The Daughter (2 page)

The cover of the bed was slightly dented where she had sat on it, but the pillow was quite smooth.

Fear curled in the pit of my stomach. I put my hand on the wall and its coldness seemed to travel up my arm to the inside of my chest. Then I heard the front door shut two floors down.

Thank God. Thank you, God.

I put the hot-­water bottle under the duvet, far enough down to make a warm place for her feet. They would be cold by now in those thin shoes. Then I ran downstairs, careless of the noise. I wouldn't be cross, not tonight. I would kiss her, take her coat, and send her up. I could be cross tomorrow. My footsteps slowed as I rounded the corner of the stairs and Ted came into view. Ted, not Naomi. He stood looking up at me. He was wearing his coat, and his briefcase was by his feet.

“She's not back.” I was out of breath; the words were difficult to push out. “I thought you were her coming in.”

“What?” He looked exhausted. His shoulders were hunched; there were deep circles under his eyes.

“Naomi hasn't come home yet.” I went close to him. A faint smell of burning clung about him; it must have been from the diathermy, spluttering heat, sealing cut blood vessels. He must have come straight from the operating room.

His eyes, the same sea-­blue as Naomi's, looked puzzled. “Her play ended at nine-­thirty, didn't it?” An expression of panic crossed his face. “Jesus, it's Thursday.”

He'd forgotten that she had canceled Thursday pickups, but he never knew what was happening in the children's lives anyway. He never asked. I felt the slow swell of anger.

“She walks back with friends now. She told you.”

“Of course she did. I'd forgotten. Oh well.” He looked relieved.

“But tonight was different.” How could he be so relaxed when my heart was pounding with anxiety? “She went out for a meal with the cast.”

“I can't keep up.” He shrugged. “So, she's out with her mates. Perhaps they're having such a good time they stayed on.”

“Ted, it's after two . . .” My face flushed hot with panic and fury. Surely he realized this was different, that it felt wrong.

“That late? Gosh, I'm sorry. The operation went on and on and on. I hoped you'd be asleep by now.” He spread his hands in apology.

“Where the hell is she?” I stared at him, my voice rising. “She never does this, she lets me know even if she's five minutes late.” As I said it, it occurred to me that she hadn't for a long time now, but then she had never been as late as this. “There's a rapist in Bristol, it said on the news—­”

“Calm down, Jen. Who is she with, exactly?” He looked down at me and I could sense reluctance. He didn't want this to be happening; he wanted to go to bed.

“Her friends from the play. Nikita and everyone. It was just a meal, not a party.”

“Perhaps they went to a club after.”

“She'd never get in.” Her cheeks were still rounded; she had a fifteen-­year-­old face, younger sometimes, especially when she was tired. “She's not old enough.”

“It's what they all do.” Ted's voice was slow with tiredness. He leaned his tall frame against the wall. “They have false IDs. Remember when Theo—­”

“Not Naomi.” Then I remembered the shoes, the smile. Was it possible? A club?

“Let's give it a bit longer.” Ted's voice was calm. “I mean, it's kind of normal, still early if you're having fun. Let's wait until two-­thirty.”

“Then what?”

“She'll probably be back.” He pushed himself away from the wall, and rubbing his face with his hands, he began to walk toward the steps at the end of the hall that led down to the kitchen. “If not, we'll phone Shan. You've phoned Naomi obviously?”

I hadn't. God knows why. I hadn't even checked for a text. I felt for my cell phone but it wasn't in my pocket. “Where the bloody hell's my bloody phone?”

I pushed past Ted and ran downstairs. It must have fallen out and was half hidden under a squashed cushion on the sofa. I snatched it up. No text. I punched her number.

“Hiya, this is Naomi. Sorry, I'm busy doing something incredibly important right now. But—­um—­leave me a number and I'll get back to you. That's a promise. Byee.”

I shook my head, unable to speak.

“I need a drink.” Ted went slowly to the drinks cupboard. He poured two whiskeys and held one out to me. I felt the alcohol burn my throat, then travel down the length of my gullet.

Two-­fifteen. Fifteen minutes to go before we would ring Shan.

