Chapter Ten
Skyla did not tell me this, and I skulk from her room into my own, raging.
The rainfall shower with body jets pelting onto my skin from all angles does little to take the edge off. Even the walk down Chipping Norton High Street, wandering past the boutique shops and quaint cafes on my way to the hairdresser, I’m still reeling.
All through the appointment, through trying to read a Joy Ellis book I’d picked up on a recommendation from a friend while the dye develops, through sipping my cup of sugary tea, through the rinse and massage and blow-dry, I can’t seem to let it go.
Raven. The late night with Skyla. The lingerie.
The bloody pad. The way she seemed to kick me out of the guestroom like it was hers.
Would it be? If she is Robin, wouldn’t that be her room had we moved here as a family of four?
Most likely. Or would Robin and Skyla still be in together?
Sharing? That was always my hope. That they’d grow up wanting to be together as long as they could be, until life eventually prised them apart.
Inevitable, unavoidable, but something that could be deferred as long as possible.
I breathe in the Wella products the stylist tries to sell me when I’m leaving, biscotti still sweet on my lips.
‘Thank you, but not today,’ I manage to say, aware of several pairs of eyes ogling me.
I knew it wouldn’t be long. Women with tin foil snaking around their heads, making them look like Medusa, stare at me from behind magazines, speaking in hushed tones to one another about me.
About who I am. This is why I don’t come out, or ever do things like this.
I’d known from the moment I’d seen that voucher that this was a bad idea.
‘That’s Isabella Rushmore,’ I hear one of them murmur from behind a copy of the latest Women’s Health. ‘The woman who killed her baby.’
‘She didn’t!’ another gasps and leans back in her seat to get a better view. Subtlety is clearly not their strong suit.
Years ago, I’d have confronted them. Gone right up to their chairs and told them I had nothing to do with Robin’s disappearance, that all I want is to find her.
How can they not see that? But I’ve learned through time that responding like that, responding at all only makes me look crazed.
That I scare them, and that ignoring them really is best. So I tip the curious stylist generously and escape through the sage-green door, the summer breeze stifling as I inhale a deep breath.
Resting against the warm, ochre, stone walls, I take out my phone and text James.
Done x
There’s no need to say more. He’ll be devastated if I tell him the appointment was soured.
I just want him to come and get me now. I hate feeling stuck here, having to wait for him.
I should have taken my own car instead of getting dropped off.
It’ll be at least forty minutes for James to drive back from Cheltenham.
What if one of those women comes out of the salon and spots me?
Gone are the days of enjoying a luxurious hair treatment or being able to sit at a coffee shop or pub in peace — not that I did much of that in my thirties before our lives fell apart anyway.
Whatever was considered a ‘normal’ life to us before certainly doesn’t exist now.
Despite my new honey-coloured highlights and tight curls, I shove on a baseball cap and keep my head low as I start winding my way down the village high street, doing my best to become invisible, to blend in with my surroundings.
It’s best that way. We don’t even have any sort of social media presence any more.
The thought of it is far too terrifying.
Signing up to Facebook would be like willingly jumping into shark-infested waters.
The hate and the threats we received online all those years ago has frightened me away from any sort of online community I used to be a part of.
I wonder how James has fared at Sudeley Castle today. It’s often no better at places like that, either. It’s as though our faces and names have been burned into people’s minds. Even the tourists know who we are, and it’s like they’re waiting for us so they can pounce.
People aren’t all bad, though. We do get a lot of support, and I wish I could focus on that more. But today is a bad day, and when I have a bad day, I tend to let the negativity swallow me whole. It isn’t one of my better traits.
I make my way down to Bitter and Twisted, the name ironic considering the mood I’m in.
Gripping the sides of the stone archway by the entrance, I pause a moment.
Catching my breath, I brace myself for another room full of people, hoping it may just be dark enough in there that no one will notice or recognise me.
When I feel as ready as I’ll ever be, I push open the dark, wooden door leading inside.
Plucking the wine list from the bar, I bury my face into it, scanning through the options.
It’s my birthday, I remind myself and order a Calypso Cooler cocktail.
