Flight (8 page)

She lowers her binoculars and breathes deeply, momentarily closing her eyes as she rests her hands on the dozing heat of her two companions. Their bodies rise and fall in harmony; her own pulse slows, relaxes, steadies, and she opens her eyes and soaks in the calming panorama of the gathering tide. Down on the beach, a lone woman walks
parallel to the water’s edge, following the path Wren took herself. Wren watches her as she walks across the sand, her pace determined, her posture straight. A memory stirs within Wren and she raises her spyglass, to focus in on the woman, who, it is now clear, is heading straight towards the rock, straight towards her. A small cry escapes Wren’s lips as her world stands still. The woman, made tiny through the viewing lens, is small and beautiful, with flowing locks of the richest red. It’s Laura.

As Laura drives away in her car, Rob and Phoebe stand side by side in the kitchen for several silence-filled minutes, neither of them able to articulate the fear and confusion that fills the space she has just created.

‘I’ll make a cup of tea,’ Rob says, blinking hard as he tries to retain his composure for Phoebe’s sake. ‘Want one?’

Phoebe pushes away her half-eaten toast and makes to leave the room, hesitating in the doorway as she runs the heel of her hand over her brow. She looks as if she hasn’t slept for days. ‘I’m meeting Hannah,’ she replies, and she leaves, leaving Rob to face his anxieties alone.

When the initial shock subsides, Rob tries phoning Laura repeatedly, reaching her voicemail every time. She left in such a hurry, telling him only that she needed to sort something out, that she would be in touch when she knew more.

‘Know more about what?’ he had demanded, watching her helplessly as she threw together an overnight bag and headed down the stairs.

‘I’ll phone you!’ was her final reply, and she kissed him – a brisk peck on the lips – and she pulled the front door shut between them.

She’s driving
, he tries to reassure himself now –
of course she’s not picking up
.

By half-eight he’s sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, phone in hand, calling in sick for only the second time in his fifteen years as head teacher. ‘I think it’s some kind of
stomach flu,’ he tells Anita in the office. He can hear the shake in his own voice, and hopes she will put it down to his illness. ‘I’m going back to bed,’ he lies, the unaccustomed guilt of deception adding to his galloping sense of disquiet.

He spends the next couple of hours pacing the house, clearing the dishes and refolding the laundry, questioning himself endlessly as he tries to make sense of the strange phone call and Laura’s startling exit. He suspects that this is all connected with the journalist who phoned a week ago, and, after much deliberation and a fruitless rummage through Laura’s paperwork tray for clues, he switches on his PC and fritters away an hour reading his emails, looking up the weather, checking on the status of his various savings plans. Anything to still his jittery mind, stop it drawing unwanted conclusions. There’s nothing distracting enough:
twenty per cent off in the Gap autumn sale; south London cloudy with a chance of showers; gross interest added this month £22.54. Wren Irving
, he types into the Google bar – only to delete it again before hitting the Search button. He’s at a loss – anxiously afloat, rudderless without Laura to steer the way.

Now, in the rising light of late morning, he sits alone at the foot of his bed gazing out over the front drive, out across the neat neighbouring hedges and rooftops towards the buttermilk skyline. The rain has slowed, but the wind continues to batter at the windows, sending rattles through the wooden frames, and causing the tall, thin birches of the tree-lined street to wave and willow like a flower bed. Acid waves of uncertainty claw at the spectre of an old stomach ulcer, as his mind roams across the possible causes of Laura’s sudden shocked-faced departure. It’s not the leaving that unsettles him so deeply, it’s the total exclusion – the
secrecy
.
How could she just up and go like this – how could she not think of the impact her leaving would have on him? He reminds himself of his own secret – of the letter, of his lie – and is at once pricked with shame at his rambling, critical thoughts. He should have shown her the letter. They share everything, don’t they? Why not this? Perhaps this is why Laura has gone; perhaps she knows what is in it already or is deeply hurt by his shutting her out.

Exhausted, he allows his body to fall back against the bedspread, the pads of his fingers pressing into the spongy texture of patchwork quilting. The family home hums with silence. In an attempt to slow down his chaotic thoughts, Robert breathes deeply – in one, two, three, four, five – out one, two, three, four, five – all the while fighting the urge to get up from the bed to pour himself a drink, something to calm the tremor that’s building up inside. He never drinks during the day – not since college. He wonders about Phoebe, whether she’ll be home tonight, or whether he might make real his fantasy of descent into a scotch-soaked afternoon in gentle suburbia.