I didn't want to wait. I wanted to leave the house, I would go down the road to the school theater, wrench open the doors, and shout her name into the dusty air. If she wasn't there, then I would run down the main street, past the university, storm into all the clubs, pushing past the bouncers, and yell into the crowds of dancers . . .

“Is there any food?”

“What?”

“Jenny, I've been operating all night. I missed supper in the canteen. Is there any food?”

I opened the fridge and looked in. I couldn't recognize anything. Squares and oblongs. My hands found cheese and butter. The cold lumps of butter tore the bread. Ted silently took it from me. He made a perfect sandwich and cut off the crusts.

While he was eating, I found Nikita's number on a pink Post-­it note stuck to the corkboard on the cabinet. She didn't pick up either. The phone was in her bag. She had pushed it under the table so she could dance in the club they'd managed to get into. Everyone else wanted to go home, her friends were leaning against the wall, yawning, but Naomi and Nikita were dancing together, having fun. No one would be able to hear Nikita's phone ringing in the bag under the table. Shan must be awake too, waiting. It was only a year since her divorce from Neil; this would feel worse on her own.

Half past two.

I phoned Shan and, as I waited, I remembered her telling me a week ago how Nikita still shared everything with her and the stabbing moment of jealousy that I'd felt. Naomi didn't do that anymore. Now I was glad Nikita still confided in her mother. Shan would know exactly where we could pick them up.

A sleepy voice mumbled an answer. She had fallen asleep, like me.

“Hello, Shan.” I tried to make my voice sound normal. “I'm so sorry to wake you. Do you have any idea where they are? We'll pick them up, but the trouble is . . .” I paused, and attempted to laugh. “Naomi forgot to tell me where they would be.”

“Wait a moment.” I could see her sitting up, running her hand through her hair, blinking at the alarm clock on her bedside table. “Say all that again?”

I took a breath and tried to speak slowly.

“Naomi's not back yet. They must have gone on somewhere after the meal. Did Nikita say where?”

“The meal's tomorrow, Jen.”

“No, that's the party.”

“Both tomorrow. Nikita's here. She's exhausted; she's been asleep since I picked her up hours ago.”

I repeated stupidly: “Hours ago?”

“I collected her straight after the play.” There was a little pause and then she said quietly, “There was no meal.”

“But Naomi said.” My mouth was dry. “She took her new shoes. She said . . .”

I sounded like children do when they want something they can't have. She had taken the shoes and the bag of clothes. How could there not have been a meal? Shan must be mistaken; perhaps Nikita hadn't been invited. There was a longer pause.

“I'll check with Nikita,” she said. “Phone you back in a moment.”

I was outside a gate, which had just shut with a little click. Behind it was a place where children slept safely, their limbs trustingly spread across the sheets; a place where you didn't phone a friend at two-­thirty in the morning.

The kitchen chairs were cold and hard. Ted's face was white. He kept bending his knuckles till they cracked. I wanted to stop him but I couldn't open my mouth in case I started screaming. I picked the phone up quickly when it rang and at first I didn't say anything.

“There was no meal, Jenny.” Shan's voice was slightly breathless. “Everyone went home. I'm sorry.”

A faint buzzing noise started in my head, filling in the silence that stretched after her words. I felt giddy, as if I was tipping forward, or the world was tipping back. I held tightly to the edge of the table.

“Can I speak to Nikita?”

By the tiny space that followed my question, I could measure how far away I had traveled from the gate that had clicked behind me. Shan sounded hesitant.

“She's gone back to sleep.”

Asleep? How could that matter? Nikita was there, safe. We had no idea where our daughter was. A wave of anger was breaking on top of my fear.

“If Nikita knows anything, anything at all that we don't, and Naomi might be in danger—­” My throat constricted. Ted took the phone from me.

“Hi there, Shania.” There was a pause. “I appreciate how difficult this will be for Nikita . . .” His voice was calm but with an edge of authority. It was exactly how he talked to the junior doctors on his team if they called him for advice about a neurosurgical problem. “If Naomi doesn't come home soon, we may need to call the police. The more information you give us . . .” Another pause. “Thanks. Yes. See you in a few minutes, then.”

