MONDAY, JULY 22, 2013
MORNING
Tom woke me up early with a kiss and a cheeky grin. He has a late meeting this morning, so he suggested we take Evie around the corner for breakfast. It’s a place where we used to meet when we first started seeing each other. We’d sit in the window—she was at work in London so there was no danger of her walking past and noticing us. But there was that thrill, even so—perhaps she’d come home early for some reason: perhaps she’d be feeling ill or have forgotten some vital papers. I dreamed of it. I willed her to come along one day, to see him with me, to know in an instant that he was no longer hers. It’s hard to believe now that there was once a time when I wanted her to appear.
Since Megan went missing I’ve avoided walking this way whenever possible—it gives me the creeps passing that house—but to get to the café it’s the only route. Tom walks a little way ahead of me, pushing the buggy; he’s singing something to Evie, making her laugh. I love it when we’re out like this, the three of us. I can see the way people look at us; I can see them thinking, What a beautiful family. It makes me proud—prouder than I’ve ever been of anything in my life.
So I’m sailing along in my bubble of happiness, and we’re almost at number fifteen when the door opens. For a moment I think I’m hallucinating, because she walks out. Rachel. She comes out of the front door and stands there for a second, sees us and stops dead. It’s horrible. She gives us the strangest smile, a grimace almost, and I can’t help myself, I lunge forward and grab Evie out of her buggy, startling her in the process. She starts to cry.
Rachel walks quickly away from us.
Tom calls after her, “Rachel! What are you doing here? Rachel!” But she keeps going, faster and faster until she’s almost running, and the two of us just stand there, then Tom turns to me and with one glance at the expression on my face says, “Come on. Let’s just go home.”
EVENING
We found out that afternoon that they’ve arrested someone in connection with Megan Hipwell’s disappearance. Some guy I’d never heard of, a therapist she’d been seeing. It was a relief, I suppose, because I’d been imagining all sorts of awful things.
“I told you it wouldn’t be a stranger,” Tom said. “It never is, is it? In any case, we don’t even know what’s happened. She’s probably fine. She’s probably run off with someone.”
“So why have they arrested that man, then?”
He shrugged. He was distracted, pulling on his jacket, straightening his tie, getting ready to go to and meet the day’s last client.
“What are we going to do?” I asked him.
“Do?” He looked at me blankly.
“About her. Rachel. Why was she here? Why was she at the Hipwells’ house? Do you think . . . do you think she was trying to get into our garden—you know, going through the neighbours’ gardens?”
Tom gave a grim laugh. “I doubt it. Come on, this is Rachel we’re talking about. She wouldn’t be able to haul her fat arse over all those fences. I’ve no idea what she was doing there. Maybe she was pissed, went to the wrong door?”
“In other words, she meant to come round here?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Look, don’t worry about it, OK? Keep the doors locked. I’ll give her a ring and find out what she’s up to.”
“I think we should call the police.”
“And say what? She hasn’t actually done anything—”
“She hasn’t done anything lately—unless you count the fact that she was here the night Megan Hipwell disappeared,” I said. “We should have told the police about her ages ago.”
“Anna, come on.” He slipped his arms around my waist. “I hardly think Rachel has anything to do with Megan Hipwell’s going missing. But I’ll talk to her, OK?”
“But you said after last time—”
“I know,” he said softly. “I know what I said.” He kissed me, slipped his hand into the waistband of my jeans. “Let’s not get the police involved unless we really need to.”
I think we do need to. I can’t stop thinking about that smile she gave us, that sneer. It was almost triumphant. We need to get away from here. We need to get away from her.
