Just My Luck(96)

‘How dare he!’ I yelled.

‘He’s trying to protect you, for fuck’s sake,’ snapped Jennifer. I saw that it hurt her to acknowledge as much. She was defending a man that she – what? Loved? – to his wife. She was pointing out her lover’s kindness and responsibility to his wife. Not an easy position to take. She must have been wondering where she stood now.

I had no choice but to accept the situation Jake had left me in, but I clung to my dignity and a semblance of control. ‘Send him a text. Tell him he has to keep me informed,’ I instructed. ‘He needs to give me updates regularly or I’m calling the police.’

She swiftly texted. Almost instantly, her phone pinged in response. Wherever he was, he clearly didn’t struggle to receive her messages, the way he struggled to receive mine all the time. ‘He says OK, he’ll text updates and he’ll call on my phone when he has news.’ Jennifer placed her phone in the middle of the kitchen table, just where mine had been. I fought the urge to think the replacement was symbolic. The day passed at a snail’s pace. On about a thousand occasions, I reached for Jennifer’s telephone to check to see if I had somehow missed a call from Jake. Time after time I was faced with a blank screen. He didn’t keep his promise to keep me informed. Why did I think he would?

‘I’m going to call the police,’ I said more than once.

‘No, you are not,’ replied Jennifer or Fred. Sometimes forcefully, though as the day mooched on, they were less forceful, more bored, as though they had identified my threat as empty, dull. As though they knew I was ultimately weak and would do what Jake had asked.

When the phone finally rings, it is like an ambulance siren. It fills the house with dread and promise. Threat and hope. Jake cries out, ‘I have her. I have her. Lexi, I have her.’

The relief is so overwhelming, it feels as though my body explodes into a million pieces and then in a fraction of a second pieces itself back together again, sharper, more focused, euphoric. I have never in my life felt such happiness.

‘Is she OK?’ Tears are in my throat and eyes. I rest my forehead on the kitchen table; it feels solid and steady. It might shore me up when I hear his answer. What they could have done to her has played around and around my head and heart for nearly twenty-four hours.

‘Yes.’ He pauses. ‘Mostly. We’re on our way to the hospital.’

‘I’m coming.’

‘Yes, come at once. Meet us there.’

‘Can I talk to her?’

‘She’s not herself.’ I hear the catch in Jake’s throat.

‘Please put the phone to her ear if you can.’ I assume he has followed my instruction and I murmur down the phone, ‘I’m coming, my baby girl. I’m coming.’

‘I think she understood,’ says Jake. ‘She’s not fully conscious.’ I don’t want to talk any longer. I just need to see her. I hang up.

Naturally, Jennifer tries to muscle in on this deeply personal family moment. ‘You shouldn’t be driving, you are not in a fit state,’ she says. ‘I’ll drive you.’

‘I’m perfectly capable, thank you.’

‘Which car will you take? Jake took the Audi. Are you even insured for the Ferrari?’

‘Are you?’ I challenge. She might be for all I know. ‘I’ll get a taxi. Please stay here with the boys, keep an eye on Logan for me.’ Logan is still oblivious to what we’ve all been going through. He’s spent the day playing video games with Ridley. I’m not sure whether Ridley showed impressive maturity in protecting Logan from the reality of what was going on or whether he simply wanted to keep out of his parents’ way but, whatever his motivation, I’m grateful. I’m a fast learner and copying my husband’s trick, I pocket Jennifer’s phone unnoticed. I call an uber and then I call the police.





43


Emily


Monday, 27th May

When I open my eyes, I am beyond relieved that everything is cream and light, not black and shadowy. I can hear the beep and hum of hospital machines, Mum and Dad are at my bedside. They look like shit and from the look on their faces I guess I must be worse. Mum looks as though she’s bruised, but I squint a bit to try to focus, the bright lights are a bit much after the darkness. I realise Mum’s face is swollen, red, purple and blue through crying, not because she’s had a beating. I try to move a bit. My body protests loudly, suggesting I might have taken a beating.

‘Hello, darling, how are you feeling?’ murmurs Mum. She has hold of my hand, she leans forward and kisses it, like I’m royalty or the Pope or something.

‘OK,’ I mumble back. I don’t feel OK. I ache from head to toe. It’s more than pain, it’s like a fragility; if I move, I’ll fall apart. I’m in a private room. Of course I am, we are rich. I’d forgotten. When we won the lottery, I thought being rich meant I’d be indulged, protected. I guess it can mean that, but it can also mean I’m exploited, threatened. ‘I’m thirsty.’ Mum reaches for some water at my bedside. She drips it carefully into my mouth, like a bird feeding a chick. It reminds me of something. Something to do with the abduction but I can’t remember what. ‘What happened?’ I ask.

‘You were kidnapped,’ says Mum. ‘Some very bad people held you hostage for money.’ I almost want to laugh at Mum’s words ‘some very bad people’. That doesn’t get close. They kicked me, starved me, bound me and drugged me. Yes, I think I was drugged. I guess she will know all this now, there will be medical evidence. I suppose she’s trying not to distress me by being too explicit. I’m far too weak and weary to point out that she can’t protect me – I was the one who lived through it.