The courier, p.11
The Courier, page 11
His mouth hangs slightly open. ‘What do you mean, “taken”?’
Licking my lips, I find my mouth is dry and when I try to speak, my voice cracks.
‘Sorry.’ I take a sip of water.
‘Please, don’t apologise. Are you trying to tell me your daughter was kidnapped?’
Searching Patrick’s eyes, I see sorrow and what looks like genuine caring. No one has looked at me like that in years. I find myself nodding back.
Patrick puts his hand on my arm. ‘Jesus, Laurel, I am so sorry. Did the police find her?’
‘Not yet. There are leads all the time. I’m still looking.’
He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. I may as well tell him what happened next. I don’t like to talk about Sophie but I learnt in sales, people will only buy what you’re selling if they trust you. ‘When that all happened, it was a lot to take. I wasn’t able to keep working anymore, not in such a high-pressure environment.’
‘Totally understandable. It’s amazing you’re still standing.’
I empty my glass.
‘Well, I wasn’t, not for a long time. I had a breakdown. It wasn’t pretty but I got the help I needed and now I’m fine.’
Patrick covers my hand with his. The skin is warm, soft and a little damp. He must moisturise.
‘Thank you for telling me. I think you’re very brave.’
‘You can see why I don’t want people to know?’
‘Yes, but you mustn’t feel alone. Everyone has their demons. I mentioned my ex, well, at the end of our relationship she had a miscarriage.’ Our eyes meet and his glimmer before he blinks a few times. I squeeze his fingers. ‘I wanted to try again and she didn’t. We couldn’t go on after that.’
‘Patrick, I’m so sorry.’ I’m glad we’re opening up but it’s clear we both have issues.
The men on the next table suddenly fall quiet and we catch the end of the bald man saying, ‘I did tell her it wasn’t apple juice.’ They roar with laughter. One of them slaps the table and a glass falls and shatters on the floor.
‘Shall we get out of here?’ Patrick says. ‘I could do with some air.’
I nod and he goes over to the bar and deals with the bill. There are times when I like a man to take charge, and this is one of them. We’ve had a lot to drink and my head is swimming but I don’t feel out of control.
The men are laughing again and I feel a sudden need for fresh air so I meander to the exit and wait for Patrick outside. It’s dark and cold and I take grateful gulps of fresh air. As he opens the door, he pulls on his jumper, leaving his shirttails hanging like a rebellious schoolboy.
‘Shall we stroll?’ He offers me his arm, and with a flutter of pleasure I take it. Quickly we are both tense with the cold; we could each do with another layer. I feel the warmth of his body pressed up against my side. We walk in silence and I’m glad to leave our intense conversation behind.
He produces a tin from his pocket and gives me a grin. ‘Smoke?’ Inside is a neat row of pre-rolled cigarettes. ‘I make my own tobaccos – have done since school. I’ve always enjoyed tinkering with my intoxicants. There’s peppermint, liquorice and a salted caramel I’ve been working on. Can I tempt you?’
I accept a mint cigarette and we light them as we walk. After a few drags, I feel light-headed and I’m certain we’re swaying. We’re so close to Paradise Found that after a few turns we are upon it and we stop by the gate.
‘Not very gallant of me – you’ve walked me home. My mother would be shocked.’ Patrick laughs but then turns to me, suddenly serious. ‘Will you come in for a coffee?’
I hesitate. ‘No, I shouldn’t.’
He takes my hand lightly. ‘It’s not like it’s the first time we’ve met.’ He intertwines his fingers with mine. I know I ought to refuse but the pleasure of being with Patrick for a whole evening, having him look at me like he is now, is too much to refuse, and the heady cigarette has left me feeling untethered.
‘One more drink?’ Patrick lifts my hand to his lips and brushes them against my knuckles. My stomach swoops and I find myself nodding as Patrick leads me through the gate.
Chapter Fifteen
It takes Patrick a few tries to get the key in the lock and when he opens the door, he lurches forward into the dark hall.
‘Whoops!’ He lets out another shout of laughter and I find myself giggling along with him.
