‘Don’t worry, I like a side of blood with my chicken,’ Kamal jokes as he administers first aid to the wound, but I’m not immune to the wary way in which he watches me. He’s worried, I can tell. I don’t know how to tell him that, after agreeing to meet Gabby and where I’ve been today, he probably has every right to be. But I couldn’t help saying yes. I don’t know Gabby well, but I know enough to know that she would not message me unless she was rattled. Imagining what could have made her feel that way has me coiled tighter than a snake.
Sonya’s numerous messages asking if I have updates about Alexa, and Natalya and Katherine’s constant sharing of theories don’t help to calm my nerves, either. I switch my phone off after dinner and try to unwind, but it’s tough going. Even a bath doesn’t calm me like it usually would. I lie in the bubbles until the water is cold, thinking of Alexa and how when I wake up tomorrow, another tallywill be added to the list of days since she went into her garden and vanished.
It’s a long time for a person to be missing.
It’s a long time for no one to have any idea of their whereabouts.
My upset is mirrored in my appearance when I wake up the next day. Kamal notices, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he forces a smile.
‘What’s your word-count goal for the day?’ he asks.
‘One thousand, minimum,’ I reply.
Guilt over all the lies I’ve told pushes me to make Kamal’s lunch. He blinks when I hand him the Tupperware, and I swear I even see the glint of tears in his eyes.
‘It’s only a sandwich,’ I say awkwardly, but I know that to my husband, it’s so much more. Somehow, that makes me feel even worse.
When it’s time for Kamal to leave for work, I wave him off at the front door.
‘I love you,’ he shouts through his open car window. My lips beg to say it back, but I can’t. All I can think is how Kamal should be saying those words to someone else, not me. Someone who can give him all the things we talked about when we were dating. Someone whose wedding day promises haven’t been stretched to the limits by bad luck.
Back inside, I sit at my desk, watching the blinking cursor on my laptop screen. Then, when the clock hits ten forty-five, I set off to meet Gabby.
She’s already at Coffee and Cake when I arrive, sitting in the corner by the window. Her slender hands clasp a cup of coffee like it’s a lifeline.
If you’d never met Gabby before, you would fall for the glamorous image she’s trying to present. But I have met her before.That’s why I know that her hair was styled hastily and that her lips are usually lined and filled in with lipstick, not a quick slick of lip balm.
She’s even tenser than I expected from her message, a truth that unnerves me as I sit opposite her.
‘Thanks for meeting me,’ she says. ‘And for picking the most twee spot in England for our chat.’
Grinning, I make eye contact with Margie, who nods to confirm she’ll bring me my usual order. ‘Well, your message sounded urgent.’
‘Sorry about that. I messaged you before I could talk myself out of it.’
Unease ripples through me. ‘Is this something you need to talk yourself out of doing?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe,’ Gabby admits, chewing on the side of her nail. ‘Right now, I don’t know what to think, but I need to talk to someone I can trust with this. Bizarrely, you’re the only person who came to mind.’
‘Me?’ I say, blinking.
‘You’re the only one who knows what’s going on to the same level I do. I thought I was doing the right thing by speaking with you. Am I doing the right thing?’
Gabby’s gaze pins me to my seat. ‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘It depends what you’re going to tell me.’
Gabby runs her fingers through her hair, grabbing a clump of her auburn locks. She’s so tormented by what she’s here to say that part of me wishes she would change her mind and speak to someone else instead.
‘Gabby, what is it?’ I ask.
Sighing, Gabby turns to an off-white handbag perched on the chair beside her and pulls something out of it. A notebook, I thinkat first, but on closer inspection I see that the year is printed in gold letters across the front.
‘A diary?’ I ask, taking the book from her.
‘Alexa’s diary,’ Gabby replies in time for Margie to reach the table with my pot of tea. Margie’s eyebrows dart upwards, her gaze fixed on the linen-bound book in my hands.
‘Thank you,’ I say, my tone sharp enough to stop Margie’s staring. She nods and sets down my drink, all the while eyeing me curiously.
‘If you ladies need anything, I’m only over there,’ Margie says, offering us a level of kindness she has never shown me before even though I come here every week.