The House of New Beginnings Page 24

  Chapter Twenty

  Facebook: Ann-Marie Chandler

  Recent updates

  Finger painting with my little princess this morning! A future Picasso!!!

  Joshie came top in his spelling test at school. Definitely takes after his Daddy!!!

  Whoops . . . been shopping with the girls and accidentally bought a few goodies. Naughty Mummy. Nobody let on to my hubby!! #shoes #Iloveshoes

  Anyone for cocktails? Celebrating our new conservatory being finished at last. Cheers! #tipsyalready

  Good news . . . clever David’s got this amazing new job! So proud!!! Less good news . . . he’ll be away more than ever now. What can I say . . . everybody wants him. Who can blame them?? #blessed

  Rosa had been feeling so much more chipper since her lovely dinner party – actually joyful, Madame Zara, yes, joyful, so stick that one in your charlatan’s pipe – that there was a part of her that felt kind of sordid to still be grubbing around, lurking on Ann-Marie’s Facebook page, unable to resist poring over every single gushing update and beaming photo. The perfect nuclear family, just look at them, so attractive and wholesome – and yet she knew full well that it was a pack of lies, completely hollow at the centre. She could knock the whole careful structure down with one little shove.

  At the end of the day, you had to feel sorry for Ann-Marie, really: sorry for poor, pretty, enthusiastic Ann-Marie who was just so gullible and trusting. As Rosa had been, of course. She of all people knew how credible Max – David – could be when he gazed into your eyes, how a woman wanted to believe every damn thing he had told her.

  This mention of a ‘new job’, though, and being away more than ever – that didn’t sound good for Ann-Marie, did it? Wake up, Ann-Marie, and smell that freshly made cappuccino you’ve just conjured up from your flashy new coffee machine! He’s got someone else again, he’s playing you for a fool! And what had he called himself this time? Rosa wondered. Was he Max again, or would he have a different name now? You’d think it would get confusing after a while, all these identities. Exhausting, really. Obviously the effort was worth it, in his eyes; the game too irresistible to stop playing just yet. It got out of hand, I do love you, he’d said pleadingly on the phone to her that last time, and he’d sounded genuinely sorry. Not sorry enough to stop himself moving straight on to someone else, though, clearly.

  If you were to read right back through Ann-Marie’s timeline, as Rosa had done before (yes, all of it, because she was masochistic like that), the evidence was there, quite plain for anyone of a suspicious mind to piece together into a bigger picture. David’s sales job that meant he had to travel so much, and attend so many conferences – especially at weekends! The kids did miss him so, but they were grateful too, for clever hard-working Daddy, who was just doing his best for the family. Even when poor David had to miss Joshie’s birthday that time because he was in New York, and Ann-Marie had had to email a video of little Mae’s first steps because he was away again, this time in Boston, and oh, so many other times, actually, where Rosa could read between the lines and see that for all the posturing and mugging up to camera, David was very much a part-time father, a shadowy figure on the outskirts of his kids’ lives. He’d been with her each time, of course, in London, in Amsterdam, in the Maldives, not in New York, or Boston, not at any conferences. And yet Ann-Marie seemed to have accepted each absence uncomplainingly, the poor deluded cow.

  Anyway. Whatever. She had better things to do this afternoon, like printing off a poster to put in the hall, advertising her inaugural supper club. Yes! She was going to trial it, just a small one at first, for people she already knew, basically, but you had to start somewhere. Her neighbours had been so encouraging, and even Natalya had nodded her approval. ‘People will pay you for cooking dinner in your flat? Is good,’ she had pronounced. ‘Is right.’

  The buzzer at Rosa’s front door went just as she was saving her first stab at a poster, making her jump. ‘Hello?’ she said into the intercom.

  ‘Hi, Rosa, it’s Gareth,’ came the response and she was still so immersed in the Facebook page that, for a moment, she found herself stupidly thinking it must be a Gareth she’d seen on Ann-Marie’s timeline, her friend Miranda’s husband. Get a grip, Rosa! ‘Is Bea at your place?’ he went on, before she could say anything. ‘Have you seen her?’ He sounded breathless, as if he’d just been running, anxious too. ‘I don’t know where she is.’