Kicking off his deck shoes, he barges straight into the kitchen and turns on the light. By the time I get my shoes and jacket off and follow, he’s already clattering about inside a high cupboard.
‘I know we said coffee but shall we go straight to something stronger?’ he says.
I’m already unsteady on my feet but Patrick produces a bottle of whisky and says, ‘I make a mean old-fashioned. What do you say?’
It’s a single malt and my mouth begins to water despite my brain saying I’ve had enough. ‘Go on, then,’ I say.
Patrick cheers and reaches for an orange from his fruit bowl. Before he slices it, he pretends to bowl, slinging his arm high in the air and muttering, ‘Williams approaches the wickets.’
Shaking my head, I feel the sudden, urgent need to pee.
‘Where’s your loo?’ I ask.
Patrick directs me out into the hallway to the guest loo under the stairs. The air is cooler outside the kitchen and I enjoy the break from Patrick’s chaotic energy. I can still hear the clanks of the drinks being made, and figure I have a few minutes until he starts to wonder where I am. Turning on the spot, I study the framed pictures in the hall. From the book covers and posters he’s chosen, it seems he’s a horror fan: there are framed Stephen King covers and a large Psycho poster.
The stairs are divided into two short flights, the first leading up to a small landing and the second disappearing back over my head. I’m tempted to slip up and take a look around but a minute has already passed and I know I wouldn’t have time. There’s one more door from the hall. From the floor plans I found online, I know that most of the houses have a dining room set up at the back but the Addo-Smyths have knocked through so it’s a single large living room. I wonder what set-up Patrick has gone for as I turn the handle as quietly as I can but it won’t open. Frowning, I shove with my shoulder but it doesn’t give. It’s locked.
Patrick clears his throat and I spin around, heart pounding. He’s in the doorway with a tea towel slung over his shoulder.
‘Loo is right there,’ he says mildly, pointing to the door under the stairs.
‘Of course it is.’ My face is on fire.
He doesn’t go back into the kitchen until I’m inside the tiny bathroom. I lock the door and lean against it, wondering why have a locked room when you live alone? What was it Audrey said . . . ‘and then he’ll bury you under the patio’. . . I consider it for a moment then laugh and shake my head. I’m being stupid; Patrick’s a nice guy. I’m sure there’s an explanation for it. I sit on the loo seat and breathe deeply to return my heart rate to normal before washing my hands slowly. On the wall is a photo of Patrick’s schooldays. Rows of boys lined up in black uniforms with dated hairstyles. I look along the list of names until I find him at the front with the smaller ones, with floppy hair that can’t hide a face full of acne.
When I return to the kitchen, Patrick has opened the folding doors and is smoking out into the black air. Two glasses filled with amber liquid sit on the table.
‘Smoke?’ he asks as I approach.
I accept a salted-caramel-flavoured cigarette and join him by the doors. A blast of wind hits me full in the face but I barely feel the chill as I take the first drag and wait for the nicotine to rush around my body. It hits me even harder than before and a wave of black flickers at the edge of my vision. I wonder exactly what it is he puts in them.
‘I hope you weren’t looking at the school photograph in the loo,’ he says.
I feel a wave of relief that he isn’t going to accuse me of snooping. ‘It did catch my eye.’
‘I’d like to think I was a case of the ugly duckling. I bet you were always attractive.’
Running my hand through my hair, I bask in the rare compliment, but I was never one of the good-looking girls. I wasn’t ugly either. I was a wallflower. Even my unusual name was forgotten – Laura, they’d call me. It wasn’t until university that I learned to play the game. Make-up. Haircuts. Short skirts. And always laugh at their jokes.
‘Are you flirting with me?’ I ask with a coy smile.
He smoulders back. ‘If you have to ask, I’m not doing a very good job.’
A silence settles between us and I glance at the house next door. I sense Patrick watching me and the silence stretches until it is nearly unbearable. I search for something witty to say. He moves closer and I blurt out, ‘Do you know when the new neighbours are moving in?’
‘Bryce Cohen said next week.’
I splutter and cough up a lungful of smoke. ‘So soon?’
