RACHEL

MONDAY, JULY 15, 2013
MORNING
Cathy called me back just as I was leaving the flatthis morning and gave me a stiff little hug. I thoughtshe was going to tell me that she wasn’t kicking meout after all, but instead she slipped a typewrittennote into my hand, giving me formal notice of myeviction, including a departure date. She couldn’t meetmy eye. I felt sorry for her, I honestly did, thoughnot quite as sorry as for myself. She gave me a sadsmile and said, “I hate to do this to you, Rachel, Ihonestly do.” The whole thing felt very awkward. Wewere standing in the hallway, which, despite my bestefforts with the bleach, still smelled a bit of sick. I feltlike crying, but I didn’t want to make her feel worsethan she already did, so I just smiled cheerily andsaid, “Not at all, it’s honestly no problem,” as thoughshe’d just asked me to do her a small favour.
On the train, the tears come, and I don’t care ifpeople are watching me; for all they know, my dogmight have been run over. I might have beendiagnosed with a terminal illness. I might be abarren, divorced, soon-to-be-homeless alcoholic.
It’s ridiculous, when I think about it. How did I findmyself here? I wonder where it started, my decline; Iwonder at what point I could have halted it. Wheredid I take the wrong turn? Not when I met Tom,who saved me from grief after Dad died. Not whenwe married, carefree, drenched in bliss, on an oddlywintry May day seven years ago. I was happy,solvent, successful. Not when we moved into numbertwenty-three, a roomier, lovelier house than I’dimagined I’d live in at the tender age of twenty-six. Iremember those first days so clearly, walking around,shoeless, feeling the warmth of wooden floorboardsunderfoot, relishing the space, the emptiness of allthose rooms waiting to be filled. Tom and I, makingplans: what we’d plant in the garden, what we’dhang on the walls, what colour to paint the spareroom—already, even then, in my head, the baby’sroom.
Maybe it was then. Maybe that was the momentwhen things started to go wrong, the moment whenI imagined us no longer a couple, but a family; andafter that, once I had that picture in my head, justthe two of us could never be enough. Was it thenthat Tom started to look at me differently, hisdisappointment mirroring my own? After all he gaveup for me, for the two of us to be together, I lethim think that he wasn’t enough.
I let the tears flow as far as Northcote, then I pullmyself together, wipe my eyes and start writing a listof things to do today on the back of Cathy’s evictionletter:
Holborn LibraryEmail MumEmail Martin, reference???
Find out about AAmeetings—centralLondon/AshburyTell Cathy about job?
When the train stops at the signal, I look up andsee Jason standing on the terrace, looking down atthe track. I feel as though he’s looking right at me,and I get the oddest sensation—I feel as though he’slooked at me like that before; I feel as though he’sreally seen me. I imagine him smiling at me, and forsome reason I feel afraid.
He turns away and the train moves on.
EVENING
I’m sitting in the emergency room at UniversityCollege Hospital. I was knocked down by a taxi whilecrossing Gray’s Inn Road. I was sober as a judge,I’d just like to point out, although I was in a bit of astate, distracted, panicky almost. I’m having aninch-long cut above my right eye stitched up by anextremely handsome junior doctor who isdisappointingly brusque and businesslike. When he’sfinished stitching, he notices the bump on my head.
“It’s not new,” I tell him.
“It looks pretty new,” he says.
“Well, not new today.”
“Been in the wars, have we?”
“I bumped it getting into a car.”
He examines my head for a good few seconds andthen says, “Is that so?” He stands back and looksme in the eye. “It doesn’t look like it. It looks morelike someone’s hit you with something,” he says, andI go cold. I have a memory of ducking down toavoid a blow, raising my hands. Is that a realmemory? The doctor approaches again and peersmore closely at the wound. “Something sharp,serrated maybe?.?.?.”
“No,” I say. “It was a car. I bumped it getting intoa car.” I’m trying to convince myself as much ashim.
“OK.” He smiles at me then and steps back again,crouching down a little so that our eyes are level.
“Are you all right?.?.?.” He consults his notes.
“Rachel?”
“Yes.”
He looks at me for a long time; he doesn’t believeme. He’s concerned. Perhaps he thinks I’m abattered wife. “Right. I’m going to clean this up foryou, because it looks a bit nasty. Is there someone Ican call for you? Your husband?”
“I’m divorced,” I tell him.
“Someone else, then?” He doesn’t care that I’mdivorced.
“My friend, please, she’ll be worried about me.” Igive him Cathy’s name and number. Cathy won’t beworried at all—I’m not even late home yet—but I’mhoping that the news that I’ve been hit by a taximight make her take pity on me and forgive me forwhat happened yesterday. She’ll probably think thereason I got knocked down is because I was drunk.
I wonder if I can ask the doctor to do a blood testor something so that I can provide her with proof ofmy sobriety. I smile up at him, but he isn’t lookingat me, he’s making notes. It’s a ridiculous ideaanyway.
It was my fault, the taxi driver wasn’t to blame. Istepped right out—ran right out, actually—in front ofthe cab. I don’t know where I thought I was runningto. I wasn’t thinking at all, I suppose, at least notabout myself. I was thinking about Jess. Who isn’tJess, she’s Megan Hipwell, and she’s missing.
I’d been in the library on Theobalds Road. I’d justemailed my mother (I didn’t tell her anything ofsignificance, it was a sort of test-the-waters email, togauge how maternal she’s feeling towards me at themoment) via my Yahoo account. On Yahoo’s frontpage there are news stories, tailored to your postcodeor whatever—God only knows how they know mypostcode, but they do. And there was a picture ofher, Jess, my Jess, the perfect blonde, next to aheadline that read CONCERN FOR MISSING WITNEYWOMAN.
At first I wasn’t sure. It looked like her, she lookedexactly the way she looks in my head, but I doubtedmyself. Then I read the story and I saw the streetname and I knew.
Buckinghamshire Police arebecoming increasingly concernedfor the welfare of a missingtwenty-nine-year-old woman,Megan Hipwell, of BlenheimRoad, Witney. Mrs. Hipwell waslast seen by her husband, ScottHipwell, on Saturday nightwhen she left the couple’shome to visit a friend ataround seven o’clock. Herdisappearance is “completely outof character,” Mr. Hipwell said.
Mrs. Hipwell was wearing jeansand a red T-shirt. She is fivefoot four, slim, with blond hairand blue eyes. Anyone withinformation regarding Mrs.
Hipwell is requested to contactBuckinghamshire Police.
She’s missing. Jess is missing. Megan is missing.
Since Saturday. I Googled her—the story appeared inthe Witney Argus, but with no further details. Ithought about seeing Jason—Scott—this morning,standing on the terrace, looking at me, smiling at me.
I grabbed my bag and got to my feet and ran outof the library, into the road, right into the path of ablack cab.
“Rachel? Rachel?” The good-looking doctor is tryingto get my attention. “Your friend is here to pick you up.”