  The words were pouring from his mouth so fast they were tripping over each other and Rosa felt taken aback. It was gone five; school had long since finished. ‘I’ve been at work most of the day,’ she said, pressing the button to let him in and going out to meet him in the hall. ‘She might be in the flat, I suppose, but I haven’t heard her. Should I have done? I mean, aren’t you supposed to be . . . ?’

  Barely listening, Gareth ran past her to pound on Jo’s door. ‘Bea? Are you in there? I’m sorry, all right? Bea?’ No answer came and his fist dropped to his side, his expression one of defeat. ‘Damn it.’

  ‘What’s happened? I take it you’ve tried ringing her?’ Rosa gestured back at her own open front door. ‘Why don’t you come in for a minute? I could try phoning if she’s got the hump with you, or—’

  ‘That’s part of the problem,’ he said, following her into the flat. He sank into the sofa, his long legs bending like an anglepoise lamp, and pulled a small purple smartphone from his pocket, holding it up with a grim expression. ‘I’ve got her phone. I confiscated it again from her last night when we had this big bust-up. The worst one yet.’ He rubbed his eyes, his body language signalling defeat. ‘God, I’m shit at this,’ he confessed ruefully. ‘I’m just . . . I don’t know what I’m doing. I thought it was hard when she was a baby and screaming all night with colic, but this . . . this not knowing . . . The two of us locking horns about everything, arguing constantly . . .’ He spread his hands and looked up at Rosa, humility in his eyes. ‘I’m making a right pig’s ear of things, basically. And now I don’t have a clue where she is. My own daughter!’

  Rosa tried to think in practical terms. ‘Have you phoned the school to see if she went in today?’

  ‘Yep,’ he replied. ‘They said she was in her lessons all day and doesn’t have any after-school clubs. She’s not been in to see Jo either, I checked with the hospital. I’ve drawn a total blank.’

  ‘What about mates? Do you know any of their names, where they hang out?’

  ‘That’s the other thing,’ he said. ‘I looked at her phone for that reason, to see if there were any old conversations about meeting up or going to particular places and . . .’ He grimaced.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, she’s been getting these horrible messages. Like, properly horrible. Nasty, bullying stuff.’ She noticed his hands curl into fists again. ‘I had no idea,’ he went on gruffly. ‘I’m her dad and I had no bloody idea.’

  Right. Cos I’m so popular, Rosa remembered Bea muttering sarcastically that time. Oh God, who would be a teenage girl again? ‘What do you mean horrible messages?’ she asked worriedly. ‘From who? Someone at school, or . . . ?’

  ‘It’s all anonymous.’ He bent over the phone and swiped the screen. ‘It’s like “Why don’t you just die, bitch?” “Nobody likes you, bitch.” “Ever thought of drowning yourself, bitch?”’ He shook his head. ‘And so on.’

  Rosa turned cold, hearing the hateful words. ‘Oh no. Poor thing.’ She thought of Bea’s wary scowl that sometimes – if you were lucky – became a crooked smile; the hurt she must have been carrying around all this time. People were so fragile at the end of the day. Everyone covered up, constructing public faces for themselves, but imagine getting messages like that, drip drip drip, every day, wondering who had sent them, wondering who else knew. ‘What did the school say, did they know about this?’

  ‘They said she’d been rather “volatile” lately. Arguing back in class. One teacher had noticed her spending a lot of time on her own,’ he said flatly. ‘I wish she’d to
ld me. Said something. I might have been able to help, but . . .’ He got to his feet in a sudden movement. ‘Anyway, I should get out there and look for her. Shit. I was so sure she’d be here as well. If I give you my number, will you ring me if she comes back? I’ve got to find her and put this right, not least because Jo would . . .’ He broke off, anguish in his eyes. ‘I’ve got to put it right,’ he said again.

  ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ Rosa said, getting to her feet. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Having left a note for Bea along with both Rosa’s and Gareth’s phone numbers, they headed off in Gareth’s car. ‘She’ll call us from Jo’s landline if she gets back before us,’ Rosa said, clipping in her seatbelt. ‘Where shall we look in the meantime? Where might she have gone?’

  ‘She doesn’t have much money,’ Gareth said, ‘not enough to get the train anywhere, so hopefully she hasn’t gone far. Unless she’s hitched, of course.’ He hit the steering wheel as they crawled to a stop in the rush-hour traffic snaking along the seafront. ‘Oh God. Please let her be more sensible than that.’

