Bring Me Back. B A Paris
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‘It’s beautiful!’
The next couple of hours passed in a blur. You were hungry, do you remember? So I made an omelette and while we ate, we exchanged information about our lives. You told me you’d lived on Lewis, a remote island in the Outer Hebrides, all your life and had been fairly happy until you were fourteen and your mother died. After, things had become difficult, you said. Your father became an alcoholic and ever since, you’d been counting the days until you could leave.
‘I stayed for Christmas,’ you said. ‘Then I packed up and left. I was determined to be in London for the first of January.’ You paused, and the light from the massive lamp that hung above the dining room table bounced off your hair. ‘A new year, a new life. That’s what I’m hoping for, anyway.’
‘What about your sister?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t she want to leave?’
Your eyes had filled with tears. ‘Yes. But in the end she couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
You took a long time answering. ‘My dad has cancer. He’s also diabetic. Somebody has to look after him.’
‘I’m sorry.’
You laughed suddenly, unnerving me. ‘Can we talk about something else? I don’t want to be sad on New Year’s Eve.’
‘I’m meant to be going to a party tonight.’ I pointed through the window at a building on the opposite side of the dock. ‘My boss lives on the top floor. We should go.’
You looked doubtful. ‘I don’t really have anything to wear to a party.’
‘You’re fine as you are,’ I told you.
I don’t remember much about the party except feeling as if I’d stepped into a parallel universe. You were completely out of place among the women in their dresses, their nails manicured and polished, their hair styled, and I couldn’t believe it was a world I’d inhabited just a few hours before. It felt stifling and dull, and when Caroline slid her arms around my waist and asked me how I’d enjoyed the theatre, I had trouble remembering she was my girlfriend. I introduced her to you and explained something of what had happened. Maybe it was the mention of a youth hostel, but the story amused her and when she turned and raised her eyebrows at me, I knew she was laughing at you. And my fists clenched, hating her for it.
Now
It’s amazing how those two Russian dolls play on my mind. It would be easier if I’d thrown the one I found away, or at least confined it to the drawer in my desk along with the other one, the one that had belonged to Layla. But I keep it close to me, in my pocket, a reminder that I can’t be complacent. Inevitably, though, it brings back memories of Layla. It doesn’t help that Ellen has left her family of Russian dolls standing in a row on the kitchen worktop, instead of stacking them back together again, one inside the other, and returning them to the dining room. I don’t want to ask her to move them because I don’t want to give too much importance to the fact that she hasn’t, or make her think that they make me uncomfortable. But the fact is, they do. Maybe it’s the way Ellen’s eyes are continually drawn towards them, reassuring herself that the smallest one is still there, that it’s not going to suddenly disappear, like Layla did all those years ago.
I’ve just dropped her off at the station in Cheltenham in time for the ten o’clock train to London. She has a lunch meeting with her agent to discuss illustrations for a new book, and is going shopping in the afternoon, so she won’t be home until late. I could have gone with her, gone into the office, but I tend to work from home nowadays. There’s not a lot I can’t do from the bank of screens I’ve installed in my office.
I check the markets, catch up on the news, make a couple of calls, look for new shares to invest in. I usually read the newspapers online, because it’s more practical, but today I have physical copies, bought at the station earlier. So at lunchtime I return to the kitchen, make myself a pot of coffee and a sandwich and, with Peggy at my feet, spend a couple of hours reading the papers cover to cover, instead of only the financial sections, as I normally do. There’s a small paragraph in the Financial Times about Grant James’s investment in Richmond Global Equities, and I’m glad all over again that I managed to pull it off. Harry has done a lot for me in my forty-one years, so it’s a relief to be able to do something in return.
If anyone has shaped my life, it’s Harry. He was my brother’s best friend at the LSE, and when Liam was killed in a motorbike accident not long after graduation, Harry had been there for me. Since then, he’s got me out of trouble and back onto the right path more times than I care to remember. He was there twenty years ago, when I needed to get out of Ireland double-quick, inviting me to stay with him in London while I sorted myself out. A couple of months later, fed up with me mooching round his flat, filled with self-hatred, he gave me a job at Villiers, his investment firm, where I became fascinated with the workings of the markets and quickly earned a reputation for being ruthless. He was there during the nightmare of Layla’s disappearance, hiring the best lawyers and whisking me back to England as soon as the French police allowed me to leave. He was there at the cottage in St Mary’s, helping me look for Layla, using his contacts and printing ‘Missing’ posters, which he arranged to have distributed in and around the Fonches area. He was there six months later, when I could no longer stand the silent recrimination of the empty cottage, taking me back to London, to the flat I still co-owned with him. And he was there nine months after that, when I could no longer bear the London streets that echoed with Layla’s presence, installing me in Simonsbridge, a little village tucked away in the Cotswolds, because he had a friend who was moving abroad and had a house to rent there.
At first, in Simonsbridge, it was no different. I lived the life of a hermit, as I had done in London, with only thoughts of Layla and playing the markets for company. I only ventured out when Harry visited and, unable to stand the stench of despair that permeated the house, dragged me along to The Jackdaw for a drink. Through the fog that clouded my brain, I was dimly aware that Ruby, the landlady, liked me. But I wasn’t interested, not then.
After a few months, Harry tried to get me to go back to work. When I refused, knocking back a glass of whisky with one hand and reaching for the bottle with the other, he told me I needed a dog. So we visited dog home after dog home where I turned down so many potential companions that Harry was bemused. I couldn’t tell him what I was looking for because I didn’t know myself. Then I saw Peggy and when Harry asked me why I’d chosen her, I didn’t dare tell him it was because her coat was the same colour as Layla’s beautiful hair.
During all that time, Harry never once asked what really happened the night Layla disappeared. Ellen has never asked me either. She’s never had any reason to doubt my version of events, which were widely published in the press at the time. It’s why I found myself asking her to marry me; basically, I got caught out in a lie.
When the police questioned me, in the long days and even longer nights that followed Layla’s disappearance, I told them that during our holiday in Megève I’d asked her to marry me and that she had accepted. There was no truth in this, but I needed the police, and everyone else, to believe that everything had been perfect between us during those last few days. As the years passed, I presumed my lie had been laid to rest. Then, a couple of months ago, Ellen, out of the blue, said that Layla must have been very happy when I’d asked her to marry me.
‘Yes, she was,’ I said, taken aback that she’d suddenly brought it up.
‘You must have loved her very much to propose.’ Ellen’s voice was quiet. ‘You hadn’t been together very long.’ She paused, her eyes finding mine. ‘About the same amount of time as us, in fact.’
She was right. I was with Layla for thirteen months before she disappeared and it was over a year since