Chapter 16
SCARLETT
The event started two hours ago, so it’s well underway by the time we arrive.
A large, white tent fills the centre of the urban park, surrounded by pop-up canopies in a U-shape: massages and treatments, merchandise, healing gong sessions, learning to breathe with purpose, an older woman offering tarot card readings.
Wind chimes jangle at a holistic therapy booth, and next door, smoothie makers whirr and whizz with green and purple liquids.
People – mainly boho-dressed, free-spirited women – are sitting in groups on the grass or wandering around the different stalls.
I nod to a throng of people gathered around a woman performing some kind of ritual on a makeshift dance floor. ‘I find it hard to believe that Daisy enjoyed this kind of thing,’ I say. ‘It’s so not how she used to spend her time.’ If we were at a sporting event, I could understand it. But not this.
‘People change. Or get influenced.’
Or get influenced. His words echo in my head like an alarm bell.
As we reach the entrance to the main tent, a queue is forming.
A large pull-up banner advertises the day’s speakers.
Next up is a session on Unlocking Your Full Potential.
Through a gap in the side of the tent, I can see inside where bums are beginning to fill the five hundred or so seats.
Workers, wearing black jeans or shorts and T-shirts with MOM emblazoned over the front in turquoise, dart about the stage setting it up for the next speaker.
I study the girls in the front row who are already seated, the desperate hope of their young faces.
A voice resounds over a loudspeaker. ‘Our next session on stage with Perri Winters will start in twenty minutes. If you’re not booked into this one, please could we kindly ask you to vacate the area to make room to admit the attendees.’
George leads me away.
‘So where do we start?’ I say. ‘Because the words needle and haystack come to mind.’
George laughs. It’s only a small laugh, but it’s only one of the few he’s given since Daisy’s death. ‘You can say that again.’
‘How about a drink?’
‘Sure.’ We head for a smoothie bar, where I buy us avocado spinach cream dreams – a well-advertised, apparently highly rated, dense, silky concoction that tastes far better than it looks.
I sip the drink through a straw, scouring the crowd, wondering why and what Daisy was doing at one of these gatherings that day.
And where she went afterwards. Halfway through the drink, I feel nauseous. I dump the remainder in a bin.
‘Shall we get going with what we came here to do?’ I say, determined not to walk away from here today without at least a snippet of what really happened to my sister.
The air hums with a layered energy. Voices rise and fall in a low murmur of conversation as we stroll around the pop-up canopies, showing the photo around the stallholders initially, starting with a woman selling crystals, handmade dream catchers and reusable shopping bags.
‘I wonder if you can help me.’ I show her Daisy’s picture on my phone, shifting my weight from foot to foot.
‘I’m asking people if they’ve seen this woman.
It’s my sister Daisy. She’s missing. She disappeared after coming to the Leeds convention in late June.
We’re trying to piece together what happened that day.
If she was here with anyone. If she went off with anyone. ’
The woman studies the photo. She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve never seen her. Can’t the police help you?’
I give a tight-lipped smile. ‘They’re trying their best.’
And on and on it goes. ‘You were right about the needle and haystack,’ George says, after we’ve circled the stalls and spoken to most of the stallholders and are back to where we started. ‘Perhaps this was a waste of time.’
‘Look.’ I point to the booth nearest to the main tent. ‘See that stall selling merchandise? It’s got those MOM baseball caps. Daisy must’ve bought it from one of these festivals. Have you asked at that stall?’
‘No, I thought you were doing that one.’
I grab his arm and lead him to the stallholder, a young woman wearing a tie-dyed floaty skirt, a crop top and beaded bracelets galore. A thin piece of braided rope tames her unruly waist-length hair. George shows her his phone and repeats his spiel about his missing girlfriend. My missing sister.
‘I remember her,’ the woman says.
My heart jumps with hope.
‘She wanted to buy a T-shirt, but I’d run out of the small size, so she bought a cap. She was buzzing. She had an invite to one of the bonus workshops held at the end of the day. I remember thinking it was slightly odd. She didn’t seem the type.’
‘Type?’ I say.
‘Yep. Those workshops are more for people who… how can I say this… who have lost their way. Kind of… young, vulnerable girls.’
‘Who runs these workshops?’ I ask.
‘Marcus Aurelius, the owner, usually, although he’s not running any today. He’s only doing his main talk.’
‘Why?’ I ask.
She shrugs.
‘Was she on her own when you saw her?’ I ask.
