Just My Luck(88)

We go downstairs where the Heathcotes are gathered around the kitchen table. It’s un-fucking-believable but I notice Jennifer’s eyes swivel greedily around the Poggenpohl units, I see her check out the expensive worktops, the enormous state-of-the-art fridge. I see her nostrils widen a fraction as envy flares. She is envious of me? A woman who has a child bound and gagged, abducted, missing, lost. I can’t begin to understand her. I have always tried to understand people. Not because I’m intrinsically kind nor do I think that I value empathy any more than anyone else. It’s simply an urge, an instinct, to get to the bottom of human behaviour. I thought I’d be safer then, if I understood people but people are infinitely unknowable, mysterious. They have smiley talk but give hard stares. They kiss you but hurt you. Tell you they love you when really, they hate you.

‘Where are the security men you hired?’ I demand.

Jake glances at his watch. ‘They’ve knocked off now. Gone home.’

‘But I want someone here, right now, outside our door, outside Logan’s bedroom door. Twenty-four hours.’

‘This house is perfectly secure. You know it is and anyway we need to keep a lid on this, like the kidnappers said. Security guys would quickly pick up on the problem.’ His words are infuriating. Too considered and reasonable in light of what is going on. I glare at him but then my heart swells and slackens. I see that he’s not indifferent. There’s a milky white sheen on his skin that puts me in mind of meat sweating on a buffet on a hot day; he is trembling. He is more stressed and terrified than I have ever seen him before; we just don’t agree on how this should be managed. Naturally we don’t. We agree on so little nowadays. The problem is Jake is far too used to getting his own way now. But this is not the same as going along with a choice of car or even house or school. This is a matter of life and death. Doesn’t he see we need all the help we can get? Jake asks, ‘Anything, Fred?’ Fred reaches into his pocket and hands Jake my phone. Jake checks my phone, presumably for another message.

‘We need to get her home!’ I cry, frustrated. ‘We need help. I want you to call those security guys,’ I blurt. ‘Someone, do something!’

‘They are basically glorified bouncers. They can’t do much in a situation like this.’

‘But that’s not what you said when we first employed them. You said—’ I trail off. What is the point? Jake is not consistent. I know that much by now.

‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ offers Fred. No one answers him. ‘Coffee then?’ Fred starts to play around with the Krups coffee machine. He doesn’t have to take our orders; he knows who drinks cappuccinos, lattes or Americanos. We all know that – and so much more – about one another. Jake places my phone in the middle of the kitchen table. I suppose he thinks I’ve accepted his commands and I suppose I have, at least for the moment. If I reach for the phone, they will only grab it from me again. They all seem so clear that not calling the police is the correct thing that I’m becoming confused, overwhelmed. Maybe they are right. Maybe we should follow the kidnappers’ instructions. I don’t know.

We pull up chairs, sit around the table and stare at the phone. Waiting for it to ring or beep. We look ridiculous in our fancy-dress costumes, Pierrot, Harlequin, a lion, a strong man, a boy pretending to be a strong man. I pull off my cap but I don’t want to go upstairs to shower and change. What if the kidnappers call and I miss it?

Fred places the mugs of coffee on the table. I notice only the Heathcotes manage to drink theirs; Fred eats a couple of biscuits too. Jake and I let our drinks go cold and slick. We don’t reach for a biscuit. The phone does not ring. Jennifer is the first to comment she wants to change out of her fancy dress. She asks if she can borrow something of mine. I agree but don’t go upstairs with her to dig anything out, she’s more than capable of rooting through my wardrobe. I don’t care what she purloins, not anymore. I just can’t leave my phone. She returns thirty minutes later, showered, fresh-faced. Men would think she’s not wearing any make-up, but I can tell she’s applied mascara, blusher and even lip gloss. At a time like this. Unbelievable. She’s wearing a denim skirt and a clingy emerald shirt. I know both things were still in a shopping bag on my bedroom floor. I hadn’t hung them up because I bought them for Emily. I just hadn’t got around to putting them in her room. They fit and suit Jennifer. The men and Ridley also shower and change. It comes to my turn. They are all insistent that I’ll feel better if I follow their lead. I think of Emily, wearing a purple leotard and high gold boots; she doesn’t have the comfort of a shower, the relief of slipping into joggers. I refuse to change.

‘You don’t need to be a martyr about this, Lexi. You are not helping her by being uncomfortable yourself,’ comments Jake. I don’t respond. I hate it that he doesn’t understand me.

‘How do you think they got my number?’ I ask instead.

‘I don’t know, Lexi – who do you give your number to?’ Jake stares at me, cold and challenging.

I flush although I don’t know why. ‘Just regular people,’ I mutter.

‘People that you help at work?’ probes Jennifer.

‘No, I’m careful not to do that.’ Toma is the only person I’ve ever helped at the bureau and then given my number to. I don’t tell her that. It isn’t any of her business. None of this is. She shouldn’t even be here.