‘Nothing changes, does it?’ I spat.
‘That’s enough,’ he said.
But the vitriol spewed out of me like pus from an abscess.
‘Perfect, apple-pie Niamh would never take Immy, would she? Because she can do no wrong. She always had you eating out of her hand. Oh yes, you can look at me like that, Stuart, but I saw it with my own eyes, and so did Melanie, didn’t you?’ Melanie gaped at me, open-mouthed, as if I’d been spliced in two and an alien had burst forth from my guts. I pointed at Bill. ‘You, too. Admit it. Your tongue was hanging out the whole time we were in Corfu. You both lusted after her like dirty old men -’
‘That’s enough,’ Stuart said, holding up a hand.
I ignored him. ‘Why can’t you even contemplate the possibility that she’s come back for her daughter?’
‘Because she gave us her word.’
‘And her word counts, does it? The word of an addict and a whore?’
The second before Stuart swung his hand back, I saw the undisguised contempt in his eyes and knew our marriage was over. When his palm connected with my cheek I screamed, not with pain but with fury, and I rushed at him with the ferocity of a wildcat, pummelling his chest with my fists.
‘I hate you! IhateyouIhateyouIhateyou!’ As Stuart grabbed my wrists and held them vice-tight above my head, my cries became sobs. Great, heaving, ugly, snotty sobs that wracked my entire body. The fight left me as suddenly as it had come, and I collapsed against his chest and howled for my lost child.
‘It’s all right,’ he whispered, his breath hot in my hair. ‘It’s OK to cry.’ He rubbed my back as I clung to him. ‘I’ve got you.’
‘She’s gone,’ I wept. ‘Our beautiful baby girl has gone, and I don’t think I can bear it. I should never have let her out of my sight.’ I raised reddened eyes to Stuart’s, ashamed at my outburst. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that about Niamh. It’s not her fault. It’s mine. I’m the one who fucked up.’
‘We all fucked up, Cleo. We should all have been looking after Immy.’ He thumbed away a tear and glanced at Bill and Melanie, who were watching the exchange warily. ‘And don’t give up hope. She could still be alive.’
I slumped against him again, my head tucked under his chin. ‘You really think so?’
His shoulders rose, then fell. ‘I can’t lie to you. I don’t know. But it’s not even been two days. The police must think there’s a chance she’s still alive, otherwise they wouldn’t have asked us to do the press conference, would they?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘So there’s still hope, isn’t there?’
‘I guess.’ I pulled away from him and wiped my nose on the back of my hand. ‘Sorry,’ I said again.
‘So am I,’ he said, looking at his hand as if it didn’t belong to him.
‘Friends?’ I ventured.
‘Friends,’ he agreed.
I turned to Bill and Melanie. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘It’s fine,’ Melanie said. ‘I can’t imagine the pressure you’re both under.’
I nodded and pulled a length of kitchen towel from the roll. As I rubbed my face as hard as I could, trying to erase the last few minutes, to pretend they’d never happened, I knew it was pointless.
We didn’t have a marriage. Hope was the only thing left.
Chapter Seventeen
When Bill suggested we watch the local lunchtime news to see if they were reporting the press conference, I agreed, glad of the distraction. We trooped into the front room just in time to catch the opening credits. Immy’s disappearance was the top item, the presenter’s face appropriately grave as he summarised the facts before handing over to the woman in the plum-coloured dress. Pamela George was standing in front of a flint and brick wall. A wall that looked very familiar.
‘What the fuck? She’s outside the house!’ Stuart exploded, jumping to his feet.
Melanie caught up with him before he reached the window and tugged his arm. ‘Stu, don’t do anything silly. They’re trying to help, remember.’
She pulled him back as the reporter began speaking. ‘Three-year-old Immy Cooper disappeared from the family home here in King Street, Fordwich, shortly before five o’clock on Sunday…’
Images of Immy flashed on the screen before they cut to the press conference. Despite spending ages on my makeup, I looked almost as white as my shirt. Stuart was once again twisting his wedding band round his finger. It made him look evasive. Shifty, even. DI Jones appeared slightly flustered. Only Sam Bennett looked at ease.
I turned my head as the camera panned to me. My voice, high and reedy, reverberated around the room. I couldn’t bear to hear my entreaties again, so I stood on shaky legs. ‘I need some fresh air. I’ll be in the garden.’
Ten minutes later Bill came to find me.
‘Mel and Stu have gone out to stick up some posters. I said I’d keep you company. I didn’t think you should be on your own.’
‘I don’t need nannying. I’m fine.’
‘You are not fine.’ He sat on the bench beside me. ‘For a start, you haven’t even asked about the meeting with the accountant. That’s not the Cleo I know and love.’
He was right. Normally, I’d have given him the fourth degree by now. I didn’t much care how the meeting had gone, but I asked anyway.
‘It was fine. The accounts are looking very healthy. We should be able to increase our dividends this year and have enough to invest in that new cold storage system you’ve been going on about.’
‘That’s good,’ I said. Then I remembered the payments to two sets of suppliers. ‘When did we switch from RP Produce to Blackberry Organics?’
He scratched his nose. ‘At the end of April. I told you at the time.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes,’ he said patiently. ‘I set up a meeting with the owner, only it clashed with Nate’s Easter bonnet parade and you went to that instead.’
‘So why have two sets of payments been coming out?’
‘What are you
