‘I know what else you could do. You could put an appeal out, see if anyone’s seen her.’
‘What, like a poster?’
He grinned. ‘For someone who runs a website, you can be surprisingly old-fashioned.’
‘I guess I’m an old-fashioned kind of girl.’
‘I was thinking you could use social media. You do use Facebook and Twitter, right?’
‘I use them a bit. Facebook, of course, for keeping up with friends, and everyone keeps telling me I need to use Twitter for my business, but I don’t really have time.’
‘Well, I’ve got a friend who’s an expert at all that stuff. Social networking. Maybe he could advise you of the best way to go about it. I’ll give him a call, see what he says.’
Gary left and Amy went back over to the desk, tapping the names of the three men who had sent Becky messages into the Notes app on her phone. She called the police station and, after being passed around, was told someone would call her back.
She intended to go home but got drawn into surfing through Becky’s web history, trying to find some clue. She logged into CupidsWeb again and trawled through profiles, read through Becky’s Inbox repeatedly. The room grew darker around her and she felt sleep tugging at her.
Soon, she was dreaming – that Becky was back, with a golden tan, telling Amy about the wonderful time she’d had in Cambodia. ‘I went to the Killing Fields,’ she said. ‘Lovely place. You should go sometime …’
She jerked awake, lifting her head from the desk. The room was almost dark, her neck throbbed and it took her a second to recall where she was, to remember that Becky was missing and to realize what the noise that had woken her was.
Somebody was unlocking the front door.
Saturday, 8 June
‘Wait for me, Kath, what’s the matter?’
How Kath can run so fast is beyond me, considering the amount of fags she smokes, but she seems annoyed about something and is doggedly jogging much harder than me. We’re on our third lap of Dulwich Park and I’m too knackered to speak. I stop, and bend over to put my hands on my knees, panting. A man riding one of those reclining cycles almost crashes into me. Katherine stops too, but continues to jog on the spot. She scowls at me.
When I get my breath back enough to speak, I straighten up, trying to rub a stitch out of my side. ‘What?’
Her shoulders slump a little.
‘Nothing – well, nothing that’s your fault anyway. Shit date the other night – he took me out to dinner, and I must have eaten a dodgy prawn. When I got home I spent the whole night puking my guts out. Still feeling a bit rough today.’
‘Oh, no! Poor you. Can’t believe you can feel that rough and run so bloody fast, though … Who was he? And what did you tell Clive?’
I walk over to a nearby bench and sit down on it. Katherine looks disapproving, but joins me, looking at her watch. ‘Might do another lap in a minute, but let’s have a rest anyway.’
She takes a big suck on her water bottle and hands it to me – as usual, I’ve forgotten mine. I feel dehydrated; crusty, like an empty hull.
‘So?’
‘Oh, yeah … It was just really disappointing. He’d seemed like such a laugh in his profile, and then on the phone – you know, one of those really confident, quirky guys who say outrageous things. Sexy.’
I wipe my dripping face with my sleeve, and feel spikes of damp hair plaster themselves to my forehead. I remembered back to my first date, Big-Bum Shaun. ‘And then they turn out to be the opposite of sexy.’
‘Tell me about it. When I got to the restaurant I didn’t even recognize him at first, he looked so embarrassed – and embarrassing. He was quite a lot fatter than I thought he’d be and he had these awful smokers’ teeth, really yellow and crumbly and disgusting. I realized that he hadn’t been smiling in any of his profile photos.
‘Good on the phone, rubbish in the flesh.’
We watch a sparrow land on the topmost, flimsiest branch of the bush opposite. The branch bows, taking the bird with it, until both are horizontal, and the sparrow flies off, looking confused.
‘It was such a bloody waste of an evening. I only agreed to stay for dinner because I was starving, and I’d told Clive I was going out for a meal with the girls and he’d think it was weird if I came home so early having not eaten.’
I stand up, mostly to try to quash the impulse to say, Well that’s what happens when you start lying … ‘Come on, tell me the rest as we walk – let’s just have a cool-down for a lap. But honestly, Kath, it doesn’t sound that bad! One dull evening with one dull guy?’
‘It really pissed me off. I mean, this guy honestly thought that we were starting a relationship! I thought most men were just interested in sex. They’re supposed to think about it every fifteen seconds or something, aren’t they? Surely, it can’t be that hard to find men who just want some uncomplicated naughty fun? It’s so difficult for me to get away from Clive for an evening without having to tell a ton of lies, so I don’t want to waste it sitting in a BORING restaurant with a BORING man who is waffling on about the hamster called Chips he had when he was eight years old!’
I sort of see her point. I remember the only one-night stand I’ve ever had – a night of smooth skin, words, admiration and sex, which was all the better for its lack of intimacy and the knowledge that it would never come with all the dull constraints and conditions of coupledom. A man I’d never want to be in a relationship with, but who was just perfect for one night. I wouldn’t mind a few more nights like that, with other men like him.
‘There’s an obvious answer though, Kath – if it’s so hard to get away, and you don’t want to be with Clive, why don’t you finish it? Then you’d be free to go on dates every night!’
She scowls again. In fact, I think I see her lip wobble, which is very unlike her.
‘It would be really hard for me to leave him.’
‘Why? Your cat? The mortgage?’
We walk on around the track in silence for a couple of minutes, as the serious runners whiz past us, giving us an exaggeratedly wide berth to express their annoyance at us cluttering up their track.
‘Come on, you can tell me, I’m a doctor,’ I joke, although I’m starting to feel a little worried.
There are actual tears in her eyes now, so we stop again. I put my arm around her and she looks at me.
‘Yes, the cat, yes, the mortgage – but it’s worse than that. Thing is, Becks, I owe him money.’ Her voice is flat and resigned.
‘A lot of money?’
She nods. ‘He’s been lending me cash for years – for my car, and that kiln I bought so I can make those silver pendants of baby footprints, you know. My laptop, holidays we’ve had together. The mortgage. It’s thousands, on top of what I already owe on my maxed-out credit cards. And when I said I wanted us to split up, he said, “There’s no way you’re leaving me till you pay me back.” Arsehole. He knows I’ve got no money. He told me if I ever leave him he’ll shop me to the Inland Revenue about not declaring my income from my jewellery sideline, and he’ll tell the school that I’m sleeping with the sixth-formers.’
I