One
Now
Jo whips out her phone, quite used to her heart racing every time she hears it ring or ping.
It could be news.
She’s also used to the rush of adrenaline burning through her body, dissipating in disappointment as soon as she sees her screen.
It’s not Will. Not her missing husband.
Afterwards, she’s left feeling frustrated, drained and useless, each false alarm a mini-trauma, though no one would know this to look at her. Barely a flicker of her eyes these days, and her palms hardly sweat any more. She wonders if her friends and family know what they do to her with their well-meaning calls and texts.
But each time, she thinks as she fumbles with her phone, each time is one call closer to getting news. To knowing where he is.
Jo remembers her counsellor telling her to look on the bright side, to stay positive. What are you taking about? she’d thought, mentally shaking her head, almost wanting to lash out as tears welled through a forced smile. Not helpful. Not even close. The woman clearly had no idea how she was feeling. But, a year later, she can see that maybe it was helpful, albeit in the simplest of ways.
Fake it till you make it, the counsellor had said, making Jo wonder if she’s not doing as well as she thought – that she still needs to fake it because, even now, she’s still not making it.
But what is it she is supposed to fake – Will’s return, as if nothing has happened? She could do that, she supposes. Pretend he’s there when he’s not. In fact, she often does, although she can’t help it. Has no say in when he comes. She sees him lying beside her in bed, hears him singing in the shower, smells the deliciousness of his Friday-night classic – jerk chicken with rice and peas, the thick, sweet smell seeping through the house. Happiness seems so long ago. As if it belonged to someone else.
No. She’s sick of faking life.
‘Easier said than done,’ Jo mumbles as she answers her phone. She trips on a raised paving slab, almost running into a man wheeling his bike along.
‘What is?’ comes the voice down the line.
‘Oh… oh, nothing,’ Jo says, regaining her footing. ‘Just me thinking out loud.’ She glances back at the man with an apologetic look. She’s relieved it’s just Louise calling. She doesn’t think she can cope with do-gooders as that day approaches. She doesn’t want to use the word anniversary. Ever. That implies something to celebrate, to share, to mark another milestone. She hates it even has a date – a date she has no choice but to remember, live through for the rest of her life. It’s tattooed on her soul.
Wednesday 20 May.
Sometimes she wishes Will had never existed, that they’d never met, and she hates herself for that.
‘Well, don’t,’ Louise says. ‘Thinking is dangerous, especially out loud.’ She laughs. ‘What are you doing?’
Louise. Her best friend. Straight to the point.
Jo slows her brisk walk – more in tune with how she’s feeling, finally stopping and leaning on the railings of a park. Should she reveal that she’s retracing the steps of the last walk she and Will took together the day before he vanished, that she’s wondering if she might catch a trace of his aftershave on the breeze, spot a tissue or receipt from his pocket blowing along the pavement?
Should she mention that she’s got a bagel in a paper bag, clutched in her right hand – salmon and cream cheese, the same as they’d had that day – most likely destined to end up in the park bin because she’s not had an appetite in nearly a year?
Should she let on that, if she’s honest with herself, she’s hoping to catch a glimpse of Will amongst the lunchtime crowd, that even if it’s not really him and just a figment of her exhausted mind, or someone who vaguely resembles him, simply imagining he’s there would be enough?
‘Getting lunch,’ Jo replies, gripping the paper bag. It’s a ritual she feels she must perform each day, even if food rarely passes her lips. Maybe a bite or two if she’s in the mood. She hates how thin she’s become, how she’s taken to wearing baggy clothes to hide the jut of her collarbones, the sharp blades of her shoulders, the lack of tone to her once-fit legs. Her chestnut hair falls in straggly layers around her shoulders.
‘Well, don’t fill up too much,’ Louise goes on. ‘You’re coming round for dinner tonight.’
‘I am?’
‘At seven,’ she says. ‘No need to bring anything except your cheery self. Archie’s inviting a work colleague. He’s new at the hospital but they’ve played squash a few times and—’
‘No, Louise,’ Jo replies as firmly as she can manage. What she really wants to say is Christ, Lou, what are you trying to do – destroy me? Not only are you playing matchmaker with some innocent guy who would run a mile if he knew the truth about me, but you have just informed me, unwittingly or not, that Archie has a new squash partner. A squash partner who’s not Will.
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘So, what, you’re going to sob into your pillow with a bottle of cheap wine, maybe trawling the missing persons websites if your tears stop long enough for you to actually see straight?’
Jo waits a beat, a technique she’s learnt to employ these last few months. Fake it until you make it…
‘Yes.’
‘Jo, when are you going to—’
‘Sorry, Lou, got to go.’
Jo hangs up, not with any kind of angry flourish or jab of her screen. Louise will know from the tone of her voice that the boundary is set, that she is not furious with the world like she used to be (she has little energy left for that) but having dinner as part of a cosy foursome during the anniversary month is not something she can cope with. And yes, she’d rather sob into her pillow with a bottle of Echo Falls on the bedside table while scrolling through the faces of missing persons. One of them might, just might, be Will.
‘Hey,’ comes a voice beside her. A hand on her back. Jo freezes. ‘Fancy some company?’
‘Oh… sure,’ she replies, turning to see Beth. Part of her wonders if she’s followed her from the workshop, tailed her to the bakery and stalked her to the park. It happens too often – bumping into people she knows, well-meaning phone calls, friends ‘popping in’. Jo also wonders if Louise has had words with everyone in her life, organising some kind of rota for keeping watch. She imagines they have a WhatsApp group to coordinate whose turn it is.
She was fine at lunchtime. Spotted by the park. Didn’t eat her bagel though. Who’s on night duty?
She loves Louise for caring, for always being there for her.
‘There’s some real warmth in that sun today,’ Beth says, holding up a brown paper bag with the same bakery logo on as Jo’s. ‘Shall we go and sit down over there?’
‘Why not?’ Jo says, really wanting to be alone. But Beth is a harmless girl, quite new to the workshop and good at what she does. She wonders how much she knows – what, if anything, Margot has told her about her situation.
‘You know, Jo, I really admire your…’ Beth stops, prawn sandwich against her lips. She stares at the sky for a second. ‘How you—’