‘Apparently they are going to rent the property from the Bateses so they can move in right away whilst the paperwork goes through. They must be champing at the bit since they’ve already been here with their interior designer, measuring up.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘The street is really going up in the world.’
I’d hate to see what Patrick thinks of as down. He bumps his hip against mine and we both lose our balance and are forced to grab the doorframe to stay upright.
‘Why are you so interested?’ Patrick says teasingly.
I shrug. ‘You get to know people on your route, that’s all. I like this street.’
‘It does have some rather charming residents.’ He gives me a significant look and I can’t help but laugh.
‘Have you discovered anything unusual at Paradise Found?’ he asks.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m sure you see things, coming here day after day. You probably know more about this street than I do.’
I think of my notebooks and a slow smile spreads across my face.
‘So you have,’ Patrick says excitedly, misreading my expression. ‘Tell me.’
‘It wouldn’t be very professional . . .’
‘Surely we’re beyond professional?’ Patrick slips his arm around my waist and pulls me close. His warm breath tickles my ear and my heart feels like it’s trying to break free of my chest. I attempt to blow out a long stream of smoke with the sexy nonchalance of a French starlet.
‘It would be against Zippi rules – they insist upon absolute discretion.’
‘And I had you down as a rule breaker.’ He squeezes me gently. ‘How about I tell you a secret, then you tell me yours.’
I incline my head. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Let me see.’ He takes a drag from his cigarette and blows smoke over my head. ‘Got one. I didn’t lose my virginity until I was twenty-three.’
I smile and raise an eyebrow. ‘I’m not sure that’s quite revealing enough for a trade.’
Patrick laughs. ‘Ouch, I’m hurt. How about crushed dreams? You see, I always wanted to be a doctor but I failed chemistry. Twice.’
I suppress a snort. ‘I’d feel sorry for you if you hadn’t written a bestseller.’
There’s another pause and I finish my cigarette so I edge out from Patrick’s arm and put it out on the patio.
‘Okay, here goes. The big one. You remember I said when I was younger my sisters used to dress me up? Well, the truth is, I enjoyed it.’
We both laugh.
‘But is that really a secret?’ I say archly and Patrick folds his arms, pretending to be offended.
‘Okay, I’ll tell you,’ I say, ‘but this is just between us.’
Patrick signs a cross on his chest.
I move back close, enjoying having our bodies touching, and whisper in his ear, ‘Did you know that Harry Cohen sells antiques online?’
‘Ye-es.’ He bends down so my lips are against his ear as if he can’t wait for me to spill the beans.
‘I came across his website and realised that I’d delivered some of the items for sale to his house.’
‘No harm, no foul in that is there?’
I leave a dramatic pause. ‘The items were from department stores.’
It takes Patrick a moment, but then he gets it and gasps. He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes, then he shoves them back on and blinks at me. ‘That old dog! He tried to flog me a bed once for three grand. Said it was Victorian.’
‘Shh!’ My finger goes to my lips. ‘Come on, let’s go back inside.’
We return to the kitchen table and take a seat side by side. Patrick sits back in his chair, crossing one leg over his knee and cradling his drink against his chest. I sip mine. ‘This is good.’
He nods. At the far end of the table is his laptop and a pile of papers.
‘How’s the novel going?’ I ask.
‘Dreadful. I can’t bear to talk about it. There’s so much pressure after the last one. That’s why it’s taken me years and several discarded drafts.’
‘It was fantastic. Gruesome but a page-turner.’
Patrick’s expression lifts. ‘You’ve read it?’
‘Of course. When it came out. You could hardly miss it.’ I don’t mention that I’ve been re-reading it late at night, sitting in my chair and jumping at every creak from the estate or whistle of the wind. It’s been keeping me awake but it doesn’t matter, I don’t sleep much anyway.
‘I suppose it was everywhere. That was a hectic summer. I was doing interviews with the Sunday papers one week and jetting off to Hollywood the next . . .’