The mango and passion fruit are the perfect accompaniment for such a hot summer’s day, but I don’t sit outside in the sunshine to enjoy it.
I never do. I stow away into the darkest corner I can find, keeping hidden behind Joy Ellis’s book, sipping my drink and waiting for my lift home.
Forty minutes comes and goes yet there’s still no sign of James and the girls. As always, my anxiety starts to mount. Are they stuck in traffic? A few minutes later, I start assuming the worst. Have they had a car accident?
Before my mind can spiral out of control, I open WhatsApp, surprised to see no response from James despite him having been online. That isn’t like him. He always takes the time to send a reply, or at least give a message from me a thumbs up.
‘Isabella?’ A voice startles me, making me drop my phone to the tabletop.
I turn towards a woman on my left. She must be early forties, dressed in a floral number, tall and round, with a peach matt lipstick making her lips look cracked and dry. I don’t recognise her, and I become a deer in the headlights as she gets closer.
‘I thought it was you! Oh, Isabella.’ The woman looks at me with tear-filled eyes. ‘I believe you!’ She reaches out for me, this strange woman I don’t know, and instinctively I pull back, away from her.
‘What?’ I gulp, trying to put my cocktail down but I miss the table completely and it smashes to the floor, drenching both of our legs.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ I say, but it’s as though she hasn’t even noticed the stains on her dress.
She’s just gawking at me — and I’ve seen this sort of look before from people.
It belongs to those who have become obsessed with Robin’s missing person case.
‘I believe you!’ she says again. ‘You poor thing, to not have answers after all these years. But I know you didn’t do it.’
I know she means well, but I don’t want to hear it.
I don’t want to engage. Why do people feel the need to approach us and say these sorts of things?
It rarely helps, only has us feeling cornered.
The need to flee is overwhelming. When the waitress comes over to mop up the mess I’ve made, I apologise and scamper out of the bar before she can say anything more to me.
Back out on the high street, there’s nowhere to hide. I feel exposed, vulnerable. Wrapping my arms around myself, I turn left and right, unsure where to go. Where is James?
Being Saturday, the high street is bustling. There’s no escaping the crowds. As I call James, I pinch the bridge of my nose to try and calm myself down.
‘Hello?’ he answers, and it doesn’t sound like he’s driving, which makes my stomach drop.
‘Where are you?’ I ask woodenly.
‘Sudeley Castle? Skyla’s dragged us back to St Mary’s Chapel to see that queen’s tomb again. Just had a bite to eat at the Pavilion.’
‘Catherine Parr, Dad! Her name is Catherine Parr,’ I hear Skyla moan in the background, telling him things she’ll have told him ten times before.
‘I texted you!’ I cry down the phone.
‘Did you? Hold on,’ he says. ‘I don’t have any messages from you. Are you done?’
‘Yes! I’ve been done ages; I just want to come home.
The women in the salon were all talking about me, pointing at me.
Then this lady recognised me in Bitter and Twisted,’ I ramble.
I didn’t want to have to tell James how awful the experience was — I wanted to let him believe spoiling me with a hair appointment was wonderful, but I’m frantic now. Desperate to get home.
‘Oh, my love, I’m so sorry. Maybe the signal is bad, that’s why your message hasn’t come through. We’ll leave now.’
‘Don’t. It’s fine. I’ll call for a taxi. Enjoy the rest of the day.’ I hang up before he can respond and dial the number for a local taxi service.
While I wait for the taxi to arrive, I open WhatsApp and check my chat with James.
My message was sent, and there’s two blue ticks to show he received and read it.
I swipe at the message, and it tells me he read it today at 15:26 — over an hour ago.
Frowning, I pocket my phone and start to chew my thumb nail.
Why is he telling me he didn’t get it when he clearly did?
* * *
At home I dump my handbag down and take a moment to sit. The stillness and quietness of the house tranquilises me. This is my safe space.
We still get people outside our property, trying to catch glimpses of us.
But inside, they can’t see us and the actual house is so far up the drive that I don’t even need to close the blinds.
I let the sun shining in through the windows warm my arms. I press my head back into the cushions and breathe.
