The Girls Who Disappeared(13)

‘Great, thanks.’

Her mum let out a bark of laughter. ‘Oh, don’t be so sensitive. I love you, of course.’ She clapped Olivia on the back, much like she would the neck of a beloved horse. She might not be the most maternal of mothers but Olivia knows her mum would do anything for her. It had always been just the two of them and as a result they were close. ‘You don’t want to be getting married either, believe me. That’s where the trouble starts,’ she’d finished ominously. Not that she would know, never having been married herself. When her mother found out she was pregnant, back in 1980, the father had wanted nothing to do with either of them. Olivia had been brought up in this house with the help of her grandparents, sadly both having passed away within months of each other when she was fourteen and the only grandchild, her mum having no brothers or sisters.

What if Wesley’s finally left me? she thinks now, staring at the screen on her mobile, willing his number to flash up. What if he’s finally seen the light? Seen that she isn’t worthy of him? Someone as large as life, as technicolour as he is should be with someone equally so. Someone like Sally had been. Not her, not dull cardboard-cut-out Olivia, with her half-life and her hollow heart. She’s been waiting twenty years for him to leave her. There was that time, a couple of years ago, when she’d thought he might. He had seemed so distant, making excuses not to see her as often, and when he did he acted like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. It had lasted a few months but then he’d reverted to his old self.

She often wonders where this neediness, this reliance on Wesley comes from. Was it growing up without a father? She knows Wesley’s not perfect – she’s realized that as the years rolled by. He’s loud, bossy, a bit controlling, and sulks for hours, days even, if she doesn’t do as he wants. Once when she told him she was too tired for sex he didn’t speak to her for three days. But he can also be so loving and attentive, making her feel like the most important person in the world. And that he’s always on her side. That nothing is too much trouble. If she rang him to say she was stranded she knew he’d come and pick her up, no matter what time of day or night it was. He’s always made her feel protected, her first and only boyfriend. Being with him is like slipping on her favourite fleecy dressing-gown and she worries that if she takes it off she’ll be cold and naked and vulnerable.

She checks her watch. It’s eleven o’clock. He’ll be at work. He’s had the same job since she’s known him, at the bank in the next town.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of tyres crunching over gravel and she looks up. Her mum has gone to pick up some horse feed and the riding instructor, Mel, isn’t due in until 2 p.m. for the first lesson of the day. So who could it be? She leaves the wheelbarrow where it is and heads to the little office at the front of the stables just in case someone has come in from the street to book a lesson. During the weekend local kids help out at the stables because of their love for the horses. But during the week it’s usually only her and her mum. Mel arrives for lessons and to look after her own horse, Fargo, but that’s where her duties end. Olivia will take experienced riders for hacks, usually on a Sunday, but the teaching is left to Mel.

She doesn’t recognize the silver Audi or the tall, attractive woman who strolls confidently through the iron gate, her red hair flowing from beneath a forest-green bobble hat. She’s an out-of-towner – that’s immediately obvious from her smart wool coat and her heeled boots under well-cut trousers. All in black apart from the hat. When the woman reaches the office she hesitates as though wondering if she should step inside. It’s no more than a glorified shed, set just in front of the stables, and is sparsely furnished, apart from a metal cabinet in the corner and, facing the door, a solitary desk containing the riding-school diary. Wesley is always on at them to computerize their diary. But Olivia and her mother are technophobic, no matter how many times Wesley tries to mansplain it to them. In the end he’d given up.

‘You can come in,’ says Olivia, smiling as the woman hovers uncertainly on the threshold. ‘Are you here to book a lesson?’ She goes to the desk and leans over the chair to flick open the diary to today’s date.

‘No. No, thank you,’ the woman replies, looking panicked at the idea. She steps into the office. She has an accent. Northern. Olivia likes the sound of it. It’s warm and friendly and instantly puts her at ease.

‘Oh … then how can I help?’

‘Are you Olivia Rutherford?’

And then it hits her. Of course. How stupid of her not to realize straight away. The journalist. The one Wesley had warned her about. And now she’s here, in Olivia’s private space, and she doesn’t know how to handle it without her mum or Wesley.

Coldness settles over her and she juts out her chin, folding her arms across her padded jacket to protect herself. ‘And who’s asking?’

‘My name’s Jenna Halliday. I’m making a podcast for the BBC on the events that happened here twenty years ago. I know you’ve never spoken to the press before but this is a bit different, being a podcast, and I was hoping you’d want to be part of it because …’ But Olivia finds it hard to concentrate on the rest of Jenna Halliday’s words, drowned as they are in the pounding noise inside her head. Something about wanting to get ‘your side of the story across’, and how an exclusive interview with her would ‘put off other journalists who might show up’. Olivia has heard it all before. She’s never spoken to the press about the accident. Not then and definitely not now.