The Disappearance

‘I can’t bear to be late!’ he snaps without turning around and Audrey realises that she herself is too late: she’s lost him to one of his black moods – his ‘funks’ as she’s come to think of them – and her birthday dinner, when they arrive, takes the hit. Although the restaurant is softly lit, the tinkle of a piano barely breaking over the gentle hum of expensive conversation, it’s as if a veil’s suddenly come down between the two of them. Audrey uses every single one of her conversational skills to try to get her husband to give her anything more than a monosyllabic reply, but he’s a different person to the one who ravished her in the bedroom. She asks coquettishly if he likes her dress. She talks about what she did all day with the children and she chats about the unseasonal weather Bombay’s been experiencing – always a good topic – but even that gets little more than a grunt.

The tables are filled with beautiful ladies and well-dressed gentlemen and Audrey’s painfully aware that she and Ralph are being watched; that maybe these people remember the story of Alice Templeton; that the little scenario playing out at their table is being talked about. In this room full of people, with her husband, on her birthday, Audrey has never felt more alone. As the waiter clears the plates from their main courses, Audrey decides to give it one more shot.

‘Mmm,’ she says, looking at the dessert menu. ‘They all look so good. What are you going to go for?’ No response. ‘Hmm, darling? Does anything take your fancy?’

Ralph looks up. ‘Sorry? Did you say something?’

‘Yes!’ snaps Audrey. She cracks the thick menu shut and bangs it down on the table with enough force to make the glasses jump. Ralph’s hand shoots out to steady his glass.

‘I’m terribly sorry if I’m disturbing you, Mr Templeton,’ Audrey says, her voice shriller around the edges than she would have liked, her breath coming fast, ‘but I just asked if you’d like anything for dessert. On second thoughts, though, I retract that question. I’m calling it a night. Good night.’

She pushes back her chair and stands abruptly, putting her hands on the table for a moment to steady herself. Ralph looks up at her.

‘Red,’ he says sternly. ‘Don’t make a scene. Sit down.’ His mouth is a straight, hard line, a picture of concealed anger, and a ripple of fear runs through Audrey’s body.

‘If you hadn’t noticed, you’ve been making a scene all night by not speaking to your wife.’ She says the words, quietly even, but she doesn’t move from the table. Ralph passes a hand through his hair.

‘Audrey,’ he orders, and she quivers at the sound of her real name. ‘Sit down.’ He glares at her, as if willing her to sit with his eyes.

But still Audrey stands, debating her choices. Tonight was supposed to be a lovely evening – not just her birthday, but the anniversary of their engagement – and she doesn’t want to ruin the evening. But, as she stands there, she realises that Ralph has already wrecked it by refusing to celebrate with her. Audrey stares at her husband and it occurs to her that he’s spoiled her birthday evening deliberately; that he’s enjoying manipulating her emotions. Maybe Janet was right: Ralph does like to control her. Like the sex, it’s almost as if this is another game for him. Suddenly, Audrey feels like a pawn.

‘Good night, Ralph,’ she says. ‘Enjoy your dessert.’ She turns smartly and walks out of the restaurant into the humid stench of the Bombay night.

The restaurant doesn’t have a taxi rank and Audrey regrets at once that they weren’t dining in a hotel with a bell boy to summon a car. As she stands on the pavement, her hand raised, watching the oncoming traffic for vacant cabs, her sixth sense picks up that someone’s approaching from behind. She assumes it’s Ralph and a little smile plays on her lips as she realises she’s won: he’s come outside. Then her head snaps back as an odorous hand clamps over her mouth and her arms are wrenched behind her back. She tries in vain to scream, to struggle; realises too late that she’s being mugged.

But suddenly there’s a commotion and the pressure slackens. Taking advantage, Audrey twists out of the grip, hurls herself across the pavement, and turns to see Ralph pitching his bulk against her attacker until he has him in a chokehold.

‘Don’t you touch my wife!’ he screams, shaking the man. ‘How dare you touch my wife!’

The man locks eyes with Audrey and she watches as he struggles for air. He’s well-restrained. Ralph will stop in a minute, she thinks. But her husband keeps up the pressure.

