Local Gone Missing(3)
She was lucky. It had never left Charlie.
* * *
—
Mrs. Lyons was hovering when he came out, brutally tweaking the flower arrangement into shape.
“Ah, here you are,” she chirped as if he was a favorite guest. He wasn’t.
“Now, then,” she said as she seated him in her private drawing room, “we really need to get this bill settled, don’t we?”
“I will be transferring the money tomorrow, Mrs. Lyons,” Charlie said. “I am very grateful for your patience.”
“Well, that is good news but I’m afraid that is what you said on the last occasion. And on the other occasions we have had to discuss this matter.”
“As I explained last time, I have had a slight liquidity problem—I don’t want to bore you with the details—but the money will be in place.” He could feel the prickle of perspiration in his hairline. “You have my word.”
Mrs. Lyons’s mouth hardened and she stood, smoothing her dress over her jutting hip bones.
“Fine. But I cannot emphasize enough that this will be our last conversation on the subject. You are now six months in arrears and I’m afraid I cannot extend our more than generous terms any further. I feel you are taking advantage of us, Mr. Perry.”
“Charlie, please.”
“Perhaps you should be looking for alternative accommodation for Birdie, Mr. Perry.”
* * *
—
He’d yanked a tissue from a fake ormolu box on Mrs. Lyons’s desk as he left and was wiping at the sweat under his eyes as he walked to the main door.
“Is everything all right?” the receptionist called to him.
“Oh, yes. Bit of hay fever. All splendid, thanks.”
“Birdie’s such a lovely girl.”
Girl. He wanted to say she was a woman—she would be thirty-eight next week—that she should have been a top-rung barrister by now. But her injuries had frozen her in time. Her vulnerability had kept her a girl in everyone’s eyes.
“Yes. She is.”
“She’s been a popular girl today. You’re not her first visitor.”
“Really? She didn’t say anything. And it wasn’t in the folder.” Charlie scrambled through possibilities in his head.
The visitor column in the weekly diary was almost exclusively confined to him and Birdie’s mother—they came on different days to avoid any awkwardness. One of Birdie’s old teachers came a couple of times a year but she always let him know beforehand so he could prime his daughter. Could it have been a school friend? The girls in her set had fallen away after they’d left for university but Birdie followed a couple of them on social media.
“No. Well, when I told him she was in treatment, he didn’t stay.” The receptionist leaned forward confidentially. “He said he’d come back one day next week, after lunch.”
He. Charlie’s skin prickled. “Er, did he leave a name or number? I could get in touch and organize something.”
“No, he said not to mention his visit to her. He wanted to surprise her.”
“Well, make sure you call me if it happens again. I don’t want my daughter bothered.”
When he reached the car, Charlie found his emergency packet of cigarettes, lit one with a shaking hand, and sat with his eyes closed.
Three
SATURDAY, AUGUST 10, 2019
Fourteen days earlier
Dee
Where the hell is my tea?” Pauline is shouting when I open the door to the caravan today. And I think she means me. I’m not your bloody servant, I think. And then realize I am.
“Morning, Pauline,” I call. “It’s me. Charlie’s just popped out to the garage. I passed him on the driveway.”
“He’s never where I need him,” Pauline snaps. “He’s always out doing his good deeds, chatting up the old ladies or sneaking off to see bloody Birdie.”
Birdie is not Pauline’s—“The product of an earlier, disastrous relationship,” she tells people. “I never wanted children.” Poor Charlie. Everyone says he’s a saint, putting up with Pauline and driving up and down the A3 to see his disabled daughter.
He doesn’t talk about her in front of me. Pauline cuts him off if he mentions her and there are no photos. The only pictures in the caravan are of Pauline pouting for the camera a hundred years ago.
She used to try to go out when I cleaned. There isn’t room for us all in here and she hates to be reminded. She used to get all arsy with poor old Charlie, made him take her to the big shopping center in Southfold—“I can get artisan bread and that special wine I like”—but she doesn’t do her main shop there. She may use posh carrier bags but she goes to the cheapest supermarket like the rest of us.
But I never say anything to anyone.
The mums at the school gates would love to bitch about her but I never go in for the whole “You ought to see Pauline’s fridge” thing. It’s a disgrace, actually. It smelled like something had died in there the other day, but when I said I’d give it a deep clean, she made a face, said she hadn’t noticed a problem, said it must be a steak she’d bought for Charlie and forgotten. I don’t know how I managed not to laugh. Pauline can hardly make toast, let alone a steak dinner. But people go along with her fantasy about being a domestic goddess. To her face, anyway.