Chapter 7
Kamal makes a cup of tea for me the next morning, but I’m downstairs before he has to use it to lure me out of bed.
‘You’re up,’ he says, unable to hide his surprise.
‘I heard the kettle. Besides, I’ve woken up feeling like I could run a marathon. You know, if I actually enjoyed running.’
‘Does that mean lots of words are brewing in you?’
‘Something like that.’ A lie, but it feels safer than admitting the only thing brewing in me is the desire to find Alexa Clarke.
Kamal grabs his lunch and goes to leave, but then he stops. ‘Before I forget, we’re out of milk. Could you swing by the shop and get some?’
My pulse flutters at the base of my throat. Reading my silence, Kamal shakes off the question.
‘Don’t worry, I can go on—’
‘No,’ I interrupt. ‘It’s okay. I’ll go.’
He hovers. ‘You’re sure you want to?’
‘Yes, I’ll go. I’ll make friends with the locals.’
It’s hard not to be upset by Kamal’s happiness, given that it highlights the severity of my isolation. Once upon a time, which one of us would do such a simple chore wouldn’t have been up for debate, but that was before tiny village stores and small talk made my palms damp.
When Kamal is gone, I swill the tablet he left out for me down the sink and stand at the kitchen window. Sparkling frost glimmers as far as the eye can see, while a dark sky peers down on the frozen wonderland. The perfect day to stay indoors and avoid the harsh world.
But you’re not doing that, I remind myself. Today you’re going out, and you’ll be fine when you do.
The assurance is enough to calm me down. Marginally, at least.
Draining the last of my tea, I check my phone. A notification from Natalya is waiting, one I open quickly when I see it’s an update on Alexa Clarke.
Apparently, she’s still not home. Surely it’s time for Otis to go to the police now?!x
The words ‘Katherine is typing’ appear at the top of the screen, but I close the conversation. I don’t have time to chat when there are more useful things I could do.
Things like looking for Alexa myself.
Fuelled by that thought, I dress and leave the house. My throat is tight as my car draws closer to the centre of Bramblethorpe, passing people who waved when I first moved here but soon learned not to when I didn’t return the gesture.
When I slow at an intersection, I spot Jim Marshall in the distance. His faithful dog, Bernie, trots alongside him. Despite having never interacted with him, Jim is one of the few people in Bramblethorpe I can name, but only because Katherine and Natalya have shared so many stories about him.
Thanks to his fiery temper and prolific career as a professional boxer fifteen years ago, Jim is well known around here.
Half-hated, half-feared, his territorial attitude towards the farm he runs alone after his wife left him is legendary.
He has a reputation for setting up booby traps to warn trespassers away.
It’s even rumoured that he once threatened a group of teenagers with a shotgun because they were camping on his property.
Usually, I never pay attention to gossip, but whenever I see Jim’s scowl and the bulky outline of his physique, his rumoured aggression is all I can think of.
With no other car approaching the intersection, I set off more quickly than I would if Jim and Bernie weren’t there. Minutes later, I reach the safety of the high street.
I’m psyching myself up to enter the village store when my sister calls. Knowing that if I let the phone ring out, it would be the fourth of Beth’s calls I’ve ignored this last week, I force myself to pick up.
‘Beth, now isn’t a good time,’ I say.
‘Why not? You work from home inventing stories. You have all the time in the world.’
Once upon a time, my sister’s mock ignorance about what I do for a living was something we laughed about. Today, it’s only insulting.
‘I’m not at home,’ I reply.
‘Really? But you’re always at home.’
Insult number two nestles like a knife between my ribs. ‘Well, today I’m not.’
‘Where are you?’ Beth asks, fighting to be heard over my nieces squabbling in the background. A single parent to a thirteen-month-old and a three-year-old, Beth assures me she has the hardest job in the world. I don’t doubt her assertion, but it’s a job I’d kill for.
‘I’m out running errands,’ I say, picking at the leather of my steering wheel.
