Paradise City (9 page)

‘I’m sorry about your dad,’ he murmurs softly into her ear and she wonders at first if she has heard him correctly.

‘I’m . . .’ Esme grapples for the right words. ‘Sorry about your daughter . . .’ she says stupidly. Rupert glares at her from behind his boss’s shoulder.

Howard smiles. ‘I know,’ he says sadly. ‘I know.’

The two of them walk out of the dining room. Esme sits back at the table and signals for the bill. She is perturbed, without knowing why. Something about Howard Pink has affected her. Perhaps it was the obvious resonance of a father who’d lost his daughter meeting a daughter who’d lost her father. But it was more than that too. He seemed, in spite of all the wealth he’d accumulated, in spite of the anecdotes about yachts and diamonds, to be strangely unsure of himself; to be anxious, all the time, that someone would scrape back the veneer of success and see him for who he really was.

Esme could relate to that. Most journalists – and she was no exception – did what they did to prove somebody wrong, to validate their own worth by seeing their name in the paper. She wonders if she could persuade Sir Howard to talk to her. He had never given an interview about his daughter’s disappearance but perhaps now enough time had passed. Perhaps he’d just been waiting for the right person.

She can see it now: a sit-down interview across a double-page spread. Millionaire clothing retailer speaks for the first time about his daughter’s disappearance. Headline: ‘Sir Howard’s Private Torment – “Why I can never let go.’’’ There would be a write-off on the front page. Nominations for the Press Awards. Dave would be impressed. He’d take her out for a drink to celebrate. He’d look at her tenderly, push a lock of hair behind her ear and tell her he loved her and was leaving his wife . . .

‘Everything was to your liking?’ The waiter’s persistent solicitousness interrupts her reverie.

‘Yes, thanks,’ says Esme, embarrassed. She punches the four digits of her pin into the card machine with unusual force and hands it back to him. Get a grip, she tells herself. Having a crush on the news editor is such a cliché. The waiter returns with her receipt, folded into a charcoal-coloured card. She slips it into her wallet, along with a thick batch of other paperwork denoting taxi rides taken and train tickets bought in the name of work. She is overdue filing her expenses, put off doing so by the thought of the laborious new computer system they’ve brought in back at the office. Sanjay is convinced they’ve only done it to make it so difficult that no one bothers.

A sluggish pall descends on her as she walks out of the restaurant, back through the lobby to the revolving doors and past the top-hatted attendants on the steps outside. Hotels are such peculiar places, she thinks, full of people not feeling entirely comfortable, either because they’re passing through on business and don’t want to be there or because they are spending a small fortune on ‘getting away from it all’ and are worried about not appreciating everything enough. She is relieved, when she gets outside, to breathe in the fresh air again, to see the tall, budded trees of Hyde Park.

On her way back to the office, she tries not to think of her father or the lost Ada Pink, staring out at her with yearning eyes. Instead, Esme takes out her BlackBerry and updates her Twitter feed. ‘Stuffed after lunch at Alain Ducasse,’ she types with a breeziness she does not feel. ‘Feet killing me!’

Carol

Carol is lying on a massage table having her shoulders pummelled by a nice girl called Stacey. The problem is she has forgotten how to relax. She used to love being pampered. Once a year, for her birthday, her daughter Vanessa would arrange a spa day in a hotel in the New Forest and the two of them would get the train down from Clapham Junction, wheeling their overnight suitcases and anticipating the fluffy robes, a haze of essential oils and glasses of iced water delicately flavoured with cucumber slices.

Whoever came up with the idea of putting cucumber in jugs of water, Carol always wondered. Or lemon, for that matter. Because you wouldn’t dream of flavouring water with banana slivers, would you? Or carrot sticks. But somehow lemon and cucumber worked.

The massage had been Vanessa’s idea.

‘Do you good, Mum,’ she said on the phone. ‘You deserve some R&R.’

Carol was sitting in the front room, staring at her slippers. She hadn’t got dressed yet, even though it was past ten in the morning.

‘R&R? What’s that when it’s at home?’