If there was really such a thing as love at first sight, Rob felt it when he first laid eyes on Wren. There was something so unusual, so utterly contained about her, that from their earliest meeting in the college canteen she was never out of his mind. Of course, Rob barely spoke to her that day – Laura could talk enough for the pair of them – but to be in her presence for that brief first meeting was sufficient to lodge a part of her within him, and he loved her from that day forward, without pause. If he were to be pressed on the subject, even after all these years of absence, and despite
everything, he would have to say that he loved her still. She has left her mark on him, an indelible mark.

On a bright June morning at the end of their first year, Laura suggested a day trip for the three of them to Camden Market, to eat and shop and ‘soak up the vibe’. Rob and Wren were not yet an item, though he yearned for that to change. Wren was steadfast in her position as best friend, confidante, guide; if ever he teetered too close to a shift in gear, perhaps poised to lean in for that first longed-for kiss, she would effortlessly sidestep him with a cheery hug or a peck on the cheek, telling him how lucky she was to have two best friends she could rely on
so entirely
. For a whole year, he loved her from this painfully close proximity, and while it was clear Laura knew – could read his mind almost – it was never discussed between them, lest the genie be released from the bottle.

They took the overground train to Camden Road station, stepping off the platform into the vivid light of midday, heading out across the traffic and noise of the main streets towards the brightly coloured shop fronts and canopies of the markets beyond. Laura clapped her hands like a delighted child, before linking arms with Rob and Wren to charge down the road towards the watery horizon of the lockside, heedless of the obstruction they caused in their three-abreast tangle.

‘Brunch first – there’s a greasy spoon down by the canal – best cooked breakfast for miles. Then, I thought we could wander along to the flea market – it’s brilliant for vintage stuff and army surplus – ’ she moves to help Wren avoid stumbling over a tired-looking homeless man sitting on the steps to a travel agent’s ‘ – and then, I thought we could hunt out this jazz bar Charlie Lyons told me about. It’s somewhere
along the waterfront too, and apparently they do the best margaritas in London.’

‘Do you think we should’ve given him some money? That homeless guy?’ Wren is looking back over her shoulder to where the young man is now talking to an older woman in a smart trouser suit. ‘We just stepped over him, like he was nothing.’

Laura gave her arm a yank and kissed her on the cheek. ‘There are a lot of homeless people around, you know, Wrenny? You can’t go giving yourself a hard time about it – it’s not your fault.’

‘She’s got a point, though,’ Rob said. ‘I never know what to do in those situations. Should you give them money? I don’t know. It always makes me feel bad.’ He steered Laura aside as two dreadlocked musicians carrying guitars and bongos rushed past them in a fume of patchouli oil. The sole of the bongo player’s leather boot flapped at the heel, snapping in rhythm with his stride, opening and closing like a lazy mouth.

Laura paused outside a shop to browse the jewel-coloured silk scarves draped from its canopy. They shimmered and rippled with the movement of her fingers, revealing glimpses of the young shopkeeper who sat beyond the display. She carried on along the pavement ahead of them, dancing on and off the kerb to avoid oncoming pedestrians, calling back over her shoulder. ‘It’s possible he’s not even homeless – I’ve heard there’s a lot of that going on in London – people pretending to be homeless when they’re not. It makes a mockery of the poor beggars who really are.’

Robert laughed. Laura never failed to amaze him with her constant snippets of ‘fact’. ‘For a raging leftie, Laur, you’re certainly sounding pretty middle-class right now.’

She stopped dead, her jaw dropping wide in offence; Rob knew this was a surefire way to wind her up. ‘Joke,’ he said as he ducked the ring-laden fingers of her swiping hand.

Wren turned away to take a last look at the homeless man, before they crossed the road beyond the high street and he was obscured behind a bank of tourists and sightseers. ‘Maybe he just wants enough for the train fare. Maybe he’s lost, and he just wants to go home.’