The boys were sleeping in their rooms. I leaned into the warm, breathing space around their heads. Theo had burrowed under the duvet; his hair, sticking up in a ruff above its edge, was stiff under my lips. Ed's black fringe was damp; even in sleep his eyebrows swooped down like the wings of a blackbird. As I straightened, I caught my reflection in his mirror. My face, lit by the streetlamp shining through the window, looked as if it belonged to someone much older. My hair was dark and shapeless. I dragged Ed's brush through it.

As we drove past the school theater, Ted stopped the car and we got out.

I don't know why. I still don't know why we had to check. Did we really think you would be there, curled up and sleeping on the stage? That we could wake you and that you would smile and stretch, sleepy and stiff, with some explanation about taking too long to change? That we would put our arms around you and take you home?

The glass doors were locked. They rocked slightly as I pulled at the handles. There was a night-­light in the foyer and the bottles in the bar were shining in neat rows. A torn red and yellow program lay on the floor just inside the door; I could make out red letters spelling “West” and “Story” on different lines and part of a picture of a girl with a blue swirling skirt.

Ted drove carefully, though I knew he was tired. He had pressed the button on the dashboard that made the back of my seat warm up. It made me sweat, and nausea seemed to rise from the deep leather upholstery. I glanced at him. He was good at this. Good at looking serious, not desperate. When Naomi was in difficulty during her birth, his calmness had stopped me from panicking. He had organized the epidural for the Caesarean section, and he was there when they lifted out her small, bloodied body. I wouldn't think about that now. I looked out of the window quickly. The streets were shining and empty. A fine rain had started to mist the windows. What had she been wearing? I couldn't remember. Her raincoat? What about her scarf? I looked up into the roadside trees as if the orange cloth might be there, tangled in the wet black branches.

At Shania's house Ted knocked firmly. The night was silent and still around us, but if anyone had been passing in a car, they would have seen a ­couple like any other. We were wearing warm coats and clean shoes as we waited quietly, heads bowed in the rain. We probably looked normal.

Shania's face was prepared. She looked calm and serious as she hugged us. It was hot in her house, the gas fire flaming in her tidy living room. Nikita was hunched on the sofa, a cushion held tightly to her, her long legs in rabbit-­patterned pajamas tucked beneath her. I smiled at her, but my mouth felt stiff and trembled at the corners. Shan sat close to her on the sofa; we sat opposite and Ted took my hand.

“Ted and Jenny want to ask you about Naomi now, babe.” Shania put her arm around Nikita, who looked down as she twisted a thick lock of her dark hair in her fingers.

I moved to sit by her on the other side, but she shifted slightly away from me. I tried to make my voice gentle.

“Where is she, Nik?”

“I don't know.” She bent and pushed her head into the cushion, her voice was muffled. “I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.”

Shania's eyes met mine over her head.

“I'll start, then,” Shan said. “I'll tell Jenny what you told me.” Nikita nodded. Her mother continued: “Naomi told Nikita that she was going to meet someone, a bloke, after the play.”

“A bloke?” Ted's voice cut across my intake of breath. “What bloke?” The word in his mouth sounded dangerous. Not a boy. Older. My heart started banging so loudly I was afraid Nikita would hear and refuse to tell us anything.

“She said . . . ,” Nikita hesitatingly began, “she said she had met someone. He was hot.”

I uncrossed my legs and turned around to face her properly. “Hot? Naomi said that?”

“That's all right, isn't it? You asked me.” Nikita's forehead puckered, her eyes filled with tears.

“Of course,” I told her.

But it wasn't all right. I'd never heard her use that word. We had talked about sex, but as I desperately scanned my memory for clues, I couldn't remember when. Relationships, sex, and contraception—­Naomi didn't seem interested. Had she been? What had I missed?

“Was he . . . did she . . .” I groped in a forest of possibilities. “Was he from school?”

Nikita shook her head. Ted spoke then, lightly, casually, as though it wasn't important.

“This guy. She must have met him before?”

Nikita's shoulders dropped fractionally, she stopped twisting her hair. Ted's calmness was working but I felt a stab of anger that he could manage it so easily. I could hardly keep my voice from trembling.