  ‘She is sensible,’ Rosa said firmly, although she knew from her own experiences that even the most outwardly seeming sensible person could act irrationally when they’d been badly hurt. ‘Let’s think about places around here first. She’s obviously unhappy, she’s had a horrible time. Is there anywhere special to her that she might have gone to, for comfort? Any favourite place where she might be hiding out?’

  ‘There’s the pier, I suppose,’ he said. ‘There are always tons of kids hanging around there. And she loved Hove Lagoon when she was younger, we used to go there a lot together, back when I first became a weekend dad.’ He groaned. ‘God, I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe it’s come to this. I shouldn’t have been so hard on her, she’s only a kid.’

  Rosa tried to steer the conversation back to practicalities. ‘Does she have any favourite cafés, or shops? Have you looked on the beach at all?’ She gazed out at the calm blue sea and the words of the horrible text messages came back to her. Ever thought of drowning yourself, bitch? Rosa shuddered despite the warmth of the car. She wasn’t even going to mention that particular possibility. Not until they’d combed every inch of the city, anyway.

  ‘No,’ he admitted, ‘but you’re right, we should. Sod it,’ he said, swinging the wheel round to the left, swerving up the next side street and parking the first chance he got, even though there were double yellow lines and the city traffic wardens were notoriously generous with their parking tickets. ‘It’ll be quicker to walk. Let’s just start looking.’ He locked the car. ‘Come on.’

  They tramped along the beach, scouring the horizon for Bea but she was not to be found anywhere on the pier, nor in any of the cafés they put their heads into along the way. Neither was she outside the big shopping mall with other KFC-eating teenagers, or down by the skateboarding ramps. The sun was sliding into the sea now, the sky becoming gauzy with the dusk. Any beach-going families had packed up and gone home for the day, the sea was empty of all hardy swimmers and paddlers; the deckchairs folded back up in the beach hut where they were kept. Meanwhile, the beachside restaurants and bars were filling up for the evening, while groups of teenagers and twenty-somethings lingered on the pebbles with cigarettes and bottles of beer and music. Where are you, Bea? thought Rosa as she mentally checked and discarded one girl’s face after another. Where are you?

  Gareth bought them a bag of salted chips to eat while they continued back along the beach towards Hove. The lights were all coming on along the seafront as they walked, strings of golden bulbs festooned between the lamp posts like bunting. Before long, the sky would be deepening into a school-ink blue and if Bea was down on the beach, it would be doubly hard to see her. At what point did you start really panicking about a missing child? Rosa wondered uncertainly. At what point did you get the police involved?

  Gareth had his head down. ‘This is all my fault,’ he said wretchedly. ‘It’s been difficult with Candy staying, I should have known it wouldn’t end well.’

  ‘Candy – that’s your girlfriend?’ Rosa asked, remembering the sleepy female voice she’d heard at Gareth’s house.

  ‘No, my sister,’ he said. ‘She’s in between flats so I said she could stay for a while but Bea’s never really got on with her. I think she blames Candy for my breaking up with Jo.’

  Rosa frowned, not understanding immediately.

  ‘Because Candy was the one Jo went off with? Yeah, my sister and my wife,’ he confirmed, seeing Rosa’s shocked face. ‘Talk about a double whammer.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Rosa, glancing sideways at him. ‘That must have hurt.’

  ‘Yep. All shades of awkwardness have been experienced,’ he said, with a half-laugh, peering into the distance. ‘But, you know. We’re all adults. And there’s Bea to think about too, in the middle of everything. Saying that, I’m not sure any of us behaved brilliantly throughout, though.’ He grimaced, his features leaping into a sharper focus as they went under a lamp post, and Rosa remembered what Jo had said, about Gareth taking their split particularly hard, his manly pride being dented. Men could tie themselves in such knots, couldn’t they, trying to live up to these stereotypes, every bit as much as women did, she thought sympathetically. Perfect people, perfect parents. Did anyone ever achieve it, really? She bet even Ann-Marie Chandler, uber-goddess of parenting, screeched at her kids sometimes, made mistakes, had a gin and tonic at five o’clock once in a while because she’d had a pig of a day. Didn’t every human being feel the same way, now and then?

  Before she could speak, Gareth had stiffened suddenly beside her. ‘Hey. Is that her, look? On the wall down there?’ And before Rosa could reply, he was running, waving a hand above his head. ‘Bea! Hey, Bea!’

