Three against one, Jo thinks as she listens to the well-meaning chit-chat, zoning out, their voices fading as she imagines going on holiday – just her and Will. They’d been planning a break on the South Coast but hadn’t managed it, other commitments getting in the way. She catches her breath as she sees him standing over by the fireplace, elbow leaning on the mantelpiece, watching her with smiling eyes. Proud eyes.
Jo shakes her head, taking a sip of her drink. And, when she looks up again, Will is gone.
Later, at home, having declined Louise’s offer to stay, Jo’s phone pings. Her hand reaches out to the bedside table, clattering her glasses and watch onto the floor as she frantically hoists herself up onto her elbow, fumbling for the lamp switch. Her heart thumps. It’s late. That’s a good sign… someone texting her late.
Will…
But it’s not.
I’ve signed you up. Have a look.
And then Louise sends login details for a website.
For what seems like the entire night, Jo lies awake, staring at the ceiling. When she’s certain sleep won’t come, she fetches her laptop, balancing it on her crossed legs as she sits on the bed. After she’s proved to herself once and for all that it’s a silly idea, that she really doesn’t want to be feeding pets and cutting lawns for other people, she’ll go on the missing persons websites. It’s been twelve hours since she last looked. A lot can happen in twelve hours – it took a lot less than that for Will to disappear, after all.
But then she wonders if Louise is right, if time away from home would help her recharge, help her heal. Even a single hour that isn’t filled with wondering where he is – either hating him for leaving his life, for leaving her, or grieving for him because he’s dead – would be a respite. And a respite, if she’s honest with herself, is what she needs more than anything.
Just, for the briefest of moments, not to have to think about Will.
Three
Did you look at the website?
Jo glances at her phone screen. She can’t reply to Louise’s text right now. The alterations need finishing by lunchtime and delivering back to the theatre straight after. The tech rehearsal is scheduled for this afternoon and the last-minute adjustments are key to the entire production.
Well?
Jo wants to put her phone on silent but knows she can’t, never will. Just in case. If she’d had time to reply, she thinks as she changes the spool on her machine, then she’d have said Yes. House-sitting is not for me though but thanks x. Jo glides the fabric of the seam through the machine, removing the pins as she goes, each stitch taking her closer to the end of the day when she can go home and shut the front door on the world. She imagines Will is waiting for her, having made that amazing sticky pork dish of his (his mother’s recipe), the smell of it announcing his return even before she sees him. She talks to him every night. And he always answers.
Louise says I should do a house-sit, of all things, she’ll say later. Instead of a holiday. Doesn’t sound great, does it, cleaning up someone else’s cat mess?
Will would laugh then, she knows that. What, you’re going away without me? he’d reply before rolling his eyes, flashing her that smile of his. Jo would laugh for a moment, too, watch him standing there, wooden spoon in hand, twinkle in his eye. But then she’d start shaking her head, slowly at first as her eyes filled with tears, crinkling up as the sobs came.
Well, you went away without me… she’d scream, before hurling the pan across the room.
And when she opened her eyes, he’d be gone. Just as gone as he is now.
‘Oww!’ she cries, sucking on the bead of blood on her forefinger. Beth tosses the box of plasters her way, three pins held between her lips. There are many such boxes dotted about. No actor wants real blood on their costume.
What about South Wales? Didn’t you and Will go there once?
It’s clear Louise isn’t going to let up.
Can’t chat now. Crazy busy here, Jo messages back, but it’s too late. There are two drops of scarlet on the cream silk skirt.
When she gets home, the house is quiet. Of course. Jo closes the front door behind her, turning the key, putting the chain on then taking it off again, removing the key from the lock. If he were to return in the middle of the night, she wants him to be able to get in.
No cooking smells. No aroma of sticky pork in the air. No Radio 4 on for Will to turn down to a simmering background noise when she comes in, dumping her bag on the table as he gives her a kiss. Will usually got in before her – unless he was in a play, rehearsing or performing. Then it would be much later, sometimes the early hours. I couldn’t get out of the after-show party, Jo-jo, you know what it’s like… But when he was teaching, he was home by five. He would have turned the heating up if it was cold outside, or lit the coal fire in their small, square living room, plumping up the cushions on their saggy sofa, the one from Gumtree that was going cheap.
‘Hi,’ Jo says out of habit. She flicks on the kitchen light. It might be early May but it’s gloomy and wet outside. ‘How was your day?’
Year Seven were little shits, as ever, she imagines him replying. But there’s that one kid, reminds me so much of me at that age. Something stuck inside him, as though he needs to express himself through acting. I’ll bring him out of himself, you watch.
Jo smiles, remembering the school play. ‘The show must go on,’ someone had said, even though Will, drama teacher at Wroxdown High School, had been missing a month and a half by then.
She’d watched the performance through blurry vision, tears rolling down her cheeks, and sitting at the back so she could duck out as soon as the curtain dropped in the school theatre. And the kid certainly did Will proud. The kid who had something stuck inside him. In fact, it was parts of Will she saw coming out on the stage that night, little flourishes of her husband who had clearly taught him well. The intonation, the motivation, his presence as he lost himself entirely in the character. And now Will is the one who’s lost.
Jo opens the fridge and stares inside. Half a packet of spinach, slimy at the edges. A small piece of mouldering pecorino, a dish of chickpeas with condensation on the cling film, two tomatoes and three slices of bacon. And a bottle of wine. Well, the remains of a bottle of wine. She clatters it out, sloshing some into a tumbler. The European way, Will had once said, and she’d liked that. Still did it now.
Jo sits down at the small kitchen table, glass in one hand, fingernails of the other gouging into the woodgrain. Her phone pings in her bag, making her jump.
So? Did you look yet? Get on with it then I can get you and Ted together again to discuss it. He likes you.
Jo sighs at the winking emoji and fetches her laptop, knowing she’ll get no peace until she checks out the house-sitting site properly. She got as far as the home page last night but then diverted to the missing persons forum. There were no new responses to her pleas for help.
Double-checking the details Louise sent last night, Jo logs into the already created account on the House Angels website, rolling her eyes at the password Louise chose – T3d&joj0. After a few minutes, she’s familiarised herself with how it works and clicks randomly on some featured properties at the top of the main page.