Page 59 of The Women

The career, the status, the credentials. The seduction. The wonder, letting her fall asleep untouched on the couch. It wasn’t special – she sees that now. She wasn’t, was never, special. It was no more thantechnique. Modus operandi. A cliché. Samantha is a cliché. She is her own grim history repeating itself, no more than a flash in some warped mirror. She is a fool, a child. And now Emily is gone. In her stress and confusion, Samantha thought Peter’s ex-girlfriend might have written those poems. She even thoughthewas capable of such a thing. He didn’t do it, no. But he is morally capable of it.

Otherwise why did she think it?

Christine’s radio crackles. She wanders out of the room, neck pressed to her shoulder. Aisha comes in with some amber liquid in a low crystal goblet.

‘Brandy,’ she says. ‘Peter would want you to use the correct glass.’

It is supposed to be a joke, to ease the tension. Samantha knows that, in some distant part of her brain that doesn’t reach her mouth. Wordlessly she takes the glass from Aisha’s hands. Sips, feels the fire trace its way down her gullet.

‘Have you heard from him?’ Aisha perches on the armchair.

Samantha shakes her head. She doesn’t want conversation, doesn’t want Jenny or Aisha to tell her any more about Professor Bridges.

‘That picture’s new.’ Jenny nods to the ink sketch of the trumpeter on the wall.

‘Peter drew it.’ Samantha sips her brandy, closes her eyes to its heat. How quiet they all are. She is so tired. She could lie down and sleep, block out the world until someone wakes her up and says,Hey, we’ve found her, we’ve found your little girl.

‘He always fancied himself as a bit of an artist,’ Jenny says.

‘He’s good.’ Samantha has the impression of watching herself saying this, though she can’t say where she is exactly. ‘He knows so much about … about everything.’

‘Though perhaps not about how to treat people.’

‘Please, Jenny.’ Samantha opens her eyes, holds up her hand. ‘He’s with me now and we have a child. He cheated on you both and I’m sorry, but as I keep telling you, he’s changed – honestly he has.’

‘And you’re one hundred per cent sure about that?’

She scrutinises Jenny. What the hell does she want from this? What could she possible stand to gain? Will she not be satisfied until Samantha has not one shred of dignity left?

She steels herself, meets Jenny’s eye. ‘I’m ninety-nine per cent sure and that’s enough. It’s all anyone ever is. Look, my dad cheated on my mum with a younger woman and he dated other women after that fell through. But he’s met someone else now, they’re having a baby and he’s left all that nonsense behind him. He has a second chance. People need a second chance. And I’m Peter’s.’

Her father. Well, well. How odd that she should find herself arguing his corner now.

Christine strides back into the living room. ‘They’ve got Ms Lewis’s registration number,’ she says. ‘They’ll put a trace on the vehicle now. A local unit’s been sent to her home. Hopefully we’ll hear something in the next hour or two. She’s not local. Lancashire, apparently. Ormskirk. Do you know anyone up that way? Any relatives, anyone who’d have a reason to do this? Any connections to that area at all?’

Samantha shakes her head. ‘No. No one. Will they find her?’

Christine gives a cautious smile. ‘I can’t guarantee anything, darling. But she’s got no criminal record. She might have a history of depression or something; we’ll have to wait and see. What I’m saying is, she’s not a pro. She’s not trafficking, by the looks of it, so I’d say they’ve got a bloody good chance. Honestly, unhappiness does terrible things to people.’ She shakes her head. ‘We see it a lot. Often, it’s not evil or malice or what have you. It’s sadness. I tell you, enough sadness in your life’ll drive you nuts. Something bad happens to you … Anyway, as I say, there’s a bloody good chance.’

Samantha rubs her face with her hands. A bloody good chance is not enough, but there is nothing to do but wait. Aisha is cleaning out the grate with the little iron brush. She screws up rolls of newspaper and lays them out, eight of them, arranges kindling around them. Samantha feels a heaviness in her bones. She knows without any doubt that Peter showed Aisha how to do this, as he has shown her. No other way is permitted. As with so many things, Peter’s way is the best way. The only way. Those who do things differently – buy Lego for their babies, eat in chain restaurants, drink coffee from popular American coffee sellers – are morons, nothing but morons. Really, he can be quite obnoxious.

Aisha puts a match to the paper. She waits, as Samantha knows she will, for the requisite two minutes before placing a small log carefully on top. After that, she will replace the fire guard.

And she does.

Christine asks if anyone wants coffee or tea. Samantha tells her she’ll make it but is shushed by Jenny, who leaves the living room to join Christine in the kitchen. Perhaps it is better not to be in the kitchen, watching Jenny negotiate the cupboards with practised ease. Everything in its place and a place for everything.

‘I’m so sorry we stressed you out about Peter.’ Aisha has come to sit beside her on the sofa. ‘It was with good intentions, I promise. You’re probably right, he’s probably turned a corner. We shouldn’t have slagged him off like that. We got carried away.’

‘That’s all right.’

Aisha opens her mouth – an intake of breath. ‘It’s just, there’s—’

‘Aisha?’ Samantha feels her blood heat. ‘You need to stop talking, all right?’ Anger has made her voice loud, deep. ‘I’ve lost my kid. You get that, don’t you? I’ve lost my baby, so you and Jenny need to stop fucking talking, all right? I don’t give a shit, frankly, about you and your scorned-woman agenda, all right? My baby is missing and I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again, so if you don’t mind, I need you to stop. I really need you to shut the fuck up.’

Visibly chastened, Aisha gets up. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’

‘You didn’t mean, you didn’t mean … Why don’t you and Jenny just fuck off, actually? Fuck off and leave me alone.’

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