Shit, shit, shit!
I willed the train to trundle its weary way to London faster. Tears filled my eyes as I thought of my utter selfishness in the past few weeks. I had abandoned my sister. There was no other way to describe it. And when she’d needed me, I hadn’t been there for her. What kind of person am I? I asked myself.
Arriving at the apartment, I opened the door, my heart beating like a drum in my chest. Seeing the sitting room and kitchen were deserted, and oddly tidy, I ran up into the bedroom. There was no sign of her there either. Unusually, even her bed was made, as if it hadn’t been slept in.
After checking the bathroom, the spare bedroom and even the wardrobe, which – even allowing for CeCe’s meagre collection of clothes – seemed remarkably empty, I retraced my footsteps downstairs, checking outside on the terrace just in case.
Then I saw the note on the coffee table.
‘Please, please, please,’ I begged as I approached it and picked it up, my hands shaking with fear. Sinking onto the sofa, I speed-read it once to make sure it wasn’t of the suicide variety and, with relief, found it wasn’t. Then, I reread it again slowly.
Sia,
I called that place you are staying but they said you were out. I gess you didnt get any of my messages. I wanted to talk to you because I decided to leve collige. And I wanted to no what you thort. Anyway I did leve. Its been a funny time since Pa died hasant it? I no you need to live your own life. And so do I I supposse. Im lonely here and I miss you. And I decided I needed to go away for a bit to think stuff thru. I want the best for you really. So I hope your happy. I hope we both can be happy.
Dont wory about me. Im okay.
I love you.
Cee
Ps can you say sorry to Ally. I wont make it to Norway. And I bought your camelia tree in as it looked coled.
My tears fell on the page as I read it. With her dyslexia, I knew how CeCe struggled to write a sentence, let alone a letter. It was the only one she’d ever written to me – had ever needed to write – because I’d always been there before, by her side. I looked then into her studio and saw the camellia standing by one of the windows. There was a flower lying on the floor, its delicate white petals turning to the wilting beige of decay. It too had suffered from neglect and looked as forlorn as I knew its saviour must have felt when she’d written the letter, and I hated myself even more.
I immediately typed her another text to add to the panicked ones I’d sent her from the train. But there was no response. And as I sat there in the empty, silent apartment, staring out at the river, I imagined the endless nights she’d been here alone, while I’d been wrapped in the bosom of my dramatic, but loving, new family.
Dusk fell, and still I waited for my sister to contact me. But my mobile remained as silent as it had without a signal at High Weald. Somehow, the fact that it did have one now only made things worse. A person, rather than a device, was choosing to remain silent. Eventually, I crawled into bed, or, more accurately, CeCe’s bed, and lay there shivering, even though it was blissfully warm in the apartment.
It wasn’t CeCe who had the problem. It was me. After all she’d done for me – loved, protected, spoken for me – I had left her without a second glance to fend for herself. I thought back to the way I’d casually told her about finding my mother, and then, in my rush to get back to High Weald, hadn’t even spared the time to listen to her story. And realised how hurt she must have felt.
The morning came, as it inevitably did, and I left a telephone message for Orlando, saying I was unable to attend work due to a family crisis. To my surprise, he texted me back a few minutes later.
I understand.
His unusual brevity upset me further. Perhaps he’d seen Mouse, who had told him he’d asked me to leave High Weald if I couldn’t commit to him. I walked numbly down the road to the nearest supermarket, knowing I needed to feed my brain, if not my stomach. Christmas decorations taunted me with their gaudy gaiety, and the radio in the shop played jingly schlock through its speakers. Back home, I cooked scrambled eggs I didn’t want to eat, then took a call from Ma, who wanted to make arrangements to meet at the hotel she had booked us both into in Bergen. I told her CeCe couldn’t make it now, but held back from telling her I was half mad with worry, as I didn’t want to explain. I was too ashamed.
When my mobile rang again that afternoon, I dashed to it, only for my stomach to plummet in disappointment when I heard Shanthi’s honeyed tones at the other end of the line.
‘Star, I was just calling to ask how you were. I haven’t heard from you in a while. And I just had a . . . feeling something was up.’
‘I’m . . . okay.’
‘I can hear in your voice that you’re not. Want to talk about it?’
‘I . . . my sister’s gone,’ I said. And, prompted gently by Shanthi, I poured out what had happened, feeling the pain of CeCe’s loss with each word.
‘I just . . . you don’t think she would do anything stupid, do you?’
‘From the sound of the letter she left you, no, I don’t. Star, I’m so sorry you’re going through this, but it sounds to me as if CeCe is doing what you yourself have done – she is finding herself. She probably just needs some time alone. Listen, would you like to come over here and have a glass of wine? It might do you good to get out.’
‘No thank you,’ I gulped. ‘CeCe might come back. And I have to be here.’
Three excruciatingly long days passed, and she didn’t come back. I wrote and rewrote a letter to her to leave at the apartment in case she returned to it while I was away in Norway. And still there was silence from her, despite my rampant phone messaging and texts. I tortured myself, wondering if, like a wounded animal, she needed to be by herself to do something terrible. At one point, I thought about contacting the police to report a missing person, but common sense told me CeCe had left me a letter explaining her absence. And, given she was twenty-seven, I doubted the police would be interested.
I also missed High Weald. I thought constantly of Rory . . . and also Mouse. I realised that, in the last few turbulent weeks, he had somehow managed to be there for me at the precise moment I’d needed him.
Well, he wasn’t here now, and despite my initial resolution to go and tell him ‘yes’ last weekend, the fact I’d heard nothing from him since made me guess that he had given up on me.
By the end of the week, what was left of me collected my holdall – packed days ago, for want of something to do. Just as I was leaving the apartment for Heathrow, my mobile rang. And I ran to pick it up.