I think back a decade to when his book was released. Pre-Sophie. I was working at the bank and things with Dominic were still in the honeymoon phase, but it was around that time I met Simon. We were colleagues first, then friends for a long time before anything happened and it was only after Sophie was born that things really took off.
‘Listen to me, humblebragging. I’m only trying to impress you.’
I smile and take another sip of wine. ‘It must have been exciting.’
‘Yes, Maria certainly thought so.’
There she is again. The ex-wife. There are no photos of her that I can see, and the house feels and smells like Patrick, but there are distinct traces of a woman’s presence. In the line of recipe books on the shelf next to the cooker is one for Argentine beef dishes. On the corkboard behind the door, pinned above eyeline, are faded wedding invitations addressed to ‘Pat and Maria’. I bet somewhere there’s a wardrobe filled with her clothes.
‘Have there been many other girlfriends?’
He glances back at me with a half-smile. ‘A few, I admit it. These dating apps mean it’s almost impossible not to meet someone if you really want to. I just haven’t met anyone special. And you?’ he asks.
‘Not really. I’ve been taking it slow after what happened.’
‘Of course.’ Patrick rubs his chin again. ‘Such an awful thing.’
I smile brightly, determined not to bring down the mood. ‘Loo again.’ I stumble back into the hallway and realise just how drunk I am. I make it into the toilet and find I’m suddenly desperate. I only manage to get my knickers down just in time and as I lean back my head lolls. Feeling myself drifting off, I sit up sharply, rubbing my face with my hands. My body feels strangely floppy and I use the towel rail to haul myself upright so I can stare in the mirror above the sink. My cheeks are flushed and my pupils are pinprinks. I vow not to have another of Patrick’s home-made cigarettes; they’re lethal.
Trying to pull myself together, I splash cold water on my face and look again at the row of schoolboys. Simon went to a boarding school like that. Brutal is how he described it, and it damaged him for life. I slap my cheek once. I don’t want to think of Simon, not now. Sucking in some air, I head back into the kitchen and find Patrick standing on a chair, reaching for something at the back of the cupboard.
‘Where is that . . . ?’ He pulls out a bottle. ‘Here it is. Ouzo I got on my travels.’
‘I’m fine. Honestly—’
But Patrick brushes the dust off the bottle as he gets down and produces two shot glasses that he sloshes liquid into. ‘A toast. To us.’
I hesitate, then pick up mine. The glass is sticky. It doesn’t feel like a good idea, but it would be awkward not to now.
‘To us,’ I say, and we knock them back.
‘Shall we dance?’
Patrick goes over to the corner of the room where there’s a record player on a bookshelf. He puts on Fleetwood Mac and dances towards me, reaching for my hands. The ouzo hits my stomach and I let him pull me forward. His skin feels clammy. We dance around the kitchen, acting silly, until a slower song comes on and he pulls me close. All I can think is that I hope we’re not disturbing Evelyn next door until he looms and kisses me and all thoughts other than the feel of Patrick’s mouth on mine evaporate.
Chapter Sixteen
I jolt awake and my eyes snap open. I drag in my first waking breath as if I’ve emerged from the bottom of a swimming pool. My heart pounds. It takes me a moment to realise that I’m in Patrick’s bedroom and his arm is draped across my body, pinning me down.
Pushing it off, I sit up, grimacing. I’m in Patrick’s bed but I can’t remember how I got here. I remember the wine bar of course, then the kitchen, but after that, there’s nothing. My stomach lurches and I collapse back onto the pillow. Patrick is dead to the world beside me but I can see his chest is bare and surprisingly hairy as if he’s wearing a mohair sweater. There’s a long, red scratch down his back onto his buttock. Did I do that? I close my eyes and try to remember but it’s a blank nothingness.
I lift up the duvet and see that we’re both naked. Our bodies are giving off an earthy, stale scent and there’s a dampness between my legs that tells me we had sex. It’s been five years since I slept with anyone. I’d like to say it was with Dominic – that’s what a good wife would say – but sex with Dominic dried up way before. After Sophie was born, we tried a few times but something had changed. Dominic was so focused on being the perfect dad, and I had my work. And Simon.
