Undone (27 page)

He nodded contemplatively and strode back to the bar. ‘So you’re one of those?’ He rested his darkly haired forearms on the bar, scanning my face, a slight, smug smile on those plump, dusky lips. The knot of his hair made him seem sinister and cruel; villainous rather than Hollywood hipster.

I tried to swallow. My mouth was bone dry. My throat was a desert. ‘One of what?’

‘One of those women who like to see men crawl.’

My pulses soared. Jeez, who was this guy? I felt as if he wanted to strip me naked and, worst of all, I wanted to let him. I battled against my nerves and my good sense but maybe it was already too late. I addressed him, my chin tipping in defiance.

‘No,’ I said, voice cracked and throaty. ‘I like to do the crawling.’

His smile broadened and he stood straighter. He gestured to the business card on the counter.

‘Then you should definitely call me,’ he said.

My legs turned to jelly. I gripped the edge of the bar.

‘And who knows,’ he continued, ‘if you’re good to me, I might have some news for you about your boyfriend.’

He hitched his bag onto his shoulder and stepped away.

‘Wait!’ I cried. ‘What do you know? Where’s Sol?’

But he didn’t reply.

‘Tell me!’

Again, silence. He sauntered from the bar without uttering another word. I listened to his boots clanging on the iron staircase spiralling towards the street entrance. I didn’t even have the presence of mind to go onto the balcony to check which direction he took. Instead, I stood behind the bar, clutching the counter for support, shaking and on the verge of tears.

Something’s happened to Sol, I know it has. It’s three in the morning. I cannot sleep. I’ve triple-checked the doors and windows are locked. I don’t know what I need to do next. I’m trying not to panic. Trying and failing.

I wish I could swim. Right here and now, I wish I could get out of bed and slip into cool, comforting waters and swim, swim, swim in the middle of the night. Swimming empties out my brain and gives me clarity of thought. It’s as if the thinking takes care of itself, churning away at the subconscious level, while I flow, back and forth, up and down, swimming. I wish I was in the zone, becoming nothing but swimming.

Oh God, where is he, where is he? Have I said too much?

Thursday 4th September

I woke this morning from another restless night, and knew I couldn’t go on like this. Every reasonable explanation I came up with to account for Sol’s apparent disappearance I trashed within seconds. He’s lost his phone. Well, he could email. He’s been too busy. How long does a text take? He can’t get Wi-Fi or a phone signal. He’s in Birmingham, not Antarctica.

My wilder theories had no answers: he’s been injured, he’s left me, been kidnapped, lost his memory. He’s dead.

I had two potential points of contact: the building site in Saltbourne where he’d been working (and from there I might be directed to his agency, who might know more about his new job because maybe they’d provided a reference); and Lou, the ex, and her friends, who’d been the reason Sol was at the party at Dravendene in the first place. I could call Zoe, ask her to get Lou’s contact details from Rose, and then drop Lou a line. Would she think I was acting like a needy, possessive girlfriend? Did I care? Supposing he’d gone back to her? No, they were over, I was sure of it. Hooked up with one of her friends, maybe?

The construction site seemed my wisest starting point. I made my way to Castlegate Plaza after swimming this morning. I’ve been swimming less in recent days because I can’t bear to be away from my phone in case he calls. But today, shivering and dripping wet in the changing rooms once again, I’d retrieved my phone from my bag as soon as I’d opened my locker. And, once again, nothing from Sol or from a hospital or a mortuary.

I was scared of visiting the building site because it implied he truly was gone and that this was looking serious. I was conducting my own missing person’s enquiry. The temptation to stay in denial was strong. Maybe I could go tomorrow? Just one more day of hoping?

Now I almost wish I hadn’t gone because I’m even more confused than ever.

The white hoardings around the site were emblazoned with signs:
DANGER KEEP OUT
.
CAUTION CONSTRUCTION AREA
.
HARD HAT REQUIRED
.

I had no hard hat. Couldn’t even find an entrance for a while. When I finally spotted a doorway in the hoardings, I entered the site, feeling altogether too feminine and quite the trespasser, even though I was making no attempt to hide. The terrain was alien to me, a noisy, volcanic landscape of scaffolding, bricks, wheelbarrows, rugged yellow vehicles and workmen in reflective jackets. Planks swung from cranes high above and concrete mixers whirred. For the first time, it occurred to me that Sol might still be working here. Maybe the new job was a well-intentioned lie. His stint in manual labour was supposed to be a break from his geeky norm, a chance to kick back and take a breather from the stresses of data analytics. As he’d said, he didn’t need the money so could quit the building work anytime but enjoyed routine and productivity. We’re very similar in that respect.