The task of cooking dinner finally lures me from the sofa into the kitchen, and after scrutinising the contents of the fridge, I turn on the oven.
James and the girls traipse in as I’m coating chicken in a piri-piri seasoning a while later.
‘Your hair looks nice, Mum,’ Skyla says. She’s got that horrible lipstick on again.
‘Thanks, baby,’ I lean forward and give her a kiss on the cheek. I’ve always called her baby, since the day she arrived, and she’s never seemed to mind it, but now her ears turn red.
‘Mum, I’m not a baby,’ she whispers.
‘Oh — I, yes. Of course you’re not.’ I let out a timorous laugh, her statement a dagger to my heart, though I try to cover up how wounded I am.
In motherhood, I’m starting to learn, it seems one must simply accept when one’s child is ready to let go.
Like a dandelion seed drifting off with the breeze, sometimes it’s just time.
Their time to go, and our time to trust. And while the tether has gone, the connection stays. We are one and the same.
If only I could accept, and trust.
James and I don’t speak about what happened in the village today, not in front of Skyla. Instead, he pours us some wine while dinner bakes.
‘So tomorrow we need to be ready to leave by ten,’ he says as he hands me the glass.
‘Do you know what we’re doing yet?’ Skyla asks.
I shake my head, still trying to recover myself.
‘I know we’re doing the end of summer party next weekend,’ I say. It’s a combined celebration. My fiftieth and Skyla’s party for finishing her GCSEs. ‘One more exam to go!’
She grins, excited and proud. She’s worked so hard for this, and I just know that one day she’s going to get into any university she wants. A bittersweet realisation.
‘Can’t wait for it to be over!’ Raven says, appearing in the doorway. She flops down at the table and rests her head in her hands.
For a moment, I’d forgotten she’s still here. ‘Is your final exam history too?’ I ask, trying to draw her into the conversation, make an effort.
‘That’s why I’m studying it with Skyla,’ she replies, shooting me a look as if to say, ‘idiot.’
I give her a look of my own, wondering if she can see what I’m thinking. Brat. When I look away, guilt chews at my insides. She’s obviously had a rough upbringing; you can see it in the way she carries herself. And there is a chance she’s Robin, my mind needles at me.
I let her comment go, but for the rest of the evening I feel a shift in the dynamics of our usual life.
Raven’s presence changes things. Her energy brings a heaviness, a tension.
I feel I have to watch what I say and do, like I cannot be myself.
It’s suffocating, and for the first time in my life, I can’t wait to get away from Skyla, from her friend, and retreat to bed.
Because the more I look at Raven, the more I examine her features, the more I start to doubt myself.
James must be right. She’s just another teenager, nothing to do with us.
Just someone Skyla’s connected with and that should make me happy — but instead I feel like she’s brought a mongrel home from a dog rescue, and I want it gone.
* * *
‘I’m sorry today wasn’t nice. I really did want to treat you to something nice,’ James says, plugging his phone in to charge and placing it on his bedside table.
I drag a make-up wipe under my eyes and try to smile at him. ‘It’s okay,’ I say, and mean it. It isn’t his fault. ‘It was a lovely idea.’
I kiss him, just a peck, but the act seems to surprise him.
He looks down at me and for a fleeting moment I think he’s going to draw me back in, kiss me harder.
But he doesn’t. He touches my hair, tells me it looks nice and disappears into the bathroom.
The affection that could have been lingers and I drink it in alone, wondering if he felt it too.
It has been a long time, longer than I care to admit. After Robin disappeared, my libido went along with her. These days I rarely even touch myself, let alone James. Whenever he seems to want it, I don’t and vice versa.
I wake sometimes from a dream and lie there in the darkness feeling that now unfamiliar tingle of arousal — it’s there now, a deep ache to be touched emanating from between my legs. I could follow after him, help unbuckle his belt, remove his shirt. I could, I should — maybe I would, but I don’t.
When I hear the beard trimmers go, I know he’ll be in there a while, so I pick up his phone and type in the password. I blink in confusion as I open up WhatsApp, because where my message to him should be, there’s nothing. It’s gone.