‘I’m glad you’re out of the house. And is everything okay? Is today a good day?’
I force a sigh. ‘Beth, you don’t need to check up on me. What do you want?’
‘Okay, grumpy, I won’t keep you long, but Mum and I were thinking we should meet for lunch next weekend.’
Inwardly, I groan. It’s hard enough keeping up the pretence with Kamal that I’m working on my book, but add Mum and Beth to the mix and I have a nightmare on my hands. All Mum ever says is how her book club is eagerly awaiting the next one, as if that doesn’t pile on the pressure.
‘I’ll check with Kamal, but I think we have plans,’ I lie.
‘Well, we’re flexible. If you’re with Kamal Saturday, we can do Sunday.’
‘Sorry, it’s a whole weekend event.’
Beth pauses. ‘If I call Kamal, will he say the same thing?’
There’s something about her tone that ruffles me. ‘What did I say about not checking up on me?’
‘What you’re calling checking up on, some would say looking out for.’
‘I’m the big sister. It’s my job to look out for you, not the other way round.’ When a beat of stung silence rings out on the other end of the line, I wince. I don’t mean to snap at Beth. I don’t mean to snap at anyone. I just can’t seem to help myself.
‘Janine—’
‘I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later, okay?’ I say, even though we both know that I won’t.
I hang up before I hear Beth’s reply. It takes me a second to get myself moving afterwards, with some small, niggling part of my conscience warning me that how I just spoke to my sister was not okay.
When I enter the village shop, the bell above the door dings to announce my arrival. Not that the cashier notices. She’s too busy chatting to another middle-aged woman, a customer who has already paid for her shopping but is in no hurry to leave.
‘Apparently Alexa walks out on him all the time. Terrible, isn’t it? There’s obviously something wrong with her mental state,’ the customer says. I flinch at her cutting analysis, but keep listening.
‘We don’t know if this has anything to do with Alexa’s mental state. Otis could be a narcissist. It wouldn’t surprise me, with all that money. Besides, whenever someone steps out on their marriage, there’s always more to it.’
‘Well, I think I’ve got the scoop on that. Want to hear?’
Intrigued, I busy myself searching the range of apples on display.
‘Mary, don’t be daft! Of course I want to know,’ the cashier squeals.
‘Rumour has it that Alexa was spotted a few weeks ago in Saddleforth looking cosy with a handsome man. A man who was most definitely not Otis Clarke.’
My eyes widen, but my reaction is tame in comparison to the cashier’s audible gasp.
‘Who told you that?’ she cries.
‘Franny Henderson.’
‘Oh, well, if Franny said it then it must be true,’ the cashier scoffs, her disappointment palpable.
‘Say what you like, but Franny said she double-checked it was Alexa because it was such a shock to see her away from that horrible house.’
‘Come on, Mary. You know as well as I do that Franny is as accurate with the truth as the prime minister is.’
A bubble of laughter escapes me at the comment. The two women jump and turn to face me at the unexpected sound. Under their scrutiny, I burn with embarrassment.
‘I—’ I begin, but the cashier smiles warmly.
‘Don’t worry, love. I spend my day eavesdropping on customers’ conversations. It’s only fair you listen back.’ Suddenly, she narrows her eyes, then an even brighter smile overcomes her. ‘You’re the new woman, aren’t you? The writer?’
‘That’s me,’ I reply. ‘I’m Janine.’
‘Welcome! Although I suppose you’re not so new here anymore. Still, it’s lovely to finally meet you. We were all very excited to hear we had a famous author living in the village. Mary’s got all your books in paperback.’
‘I’ll have to get you to sign them,’ Mary chips in.
‘I’d love to,’ I reply, approaching the counter with an apple. When I set it down, I notice it’s bruised, but I daren’t swap it. The cashier, whose name badge reads Renee, takes the apple and weighs it.
‘I’m sorry you had to hear our gossiping,’ she says. ‘Although I’m sure you’ve heard all about what’s going on with Alexa Clarke.’