‘He can’t breathe!’ Audrey gasps, but Ralph continues to squeeze the man’s throat until his body goes limp. Only then does he let go; only then, when it’s too late, does he let the man’s lifeless body slump to the pavement. Ralph’s eyes meet Audrey’s, unflinching.

January 2013

St Ives

‘Just look at that view!’ I said to Mum as we came to a standstill at the top of a climb. We were on the South West Coast path and the sand of Carbis Bay arced out before us, looking as if it wouldn’t be out of place in the Caribbean. It was one of those crisp, cold days for which the phrase ‘biting cold’ was invented, and Mum and I were bundled up in our woollies but the sun sparkled on the sea, which reflected back the blue of the sky. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous?’

‘It makes me wish I was an artist,’ said Mum, her hand shielding her eyes from the brightness of the sun.

‘Why don’t you try painting?’

Since John and I had met in the autumn, we’d ironed out a deal that meant each of us saw Mum once a month, our visits dovetailed so one of us saw her every fortnight. This, we felt, was both manageable for us and good for her: while John took her out for lunches with the family and concentrated on practicalities like scooping leaves out of the gutters or DIY jobs around the house, I tried to do a variety of more fun things with Mum – the spa, shopping, afternoon tea, walks.

It felt right to me to be doing something and, even though in a corner of my soul, I knew that half a day once a month was not a lot, some of the guilt I’d been carrying about not being a good daughter was being assuaged. I was now a woman who visited her mother regularly; a woman who took an active interest. I walked slightly taller for it.

Mum had never really said how she felt about our visits, though. Did she realise John and I were keeping an eye on her? I told myself she was pleased to see us but, secretly, I wondered. Mum always opened the door with a smile, but she also insisted that we really didn’t need to keep coming down. She was often on her computer, researching goodness knows what when I arrived, and sometimes I got the impression she’d actually rather I hadn’t turned up. She wasn’t very talkative, especially today. Instead of mooching about the shops like we’d planned, I’d taken advantage of the beautiful day and insisted we take a walk along the coastal path and I wondered now if she’d rather have gone shopping. The coastal walk had been more tiring than I’d imagined, with quite a steep climb that had left Mum noticeably out of breath. I’d already decided we’d take the train back.

I nudged Mum with my elbow. ‘Why don’t you try painting?’

Mum’s lips moved, her words snatched by the breeze.

‘What was that?’ I craned to hear.

‘I used to paint,’ she said. She held her hand up as if holding a paintbrush and made some strokes in the air.

‘Really?’

‘I went to art classes for a while. Less than a year, I suppose. When you were only little.’

‘Oh wow! Were you any good?’

Mum stared out at the ocean, her hand shielding her eyes from the sun. ‘My teacher thought so. He said I had a talent. Do you suppose you can see the Scilly Isles from here? Or are we facing the wrong direction?’

‘No idea,’ I said. ‘But that’s amazing about the painting! Why don’t you do it anymore?’

Mum looked like she was going to say something else so I waited, but she remained silent, her eyes on the sea.

‘Why did you stop painting? If you were so good? Didn’t you want to develop it?’

‘Ohh, different reasons. Come on.’ Mum started walking again and I fell into step next to her. ‘I didn’t have time when you two were young,’ she said after a minute or two. ‘Your father liked everything at home to be “just so” and it took a lot of my time. You know, shopping, cooking, cleaning, taking care of you two …’ Her voice trailed off.

‘But later? When we were older? Surely you had more time then?’

Mum shook her head dismissively. ‘It’s just … look, it’s something I didn’t pursue any further. That’s all.’

‘It must have been hard, having twins,’ I said, thinking at the same time how I’d give anything for the chance to bring up twins of my own. ‘Pa obviously wasn’t very hands-on.’

‘He was very traditional. He thought his role was to provide. And he did that very well. But when it came to parenting …’ Mum laughed. ‘I don’t remember him ever lifting a finger in that department.’

I fell behind Mum as we had to walk single file through a narrow bit of the path. It descended steeply towards the beach.

‘He used to take John on those “boy’s trips”. Do you remember? You know: fishing, camping. And those days at Lords watching the cricket?’

‘Oh yes.’ Mum turned around and laughed again, her hair whipping her face. ‘All my idea.’

I ran a few steps to catch up. ‘What?’

