Mark is in the hallway ahead of Fiona, she looks over his shoulders and sees the silhouettes of a hatted policeman and woman at the door.
‘Have you found her?’ Mark demands as he swings open the door.
The female officer shakes her head, apologetically. ‘Can we come in?’
They all automatically traipse through to their small sitting room. It’s a mess but the kitchen is more so. To his credit Mark managed to make the boys a spag bol for supper; however, he clearly didn’t have the energy to wash up, so the kitchen isn’t the right place to talk. Fiona is torn, itching to restore order but also not wanting to look like she is interfering. Instead, she’s cracked open the bottle of Bordeaux that she brought with her. She thought it was more urgently needed, more supportive. She will wash up before she leaves tonight, though. She might suggest to Mark that she have a bit of a tidy around tomorrow. Everyone always feels better after a tidy around. Well, Fiona certainly does. Leigh is always teasing her about that, saying Fiona is a bit OCD. Fiona suddenly feels an intense pain in her gut thinking about Leigh. It’s too awful.
‘You have some news?’ Mark asks. His face stretched, like his nerves, with anticipation. ‘Should we have called the hospitals? Have you?’
They don’t answer directly but they obviously do have news, why else would they be here at this late hour? Besides, Fiona notices that there is an energy about them, they seem almost excited. What does that mean?
‘What is your wife’s full name?’ asks the female officer.
‘Leigh Anne Fletcher. I told you before.’
‘She never goes by any other name?’ Mark shakes his head. He looks mystified.
The male officer clarifies, ‘No nicknames? No—’
‘Well, actually her real name is Kylie. Or it was,’ Fiona interjects helpfully. Mark and the police officers quickly turn to her. Fiona doesn’t know what to do by way of introduction. She’s never had any dealings with the police. She throws out a small, slightly pathetic wave and almost instantly regrets it. She doesn’t want to look silly, frivolous, since the situation is obviously anything other. She quickly pulls her hand to her side. ‘I’m Fiona Phillipson, Leigh’s best friend. We’ve been best friends for over twenty years.’
Fiona has known Leigh longer than Mark has. She doesn’t explicitly add that, she doesn’t have to, she knows that the policewoman will understand her claim, her loyalty. Fiona’s love came first. The policewoman will get it. Men don’t get female friendship. Not really. The exquisite depth of a non-sexual relationship is too much for them to comprehend.
‘Kylie?’ Mark says, unable to hide his shock. Another hit to his body, his ego. Fiona nods and smiles at him apologetically. She wouldn’t like anyone to get her wrong, she thinks Mark is a brilliant guy, a great husband but – well, Fiona is the best friend. She knows Leigh best. Fact. As she has just proven.
The two women have shared flats and been there for one another as they scrambled up career ladders, slid down snakes. Here they are twenty-plus years later – Leigh a respected senior management consultant at an enormous global company and Fiona working for a highly prestigious interior design company that counts amongst its clients many people who appear in HELLO! magazine.
‘Yeah. She was Kylie, she didn’t like it at all. There were too many occasions when we were young and we’d be out, and some random – usually a bloke thinking he was clever and more original than was the case – on hearing her name, would burst into a chorus of “I Should Be So Lucky”.’ Fiona sings the song, in case they need reminding. But then she stops singing abruptly, aware that nobody needs reminding of a Kylie song, ever, and this obviously isn’t the place or the time to be singing. ‘Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Stress, I guess.’ Everyone nods. They understand. Fiona continues, ‘Her mum’s Australian and it’s a pretty popular name out there but not here. It just bothered Leigh to be noticed that way. She’s quite a shy person, when it comes down to it. She had it changed by deed poll. About a year before she met you, Mark. Hasn’t she ever mentioned that?’
‘No, no she hasn’t.’ Mark sinks back into their comfy sofa. He is a strong-looking guy – usually – but tonight he looks reduced. The sofa swallows him up. He looks dazed. Confused.
‘It did take a bit of getting used to at the time,’ Fiona admits, throwing him a sympathetic glance. ‘I kept calling her Kylie for ages, but it really irritated her, so I had to get used to Leigh. I’ve come to think she suits Leigh and it rolls off the tongue naturally. I never slip up and call her anything else now.’ It is awkward. Who would have thought Leigh would have kept that from him? His embarrassment feels solid in the air.
‘I’d like you to take a look at this photo, please.’
The police officer hands Mark a printed sheet. He can’t stop himself smiling. Fiona peeks over his shoulder to see what brought the joy to his harried, blushing face.
She looks so pretty!
But then Mark’s mercurial face collapses again, he just can’t keep a check on his emotions, they are relentlessly assaulting him. He looks up, puzzled. ‘Where was this taken?’ he asks.
‘I’m not certain. Somewhere in London,’ replies the police officer.
‘When?’
‘Some time around Christmas.’
‘I don’t— I don’t recognise the dress,’ he stutters.
‘No?’
‘Or the venue.’
‘It was this woman’s anniversary.’
‘This woman? What do you mean? This is a picture of Leigh.’ The officer moves her head a fraction. Not quite a shake but certainly not a nod of agreement. Fiona thinks there is a level of sympathy in her expression. Mark is the sort of man women feel sympathetic towards, she has long been aware of that. When Leigh