There had been a suppressed exhalation on the other end of the line.

‘Rest and relaxation, Mum.’

‘Oh. Right.’

But since Derek died, Carol has found it almost impossible to stop thinking. She’ll be drinking a cup of tea in front of
Bargain Hunt
and she’ll notice that all her muscles are tightly wound, her shoulders up by her ears, and instead of concentrating on the discovery of some valuable ashtray in the attic of an old-age pensioner from Basingstoke, her head will be filled with the image of a coffin and service sheets and dying flowers and she’ll realise that she hasn’t been relaxing at all. She seems to have lost the knack.

‘Relax, Mrs Hetherington,’ the therapist says but the more Stacey tells her to relax, the less she feels able to. Carol’s face is pressed through the cut-out circle on the massage table, like one of those seaside paintings where you pose for photos by peering out from underneath a frilly bathing cap or a pair of donkey ears. The hole is slightly too small to contain her features and she can feel the edges of the lavender-scented padding digging into her cheeks. She wonders if there will be marks there when she turns over. Her skin has lost its elasticity of late. She can be pottering around the supermarket, picking up things for lunch, and the side of her cheek will still be stippled with red-pink indentations from where the sheet left its mark over an hour earlier.

Stacey folds the towel neatly to one side, uncovering Carol’s leg and prompting a spray of goose-bumps to prick up along her calf. Carol is worried that her feet are ticklish and she won’t be able to stop twitching when the therapist touches them.

‘Relax,’ Stacey says. ‘Just think of something soothing.’

Carol tries to imagine faraway beaches and gently lapping waves but instead finds her mind wandering. As Stacey’s fingers knead against her calf muscles and the herby, sweet scent of the aromatherapy oil floats around the room, she wonders whether the amount you love someone dictates the nature of their death. Whether, if you loved a person – if that person made you happy and you got to enjoy life more because of them – the punishment for this is to make their death as cruel and painful as possible. A cosmic joke, she’d heard someone call it. Like karma, but inverted.

She’d never believed in God. If He existed, Carol thought, He was a right old so-and-so. All those starving children and poor people with AIDS. What kind of person would allow that?

Whereas she’s noticed that if someone hasn’t been loved at all and has brought nothing but pain and misery to those around them, they seem to slip easily into oblivion at the end of their lives with the minimum of fuss. Because there’s no one to mourn them, is there? And Carol is for ever being told – by magazines, by Sunday-morning TV shows, by well-meaning friends who bring her spiritual self-help manuals called things like
The Day After
Grief: Finding and Overcoming your Inner Sorrow’
– that there is a sort of dignity in mourning; that by accepting the death of a loved one, you accept your own mortality and come to a greater understanding of life. That’s the theory, anyway.

Load of old claptrap, Carol thinks.

She only poses the question because Connie’s husband Geoff has just died peacefully in his sleep of old age and a nastier, more narrow-minded little man you couldn’t imagine. Even Connie couldn’t wait to be rid of him by the end. And yet for all Geoff’s vindictive, ignorant and penny-pinching ways, he had been spared the wretchedness of a terminal illness. No incontinence nappies for him.

‘It was a blessing,’ Connie said at the funeral. It was also, Carol couldn’t help but feel, hugely unfair.

Because Derek . . . well, Derek was the shining love of her life, a man with whom she spent forty-odd years of married contentedness, with whom she never had to explain, only to be, a man who still made her laugh, who could make everything all right just by squeezing her shoulders and calling her ‘pet’.

Oh, he had his failings, of course he did. He snored loudly, left teaspoons on the counter, never wanted to go to the cinema because ‘it will come out soon on video’, but now that he’s gone, Carol sees these petty irritations as lovable quirks. His snoring used to keep her awake. Now she finds she can’t sleep without it.

Everyone loved Derek: the postman whose name he remembered, the shop assistant at Sainsbury’s on Garratt Lane whose grandchildren he would always ask after and the dozens of friends and colleagues he’d got to know in and around Wandsworth through the years. It wasn’t just old people either. Their grandson Archie could spend hours building model aircraft with him in the back room.

