Local Girl Missing (26 page)

1. Why was Frankie drawn to Sophie as a friend? Why was Sophie drawn to Frankie in return?
   
2. Why do you think Sophie feels so unable to tell anyone about her stalker? In what ways could she have acted differently?
   
3. The author uses the phrase ‘like father, like daughter’ in relation to Frankie and her father. How similar are these characters and in what ways? Frankie calls Sophie a liar when she reveals that Alistair has harmed her. How far will we go to protect our perceptions of the ones we love? Are we all in denial about our loved ones?
   
4. Do you think, on some level, Frankie believes her own story? Can you convince yourself to believe your own lies? How do you think the novel approaches the theme of memory?
   
5. Sophie’s friend Helen insists that ‘Friendship should be about give and take. It should be about equality’ whereas Sophie thinks this is naïve. Discuss power dynamics between friends throughout the novel and how they change.
   
6. What are Sophie’s flaws? Is she purely a victim in this story?
   
7. Frankie addresses Sophie throughout the novel almost as if she is speaking to her. What do you think that the author was trying to portray by writing this way?
   
8. How does young Frankie from Oldcliffe compare to the Frankie we meet in the present day? What has caused her to develop in this way? If Frankie really believes such assertions as ‘Nobody turns me down’, what causes her to feel so entitled?
   
9. Do you believe that Frankie has real feelings towards Daniel? Discuss Daniel’s relationships with the women in the novel.
   
10. What role does the atmosphere of the Oldcliffe setting play in the story?
    
11. ‘I don’t think I’m bad. I’ve just done some bad things’. Is Frankie ‘bad’? What makes someone a ‘bad’ person?
    
12. What causes a friendship to turn to toxic envy? Are there barriers we should always uphold with our friends? Can people be too close?
    
13. What do you think happens after the novel ends? Does Frankie survive the fall and start a new life for herself, just like Sophie?
    

I
am so grateful to Juliet Mushens, my amazing agent, for her unstinting support, help and advice, as well as finding me my editor, the brilliant Maxine Hitchcock, who I loved as soon as I met her. She and the rest of the team at Penguin have been invaluable in their encouragement, editorial advice, copy-editing, proofreading, cover design, marketing, publicity and everything else that it takes to bring a book to publication. I am in awe of all of you!

A huge thank you to my family and friends who have all been so kind and encouraging, who bought and read my first book, who recommended it to their book groups, and who passed it on to their family and friends. Your support means so much to me.

To everyone on Twitter or Facebook who came to say hello or told me how much they enjoyed my book. It was so lovely to hear from you.

To my beautiful children, Claudia and Isaac (who, again, won’t be able to read this book for a long, long time!) and to my husband, Ty, who helped me brainstorm plot points when I was stuck, who read my first draft, who has taken such an interest in everything I write and who is always so encouraging. Thank you for all your support and your belief in me over the years (even when I found it hard to believe in myself!). This book is for you.

@DougieClaire

ClaireDouglasAuthor

He had such pretty eyes, they were his best feature. The colour of the ocean. Now they are as glassy and lifeless as a china doll’s, staring up at the darkening sky, empty, unseeing. The rock falls from my open palm and rolls towards his body where it nestles softly against his thigh, as though apologising for the fatal wound it has caused.

Fear takes hold of me so that, for a few moments, I’m rooted to the spot and can do nothing but stare at the dent in his skull and the arc of blood that has sprayed from the back of his head, staining the grass red. Then I kneel down beside him, my knees sinking into the damp lawn. I’m careful not to touch him. I grab the rock that fell from my hand, pocketing it. I can leave no evidence.

I glance up furtively. The building is over two hundred feet away, the windows opaque, some with curtains hanging open, others with the blinds rolled up. Was anybody watching? I’m already starting to think like a criminal. Was I seen at the bottom of the garden among the weeds and overgrown grass?

Was I seen killing my husband?