‘I have. It sounds very mysterious.’
Renee grimaces. ‘It does. Whatever the outcome is, I suspect it won’t be good.’
‘Especially now we know cheating is involved,’ Mary adds.
Renee shoots her a warning look. ‘If Franny Henderson is telling the truth.’
‘I don’t think Franny would be wrong about something this important,’ Mary says, hoisting her shopping bags onto the crook of her arm. ‘I should go, but it was lovely to meet you, Janine. Or should I say, lovely to meet you, S. K. Atherton!’
When Mary leaves, I purchase my apple even though I need a single apple as much as I need a hole in the head. I pay by card and head for the door.
‘It was nice to chat, dear,’ Renee calls before I leave.
My lips twitch into what I hope comes across as a friendly smile before I dash outside. It’s only when I get back to my car that I realise I forgot to buy milk.
Sighing, I lean my head on the steering wheel and listen to the blood pound in my ears.
This level of distress makes no sense. Going to the shop shouldn’t be a big deal for someone who has been on stage in auditoriums that fit thousands, but somehow it feels like the hardest thing I could ever do. Sadness claws at me as, yet again, I’m reminded that I’ve lost part of myself.
I want to hate myself for it. In fact, most days I do. I should be stronger than this. Better. The person smiling on the back cover of her books, who people queue to meet. But I’m not. I’m a walking disappointment.
Lifting my head, I stare ahead as if the answer to my problems can be found on the high street, but all I see is Margie leaning in the doorway of Coffee and Cake, chatting away. From her animated expression, I’d bet money it’s about Alexa Clarke.
My brow furrows. So many people are talking about what’s going on like Alexa’s life is entertainment. They’re swapping theories and sharing stories, but no one is doing anything.
I can’t be like them.
As soon as that thought registers with me, it’s like a lightbulb switches on. Forget milk, forget apples – Alexa is the reason I am out of the house today.
I decide to start where I would start if this were a book – with Alexa’s last known whereabouts.
Typing Maple Crescent into Google Maps, I set off driving.
The further I get from the high street, the more I come alive with purpose and the less I listen to the voice in my head warning me that what I am doing is borderline insane.
By the time I reach Maple Crescent, checking out Alexa’s house doesn’t seem inappropriate.
If anything, it feels entirely sensible.
Driving down the leafy street, I think back to Natalya’s words about Alexa’s home: That big modern one, she’d said.
As I make my way down the road, I can see why a modern structure would cause a stir somewhere like this.
It’s a narrow, winding road with uninterrupted fields running along one side and beautiful period properties on the other.
Everything is as I imagine it was one hundred years ago, with the pretty ivy-fronted houses dotted around like something from the front of a Christmas card.
Or, if I listen to the cynical side of my brain, a documentary about a remote, off-grid cult.
I pass four well-proportioned cottages with sweeping gardens, then an ornate home set back from the road.
Slowing, I study the bold brickwork and design, then shake my head.
This house looks like it comes straight from the pages of a Victorian Gothic novel.
Natalya called Alexa’s house modern. This house would have only been considered modern in 1859.
Continuing onwards, I creep past a subtly signposted entrance to a public footpath, a cute cottage and another grand period property before reaching a T-junction with Oak Avenue.
My forehead scrunches as I read the street sign confirming I’m on Maple Crescent.
Spinning my car around, I travel back down the road, slower this time. I pass the last house and the cottage, the Gothic dream home, the first four cottages – but no modern masterpiece.
Pulling up on the side of the road, I reach for my phone. My plan is to see if Google Maps can help me, but my hands are shaking with so much nervous energy that the phone slips out of my grip.
Bending to retrieve it, I rummage around the embarrassingly dirty footwell of my car. My fingers brush against scraps of leaves and dropped mints, but no phone. Reaching under the seat, I continue the hunt until out of nowhere, a shadow falls across the window, shrouding me in darkness.