Cuckoo (aka Claire, Darling)

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

I realise I’ve thrown my phone across the room, where it now lies on the floor, mocking me. I stare back at it, thankful it hasn’t cracked, urging it to ring, to vibrate with explanations from Noah. We will look back on this misunderstanding and laugh. We have to.

Suddenly, as though I’ve manifested it, my phone buzzes. I lunge myself across the room at an impossible speed, only to let out a frustrated huff of disappointment. It’s Sukhi.

Have you heard from him? Can I call?

No. To both– I’m sorry, struggling a bit and not in the mood to speak,

I fire back. I realise I haven’t spent much time outside of work with Sukhi and feel a little overwhelmed by her reaching out so soon after my embarrassing debacle.

I stare at the screen and watch three dots appearing, and then disappearing, several times. She’s obviously unsure how to reply. Can’t say I blame her. What do you say to a woman who has found out that her fiancé has gone missing and doesn’t work in the job she thought?

Eventually, a new message appears.

I found him on social media. I know where he works, Claire.

I press ‘Call Sukhi’ immediately, and she answers halfway through the first ring.

‘He doesn’t have social media,’ I tell her.

It’s narcissistic, don’t you think? he had said to me when we first met. And I had agreed, embarrassed to admit I still had an old Facebook account active, which I used every now and again to see what old classmates were up to.

‘Noah Coors, investment banker. He does, he’s on Facebook, and I recognise him from the photo you have as your phone wallpaper,’ Sukhi tells me, her voice breathless and hurried.

‘Hold on,’ I say, rummaging through my bag for my laptop. I hurriedly pull up Facebook, typing in Noah Coors . Three results. One is a young, spotty teenager, the other two are in America.

‘I’m not seeing him,’ I say, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice.

‘Look, I’m coming over now. Fateh’s out watching the football and I’m sat here with things you need to see. I’ll be half an hour,’ Sukhi tells me. Before I have a chance to respond, she’s hung up.She must have my address from ordering me an Uber, because I’ve certainly never invited anyone from work over before. Usually I would panic, try to scrub every skirting board and tidy everything away into its ‘right place’ before a guest arrived, but instead I slump down on the floor against the wall.

I pick up a pale yellow sofa cushion and hold it to my face. Then I smother myself with it and scream into its cotton surface. I shout like a feral thing until my throat is raw and stings. I remember the last time I behaved like this, then shake the memory away. I can’t think of Mother now, my focus needs to be Noah.

The bell rings twenty minutes later and I stumble down the internal stairs and fumble to unlatch the door, pulling it open to reveal Sukhi. Her dark hair is scraped back into a ponytail, which somehow makes her green eyes look even bigger as they scan over me in concern. She throws herself around me in a hug and I stiffen in surprise.

Then she herds me back into the flat, her mouth set in a thin line of determination, a laptop peeking out of her tote bag.

She glances at my forlorn tear-soaked cushion when I let her in but doesn’t comment.

‘You live in a studio flat?’ she asks, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.

‘We have a renovation project in Dulwich, this is temporary,’ I explain, my voice coming out strangely monotone.

She makes an understanding noise and strides in as though she owns the place, ignoring the fact that I have quite clearly been throwing all my belongings around.

‘Let me just… sorry, I had a bit of a tantrum…’ I trail off lamely as I sweep all the love notes out of the way, clearing space for Sukhi to set her computer on the small, chipped table.

‘It’s not having a tantrum, Claire. You’re just reacting to a stressful situation in the way that feels right for you. This is your home. If there’s anywhere suitable for getting messy, it’s the privacy of your own house.’

I flush, touched by her kindness but equally embarrassed. ‘There was, at least, method to the madness. I was looking for clues,’ I admit, gesturing at the massacre of paper animals on the table.

‘So I haven’t been the only one playing detective,’ she says gently, a small smile on her lips.

‘You’re the only one who actually found something though,’ I tell her, sinking down in the chair beside her.

‘Having a big family makes you good at online snooping,’ she tells me.

The laptop makes a busy whirring sound as it starts up, and I wonder if I should be offering her something to drink.

It feels strange, having someone else in my home. It’s usually just Noah and me. I sit beside her, my eyes widening as she clicks on Noah Coors’s Facebook page. And there he is. My beautiful, lying fiancé.

Pulling my phone up, I show her my own search results.

‘He must have blocked you, so you couldn’t find him,’ she tells me quietly, avoiding eye contact.

I don’t respond. I’m mortified and can feel a red heat crawl up my face and down to my chest.

‘I’m so sorry, Claire,’ she tells me.

I shake my head. ‘You have nothing to say sorry for,’ I say, and am shocked by the iciness of my tone. I’ve been blocked by my own fiancé.

‘Do you want me to show you what I found?’ she asks.

Part of me wants to say no, no, no , and return to my make-believe life with my honest, hardworking partner. Instead, I nod meekly.

She scrolls down and turns the laptop to face me. A post from February about Noah leaving Pulitzer Haas and starting his new job. He is now, according to this profile, working at Alliance a portrayal of total familiarity and ease with the surroundings that I, his future wife, have never seen before. On and on I scroll, gorging myself greedily on these photographs of his hidden double life while my brain screams in protest.

My blood runs cold as I pause at a photograph of him with his arm wrapped around a lithe blonde with dimples. I try to swallow, but it gets stuck in my throat. It’s a photo he himself uploaded, and she’s not tagged. Her skin is lightly golden, her straight hair thick and shiny, a gorgeous shade of honey blonde that starlets would pay thousands for. Big blue doe eyes are rimmed with brown kohl, which emphasises the darkness of her wispy, fluttering eyelashes. A pixie ski-jump nose, full rosebud lips and long, toned limbs complete the picture. Her arms are wrapped around Noah, one perfectly manicured hand resting on his waist.

I jump as Sukhi snaps the laptop shut. ‘Claire, don’t torture yourself. Just wait until you’ve spoken to him. Looking at things like that will only make you reach the worst conclusions.’

‘What conclusions? Do you mean: here is my boyfriend with his arm around a gorgeous blonde, while he’s working a job he didn’t tell me he had?’ I force out, trying to ignore the tremor in my voice as the enormity of what I’ve seen begins to bear down on me.

‘I mean, yes… but it might all have a reasonable explanation or not be as bad as it looks,’ Sukhi says.

I blink slowly, wanting so much to believe her. But I don’t have to say it; we both know she’s being over-optimistic about my situation.

‘I brought wine,’ she announces, reaching into her bag.

‘I don’t really drink,’ I tell her, hoping she can’t smell on my breath the wine I’ve already had.

‘We don’t have to drink it. I didn’t want to turn up empty-handed and wasn’t sure what else to bring that was appropriate,’ Sukhi admits.

‘Do you think it will make me feel better?’ I ask her.

She puts her hand down on top of mine and looks at me, properly. I fight every part of my body that wants to turn away, to stop her seeing the ugliness in me.

‘No, I don’t think it will make you feel better. I don’t think it will fix anything. I don’t think much other than your fiancé walking through the door right now will do that.’

I swallow hard. ‘Would you like a glass with me?’ I ask.

‘Sure,’ she replies.

I head over to get two glasses from the cabinet and shakily pour the wine. I blink away flashbacks of Mother pouring herself mammoth-size glasses of wine before a night out.

This is different. I am in control. I am with a friend. And I am desperate to dull the ache of my situation.

‘If ever there’s a reason for having a drink and a friend round, it’s probably now with Noah missing,’ Sukhi says, echoing my own thoughts.

I warm briefly at her use of the word friend , but my brain quickly spasms back round to the words Noah missing instead.