‘I thought it would do them both good to spend time together. I used to beg Ralph to take him away.’

‘No!’ John used to lord it over me because he’d been picked, not me. I shook my head, recalibrating the memory. I felt slightly sorry for my brother now.

‘Yes,’ said Mum. ‘He was so desperate for your father’s approval. Do you remember how he used to follow him around like a puppy? It used to break my heart. I tried to distract him but he was never interested in what we were doing.’

‘Wow. He loved those trips. He used to count the days.’ I fell silent, remembering. ‘And then, once they were back, Pa would go back to work and it was as if the trip had never happened and John would mope about the house with a face like a wet weekend.’

‘I know. Sometimes I wondered if they did more harm than good.’

I caught up with Mum once more as we emerged from the path onto the golden sand of Carbis Bay. The tide was out and the sand seemed to stretch for miles.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘You know, I once suggested that I went fishing with them. I thought it would be fun. But John wouldn’t even let me ask Pa. He said I wouldn’t understand because it was a “man thing” ‘. The cattiness in my laugh surprised me.

‘I suppose it’s only natural for a boy to look up to his dad,’ Mum said.

‘I guess.’

‘And we did our own things, too. Didn’t we?’ Mum looked at me. ‘You used to love learning how to do things around the house.’

‘I did,’ I said, and I thought about me standing next to Mum, pretend-ironing the hankies while she ironed our clothes; about me standing on a chair next to Mum in the kitchen, sneaking licks of cake batter while helping her make cakes and biscuits – we were probably even in matching aprons that Mum had sewn herself – the picture of ‘70s domestic bliss. Yes, she was right: I had wanted to learn everything. But, with that thought came the memory of the uneasiness that had underpinned my childhood: an unexplained sense of nervousness; a sense I’d always had that we were walking on pins; that our life was a house of cards that could topple at any minute.

Yes, I’d been desperate to please Mum – but it was driven by a need to keep the house of cards standing. Now, looking out at the sea, I shook my head. I’d never seen it before: John had tied himself in knots to get Pa’s approval, while I’d tried, like a bumblebee banging itself again and again against a closed window, to reach Mum. I’d craved - but never got – her love.

‘I tried with John,’ Mum was saying, ‘but he was never interested in that side of things – the cooking and everything.’

My realisation was too heavy to articulate. ‘His loss,’ I said with a smile. ‘These days everyone loves a guy who can cook.’

We both laughed. Mum shook her head. ‘Look at us walking down memory lane. Come on. Let’s get going. Are you going to march me back or can we please take the train?’

August 1972

Bombay, India

Audrey walks into her kitchen and surveys the scene. Ralph’s cook is at the epicentre of what looks like a minihurricane. Five of the six burners on the hob have pans bubbling on them. The oven’s on and the worktops are all in use: chopping boards, knives, vegetables, and empty dishes cover every surface. The ceiling fans are whirring but, still, the air is plump with steam.

‘Madam, you want taste?’ the cook asks.

Audrey waves her hand. ‘No. No, thank you. You make Sir’s favourite?’

‘Haan,’ the cook nods.

‘Acchaa. Lovely. Thank you.’

Audrey takes one more look around the kitchen, happy that everything’s under control.

‘Everything will be ready for eight o’clock?’ Audrey asks. ‘Send snacks and drinks out to the garden with Madhu, and then serve dinner in the house.’

The cook nods and Audrey backs out of the kitchen.

Already dressed for dinner, she drifts out of the back door and into the garden, where she stops for a second to inhale the heady scent of the night jasmine. It’s rained heavily today and this magnifies the myriad fragrances rising from the flowerbeds. Audrey breathes in deeply, this smell of earth, rain, and flowers now as vital to her soul as oxygen is to her lungs. The garden’s well-established and there’s evidence in the riot of colour and scent that it’s well taken care of by the gardener who’s worked at the house for decades. Audrey walks slowly across the lawn, gently touching the leaves and petals of her favourite blooms. In the distance, under the hum of the city, she can sense the gentle shifting of the sea. She breathes in deeply. It’ll be all right, she tells herself. He loves you.