Of course, I’d never judge him for his choices, and it was fun to have him acting as my bit of rough, but a steadier, more respectable job might suggest we had future prospects. I’d never said anything but perhaps he guessed at times I was concerned I might be scarcely more than a complement to this casual, temporary lifestyle.
Living by the sea
, w
orking on a building site, a fuck-ton of inheritance money, knobbing this chick who owned a bar, yeah, that was a great summer, man.

Was he trying to convince me things were about to change while, in reality, he was still slogging away here? My eye was caught by a guy in protective earmuffs, drilling some distance away, and of a similar build to Sol. My heartbeat ricocheted. Could it be? But the very next second he was nothing remotely like Sol. If it had been, if I saw him here in his hard hat and dusty boots, I’d run to embrace him. I’d tell him I didn’t care what he did, that he didn’t need to lie to me, and there were no problems on earth that we couldn’t work out together.

Hope can take us to some desperate places.

I approached three guys in discussion near a heap of lurid, orange sand.

‘Hi,’ I called, picking my way across rubble. ‘I wonder if you could help. I’m looking for a guy who worked here recently. Sol Miller.’

The three men all looked at each other, confused and a touch alarmed.

‘What’s she say?’

‘Sol Miller,’ I said. ‘Do you know him?’

Again, they glanced blankly from one to the other. What was the problem? Didn’t they speak Vagina?

‘Members of the public shouldn’t be in here, love,’ said one. ‘Not without a hard hat.’

‘Well, could you get me a hat?’ I said. ‘Or if I stand outside, can someone help with my question?’

‘What’s she want to know?’

A shrug.

Were these hard hats translation devices?

‘Sol Miller,’ I called. ‘Do you know him?’

‘I’ll go and fetch John,’ said one to the other. ‘If you could wait outside, love.’

I traipsed out and stood by the open, makeshift door in the hoardings until John turned up with a clipboard. No, he told me, no one of that name has ever worked here.

‘You must be mistaken,’ I said. ‘He was working here less than two weeks ago.’

‘Not this site,’ said John.

‘Yes, it was. He told me.’

John gave me a pitying smile. ‘Maybe he had his reasons.’

He gave me a card, told me to phone the switchboard and check with Human Resources. ‘But I know who’s on site,’ he said, ‘and we’ve had no one of that name, I guarantee you.’

Despondent and baffled, I drove home, scouring my brain for an explanation. I had the right site, I knew I had. Castlegate Plaza was getting a facelift and the work was only taking place in one area. Had Sol given a false name? Was it a tax dodge? Theirs was presumably a legit operation so how could he even do that? Had he stolen someone’s NI number? Perhaps he didn’t have a work permit, couldn’t get one for some reason. Was he working cash-in-hand elsewhere in Saltbourne? Had he concealed the truth because he was aiming to trick me into falling in love so we’d marry and he could settle here as a UK citizen?

My thoughts were a blizzard of increasingly implausible theories. Nothing made sense. I was starting to wonder who Sol was. Previously, I’d thought he might have a kinky secret, a past life he was protecting. I’d thought he might be involved in Misha’s death. Now, I didn’t know what to think.

I didn’t bother contacting Human Resources, partly because I didn’t want to risk landing Sol in trouble but mainly because I know John was right. Sol had never worked there. Instead, I got in touch with Zoe and tracked down Lou’s contact details. I texted her, explaining who I was, and asked her to give me a call when she was free. I explained I was worried about Sol.

She phoned when I was sitting at the table in the kitchen adjoining the bar, cashing up takings from the night before.

‘Is he OK?’ she asked.

I gazed at the towers of coins before me and they blurred as my tears welled. I silently reproached myself:
For God’s sake, Lana, don’t cry on the phone to his ex.

‘I’m not sure.’ I blinked, allowing two tears to roll, and flicked them from my face. I briefly moved the phone away and sniffed. ‘He’s gone quiet on me. He’s in Birmingham on a training course and I haven’t heard from him. All my calls go to voicemail. Just wondered, well, if you were still in touch.’