By mid-afternoon, Rob has got through several whiskies and is now considering starting on an unopened bottle of Rioja. He’s hungry, he realises, and he turns off the television and heads to the kitchen to search out some food.
There’s no need to let it all go to hell
. That was what Laura told him in those first few days after Wren had gone, when, after his third night of heavy drinking, she’d made the grand gesture of pouring all his alcohol down the sink while he watched. ‘You’ve got to eat, you’ve got to wash, and you’ve got to care for a baby. You can’t let it all go to hell,’ she said. ‘You simply don’t have the time.’

Laura
. What if this is the same as before? What if she just disappears, cuts off all contact, leaves him hanging? He couldn’t take it; not again. Rob checks his phone for missed calls. When he sees there is none, he switches the device off and removes the battery, vigorously polishing it on the hem of his shirt, turning it up to the light to inspect it for signs of damage. He clicks the battery back into place and switches it on; after five minutes of interminable loading, his phone comes back to life. Still there is nothing: no voicemail, no text messages, no missed calls. He grasps at the idea that it’s a problem at her end, and keys in another text to her,
repeating much of what he’s already said in earlier messages –
Where are you? Are you OK? We’re worried. Call me, Laura. PLEASE
.

After several more minutes staring into the blank screen of his phone, Rob loads up a tray with wine, bread and cheese, and carries it upstairs to his study, with the intention of running a search for that journalist who called. He switches on his desk lamp, opens up his laptop and pours himself a glass of wine. He’ll check his emails again while he’s at it, make sure he hasn’t missed any news of Laura that way. As the screensaver image of Phoebe and Laura fills his view, Rob’s thoughts are drawn back to the letter in his bag and he is hit with a sudden burst of courage and resolve. He’s suddenly disgusted at his cowardly reaction so far, his evasion, and in a flash of inspiration he realises this could be the key to making it right again with Laura – he must act
now
, sort it all out and come clean to Laura when she comes home, tell her everything – no more secrets, no more lies. Reaching into the bottom of his work bag, his fingers scrabble in fleeting panic before they land on the envelope – still there, thank God, the letter inside deeply scored from the folding and unfolding of countless views. He smoothes it out across the surface of the desk, his lips moving in sync as he reads it through for yet another time. Pressing his shoulders against the back of his office chair, he lets his fingers drift over the keyboard of his laptop, poised for action as he considers his next move.

Taking another slug of wine, he opens his mailbox and enters the email address she gave at the bottom of her letter. What to write? He starts typing, and after a few false starts his words begin to flow more easily, his questions growing clear.

He reads and re-reads the message, his cursor hovering uncertainly over the Send key, before he slams his forefinger into the mouse and propels it out into the ether, to Ava. His mind lights guiltily on thoughts of Laura – of Wren – and he flips shut his laptop and staggers along the hall with the weight of his conscience upon him.

Before Wren, Rob had experienced only the briefest of relationships – a few girlfriends here and there, never lasting more than weeks, a couple of months if he was lucky – and fewer sexual partners than he could count on one hand. On half a hand, if he was completely honest. As a youngster he had been tongue-tied around girls, and he hid behind the bravado of Laura, happy for his college mates to assume they were an item if it gave him a quiet life.

There was one girl, Lisa, a wispy little thing from Berkshire who he met in the student union bar at the end-
of-term
history department bash. She was working behind the
bar – ‘for shoe money!’ – and she talked enough for the pair of them, glossing over his bashfulness and putting him at ease. By the end of the night, to his surprise, he had invited her to join him on a festival trip to Stonehenge, an excursion organised by Laura and one which he’d been increasingly dreading as the day grew nearer. But now he had Lisa to take, and it would be fantastic! He had visions of basking in the sunshine beside the stones, her long blonde hair fanning out across the grass; of huddling under blankets beside a camp fire, toasting marshmallows and sharing a sleeping bag beneath the cool canopy of a tent, nestling close to ward off the cold.

As it was, the trip was a disaster. Laura hated Lisa on sight, sniggering and pulling faces throughout the journey there, and trying to draw Wren into her menace with nudges and barbed comments. To make matters infinitely worse, Lisa couldn’t bring herself to camp on the festival site, and they ended up a couple of miles down the road, pitching the tent in a secluded field beside a stream. They failed to get the campfire going, and ended up eating white sliced bread and cold baked beans washed down with lager; and Lisa was almost eaten alive by mosquitoes on a visit to the water’s edge to take a pee.