It’s been a tough few weeks since the attack outside the restaurant. Although the law sided with Ralph – it was clearly self-defence – he’s been tense, and Audrey’s barely slept; black circles hang under her eyes; there’s a pallor to her skin. A distance has crept between the two of them and Audrey senses that she’s fallen off the pedestal on which Ralph once placed her. Although that night has never again been alluded to, the weight of blame hangs heavy. In every breath, in every movement, Ralph lets Audrey know that he thinks what happened is her fault. If only she’d stayed in the restaurant; if only she’d done as he’d said.

Tonight is Audrey’s attempt to make everything right once more – to win back the respect of her husband – to apologise, because, without the pedestal, without Ralph’s adoration and respect, the little emotional games he plays with her take on a darkness. They become something else: something Audrey doesn’t want to think about.

The screen door opens behind her and Audrey turns to see Ralph standing in the doorway.

‘What’s going on?’ he asks. ‘We don’t have guests.’

Audrey takes a deep breath and steps towards him. Gingerly, she positions her body against his and slips her arms around his waist.

‘Can’t I spoil my husband from time to time?’

Ralph’s body doesn’t soften. He returns the embrace stiffly, one arm loosely around her shoulders. Audrey leans in to kiss him and notices at once a hint of perfume on his skin. She could ask him where he’s been but she knows she won’t get an honest answer, and tonight is a night for apologies, not recriminations.

Ralph breaks away from her; starts to walk down the garden.

Audrey watches as he idles down the lawn, then turns and faces the house, his hands on his hips. She can’t read the expression on his face; it’s not one she’s familiar with. Madhu appears with the drinks and snacks and sets them up on the table on the terrace. Ralph strides back up the garden, splashes some gin into a tumbler, adds ice, fresh lime and tonic, takes a sip. He picks over the snacks that the cook’s prepared, picks up a samosa, blows on it, and pops it in his mouth.

‘Red. Sit down,’ he says, his mouth still full, flecks of pastry escaping as he speaks. He nods to the table. ‘I don’t know what all this is for, but I have something to tell you.’

Audrey goes silently to the chair, sits down. She puts her hands neatly on the table, her fingers intertwined.

‘What is it?’ She cocks her head. Ralph chews. Audrey waits for him to swallow.

‘Something important,’ he says.

Audrey raises one shoulder in the tiniest of shrugs. It’s a question: what?

Ralph looks at her levelly, steeples his hands in front of his mouth, index fingers touching his lips: ‘We’re moving to England.’

Audrey knows better than to say anything before Ralph’s finished.

‘There’s no longer a role for me here in Bombay,’ he says. ‘My company will be relocating us.’

‘Is this to do with …?’ she can’t say it. She can’t mention the dead man. But maybe the recent court case sits uncomfortably with his company: no-one wants a killer on their payroll. Ralph holds up a hand to stop her.

‘As I said, there’s no longer a role for me here in Bombay.’ He pauses. ‘For the record, it is nothing whatsoever to do with events that may have taken place.’

They sit in silence. Audrey’s shocked. She’d thought they would remain in India long-term. It’s her home now. She thinks of the life she’s built for herself here; the way she’s fallen in love with India. She’s going to miss the garden, the house – the ayah, the houseboy, the cook. She’s going to miss the teeming mass of humanity that is Bombay; the sights, the smells, the sounds, the heat, the relief that the monsoon brings. She’s going to miss Janet and her precious visits to the dusty church. England in comparison seems dreary – in her mind, it’s flat, two-dimensional. For Audrey, the greyness of her home country has grown out of all proportion; she’s forgotten that England has sunshine, too. In her memory, the sun never shines back home; England is a country of tragedy and of gravestones; a country in which even nature cries real tears.

‘You needn’t worry about a thing,’ says Ralph after some time. ‘I have funds to purchase a house of significant standing in London.’

‘And Madhu?’ asks Audrey. ‘Will she come with us?’

Ralph lets out a bark of a laugh. ‘You’ll have to learn to look after the children yourself. You won’t need to work. How difficult will it be to look after two small children? Millions of women do it.’

Audrey remains silent. The fact is, while she was happy enough to take on the twins, parenting’s far harder than she imagined. She’s not a natural mother: soothing crying babies doesn’t come easily to her and she’s become dependent on the ayah, for whom these things are intuitive. ‘Magic Madhu,’ she says gratefully when the ayah eases John out of a tantrum or helps Alexandra drop off to sleep. The thought of having to get up in the night to deal with the vagaries of the children terrifies her almost more than the thought of moving back to England.