‘No, not really. Haven’t even bumped into him for a while. I emailed him about the inquest but he didn’t reply.’

I was relieved even though that gave me no further clues as to Sol’s whereabouts or his thinking. ‘Do you know anyone who might know?’

‘I think he goes out for a beer with Ryan and Eddie sometimes. I could ask.’

‘Would you? I’d be so grateful. I just don’t know what to think or what to do.’

‘Leave it with me,’ she said. ‘I’m sure there’ll be a simple explanation.’

I didn’t have her confidence. Unless, of course, the simple explanation was: he’s left you.

Lou texted an hour later:
Ryan says they haven’t seen Sol for weeks. Says he’s spending all his time with a woman in Saltbourne. Good luck! Maybe he’s just having a wobble?

I was out of options. I needed to stop fooling myself. Whatever was going on was bigger than a relationship wobble. It involved Sol, Ilya, Misha and God knows who else.

Yesterday, I stashed Ilya’s card in the safe in the kitchen. Tonight I retrieved it at the end of the evening when I was putting the cash box away. It’s here now on my bedside table, still mocking me, still calling.

Ilya Travis. Consultant.

It’s too late to phone him now. I’ll do it in the morning. I’ve been wondering whether to leave a message on Sol’s voicemail telling him about Ilya. But what if he’s held hostage somewhere and the message causes problems? The wrong person may hear the wrong name. No, I’ll find out what I can from this Ilya guy before doing anything risky. I’m probably better off keeping a distance, playing the part of the innocent girlfriend.

I hope I can sleep. I have a large brandy with me. I remember when I started this journal, I’d drink brandy and soda, a mix of darkness and sparkle. I don’t bother with the soda these days. The darkness is plenty.

Saturday 6th September

The cliffs along this part of the south-east coast are whiter than their cousins at Dover. I heard they’re sometimes used as a substitute in films because they look more like Dover than Dover does. The chalky cliffs peak and trough for miles, topped by grassland and occasional patches of development. Below, waves of the English Channel crash on narrow shingle beaches where boulders sulk and rock pools glisten. The cliffs are bone white because erosion keeps the surfaces free of plant growth. But not at Dover, where the cliffs are protected. Strange to think these mighty structures are crumbling away, and the very outline of the south-east is mutable.

Solid as a rock. I’d used that phrase to describe my relationship with Sol when he’d turned up at the bar in his suit. But rock can be deceptive. Rock can be fragile. Rock can crumble to dust.

The wide cliff-top road follows the coast for the most part. The drive to Ilya’s was westerly, towards Brighton and, therefore, towards Sol’s empty flat. My mind kept tempting me to keep my foot down, to speed past Ilya’s house, beyond all the cliffs and sea and into Brighton’s bustling, narrow streets. I could park in Sol’s road and try to guess which flat was his. I could use the time to clear my head, to work out my best course of action. Should I be going to the police instead of to Ilya’s? No, a foolish thought. We didn’t want police involvement, and anyway what did I have?
’Scuse me, Officer, my boyfriend hasn’t called and he’s usually quite reliable.

In my car, I was in a cool bubble of aircon but my hands were clammy on the wheel. When my concentration drifted, I felt protected and in control; then I’d remember where I was heading and my stomach would drop. Ilya had information on Sol and I wanted it, be it good or bad. My mind wouldn’t rest. It searched for a reason, constant and frenzied, still churning over a range of theories from ‘he’s dead’ to ‘I’ve been dumped’. In my blackest moments, I’ve had to wonder which of those two extremes I’d prefer. The thought that he might have left me voluntarily, not even caring enough to explain himself, tore my heart to shreds. If silent desertion explained his absence, I’d be forced to re-write the entirety of our past. But, no, I had to keep reminding myself this wasn’t about us. It had something to do with Ilya and Misha. Or was that wishful thinking?

My desperation to know more had spurred me to contact Ilya. But, I had to confess, I was also motivated by a desire to know more about this brooding, smirking stranger. My imagination had been working overtime ever since he’d pressed that pound coin into the tip saucer at the bar and had given me a look that said, ‘I can turn you inside out and you know it.’ I felt guilty about my curiosity in him but that’s all it was, curiosity. I’d no intention of going anywhere near him, not in that sense. Deliberately, I’d dressed in sober clothes: grey pencil skirt, crisp white shirt. I might have been attending a business meeting.