The room is small and airless. It smells of bad breath and bitter coffee. I can feel sweat prickle my armpits, droplets running down my back and gathering at the base of my spine, seeping through the cotton of my blouse. I’m grateful for my short hair, a decision I’d made after Thailand eight years ago; I’ve never bothered to grow it again. At least the back of my neck feels cool. I sit at the table with my hands folded in my lap, trying to look demure. Trying to look innocent. Not that anybody is here with me. I’m totally alone. I wonder if they can see me. Are they scrutinising me for a reaction? Is there a camera hidden in this room? There is no two-way mirror, not like in those ITV crime dramas. I’ve never been in a police station before, but this room, this
smell
, is exactly what I would have imagined, if, of course, I’d ever imagined such a scenario. I can honestly say I never have. Why would I? I’d always assumed I’d got away with it.

Panic is swelling within me so that I have to make every effort to swallow it down, to not scream and beat my fists against the door. Is it even locked? I’m too scared to find out. I keep my eyes on that door. It’s heavy and grey, I already feel as though I’m in prison. The only sound to be heard is the clock on the wall, ticking, time has slowed down. Waiting, all this waiting. Do they do it on purpose to try and make you crack?

They are going to ask me how it happened, how I got here. How can I tell them without implicating myself further? Without losing everything?

Of course, looking back, it all began with that holiday, that house swap. That’s when everything started to go wrong. How could we have known as we trundled along in Jamie’s car that day, with the roof down and the sunshine bouncing off the bonnet, that we were heading into a nightmare? Life can be like that, dramatically spliced in half; the before and the after. How I would have made more effort to appreciate, to
savour
, the before if I’d known about the after.

We had music on, I can’t remember the tune, possibly something on Radio One because we liked to think we were still young, still down with the kids even though I was nearly thirty. Not that we could really hear it with the wind whistling past our ears. Ziggy, our Golden Retriever, was in the back seat, tongue lolling, a look of ecstasy on his face. It was only mid April and there was a chill in the air despite the blue skies, and I tugged the collar of my coat further up my neck so there was no exposed flesh. My left arm was in a sling so Jamie was driving, his face more alive, more vibrant, than I had seen it in months. As his hands grasped the steering wheel, his fair hair blowing about his forehead, I didn’t have the heart to tell him to put the roof up. He needed that holiday even more than I did. I do remember running my fingers along my abdomen in the hope we might have conceived. We’d been married just under a year at that point, and had decided to try for a baby. I loved – love – kids. It’s why I became a primary school teacher. I’m Head of English at an independent primary school in Bath. I’m still proud of the achievement, despite everything.

I felt the drag of car sickness as Jamie’s Mini Cooper rounded bend after bend and I concentrated on breathing deeply, trying to push the nausea away, my nostrils desperately searching for the sea air that I had been promised but instead finding the pungent smell of rapeseed from the yellow fields. The skin on my arm itched beneath my cast.

Eventually, another bend and then a speck in the distance that grew bigger as we approached, breaking up the monotonous country roads; a tiny petrol station stood forlornly, like a lost child amongst the wild foliage.

‘That must be the one,’ I said, pointing at it in excitement, trying to remember the instructions that Philip Heywood had emailed to me the day before. It meant we were nearly at the house.

Jamie pulled in to the forecourt. ‘Can you go and get the key then, Libs? I might as well fill her up as we’re here. Then I’ll take Ziggy over there so he can do his ablutions,’ he indicated a patch of unruly grass next to the garage. I nodded, relieved to get out and stand on solid ground for a bit.

The guy behind the counter was barely out of his teenage years. He stared at me with a nonplussed expression on his acne-scarred face when I asked about the key to The Hideaway. ‘I don’t know nothing about a key,’ he said while scratching a pimple on his neck. ‘I’ll get my manager. Name?’

‘Pardon?’

He tutted, not bothering to hide his annoyance. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Oh. It’s Libby. Libby Elliot. I mean, Hall. I’m Libby Hall now. Mrs.’ I could feel myself blushing, unused to using my married name; I’d continued using my maiden name for work.

