PART 1
Prologue
Five Years Ago
20:00: She walks quickly, eyes wide, lips locked. I can’t go back now. She’s nervous. I can tell by the way she holds her handbag tight to her side, the quick-step of her gait, striding in time to the beat of her heart.
20:10: Her forehead is slick with summer, the thick air surrounding her thin body dense enough to feel. She passes a supermarket with her next step, the automatic doors opening for a moment, the air conditioning catching her peasant-top in the breeze, a glimpse of stomach beneath. She pauses to revel in the cold for a second longer, glittering specks of sweat evaporating from fake-tanned limbs. Her phone hugs the back pocket of her white jeans, printing a bulky rectangle into the material. He sends her a message – no time to waste – and the device vibrates obediently, sending shudders down the backs of her legs. She tells him she’s excited to meet him.
He’s excited too.
20:20: Her feet clip-clop to the bar, her toenails painted baby-pink, fingernails to match, plugging in a pair of headphones as she walks, pacing in time to a song about break-ups. Apt. She flicks her newly dyed hair behind bare shoulders and sings along in her head. She’s happy, smiling, whole.
20:35: She arrives at the location he sent her – three miles from the nearest station – and orders a drink, casting her eyes over every shape in the room, double-checking he’s not here. It’s the kind of place she’d expect for a first date, so she’s not immediately suspicious. It’s upmarket, with velvet-cushioned chairs tucked beneath aged oak tables, bottles of spirits displayed artfully behind the bar.
She bites her lip, wonders where he is.
I watch her take a seat and reason with herself: He’s only five minutes late, I should calm down, relax. Maybe there’s bad traffic. Ten minutes later, though, when he hasn’t messaged to explain the hold up, she swallows what’s left of her strawberry daquiri and orders another. Sticky-sweet alcohol snail-trails her top lip and sweat flattens her hair to her neck, her perfect make-up beginning to melt. I watch her wipe her forehead with her serviette, the window across casting shadows on her face. It’s getting late.
21:30: She’s given it a good hour, sent five messages, called him a few too many times but she’s lost patience now and, as she staggers from her seat – no dinner and five drinks down – the glass to her side thunks to the floor, explodes on impact, and turns heads, eyes spinning in her direction. She hates the attention. All she’d wanted were two eyes on her tonight.
His.
Sorry, she offers to the waiter coming over, drunk and disappointed by the evening’s turn of events. Promises had been made. Big ones. She is right to be angry.
21:32: She leaves the bar, handbag swinging loose, brow knitted in cross-stitches, furious with him. She types one last message, jabbing her fingers into the screen, wanting him to feel the hate she holds. Where were you? I was counting on you. How could you? She staggers from the high street onto the dark roads beyond, walking the backstreets because they make her feel dangerous, because she thinks by acting out she can get his attention. The station is still two miles away, and she’s walking in the wrong direction.
22:00: From somewhere behind, she hears a car approach. She twists her face over her shoulder to look, her forehead creased in the glare of my full-beam. My vehicle rumbles closer, tyres crunching her way.
I watch through the windshield as she grows concerned that I’m slowing down, that my window is low. Don’t be scared. You want my help, you just don’t know it yet. Her lips are wet, she’s been crying, and they shine in the bright. She looks away as I draw the car near. I shout to her from the window and, when she sees that it’s me, her expression changes. Lifts.
Oh thank God, she tells me, chest heaving.
Newspaper Report
Five Years Ago
Disappearance of Tabitha Rice ‘completely out of character’
Report by Kay Robero for the London Times
On 21st of August, Tabitha Rice, a receptionist at the Pure You aesthetic clinic, disappeared from the home she shares with her husband, Rick Priestley.
As fears grow for her welfare, and the search enters its fifth day without a breakthrough, public concern has reached fever-pitch for the Battersea woman. Her husband, a senior asset manager, spoke to us this morning.
‘When I woke up on the 22nd August, my wife was missing. I thought she’d already left for work – she often works early mornings – so, at first, I didn’t think much of it. By Saturday night I was growing extremely concerned. It was then that I put in my first call to the police. I told them that Tabby had been acting erratically in the days before, but that it would be completely out of character for her to leave without talking to me.’
Rick continues, ‘In response to allegations made in the press by Tabby’s colleague and friend Annabella, that suggest I may have had something to do with Tabby’s disappearance, I want to put it on record that I completely refute the accusation. I am cooperating fully with the authorities and any attempt to undermine my character is an attempt to undermine the search for my wife.
‘Tabby, if you can see this, please get in touch. I want to talk, I want to help. Please don’t hurt yourself. Remember that I’m here for you, at home. Please just come back.’
Annabella
Now
I wake up thinking about the last conversation Tabby and I ever had, about the twisted look on her face and the downward curve of her lips. She’d been trying to sell me the idea of quitting our jobs at the white-walled cosmetic clinic we worked at together and running away. At first, I’d thought she’d been joking, or smoking. It was only later that I realised how serious she was. I’d messaged her after work, trying to make amends.
Sorry. But I can’t do it, I can’t just leave. I have a home, a job I love, a life here in London…
I curl my fingers round my waist, warm skin heated under the winter duvet, and breathe long. I’ve worked hard to become an aesthetic nurse and I adore what I do. My job is to meet people who feel trapped in the bodies they were born with, people who are desperate to break free but need my help to do so. Not many people know this, but I understand what it’s like to feel that way. At work it’s as though I have a superpower – the gift of transformation – and at the Pure You clinic I get to unleash it every day. Tabby, who worked front-of-house, didn’t understand that. Her job was a job, she worked her hours and went home. But still, I don’t like letting people down. Least of all Tabby.
‘Look,’ she’d said, getting serious, tucking blonde hair behind studded ears. ‘Thousands of people travel to Turkey for cheap face lifts and boob jobs, but they’re scared about botched procedures. If we set up our own surgery, we can charge a little more than the Turkish practices but still undercut the prices over here. We’ll absolutely clean up. We’ll be booked out, living on a beach, raking it in…’
I’d laughed gently, rolled my eyes wishfully, assuming this was a flight of fancy, a daydream Tabby was vocalising. I’d turned away, clicked through the day’s appointments, heat rushing to my fingertips as I’d scrolled through the back-to-back schedule I was only halfway through. There’d be a few minutes for lunch, if I was lucky, if one of my patients was late. I’d started setting up for the next, my mind elsewhere, when Tabby had pressed it.