Cuckoo (aka Claire, Darling)

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

When the Uber drops me off, I stand at the front door to our Clapham flat for a few minutes, unwilling to move past the threshold. My hand rests on the flaking grey paint, ready to push as I hold the key to the lock. But then I think of the note from Noah I woke up to this morning, carefully folded into a little paper bird on my nightstand.

Have a good day, love you x

I check my phone one more time. No new notifications. Panic is rising in my chest as I imagine him injured, hurt and unable to reach me. Is that why he’s not replying?

But then I remember the receptionist’s expression and Mr Donahue’s pity, and all the lies hit me again. He isn’t hurt. I am.

I unlock the door quickly now and run up the stairs to our front door. We have a tiny studio flat in the grubby end of Clapham North; it’s the attic apartment I was renting when we met, small but only temporary while Noah does up the house in leafy Dulwich that we’re supposed to move in to later this year. I couldn’t afford any better and I felt it was only right that I foot the bill for our temporary accommodation if Noah is funding the entire remodel of our future home. I want to contribute however I can to our future together, though my measly PR salary doesn’t offer much scope. Noah’s better with money than I am, has been saving for a deposit since university, so he was quick to put it down on our dream home and use the rest on the required renovations. At the time, it felt wildly romantic, but in this exact moment I panic that I have no financial or legal entitlement to that house and, if he is lying about his job, what else is he lying about?

‘Noah? Noah!’ I call as I enter, my eyes scanning the flat just in case he really is injured. I imagine him lying, trapped, beneath a piece of furniture, waiting for me to find him. But there’s no reply, and no overturned pieces of furniture. Everything is exactly as I left it, minus Noah.

My breakfast bowl is still sitting in the sink, a jumper is thrown over the back of a chair. The flat is empty. I clench my fists, pivot, and march back downstairs and outside, towards the high street.

Once I’m out of the grey-washed residential streets, I emerge at the central hub, brighter and bustling. Clapham is always busy, even if it’s midweek. Young women in leggings carry yoga mats and laugh with their friends; dog-walkers head towards the common. Yummy mummies are lunching, babies in prams beside them; a few creative-looking guys in beanies are tapping away on their laptops in coffee-shop windows. My gaze flits from person to person, searching desperately for Noah’s sandy hair. I stumble into his favourite coffee shop, a small independent run by a lovely Scottish couple.

‘What can we get you?’ the woman asks as soon as the entry bell rings.

‘I’m actually looking for my boyfriend,’ I explain. ‘He loves coming here…’ I trail off as I realise he’s not at any of the tables.

She motions towards my phone with a flap of her hands. I realise it’s because Noah is my wallpaper, and I loosen my grip on the phone enough to show her.

‘Noah!’ She nods. ‘He was in all the time.’ She glances up at me. ‘We’ve not seen him in a while though, sorry. I’d guessed he’d moved away. Hope you track him down.’ She smiles.

I force myself to smile back, leaving the cafe, my hands shaking with adrenaline.

I stand on the pavement, unsure of where to go next. I pull up Noah’s number and press call, but it just rings out. He hasn’t had an answerphone set up since I’ve known him, claiming he doesn’t want work clogging up his inbox with messages. A flash of irritation runs through me as I send off another quick text.

Please, Noah. I just want to understand what’s happened. I’m trying to find you.

Why would he hide a new job from me? If an NDA was involved, it must be a good move, to a competitor or something. I curse myself for not understanding what he does properly, for not knowing the ins and outs of his industry better. He’d always just wave it off as ‘semantics’ when I tried to get more of an in-depth view of what his day-to-day looked like.

Lost for where to check next, I find myself wandering around Clapham Common, the sunlight fighting its way through the clouds and the smell of freshly cut grass in the air. My feet automatically power me forwards as though they can’t bear for me to be still. I’d rather be doing something than sitting at home losing my mind, trying to work out why my fiancé has been lying to me for the past few months. How did we go from such a perfect evening together last night… to this?

As I walk around the common, I notice a fitness class going on, and I remember that Noah went to it once in the summer. Without much else to try, I head over to the class. The man leading it is ripped, shouting out words of encouragement to everyone as he demonstrates some squat jumps. Feeling awkward about interrupting, I back off a little and end up sitting on a bench, watching and waiting for the session to wrap up.

I fidget, wringing my hands and tapping my feet as a light chill nips at my cheeks. One bench down from me, a man is swigging from a can of cider, and he keeps side-eyeing me as though I’m invading his personal space. He’s wearing an oversized coat, an unruly beard covering the lower half of his face. He groans and grumbles to himself audibly. I self-consciously shift myself to face away from him and he begins muttering under his breath. I feel tense, alert, ready to run at the first sign of confrontation. He’s getting louder and begins rocking slightly. I don’t dare look over in case it spurs him on but manage to catch a little of what he’s saying.

‘Crazy bitch sitting next to me… sitting next to me here in my space. Bitch… Crazy bitch.’

I’m just about to get up and find another spot when the sound of clapping reaches my ears and I look up to see the group giving themselves a round of applause, the trainer high-fiving them and telling them he’ll see them next week. I get up from my bench and hurry over to him, all too eager to leave the bearded man behind.

‘Hey!’ The trainer smiles at me as I approach. ‘Looking to join in next time?’

‘Oh! No, no, sorry. I mean, maybe. But that’s not why I’m coming over. I was just wondering if you have ever trained my boyfriend. I think he did one of your classes last summer?’ I hold up my phone and he frowns at the photo of Noah on the screen.

A kernel of hope blooms in the seconds for which he doesn’t reply. Is he trying to remember the exact time he last saw Noah? Or maybe—

‘I’m sorry, I don’t recognise him… definitely not one of my regulars,’ he eventually says.

‘Oh,’ I reply, my shoulders sagging. ‘Okay, thanks anyway.’ I turn to walk away.

‘Mad Martin’s Moves, look me up on Instagram, every Tuesday at three or Saturdays at eleven!’ he yells after me.

I hurry away, embarrassed. What if Noah finds out I’ve been asking all around the common for him like some petty, jealous girlfriend? Perhaps the bearded man was right and I’m losing my mind.