The Stranger Within (2 page)

I tell her I can’t and she tuts. “What is it this time?”

“James is working late and I have to look after the boys. I’m sorry.”

“Well, it can’t be helped.” She exhales, her smoke hissing down the phone. “But we’re going out soon, no excuses. You’re twenty-eight, you should be having fun. Seeing your friends. Not stuck at home all the time.”

“I’m only stuck at home because my course is home-study, Bridgette. Otherwise I’d hardly be here at all.”

I’ve told her this before, but she always forgets my point, so more often than not we fall into a debate about the ten-year age gap between James and me. And the fact that I have taken on his children. I know Bridgette likes James; she is only concerned about me.

“Okay, okay,” she says, quickly changing the subject. She tells me she’ll call Debbie and arrange for us all to meet next Friday. “We’ll have lunch,” she suggests. “The boys will be at school then, won’t they?”

I tell her I’m looking forward to it, although I already dread their fussing and worrying. I am fine. I am in control.

By six-thirty there is no sign of the boys. They should have been back home no later than six, allowing time for Luke to change and for the inevitable slow saunter back. Why would they rush when they know they are in trouble?

I calculated the time so their food would be ready when they got in, but now the spaghetti sits cooling in the saucepan, and the mince is drying up. I’ve been hovering by the living room window for nearly half an hour, and now I am beginning to worry. What if they’re not just taking their time to annoy me?

In the hallway, I pull my jacket from the coat hook and step outside to see if I can spot them further down the road.

But there is no sign of either boy, and the street is deserted. Mrs Simmons appears next door, her legs wobbling unsteadily beneath her hunched frame as she struggles with a recycling bin.

“Here, let me help you.” Our gardens are separated by a flowerbed and I could easily step over it, but she shouted at me the last time I made that mistake. So I rush down our path and back up hers, before taking the bin from her frail, bony hands. “You do know they don’t collect the recycling tomorrow, Mrs Simmons? It’s the day after.”

She scowls. “I know that. I like to have it ready. I like to be organised.” She looks me up and down, then rolls her eyes. I have no idea why; I am dressed acceptably enough in jeans and a loose t-shirt so there is nothing for her to judge. Nothing except the accident.

I take her bin to the kerb and ask her if she’s seen Dillon and Luke. If they’re nearby she will have noticed. In her living room, her armchair is strategically placed by the low bay window so she can peer out without having to move. Nothing escapes her.

She tuts and rolls her eyes again. “I saw them leave a while ago. Have you lost them?” She raises her eyebrows. “Lovely boys, aren’t they? So sad about their mother.”

I nod, and explain that the boys are late home for dinner. Mrs Simmons frowns; she’d probably been preparing to deliver a monologue about how perfect Lauren was. “That’s not like them to be late. Such polite and well-brought-up boys. But...” She looks me up and down again. “I suppose they can be influenced by all sorts. You want to get on to their dad. He’ll know where they are.”

Leaving me speechless, as she usually does, she turns and shuffles back inside, attempting to shut the door three times before the lock finally clicks into place.

I rush back inside and grab the house phone, dialling Dillon’s number first. The voicemail message – his voice shouting over a dance track – threatens to deafen me. I run back out to check the street again and, with still no sign of the boys, try Luke’s mobile. His doesn’t even ring.

Something isn’t right.

I check I’ve got my keys and pull the door shut, walking up the road towards the sports centre. It has started to drizzle, but I ignore the droplets splashing onto my face. The closer I get, the more convinced I become that something awful has happened. I picture the way the boys’ faces light up when they hear James’ key turn in the front door, and it is hard to tell the rain from my tears.

By the time I arrive at the sports centre, my legs feel as if they are being weighed down by bricks. Although huge, the reception desk is manned by only one person: a young girl who looks barely older than Dillon. I ask her if the football match is over and she stops tapping on her keyboard, flashing a toothy smile at me. There is a huge gap between her front teeth and I can’t help staring at it. “The match finished over an hour ago.” She offers nothing more and turns back to her monitor.

“I’m looking for my sons. One of them was playing football and they haven’t come home yet. We only live ten minutes away.”

The girl’s face twists into a frown. “Maybe they’re just hanging out in the café?” She resumes tapping on her keyboard, and I am already forgotten. This isn’t her concern; I am just an over-protective mother, worrying over nothing.

The café is loud and crammed with tracksuit-clad bodies. I scan every face, but none of them belong to Dillon or Luke. They’re not avoiding home for fear of a lecture; they get those often enough from me, but have never disappeared before. My fear increases and I rush outside, wondering how I’m going to tell James I’ve lost his children. That I didn’t stop them going off on their own and now something horrendous must have happened to them.

I see signs for the football pitches and follow them to the back of the building. No Dillon or Luke.

I can’t put off calling James any longer. It will only make things worse if he thinks I waited too long to tell him. But my mobile phone is at home so I need to get back before I can call him. Grateful that I’m wearing my ballerina pumps, I begin to jog, convinced that when I get back I will find a police officer on my doorstep.

It is only when I turn the corner onto our road that I see two figures further ahead. Dillon and Luke. I can tell, even from this distance. People are always recognisable by the way they walk. From the boys’ casual pace, it is clear no harm has come to them so my panic subsides. And is quickly replaced with anger.

Running faster, until I catch them up, I shout their names and they swivel round, giggling and shovelling chips into their mouths.

“What the hell are you doing?” Even as I say the words, I know I shouldn’t use such language, but I am past caring. “Don’t you ever do that again, do you hear me?”

They turn to each other and snicker.

“I’ll be telling your dad about this. The second he gets home. What do you think he’ll have to say?”

Dillon stops walking and faces me. “Please don’t say anything. I’m sorry. I just needed some fresh air, to get my head ready for revision. Please.”

