Page 26 of The House Guest

It seemed impossible to believe. Ruth’s entire adult life had been leading up to this moment. No matter how stressed she was, I couldn’t picture her ever being so hungover she would risk angering Sally Klay, or walking out on this play. Sure, she had drunk a lot of tequila on Friday night. But then again, I had slept through the whole of Saturday. Maybe Ruth, wherever the hell she was, had done the same, and Eden had taken it upon herself to call Sally, not realising what an unforgiving dragon she could be. I could picture Ruth waking up to the news that she had been fired.

‘Did Ruth try to call again? Or her agent?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Jesus.’ I stared into my coffee cup and muttered, ‘Where the hell are you, Ruth?’

As we were leaving the bagel shop, Cara said, ‘If Ruth gets in touch, let me know, okay? Although I’m going to be insanely busy making sure I know all my new lines.’

‘New lines?’

‘Yeah. I’m not the understudy any more. I’m taking her place.’

Of course. Why hadn’t I realised that?

‘I’m totally stressing out about it. I mean, it’s exciting, of course, but I’d be hugely relieved if Ruth came back so I didn’t have to do it.’

We said goodbye. Before we parted, Cara said, ‘Try not to worry, Adam. I’m sure Ruth’s fine. Sometimes when people get close to what they want, they realise it’s too much, too scary. Some people just aren’t cut out for the spotlight. Maybe this is all an elaborate way of her quitting without actually having to quit.’

I watched her cross the road. What she said made a kind of sense, but she didn’t know about Eden. And besides, Ruth lived for the spotlight – not because she wanted fame and fortune, but because acting was what she was good at. It was what she loved. I thought Cara would have understood that.

And I didn’t believe Cara was right. Ruth wasn’t fine. If she was, she would have called me. I could feel it, beneath my flesh, in my bones. Something was very wrong; something beyond Ruth getting drunk and being fired. Firstly, there was the question of where she was and why she wasn’t answering her phone or letting me know where she was. That was out of character. But what was really making me sick with worry was this whole question of who Eden really was.

She was a liar. A stranger. And we had let her into our lives.

Chapter 12

Detective Dennis Krugman was younger than I expected, in his late thirties. He was tall, around six-five, and stood in the Cunninghams’ living room like Gulliver freshly arrived in Lilliput, speaking in a rumbling tone.Bear’s breath, my mum would say. Jack and Mona hung around the edges of the room while I told the detective everything I knew, up to and including what I’d just learned from Cara.

‘Hmm,’ Krugman said.

I waited for him to elaborate.

‘So she called the theatre to say she was sick? Hungover, you think?’

‘She didn’t call. Someone else did. Eden, I expect. Whoever she is really.’

‘Yes. Eden. The problem we have here is that all indications are that Ms Armstrong left of her own accord. She’s an adult, she’s not a vulnerable person. You said she’s not on any medication that you know of ...’

‘She’s not on any medication.’

‘And she has no history of attempting to harm herself?’

‘No.’

‘Hmmmm.’

I wished he’d stop doing that. Although, apart from the hmm-ing, I liked him. The way he spoke was soothing, the bass frequency of his voice helping to calm me down. I could imagine he’d be the kind of person you’d want to rely on in a crisis. The fact he looked like he could crush a man’s head with his bare hands was a bonus.

‘I can register her as a missing person, but I have to warn you, this is not going to be high-priority. You know how many people go missing in this country every month?’

‘How many?’

He smiled. ‘A lot.’

Later, I looked it up. There were almost 100,000 active missing-persons cases in the US at any given time.

He wrote something in the tiny notepad he cradled in his massive hand. ‘What was Ms Armstrong’s visa situation?’

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