The two of them were like cuttings from the same plant. She’d catch them sometimes, heads bent over a Spitfire model in the dusky half-light of a weekend evening, and when she asked if they wanted a sandwich, they would look at her in exactly the same way – heads slightly to one side with a quizzical squint of the eyes.

‘I’ll take that as a no then,’ she would say, closing the door behind her, unable to stop herself from smiling.

Even the kids on the council estate opposite would nod at Derek in the street. She never understood how he did it, how he made friends without seeming to try. The day of the funeral, a couple of them came round and rung the bell at Lebanon Gardens while the wake was in full swing. Carol could make out the looming shadow of two hooded figures and had been afraid to open the door at first. She kept the chain on and, peering through the gap, saw two bulky teenagers standing on the front step, wearing bright yellow-and-black trainers and jeans that seemed to be falling off their waists.

‘Mrs Hetherington?’ one of them said and his voice, when he spoke, was timid. He had chubby cheeks and his right eyebrow had thin stripes sliced through it. They must have been done with a razor, Carol thought.

‘Yes,’ she said, bracing herself. She honestly believed they were going to mug her. There’d been a gangland murder on the estate last year and she kept expecting to see them pull a knife.

‘We wanted to pay our respects,’ said the one with the fat cheeks, the phrase sounding stilted, as though he had been told what words to use.

His friend hung back, face shrouded by a baseball cap pushed low on his forehead. ‘Sorry for your loss.’ He handed over a beautiful bunch of hyacinths, wrapped tightly in Sellotaped brown paper. In the fleshy part between his thumb and forefinger, there was a small tattooed circle: half black, half white.

‘Thank you.’ She was so surprised she forgot to ask them in.

She still feels bad about that. She knows Derek would have ushered them in, told them to join everyone in the front room and got them to tell him about their lives. He was like that. No prejudice. Treated everyone the same.

When Derek was diagnosed with prostate cancer, it was the most awful thing that had ever happened to her. They were worried about how Vanessa would take it, of course, and about Archie, about how they would cope, but mostly they were pitched into a feverish, gnawing anxiety about what was going to happen when the two of them were parted. They had grown so used to each other, you see. Never been apart for more than a week.

‘Just relax, Mrs Hetherington,’ Stacey says again, her voice soft against the rising and swelling of tinkling water and rainforest sounds, piped in from the iPod in the corner of the room. ‘You’re carrying a lot of tension.’

As if tension could be carried. As if it were a bag of shopping, Carol thinks.

Derek had died in hospital. They hadn’t wanted it to end like that and she still can’t forgive herself for it. He’d asked to be discharged so that he could come home and die in his own bed and Carol had rushed back to Lebanon Gardens to get the house ready. She’d wasted her time doing silly things: putting flowers in a vase on the chest of drawers upstairs, cleaning the windows so that he’d have an unobstructed view of the tree-tops outside, buying a special tin of Fox’s chocolate biscuits even though he was hardly eating by then.

Why had she done all that? Why hadn’t she realised that the time they had left was so precious that she couldn’t afford to waste a single second of it?

Because, by the time she got back to the hospital, Derek had died. The Irish nurse, the nice one with the curly hair and fat arms, had been the one to tell her. And although, of course, she’d been expecting it, had been told again and again that Derek’s illness was terminal, that the chances of recovery were nil, that she had to prepare herself for the worst . . . when it happened, she was shocked.

‘He’s gone,’ the nurse said. ‘He died half an hour ago.’

Carol’s stomach curved in on itself, punched by some invisible hand. The beige-green hospital walls seemed to slide towards her, squeezing the air out of the strip-lit corridor. She tried to walk towards Derek’s bed but, instead of the solidity of the linoleum floor that she had been expecting, her foot slipped into nothing and she felt herself spiralling into space. The nurse steadied her, sat her down and told her to take her time but she couldn’t rest. She was desperate to see Derek, to hold his hand and tell him she loved him. Tell him she was sorry for not making it in time.