed, in the room. It’s an A5 sheet of bonded writing paper, the sort you get from a traditional letter-writing pad. I can feel the ridges of the paper between my finger and thumb. I hold the paper up towards the window, where a small stream of light trickles through a gap in the blinds. I can just make out the faint watermark. It’s from an expensive pad. On it, written in fountain pen, is a mobile number beginning 07.
It takes a moment for me to realise that this is a UK mobile number, but not one I recognise.
I pull the drawer out further and see another piece of paper, this time the weight is light and there are wide-ruled lines, it looks as if it’s from the notebook I’ve just been looking at. There’s also a thin black cardboard box, about the size of a toothpaste box, along with the image of a blue eye. Disposable daily contact lenses. I give the box a little shake but it’s empty. I pick up the sheet of paper and turn it over. It’s a list. I cast my eye over the items. Passport. Flight tickets. Lenses. Cell phone. Adapter.
A list for travelling abroad. If this is Martha’s room, as I think, then she was planning on travelling abroad. Was this her planned trip with Alice?
I wonder where all Martha’s possessions are. Has someone been in and gone through her stuff, taking what they wanted?
This room reminds me of my student days. A room where you half live, you bring some of your possessions, but not all of them. A room to stay in, to sleep in, but not a room to call home.
I scoop up the things from the drawer and instead of putting them back, for some reason, I stuff them into my handbag and leave the room.
I take a deep breath before going in to the last room. I know instantly it must be Alice’s room. There is a warm ambiance despite its emptiness. The walls are painted white, with one a pale pink. The white Venetian blinds at the window are closed and a piece of pink fabric is draped in a fancy swag across the top of the window frame. There is a white bedframe covered with a pretty pink-and-white eiderdown. It’s all very tidy and clean.
The sound of my phone ringing cuts through the silence and it makes me jump. I wriggle it out of my pocket and look at the screen. It’s Luke. I check my watch and do a quick calculation of the time in the UK. It must only be six o’clock there. Luke up at that time of the morning just doesn’t happen. Immediately I think there must be something wrong. Mum or one of the girls. I swipe the screen to accept the call.
‘Luke?’
‘Hi.’
‘Is everything okay?’
‘Clare, relax, everything is fine.’
I breathe a sigh of relief. ‘What are you doing up?’
‘Couldn’t sleep. I’ve not been to bed.’ His voice is quiet and has the sound of someone who is battle-weary.
‘Have you been working?’
‘Tried to, but not feeling it right now.’
Now I know that’s not like Luke at all. Not working and not sleeping, they don’t usually go together. ‘Is something wrong?’ I ask, my own voice soft.
‘Fucking hell, you ask the most stupid questions sometimes.’ I hear him exhale of long breath of air. ‘Of course something is wrong. Us. That’s what’s wrong. I don’t even know how we got to this point in such a short space of time. What the fuck went wrong?’
‘I don’t know either,’ I say, then correct myself. ‘Actually, that’s not true. I know exactly what went wrong. Alice.’ I brace myself for the response.
‘You’re wrong about Alice,’ he says.
‘I am not. Trust me.’
‘Trust you? What about you trusting me?’ says Luke. I can image the look of indignation on his face. ‘I’ve never done anything, ever, to give you any reason not to trust me. I thought we were solid. I really did. I know how I feel about you, it’s one hundred per cent. The trouble is, I’m not sure you know how you feel about me.’