I cut my time with the writing group short by telling Katherine and Natalya I have a headache. It isn’t exactly a lie. A mounting pressure has sat behind my forehead ever since finding out about Alexa Clarke.
Collecting my handbag, I make a move to leave, but Natalya commands our attention before I manage to flee.
‘Should we keep an ear out for what’s going on with Alexa?’ she asks. ‘Keep each other up to date in the group chat? I know it sounds bad, but Margie’s right – this is like a book coming to life. It could be useful for our writing.’
‘And it would be good to know that Alexa’s okay,’ I say.
A blush colours Natalya’s pale cheeks. ‘Of course. I meant that, too.’
With confirmation that we will listen out for news on Alexa Clarke, I leave Coffee and Cake, shivering on the walk back to my car. With each step, my brain replays the conversation. The more I think of everything I’ve been told, the more Otis Clarke’s devastation lays heavy on me.
Sense tells me that, with no words achieved today, I need to crack on with writing, but as soon as I step into the house, a compulsionovercomes me. It ushers me to my office without allowing me time to remove my coat.
Throwing back the lid of my laptop, I type ‘Alexa Clarke’ into Google.
The results are random. A website belonging to a footballer with the same name; a webpage from a law firm announcing an Alexa Clarke as their new Executive Partner; articles about an Alexa Clarke who appeared on a now-cancelled reality TV show.
I amend the search, narrowing it down to ‘Alexa Clarke missing’.
This time, I get a series of missing persons reports from around the world. All detail the disappearances of women called Alexa, but none appear to be our Alexa.
But who is our Alexa?
I’ve never met her. I’ve never even seen her. Or if I have, I didn’t know who she was. How can you search for information about someone when you don’t even know what they look like?
Abandoning Google, I hit Facebook and search ‘Alexa Clarke’ once more. Hundreds of profiles are listed in the results. I refine my request by adding ‘Bramblethorpe’ to the criteria, but nothing comes up.
Pivoting to a new tactic, I look up Otis Clarke instead. This time there are fewer results. When I add ‘Bramblethorpe’ to the search criteria, he appears.
The first thing that catches my attention is Otis’s profile picture. How could it not when it’s a photo of him and Alexa on their wedding day?
When I blow up the image to fill my screen, it’s like being struck by lightning.
Alexa Clarke is both nothing like I expected and everything I imagined. Stunning in an unconventional way, she has a willowybuild, a wide mouth and thick eyebrows much darker than her icy blonde hair. Her silk wedding dress is fitted and simple, the kind of gown made for someone so content in their body they’re happy for fabric to cling to every curve. A gorgeous emerald ring sits on her ring finger, a symbol of the love she vowed to uphold for the rest of her life.
But more than Alexa’s beauty, I am struck by the fact that the woman in the photograph is not a stranger to me. It turns out, Alexa Clarke is someone who’s been on my mind every day for the last eleven months.
CHAPTER 4
Eleven months ago
I know I’m staring at her, this woman sitting opposite me, her hand cradling her belly to protect a growing bump. Her lips lift into a small, content smile she’s probably too blissful to be aware she’s making.
My eyes pinch. I want to be happy for her, I do – but I can’t be. My envy is too strong.
‘It’s cruel, isn’t it?’ someone beside me says.
I jump, my focus darting to the stranger. I didn’t even notice her entering the waiting room, never mind sitting beside me. As soon as I see her, I realise that must be rare. The woman is so beautiful, she probably turns heads everywhere she goes.
‘What is?’ I ask, coughing to clear the croak in my voice.
‘That they make us wait for scans in the same room as people who are carrying to full term.’ As soon as she finishes speaking, the woman looks at me empathetically. ‘Sorry, you probably don’t want to talk about it. I never do. But I saw the look on your face and I… well, let’s just say I know that look. I understand it.’
My head bows as I curse myself for being so transparent. I thought I was holding it together better than that. That’s all I doevery day – wake up, move through life, hold it together. Cling on, really, even though I’m hanging over a cliff’s edge.
‘I’m sorry,’ the woman says softly. ‘We can talk, if you want?’
Despite myself, I laugh. ‘I don’t even know if Icantalk anymore. These days, it’s like I’ve got no words in me.’