  They had reached a beachside playground, silent and shadowy now, a stark contrast to how it must be in the daytime, swarming with shrieking children and their parents. Rosa couldn’t see anyone at first and strained her eyes in the dim light, then saw the still figure, taking up the smallest space possible on a low wall, hugging her knees, her long hair dangling over her legs. Bea – at last – in a kids’ playground where once upon a time she must have spent happy times, presumably happier than in more recent weeks.

  Rosa held back a little, not wanting to interfere in the moment between father and daughter. She watched as Gareth rushed over, relief palpable in his voice as he called his daughter’s name again, then felt a lump in her throat as he sat beside her, both arms curling protectively around her in an embrace, and Bea leaned against him, for once not pulling away. Dad’s here. Dad’s got you. She remembered with a lump in her throat all those times her own dad had rescued her, from a fall, from a fight with her sister, from a bad day at school.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she heard Bea sobbing. ‘I’m sorry, Dad.’

  His voice was low and murmuring, his arms still locked around her, but Rosa could guess what he was saying in return. I’m sorry, too, love. Come on, it’s going to be all right. Let’s go home, eh?

  Rosa was all for slipping away and leaving them to it, but Gareth insisted that she join him and Bea for dinner in a pub not far from the square, the Regency Arms. ‘Go on, let me buy you a drink and something to eat other than chips,’ he urged when she hesitated. ‘Between me and my daughter, we did just drag you out on a very long beach walk. A restorative glass of wine and some food is the least I can offer in return.’

  ‘Sorry, Rosa,’ Bea said, looking up at her from beneath her clumpy, tear-sodden eyelashes. Her nails were bitten down to the quick, Rosa noticed, and she gave the girl a hug.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry too, that things have been tough for you. But we can sort it out between us, I’m sure.’

  ‘Starting with those weasels who’ve been texting you stupid messages,’ Gareth said. ‘I’ve already sent them back a little message of my own.’ And he held up Bea’s phone, which she snatched from him immediately.


  ‘Dad! You didn’t! Oh my God. DAD! What did you say?’

  Gareth winked over his daughter’s head at Rosa while the girl clicked frantically at her phone. Then she gave a spluttering sort of laugh. ‘Oh my God. I can’t believe you did that.’

  ‘Is it okay? Too much? I was a bit cross, to be honest,’ Gareth said. ‘Might have gone a touch overboard.’

  ‘What did you put?’ Rosa couldn’t help asking.

  Bea passed her the phone so that she could read the message for herself in the streetlight as they walked along.

  THIS IS BEA’S FATHER. I’LL BE SHOWING THE POLICE AND THE SCHOOL THESE MESSAGES. IF MY DAUGHTER HAS TO PUT UP WITH ANY MORE OF YOUR SHIT YOU’LL HAVE ME TO DEAL WITH.

  ‘Whoa,’ said Rosa.

  ‘I know,’ said Bea, but you could tell she was pleased. ‘No reply either. They must be bricking it.’ She giggled. ‘Well . . . that is unless they’ve actually seen you, Dad, of course.’

  ‘Oi, watch it,’ Gareth said, but he was grinning. ‘By the way, you should really work on a better password, Bea. Took me all of two minutes to guess yours and get into your messages. At least make it a challenge for anyone who nicks your phone.’

  Bea rolled her eyes. ‘Dad’s a hacker,’ she told Rosa.

  ‘Er, I write software, you mean,’ he corrected her. ‘I’m not a criminal mastermind. Although . . .’ He tapped his nose. ‘I have learned a few tricks along the way.’

  They had reached the pub now and Gareth pushed the door open for them both. Inside, the place was decorated with pink brocade wallpaper, with a glitterball twinkling from the ceiling and velvety leopard-print sofas. Very Brighton, thought Rosa with a smile as they headed for the bar. Gareth ordered a round of drinks and bid them sit down, then, as he came back with a tray of clinking glasses and a sheaf of menus, Bea moved up so that he could sit down next to her. It was the tiniest of gestures, an olive branch so small it might have been missed by an onlooker, but Rosa noticed and was gladdened by it, and Gareth immediately slung an arm around his daughter and ruffled her hair, which made her laugh and push him away. Affectionately, though. Like a proper dad and daughter.