People LIke Her(72)
The driver helps us inside with the bags, which she instructs him to leave in the hall. He confirms the fare, and she pays it in cash. We check the boot and the back seat for any last bits and bobs that might have spilled out, and then she waves him off.
“I’m afraid we will need to search these for contraband phones and laptops before we show you to your room.” She laughs. “Just take a seat here; there’s a Moses basket behind the sofa for Bear. What a lovely little baby he is.”
She already has a cup of tea on the table, and pours me one from a patterned china teapot while pointing to a plate of cookies. Christ, this house looks like it was decorated by a suburban housewife—there are teddies clutching hearts on the mantelpiece and one of those dreadful driftwood signs that says LOVE IS WHAT MAKES THIS HOUSE A HOME. The rug under my feet is that black-and-white faux-Moroccan La Redoute one that has its own Instagram account.
I settle into a grey velvet armchair and take a big sip from what I’m a little surprised to see is a #greydays mug.
Then, nothing.
It was so easy. That is what amazes me. How simple the whole thing was. All that creeping around, all that watching your house. All that time I spent observing your movements, as a family, as individuals, accustoming myself to the pattern of your days. The part of the plan that had always given me the most trouble was trying to work out how I was going to get you here. I had all sorts of complicated ideas, spent ages working out various elaborate machinations. I was going to snatch Coco in the park, and leave you a trail of clues. I was going to come along to one of your events, try and persuade you to let me give you and Bear a lift home. I was going to goad you online so insistently, so viciously, that you would feel compelled to unmask me, track me down—the point of the plan being that I would make this as simple as possible—and come here to confront me in person. I was going to write you a series of anonymous letters . . .
All it needed in the end was three phone calls. It came to me as soon as you announced the name of the “digital detox” retreat.
There was something typically “you” about that, wasn’t there? Something typically Emmy. Announcing in advance the name of the place you are going on retreat, combining a bout of soul-searching and contrition with a free holiday.
Five days. Perfect. I could not have asked for everything to fall into place more neatly. If I am lucky, it will be several days before anyone notices anything is amiss. And even when they do, so what? There is nothing to link you to this place, you to me. Only the driver—and how will they find him?
My first phone call was last night, to the place you were meant to be staying. I told them I was your PA. Nobody questioned it. I told them I was calling to confirm the travel arrangements for today. They were sending a car, weren’t they? Of course, came the reply. It was all booked. Would I like them to reconfirm that? I said if it was not too much trouble. And the car would be arriving at Emmy’s at eleven a.m.? Wonderful.
My second phone call, early this morning, was to the same number, to apologize. Was this the same person I had spoken to before? Apparently it was. Was there anything I needed, they asked? “I am so sorry about this,” I said. “It’s the baby. The poor little thing has been up all night with a temperature and has just been sick again.” We were waiting, I told them, for the doctor’s to open to see if we could get an emergency appointment. Would it be possible to postpone? We were so sorry about the late notice, I told them. Emmy and Bear had been so much looking forward to it.
They were very understanding about the whole situation. I promised I would call back soon with Emmy’s diary to hand to discuss alternative dates. They asked me to pass on all their best to Emmy and get—well-soon wishes to little Bear. Of course, they said, they would call and cancel the car and explain the situation.
My third call was to a local minicab company. Could they do a pickup from an address in London, at eleven a.m. today? I asked about the car, the kind of car, they would be sending. A blue Prius, they said. I told them that would be perfect. The name of the person they were collecting was Emmy Jackson. She would have a tiny baby with her. She would probably have quite a bit of luggage too. The drop-off address? I gave them the address of this place, and told them how to get here. “Once you have found the lane,” I said, “you just keep going. I’ll be here. I’ll be keeping an eye out for you. Yes, I’ll be paying cash. How much? I’ll have it ready.”
Isn’t it strange these days, how we all just jump into people’s cars, trust that they are who we assume they are, trust that they will take us where we think we are going?
And now here you are.
I could see, even as you were walking up to the front door, even before you got inside, that you were wondering if this could really be the place. I guessed you’d been expecting something a bit fancier, a bit less domestic. I could see you thinking that none of this looked much like any of the pictures on the website, could see your gaze resting on various items around the place, Grace’s little decorating touches, slightly smirking.
If I had ever had a moment of hesitation about all this, that half-stifled smirk would have quashed it.
Propofol. That was what was in the cup of tea. A commonly prescribed muscle relaxant and sedative, with some retrograde amnesiac qualities. You took three sips of your tea and fell asleep midsentence. Given those amnesiac qualities, I doubt you’ll even remember that.