Then She Was Gone(14)

‘I’ll see you on Friday.’

‘You will,’ he says, ‘unless …’

Laurel has always taken care of her appearance. Even in the terrible early days of Ellie’s disappearance she would shower, choose clothes carefully, blot out the shadows under her eyes with pricey concealers, comb her hair until it shone. She had never let herself go. Herself was all she had left in those days.

She’s always made herself look nice, but has not worried about looking pretty for a long time. In fact she stopped attempting to look pretty in approximately 1985 when she and Paul moved in together. So this, right now, her stupid face in the mirror, the open bags of cosmetics, the flow of nervous energy running through her that has her putting mascara on her eyelids instead of eyeliner, the terrible scrutiny and crossness at herself for allowing her face to get old, for not being pretty, for not being born with the genes of Christy Turlington, this is all new.

She grimaces and wipes the mascara away with a cleansing wipe. ‘Bollocks,’ she mutters under her breath. ‘Shit.’

Behind her on her bed are the contents of her wardrobe. It’s strange weather tonight. Muggy, for the time of year, but showers forecast, and a strong wind. And although her figure is fine – she’s a standard size ten – all her going-out clothes are ones she’s had since she was in her forties. Too high up the leg, too flowery, too much arm, too much chest. Nothing works, none of it. She surrenders, in the end, to a grey long-sleeve top and flared black trousers. Dull. But appropriate.

The time is seven oh five. She needs to leave the house in ten minutes to be on time for her date with Floyd. She quickly finishes her make-up. She has no idea if she’s made herself look better or worse but she’s run out of time to care.

At the front door of her apartment she stops for a moment. She keeps photos of her three children on a small console here. She likes the feeling of being greeted and bade farewell by them. She picks up the photo of Ellie. Fifteen years old, the October half-term before she went missing; they were in Wales; her face was flushed with sea air and ball games on the beach with her brother and sister. Her mouth was fully open, you could see virtually to the back of her throat. She wore a tan woolly hat with a giant pompom on the top. Her hands were buried inside the sleeves of an oversized hoodie.

‘I’m going on a date, Ellie,’ she says to her girl. ‘With a nice man. He’s called Floyd. I think you’d like him.’

She passes her thumb over her girl’s smiling face, over the giant pompom.

That’s awesome, Mum, she hears her say, I’m so happy for you. Have fun!

‘I’ll try,’ she replies to the emptiness. ‘I’ll try.’

The light is kind in the restaurant Floyd’s chosen for their date. The walls are lacquered black and gold, the furniture is dark, the lampshades are made of amethyst beads strung together over halogen bulbs. He’s already there when she arrives, two minutes late. She thinks: He looks younger in this light, therefore I must look younger too. This bolsters her as she approaches him and lets him stand and kiss her on both cheeks.

‘You look very elegant,’ he says.

‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘So do you.’

He’s wearing a black and grey houndstooth checked shirt and a black corduroy jacket. His hair looks to have had a trim since their first meeting and he smells of cedar and lime.

‘Do you like the restaurant?’ he asks, faking uncertainty and fooling nobody.

‘Of course I like the restaurant,’ she says. ‘It’s gorgeous.’

‘Phew,’ he says and she smiles at him.

‘Have you been here before?’ she asks.

‘I have. But only for lunch. I always wanted to come back in the evening when it was all gloomy and murky and full of louche people.’

Laurel looks around her at the clientele, most of whom look like they just came straight from the office or are on dates. ‘Not so louche,’ she says.

‘Yeah. I noticed. I am very disappointed.’

She smiles and he passes her a menu.

‘Are you hungry?’

‘I’m ravenous,’ she says. And it’s true. She’s been too nervous to eat all day. And now that she’s seen him and remembered why she agreed to share his cake with him, why she called him, why she arranged to meet him, her appetite has come back.

‘You like spicy food?’

‘I love spicy food.’

He beams at her. ‘Thank God for that. I only really like people who like spicy food. That would have been a bad start.’

It takes them a while even to look at the menu. Floyd is full of questions: Do you have a job? Brothers? Sisters? What sort of flat do you live in? Any hobbies? Any pets? And then, before their drinks have even arrived, ‘How old are your kids?’

‘Oh.’ She bunches her napkin up on her lap. ‘They’re twenty-seven and twenty-nine.’

‘Wow!’ He looks at her askance. ‘You do not look old enough to have kids that age. I thought teens, at a push.’

She knows this is utter nonsense; losing a child ages you faster than a life spent chain-smoking on a beach. ‘I’m nearly fifty-five,’ she says. ‘And I look it.’

‘Well, no you don’t,’ he counters. ‘I had you at forty-something. You look great.’