He sloped off to the back of the shop, his long arms swinging like an ape’s. Just as I was beginning to panic that this was some elaborate con and there was no key, or house by the sea, a buxom woman with a mop of dyed blonde hair came bustling over, the key dangling enticingly from her chubby fingers. I handed over my debit card for the petrol while the woman chatted away in a thick Cornish accent;
tourists, huh? You’ll love the house. Beautiful views. Never been lucky enough to stay there myself of course.

Jamie was impatiently tapping the steering wheel with his fingers when I got back to the car. Ziggy was stretched out along the back seat, taking advantage of the sunshine that beat down onto his golden coat. ‘I thought it had all been a mistake,’ he said, sounding relieved when I handed him the key. ‘You know what they say. If it’s too good to be true …’

As we headed down another narrow lane, thick hedgerows sprinkled with white blossom rearing up on either side of us, Jamie almost shouted, ‘That must be it! There, on the other side of that T-junction!’ His excitement accentuating his South London accent. I frowned, thinking he must be mistaken. The house he was referring to was huge; a detached, rectangular building with a round turret at the end, all Cotswold stone and glass. Trees and bushes in varying shades of green enveloped the house as if they were giving it a hug. Beyond the property I could see the stretch of clear blue sea sparkling in the distance.

‘This can’t be it,’ I replied as Jamie veered off the road and onto the driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires just as the nasal voice of the Sat Nav informed us we had reached our destination.

Jamie switched the engine off and I was thankful for the peace. We sat in silence for a few moments, surveying the house, the cheerful chirruping of birds and the faint growl of the sea the only sounds to be heard. I could smell the salt on the breeze, mixed with a trace of horse manure.

‘It’s quite remote,’ I said, suddenly feeling a little overwhelmed. I grew up in the countryside – a little two-up-two-down in South Yorkshire – but I’d spent the best part of the last decade in a city. I was used to having neighbours.

‘It’s amazing,’ said Jamie, his face alight. ‘I can’t quite believe we’re going to be staying here. Good call, Libs.’ He took a deep breath through his nose. ‘Ah, smell that air. So fresh and clean. No pollution, no fumes.’ Just cow shit instead, I wanted to say, but didn’t. I sensed the tension of the last few months ebbing away from him, transforming him into the man I’d married and not the stressed person he’d become since he was made redundant and forced to set up on his own. The attack hadn’t helped. He’d been so worried, wanting to kill the man responsible.

A squirrel scrambled up a nearby tree and Ziggy barked, a deep woof that shattered the silence, and he pulled against his restraint. Jamie laughed and leaned over the back seat to unbuckle him, clipping the lead onto his collar. ‘Come on, boy, I know you’re dying to explore.’

Jamie jumped out the car and ran around the front to open the passenger door for me. ‘Very chivalrous of you,’ I laughed, trying not to wince as I stepped from the car.

He frowned. ‘Are you alright, Libs?’

‘I just can’t wait to get this cast off, that’s all. It makes everything so bloody awkward.’

He stroked my cheek. ‘Not much longer my little heroine.’

I thumped his arm playfully with my good hand. ‘Stop taking the piss.’

He kissed the top of my head. ‘I’m not taking the piss, you are a heroine,’ he mumbled. ‘Don’t you forget it.’ Then he bounded away from me, dragged by Ziggy, and I followed, reluctantly, half expecting an irate owner to come hurtling out of the house to tell us to get off his land. Noticing my hesitation, Jamie beckoned me to the door; slate grey aluminium, as clean and polished as the rest of the house. His eyes were bright as he looked up from the piece of paper he was consulting. ‘It is the right place, look,’ he said, to reassure himself as much as me. He prodded the paper with his finger and then indicated the stone sign with the words The Hideaway carved into it. ‘Apt name. There isn’t another house for miles. And it’s not far from Lizard Point. I’ve always wanted to see the lighthouse.’ He sounded like one of my six year olds.

I felt a stab of guilt that we’d swapped our poky two-bedroom flat in Bath, with the animal hairs and the dog food aroma, for this. I wondered what Philip Heywood and his wife were thinking? It wasn’t even a Georgian flat, as one might expect in Bath, but late Victorian.

