Just My Luck(84)

The weather forecast was accurate. The night air has turned cold, rain starts to splatter on the ground, mocking the British optimism in summer. Many people abandon the outside attractions and head for shelter, others call it a night and start falling into minicabs. Like a salmon heading upstream, I walk out into the blackness, scouring the crowds and the shadows for my daughter.





35


Lexi


‘Emily, Emily!’ My voice pierces the night, the sounds from the party fall away into the distance – the laughing, the noise from the fair rides, the music from the DJ. I don’t hear any of it. I only hear my heart beating against my ribcage and my ears strain as I wait for her to yell back a response. I’ve scoured the entire party site but there’s no sign of her. I’ve asked everyone I’ve bumped into if they’ve seen her recently. I’m met with nothing other than blank shrugs and vague apologies that no, they haven’t. Most people just want to get out of the rain, and I don’t think they really give my question much thought. ‘She was dressed as Zendaya as she appeared in The Greatest Showman.’ A shrug. ‘You know, purple leotard thing.’ I lose patience with their glassy eyes, their dumb indifference and rush on with my search. I start to run. I’m not as fit as I should be. I’ve spent too many long hours behind a desk. My breath never makes it to and from my lungs but instead it harbours in my throat and I’m suffocating.

I imagine her unconscious, choking on her own alcohol-induced vomit. I imagine her cold, wet, alone. The woods loom in the background of my every thought and breath, shadowy, threatening, overpowering. She’s nowhere to be found at the party – I need to head into the woods next and search there. The trees are dense, some fat and ancient, others scrubby and slight, saplings really. Their combined canopies block out any moonlight that the clouds haven’t already stolen. I stumble around, possibly in circles because there are no clear paths and even if there were, I wouldn’t know how far to follow one, or in which direction. Brambles rip at the thin cotton of my costume and soon my legs and arms are scratched. I wish I was wearing jeans. I wish I’d just spot her lying asleep under a fat tree. I wish I had kept her by my side all night. I wish we’d never had a party. I wish so many things; my slashed calves are the least of my problems.

Even using the torch on my phone, it’s too dark to see anything much. I decide I need to go back to the party and rouse security. They can help me search; we need to do this systematically. I run back to the dance tent. I only realise how long I’ve been searching when I notice that the music has stopped, the DJ has packed away; he’s probably back on the motorway by now. The dancefloor looks like a crime scene, pocked with spilled drinks and shards of crushed plastic glasses. The colours from the party popper streamers have bled into the puddles caused by wet and muddy footprints. With the lights up, the scene that had seemed thrilling just a short time ago now has the dank, grubby quality of a public toilet. No one is tidying up. The staff are too exhausted to bother to paint on smiles when they see me. They sag and slouch, suppress yawns and reach their arms into coat sleeves, no doubt very glad of the decision we made to clean up tomorrow in daylight. The guests have thinned out to a few stragglers. Jake is still deep in conversation with one of them, I don’t recognise whoever it is he’s talking to. I spot Logan, asleep I think. He is slouched on a tall stool, his head resting on the bar. ‘I can’t find her,’ I yell. ‘Jake, Jake, we need to get security. We need to call the police. I can’t find her.’

Of course, this draws everyone’s attention. The staff immediately swap their exhausted demeanours for ones of alertness, curiosity or panic. The laggard guests fight through their drunkenness and stare at me with confusion and the sort of ghoulish interest rubbernecks give car accidents. Jake walks swiftly towards me. He moves me away from the fray by placing a determined hand on the base of my spine. In the past this gesture has felt tender and territorial, now I feel the manipulation. His first priority seems to be avoiding causing a scene. Avoiding anyone else becoming upset or alarmed. Anyone other than me that is. I don’t give a damn. All I want to know is, where is Emily?

‘I’ve looked everywhere for her. No sign.’

‘She’ll turn up.’ He smiles; if he’s trying to be reassuring, I just find him arrogant and annoying.

‘When?’

‘Everything’s fine.’

‘It’s obviously not.’

We are talking in splintered sentences, they stutter out like gunfire: abrupt, deadly. Jake takes a deep breath. Waves goodbye to the last few guests, tells the staff they can go. Why is he letting people slip away? We need these people to help us search for her. I feel drained and powerless, a flat sputtering battery because I don’t throw out contradicting instructions. I let him have his way. ‘You know what, I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. I bet our first guess was right. I bet she’s with Ridley.’

I want this to be true. I wouldn’t care. I really wouldn’t. Him or any boy. The rich, pompous ones who arrived with vodka and attitudes, or the scruffy, meaty ones who arrived with bad haircuts and acne. Right now, I’m desperate for it to be this level of deceit. Praying for it. ‘Have you seen Ridley?’ I demand of no one in particular, but the entire room.

‘Someone asking for me?’ I turn, and there he is, head hung, looking for all the world as though he wants to vanish rather than be brought into the limelight. I pounce on him.