Ralph takes a sip of his drink and smacks his lips contentedly. He leans back in his chair, every inch the boss. ‘If I’ve been quiet the last few weeks it’s because I’ve been thinking. There’s plenty to plan. The shippers are coming on Monday.’ Then he raises his glass to Audrey, takes a swig: ‘Cheers to that.’

February, 2013

Penzance, Cornwall

The pub John had asked me to meet him in was easy to find; the Sunday afternoon parking not so. In the end, I’d left the car in the town car park and walked the riddle of streets to The Fisherman’s Arms. John sat alone at a table, stooped over his mobile phone, a pint of Cornish cider on a cardboard drinks mat in front of him. He wore a tatty green sweater, jeans, hiking boots – the picture of the scruffy millionaire. He stood up to greet me.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Hi.’ There was an awkward pause during which I thought about giving him a little hug, but John sat straight back down and the moment was lost. I knew it was nothing personal – this was just how John was. I’d always been the more demonstrative twin. Mum used to joke about it: ‘Alexandra does the emotion for both of you,’ she’d say, laughing. ‘And John does the bossiness,’ I’d add under my breath.

‘Sorry, I didn’t get you a drink,’ he said, nodding towards the pint. ‘You’re driving, right?’

‘Yes. But I’ll have a coffee.’ I ordered at the bar, then pulled out a chair and sat across from John at the table. My knees knocked the wood when I tried to cross my legs. I uncrossed them and leaned forward on the table instead, unsure of how this conversation was going to go. John had called the meeting.

‘We’ve both watched her for a few months now,’ he’d said on the phone. ‘You can’t deny she’s vague. You can’t deny she forgets things. More than I think is normal for her age. She clean forgot I was coming down once. I think we should get together and have a think about how we’re going to take this forward.’

John was right. Mum hadn’t been herself. But it wasn’t anything I could put my finger on specifically. Yes, she forgot stuff – but who didn’t? I had the best part of three decades on her and I forgot stuff. I had ‘senior moments’ myself. Yes, she was always looking off into the distance and reminiscing about the past. This, I couldn’t deny. But was it serious? I was for a more organic approach. I felt the decision to move had to come from Mum herself, not from John and me pushing her.

‘So – what are your thoughts?’ John asked me now. That’s my brother: straight to the point.

‘I’m fine, thanks for asking. How are you?’ I said.

John rolled his eyes and I goggled mine back at him.

‘She seems okay?’ I said.

John sighed. ‘I thought you might be like this.’

‘Like what?’

‘Defending her.’

‘I’m not defending her.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘No, I’m not. She seems okay. A little forgetful, maybe. A little vague. But she’s nearly seventy. I’m sure that’s normal. Physically, she’s in great shape. We walked a bit of the South West Coast path last month.’

‘I’m not asking whether or not it’s normal,’ John said. ‘I’m not saying she has dementia. What I’m saying is that this is as good as it’s going to get. It’s only going to get worse from here in. She’s not getting any younger.’ He gave me a minute to absorb his words. ‘I’m asking you to help me come up with a way to move forward. I have a lot on my plate. I need to get this settled in my head before we get into crisis management mode.’

‘Crisis management?’

‘If she starts to go downhill. I don’t want to make a panicky decision when we’re up against it. I’d like to take our time and make sure we pick the right solution for her. Even if she carries on in a normal ageing trajectory, it’s going to get worse and we’re going to need a plan.’ John paused, met my eye. ‘You know she locked herself out the other week?’ I nodded – I did know. It turned out she’d already done it once; had used the spare key from under the plant pot out the back and forgotten to put it back. Too embarrassed to call either of us, she’d sat on the garden wall, waiting, in the hope that someone could help. A neighbour had called John and he’d driven over, had a chat with the neighbour, handed over another spare key. ‘I don’t want her to be a burden on her neighbours,’ John said. ‘I don’t want them thinking badly of us, like we can’t be bothered to help her.’

‘But we do help her!’

‘She didn’t call us – remember? And don’t get me started on what happens if she falls. What if she falls at home and breaks her hip – lies there for how many days? This is our future.’