One Small Mistake(40)
But I sit on the big double bed in Wisteria’s master room, watching the TV and it’s so surreal because there’s my face on the BBC news. It’s the same image I’ve seen on every outlet. Taken at Ada’s rehearsal dinner three years ago. I hate this picture – it makes my forehead look too wide. Still, it’s out there. People are seeing my face. Hearing my story. Even though this is what Jack wanted, I feel guilty for causing a stir. For worrying people.
I imagine a woman my age sitting in her flat, eating her overnight oats, watching the same broadcast, and thanking her lucky stars it wasn’t her who was snatched from her bed. But I can’t bear to think about how my family are coping. It’s an oil slick of guilt. My parents haven’t appeared on the news yet. I’m dreading the day they do. Jack told me not to watch any segments with my family because it will be too hard. Even though he’s right, I don’t think I’ll be able to resist.
It’s been over a week since I vanished, but it feels longer. The gash on my upper arm could probably have done with a couple of stitches, but I’ve made do with thick gauze pads and sterile wipes.
My days are spent wandering around Wisteria and watching daytime television. It’s a bit like being off sick from work, only I’m riddled with anxiety and the novelty is starting to wear thin, even though there are far worse places than a five-bedroom house with sea views to be confined to. Wisteria is filled with draped fabrics and big pillows and cosy rugs in neutral hues. Everything is soft – the colours, the surfaces, the way the light filters in through the cream shutters. Kathryn was planning on selling, but Jack told me when it came to signing the papers, she couldn’t do it. Wisteria’s been in her family for generations.
A few days before I was taken, Jack came up to the cottage alone, stocked the fridge, and left clothes for me in the bedroom – his, mostly: T-shirts, a few jumpers which I haven’t needed since it’s only the last week in August, and pyjama bottoms I have to tie extra tight to keep up. Jack took the bloodied clothes I was wearing so he could get rid of them. He didn’t bring any of my clothes in case the police had my friends and family go through my wardrobe to identify whether items were missing. To get the media exposure Jack wants, all signs must point to abduction. People are drawn in by the dramatic spectacle of kidnap: the thrilling mystery of whodunnit, imagining what they’d do if they were taken, checking the news every day to see if a body had been dragged from a lake or discovered in a park by an early morning dog walker. So, I have nothing here which is my own. Including my phone. I still find myself reaching for it, to aimlessly scroll through socials. I didn’t expect to feel so naked without it.
As Jack insisted, I’ve stayed inside in case someone spots me – a hiker, a paddleboarder, someone drifting past on a kayak. I’m desperate to go for a run though. I usually go three or four times a week. This morning, I sprinted up and down the stairs until sweat pooled in the hollow of my neck but I still long for the breeze on my skin and the rhythmic slap of my trainers on packed earth.
My attention is pulled back to the TV as the camera pans down Crosshaven High Street and my pulse kicks. It looks tidier than usual, like the pavements have been swept for their big international news debut. Then I get a jolt as there’s an interior shot of Mugs. It’s glossier than I remember, like a film set. News presenter, Cathy Forster, is standing beside the counter wearing a dark blue suit, her short hair artfully swept off her face. She looks gravely into the camera and says, ‘Friends and family of missing twenty-eight-year-old Elodie Fray, from Crosshaven, Somerset, are uniting today in a bid to find Fray, who has been missing for eleven days. Richard Morris, Fray’s manager and close friend, is hosting a get-together here at Mugs as the community you see gathered behind me prepare to head out and search the woodland and surrounding area for the missing young woman.’
Close friend? Where did they get that from? Clearly, Richard hasn’t bothered to inform them I’m an ex-employee.
His face fills the screen. He’s sweatier on camera than he is in real life. ‘All we want is for Elodie to come home safely,’ he’s saying. ‘We’ve been handing out flyers, spreading awareness, and for every coffee bought, we donate a percentage of the earnings towards the reward for information which leads to the safe return of Elodie.’
I roll my eyes. Trust Richard to turn my abduction into a PR event.
‘She’s a stunning girl,’ he says. ‘And we’re proud that all the members of today’s search party are fuelled by our organic coffee, ready to get stuck in. We just hope she comes home safe.’
Then, to my disbelief, Hannah is on screen. And it’s not just the Crosshaven pavements that’ve had a spruce because Hannah is wearing false eyelashes and her hair’s been blown out. ‘Elodie is actually such a sweetheart.’
My mouth falls open. She can’t be serious.
‘We weren’t just colleagues. We were more like sisters, you know? And we just—’ Her voice breaks and she brings her fingers to her mouth as though to suppress a sob. Her eyes are expertly misting with just enough wash of tears to make them glisten. How many times did she practise this in the mirror? ‘We just … we want her home.’ The camera cuts to video clips of people trudging slowly through dense thickets, armed with long sticks to comb through the overgrowth for my body. Then there’s a flash of a familiar profile – his long, straight nose and tuft of white hair peeking out from beneath his flat cap – George. He’s with the search party. I didn’t even think George would worry about me. I didn’t think I meant that much to anyone outside of my family, Jack and Margot. George shouldn’t be out there. What if he trips and falls in the woods? What if he gets hurt? What if he gets lost?