The woman pauses for a moment, squinting. ‘Yes. She said she was meant to come with a friend. I remember now. But her friend couldn’t make it.’ She eyes the queue of customers waiting to be served. ‘That’s all I can tell you.’
I tug George’s arm. ‘We’ll leave you to it. Thanks for talking to us.’
‘No problem. I hope you find her.’ She gives a flat smile and turns to her waiting customers.
‘Perhaps Layla was meant to go with her that day, and she was the one who had the ticket for this intimate workshop,’ I say when we walk away.
George nods. ‘Exactly what I was thinking.’
‘Layla never mentioned that when I visited her. Maybe I need to go and see her again.’
When we’ve exhausted all the stalls, we stop for a wrap. I only manage half before giving the rest to George. Eating and drinking have become such a chore this past month.
After saying goodbye to George, I wander over to the main tent for the three o’clock Marcus Aurelius talk.
It’s packed inside. Large industrial fans at the entrances and open sides create a soft breeze, taking the edge off the stifling heat.
Dozens of people are wearing the MOM baseball caps.
The only available seats are at the back.
I make my way along the row, passing a girl about my age who is crying.
I pick up a leaflet from the chair and wedge myself between a woman in a floaty maxi dress and a guy sitting upright in an untucked, loose linen shirt and wide-leg linen trousers.
He appears to be meditating, his legs crossed and his hands resting gently on his knees.
The woman is chatting with a friend sitting beside her.
I read the leaflet while I wait, taking in the details of the two-hour session that’s about to start. The lifetime commitment to YOU to regain control of YOUR life and break through barriers to create the future YOU want to live.
I google Marcus Aurelius and blink at the screen. Why did I never notice this before? Marcus Aurelius was the name of a Roman emperor, often known as the philosopher king, who journalled about resilience and inner strength.
A microphone crackles. Heads turn to the stage. Applause breaks out as the man whose photo dominates the header of the event’s website strolls onto the stage dressed in a suit and tie, despite the merciless heat. ‘Welcome to your future,’ he says in a voice that gives me the chills.
I sit listening to him, this philosopher king, along with the five or so hundred, mainly women, sitting in his audience. I glance around. Every attendee is glued to his every word as if he’s a rock star performing at a concert.
He struts across the stage, owning it, talking about rewiring your mindset, empowerment and unleashing the blueprint for the life you want to live.
His voice resounds around the tent. ‘It may be a cliché but just think of where you want to be in five years’ time.
Visualise yourself in that dream job. Dream house. Dream relationship…’ and on it goes.
I can see why this place is packed. He sure knows his stuff. But there’s something off-putting about him. His arrogance, perhaps, the way he comes across as just a bit too slick. But tons of people are obviously taken by him. He acts like some kind of idol, a demigod.
At the end of the workshop, he takes questions.
Hands shoot into the air like launching rockets.
‘I won’t have time to answer all these, but please email me, and I will try my best to get back to you.
’ He points to a woman in the front row and gestures for one of his helpers to hand her the microphone. ‘What would you like to ask?’
At exactly five o’clock, he ends his show. People jump to their feet, clapping and cheering, some even whooping. ‘That was powerful,’ the woman beside me says to her friend.
‘Extraordinary,’ the friend replies. ‘What a legend.’
I wish I could agree, but something about the guy has creeped me out. It was like he had everyone hypnotised, under his power.
People file out of the tent. But I stay.
I want to talk to him. The searing heat hits me like a brick wall.
Sweat traces its way down my spine, and my top clings to my back.
It’s suddenly airless in here. Thirst grips my dry throat, but my water bottle is empty.
I fan my face with the leaflet, itching to get out of here.
People move slowly. Too slowly. I want to shout at them to hurry up.
When I finally reach the exit, I look over my shoulder.
A young woman with long black plaited hair is standing at the side of the stage waving for Marcus’s attention.
Other women have flocked to speak to him, fawning over him like groupies.
I consider joining them. But first I need a drink.
The late afternoon sunshine intensifies as I rush outside.
I join the queue to a water station, willing people to hurry.
It’s as if the heat has everyone on go-slow.
When I finally reach the front of the queue, I refill my bottle and step aside, emptying it in one long guzzle as if it’s the first drink I’ve had all day.
I need to get on. I want to join those girls at the stage. I want to talk to this Marcus Aurelius in person. See his reaction when I show him the photo of my sister and ask if he’s ever seen her before. I hurry back to the tent, but the stage is empty, and Marcus is nowhere in sight.
I leave. I’ve had enough.