              Beside him, Luke watches him speak, a slight frown on his face. And I am left with a choice. I know Dillon is lying, but how can I burden James with yet another story about the boys’ poor behaviour? No, he’s got enough to worry about with his business. I need to sort this out my way, stop depending on him to deal with them. I can do this.

“I’ll have to think about that one,” I say. “Now, hurry up and get inside. Your dinner’s cold.”

They walk faster, but I lag behind. I wonder if I’ve made progress this evening; Dillon’s begging is a first. Usually he doesn’t care one way or the other. But then I notice the empty Seafare fish and chips bag hanging out of his back pocket, and I know with certainty that this is far from over.

Chapter Two

Even before I open my eyes the next morning, anxiety surges through my body, forcing me awake when all I want is five more minutes of peace. Sunlight streams through the thin curtains and I groan, turning onto my side. James isn’t beside me, but there is a yellow Post-It note stuck to his pillow. I rub my eyes before reading his words. Two apologies in one: sorry for being late and sorry for leaving early. I comfort myself with the three kisses he’s scrawled underneath. He works so hard for us; what kind of wife would I be if I complained about his absences?

              I turn over and face the clock, realising with horror that I’ve overslept. I should have woken the boys half an hour ago. Now they’ll be late for school, which is just more ammunition for them to use against me.
Callie made us late, Dad. It’s her fault. Everything’s her fault. What are you doing with her anyway? She’s not like Mum.
With these words, which are mine as much as theirs, circling in my head, I throw on my dressing gown and hurry to Dillon’s room.

              I knock and wait but there is no answer. Opening the door slowly, in case he is ignoring me, I see he’s not there. The duvet is scrunched up at the end of his bed and his pyjamas lie abandoned on the floor, but the curtains are drawn.

It’s the same story in Luke’s room, although his is tidier. I wonder if James has woken them, but if he’d been here late enough to get them up then surely he would have woken me too?

              It’s not long before the puzzle is solved. As I creep out of Luke’s room, I hear the front door slam. Rushing to the landing window, I see the boys trotting off to the bus stop, their bulging rucksacks slung over their shoulders.

I should be pleased they’ve got themselves ready. I want to say they did it so I could have a lie-in. But it’s not that simple. This is a small victory for them and we all know it.

At least for now I have several hours before they get home from school. I should try to make the most of today; it is a rare day when I have promised myself time off from studying, time off from worrying. At least until the school bell rings.

I decide to visit James at his shop. He will be pleased with my spontaneity; it’s something he must think I’ve been drained of since we got married.

I have a quick shower and wash my hair. It is getting too long and doesn’t suit me past my shoulders, but I’ll get round to cutting it soon enough. Always one for making the best of herself, Bridgette would joke that I’m on a slippery slope towards letting myself go. And I’m not even thirty. Smiling as I picture her horror at my split ends, I towel it dry, tug through the tangles with a comb and head downstairs.

My stomach cries out for breakfast, but it’s already five to ten and I don’t want to waste any more of the morning. I could walk to James’ shop, but it’s drizzling again so I opt for the bus.

Even in the bleakest weather, Wimbledon Village is vibrant, buzzing with possibilities. Stepping off the bus, my walk becomes a confident strut and I feel my age again, almost the person I was when I first met James. Love changes you, doesn’t it? Real love, where you know that without the other person you will wither away. Just disappear, as if you never existed.

I reach The Coffee Bean and push through the door, wondering if I’ll see any familiar faces. It’s only been eight months since I stopped working here, and I know Carlo still runs the place. The aroma of coffee wafts around me as I make my way to the till, and then I hear a familiar voice. “Callie?”

I turn to see Anthony, flapping his arms around to the bemusement of the customer he’s just served. “Honey, how are you? Are you coming back to us?”

“No, sorry.” I offer a smile. “Just came in for coffee and breakfast.”

He shakes his head and looks disappointed. And I feel guilty again, even though everyone knew when I took the job it would only be temporary.

“Oh, well. Worth a try. What can I get you?”

I order two cappuccinos and two bacon and egg baps. James will have had breakfast by now but he never refuses food. I don’t know where he puts it – he’s as trim as an athlete – but he swears it’s the stress of having a younger wife. I wonder how much of that is said in jest.

With the food packed up in a brown paper bag, and the drinks in a tray, I say goodbye to Anthony, step outside and cross the road to James’ shop. Vision Photography. Seeing the name always lifts my spirits because I suggested it to him when he wanted a complete change of image. Meeting James here used to make me nervous. The successful man with his own business. Who was I to think he would be interested in me for more than one night?

But even now, as his wife, I feel familiar pangs of insecurity as I head towards the door. Pangs that are only enhanced when I see Tabitha, leaning over him, pointing to something on the window display. As usual she is dressed immaculately in a tight pencil skirt and blazer, not a hair out of place, and even from outside I can see her perfect layer of make-up. I look down at my leggings and denim jacket and wish I’d worn something else. Something to compete with the woman fawning over my husband.

I once made the mistake of telling James, after one of my visits, that it doesn’t make a difference how Tabitha dresses. I insisted she could wear jeans and t-shirts and customers would still flock to his shop, but he only smiled at me and said that image is everything. Three words. Straight to the point. But in those three words I understood the message not to be jealous.

For a couple of minutes I watch my husband at work with his receptionist. James says she is more than that. That she is his office manager. But I cannot give her that acknowledgement; she already oozes too much arrogance.

The display of his photography they’re creating – an assortment of smiling families, happiness personified – is beautiful, providing customers with a glimpse of who they could be, even if only for a frozen moment in time. The two of them clearly work well together, and James always speaks highly of Tabitha, so I should be happy that he’s got someone supporting his business. So why do I feel uneasy?