‘Do you think it was okay to bring Ziggy? I never thought to ask.’

‘Shit, Libs. Why didn’t you check? I have no idea.’

‘I didn’t expect the house to be so big and posh that’s why.’ My fears were confirmed as soon as we stepped over the threshold. It definitely wasn’t the sort of place to bring a dog. Everything was so white; the sofas, the rugs, the walls. Don’t get me wrong, it was beautiful. It was straight out of a White Company catalogue. But I was worried we’d stain it somehow, with our messy ways – or, more likely, the dog’s dirty paws.

I grabbed the lead from Jamie, too worried to let Ziggy go, unable to shake the feeling that we were trespassing, and wandered into the kitchen. It was huge and open plan with white gloss cabinets and marble worktops. Bi-fold doors led onto a wide garden that overlooked a beach below.

‘Look at this, Jay,’ I called, my head in the American-style fridge. I was practically salivating at all the food. ‘There’s enough here to feed a family of ten.’

Jamie ran up behind me and peered inside. ‘Ooh they have paté, and look at all those beers!’ He grinned at me. ‘This is heaven!’

I frowned. ‘Our fridge at home is practically empty,’ I said, ashamed of the pint of milk and curled up ham that I’d left behind. I never even thought about stocking the fridge.

‘Don’t worry about it, they’ve got more important things on their mind. Come on, let’s go and have a look around,’ he said, grabbing my hand. ‘And take Ziggy off the lead, he’ll be fine.’ We raced around the house like over excited teenagers, the dog at our heels. Solid oak floors, white walls, colourful abstract artwork, and in each room, large floor-to-ceiling windows with the most amazing views of the sea and the jagged beauty of Gerrans Bay. A huge black and white canvas of an attractive brunette in a white dress, strolling wistfully along a beach hand in hand with a little girl, dominated one of the walls in the living room. There were four large bedrooms, an open-plan family room, a study and a basement, although we didn’t go down there on that first day. The house was much too big for the two of us. An uneasy feeling began growing in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t put my finger on it but something didn’t feel right.

Even though the house was tidy there was evidence that a family lived there: expensive perfumes in the bathroom, clothes in the wardrobes (I couldn’t help but take a peak: long summer dresses, flouncy blouses, strappy sandals, a man’s linen suits), a pile of trainers in the boot room and a few board games in the smallest bedroom. There didn’t seem to be enough stuff for it to be the Heywood’s main home, it wasn’t crammed to the rafters with junk like our flat was. I suspected it was just their holiday house.

The master bedroom was in the circular turret with curved floor-length windows. A four-poster bed dominated the room, all pale oak and floating muslin. I stood gazing out at the beach and the sea beyond. I couldn’t see another soul.

I felt Jamie’s presence next to me and he put an arm around my shoulder. ‘It looks as though you can walk through the garden to the beach.’ He sighed. ‘God, Libs, what a stroke of luck.’ I turned to face him, noting the bags under his eyes, his grey complexion, and pushed down my uneasiness, convincing myself the Cornish air would be good for him. And for me. I still had nightmares about that day at school, the intruder, his assault. It was lovely to get away. To forget for a while.

I glanced at Jamie; he still dressed like a student in his polo shirt, ripped jeans and trainers. ‘We should have taken our shoes off,’ I said, looking pointedly at his scruffy Converse. ‘And we’re going to have to keep Ziggy’s paws clean. We should have bought those dog socks that we saw in the pet shop that time.’ I giggled at the thought of Ziggy in the florescent green socks. He’d never forgive us.

Jamie laughed, loud and heartily. It echoed around the house. I hadn’t heard that sound enough in the last few months and it made my heart soar.

I told myself to be happy, in that moment, that Jamie deserved this holiday, that we were lucky to spend a week in the Heywood’s wonderful home. It was a place we could never have afforded to stay in otherwise.

I wish I’d trusted my instincts. I wish we had turned around and gone back to Bath. But it’s easy to think that now, in hindsight. It’s easy to think we should have made a run for it when on that first day we had no reason to feel unsafe. That came later.