The Widow(78)

Two hours later, Kate was polishing: reading, rereading, searching for repeated adjectives, changing a word here and there, trying to look at the intro with fresh eyes. She had about five minutes before Terry would start screaming for copy and should be pushing the send button, but she didn’t want to let go of the story. She was messing around when she suddenly realized she hadn’t discussed day two with Mick and lifted her phone to check in with him.

He sounded very laid-back when he picked up—probably was lying back on his bed, watching an adult movie on the paid channel. “Mick, sorry, but the desk says they are running the story over two days. Just wanted to check that you’re happy with what you’ve got.”

He wasn’t. “Let’s get Jean to do another set of pictures,” he suggested. Kate rang her room, preparing a bright “Just need another couple of photos, Jean. Won’t take a minute,” but there was no answer. Kate could hear the phone trilling through the wall of her room.

“Come on, Jean, pick up,” she muttered. She slipped her feet into her shoes and padded next door to knock. “Jean!” she said to the door, her mouth almost touching the surface. Mick appeared out of his room with a camera in his hand. “She’s not answering. What the hell is she doing?” Kate said, banging on the door again.

“Calm down. Maybe she’s in the spa? She loved that massage,” Mick said. Kate almost ran to the lift, then turned back and raced down the corridor to her room. She had to send the story first. “That’ll keep the grown-ups busy while we find her,” she shouted back to Mick.

The beautician in the ylang-ylang-scented spa could not help. She bobbed her tightly bunned head apologetically as she ran her finger over the screen in front of her, mouthing the names. No booking.

The journalists retreated and regrouped. Mick took the grounds, and Kate kept trying Jean’s mobile phone, the sense of panic curdling in her stomach as she catastrophized: Another paper must have found her and squirreled her away right under her nose. What would she tell the desk? How would she tell them?

Twenty minutes later the pair stood in the hotel lobby, gazing out the glass doors, desperately planning their next move, when a second receptionist returned from her coffee break and piped up from behind her desk: “Are you looking for your friend?”

“Yes,” Kate croaked. “Have you seen her?”

“She checked out a couple hours ago—nearer three hours, really. I called a taxi for her to go to the station.”

Kate’s phone rang. “It’s the desk.”

Mick made a face and decided to go outside for a cigarette.

“Hello, Terry,” she said, sounding manic as she overcompensated. “No, everything’s fine. Well, sort of. Look, we’ve got a slight problem. Jean has taken off. She left while I was writing. Pretty sure she has gone home, but we’re on our way . . .”

“I know . . .

“I know . . .

“I’m sorry. Call you as soon as I know more . . .

“How’s the copy?”





FORTY-THREE


The Widow

FRIDAY, JUNE 11, 2010


When I get home, the place feels small and dingy after all those deep carpets and chandeliers. I walk through it in silence, opening the doors and switching on the lights. I tell myself I’m going to sell this house as soon as I can. Glen is everywhere, like a faint smell. I don’t go into the spare room. It’s empty—we threw away what the police hadn’t taken. “Fresh start,” Glen had said.

When I come back to the hall I can hear a buzzing noise and I can’t work out what it is for a minute. It’s my mobile. I must’ve put it on silent earlier. I rummage in my bag for it. Bloody thing is right at the bottom, and I have to tip everything out on the carpet to find it. I’ve got dozens of missed calls. All from Kate. I wait for the buzzing to stop, and then I take a breath and call back. Kate answers almost before it can ring.

“Jean, where are you?” she says. She sounds terrible. Her voice is all squeaky and tight.

“At home, Kate,” I say. “I got a train and came home. I thought you’d finished with me, and I wanted to get back. Sorry. Shouldn’t I have come home?”

“I’m on my way over. Don’t go out of the house. I’ll be there in about forty minutes. Just stay put until I get there,” she tells me. “Please,” she adds as an afterthought.

I put the kettle on and make a cup of tea while I wait. What can she possibly want from me now? We’ve talked for two days, and I’ve had hundreds of photos taken. She’s got her story. The widow has spoken.

This is taking forever, and I’m getting a bit fed up, waiting. I want to go to the shops and get some food for the week. We’re out of almost everything. I’m out of almost everything.

When there is finally a knock on the door, I jump up and open it. It isn’t Kate. It’s the man from the telly. “Oh, Mrs. Taylor, I’m so glad to catch you in,” he says, all excited. I wonder who tipped him off I’m home. I look across to Mrs. Grange’s house and see a movement at the window.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?” the telly man says, and makes like he’s going to come in. Then I see Kate coming up the path, storming up to us, all red in the face, and I say nothing, just wait for the row.