When I woke up, I was clear-headed enough to know that I couldn’t hang around the house all morning. Clare and Dom had definitely argued the night before, and I could only imagine how awkward it would be, seeing the two of them over breakfast.
I climbed out of bed, smoothed down the duvet and tipped the contents of my rucksack on to it. I couldn’t believe it had come to this. Living out of a back-pack, with only two pairs of clean knickers to my name. More worrying, I only had enough lithium tablets to last me another couple of days. If I had to leave Clare’s house and get anything, I knew I should really head back to my flat to reload even if I had to risk bumping into Pete.
Peering round the door, I wondered if anyone was up yet. I was embarrassed to see either of my hosts but knew I couldn’t stay in the bedroom forever.
I nipped across the hall with my washbag and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I was desperate for a shower but I didn’t want to wake anyone with the noise of the jets. At least a mint-flavoured mouthwash and quick wash made me feel better, ready to face the day.
Whatever that might bring, I told myself, looking in the mirror.
I pulled on some clothes and went downstairs, expecting to be alone, but Clare was sitting at the breakfast bar, still in her shorty pyjamas, hair tied up in a messy topknot and her face bare. I wasn’t sure if she looked tired, upset, or whether I just wasn’t used to seeing her without make-up.
‘God, you scared me,’ I said, clutching my chest. ‘I didn’t think anyone was up.’
‘Paperboy was up before anyone,’ she said, sliding a Sunday tabloid across the breakfast bar. ‘You’d better read it. I think it’s what you’d call a hatchet job.’
I turned the paper the right way up and scanned the page she’d left open. It was the picture I saw first. A big colour photograph of Donna laughing in a field. The image was slightly pixelated, as if the photograph was old or had been blown up too big. I suspected it had been taken some years before, as Donna looked very young and happy. Her hair tied back in a ponytail, her smile wide and goofy. She didn’t look like a banker’s wife; there was none of that ‘look but don’t touch’ froideur. If you were looking for a perfect positive PR shot, it was pretty damn close, all it needed was a puppy in the shot to be pitch perfect. The headline was simple … Where is Missing Donna? But the text was more complicated.
At first glance, it was a rehash of events leading up to and since Donna’s disappearance. But the juxtaposition of the supplementary photographs – Martin at a high-society £10,000-a-plate dinner, Martin looking shifty and dishevelled as he left his Spitalfields loft apartment – portrayed the Joys’ marriage as a case of ‘Beauty and the Beast’.
The divorce proceedings got a mention, but thankfully there were no references to chambers or myself. From Martin’s point of view, though, Clare was right: it was a hatchet job. A hatchet job that had been carefully vetted by a lawyer, but a hatchet job all the same. It stopped short of accusing Martin of any wrongdoing directly, instead it painted a picture of a beautiful bohemian wife and her ruthless, financier husband, reminding the reader on at least three occasions that fat-cat bankers were responsible for the global economic downturn and pretty much every social problem thereafter. That was the story here: evil Martin Joy The Banker, versus his lovely caring wife Donna. There was half a page on her work with children and animals, work I hadn’t previously heard about, not to mention her fundraising and general goodness.
‘There’s something in The Times, as well,’ said Clare apologetically. ‘Doesn’t really mention Martin, but more of the same about Donna, implying her disappearance is highly suspicious.’
I went to the sink and ran myself a glass of water, aware that Clare was watching me closely.
‘Have you spoken to the police yet about what you remembered?’ she asked.
I shook my head, although I knew the clock was ticking for Martin. This media attention would put the police under pressure to make another arrest or at least give some signal that there were developments in the case.
God, what a mess. This wasn’t at all how I’d expected the day to pan out and it was barely eight o’clock. I looked back towards the stairs.
‘Where’s Dom?’ I said.
‘Out. Running, I guess.’
‘Everyone’s started running,’ I said with a weak smile.
‘I doubt Dom is actually running,’ she said, her voice brittle.
She looked up and I saw something in her face before she turned to switch on the kettle.
‘Is everything OK? With you and Dom, I mean?’
‘We had a bit of a ding-dong last night. Sorry if it woke you.’
‘What was it about?’
‘It was nothing,’ she said with a wave of the hand. ‘Frayed tempers, that’s all. No one said opening a restaurant was easy.’
I took a step towards her. ‘Clare, come on,’ I said gently. ‘You can talk to me you know.’
‘You’ve got enough on your plate,’ she said, waving me away.
‘Clare, I’m your friend.’
She shook her head, unwilling to show her weakness.
‘I was just annoyed he came home late. I know it was a Saturday night and he had to work, but I called the restaurant at ten thirty and the waitress I spoke to told me he’d left about half an hour before. I just wanted to know where the hell he’d been.’
‘What did he say?’ I asked, curious to know how much he’d deceived her.
‘He said he’d been in the upstairs flat, doing the paperwork. Accused me of being tired and grouchy.’ She gave a thin smile.
I paused before I said anything else. I was sick of the lies and hated seeing my friend like this. And I could tell she knew Dom’s story was bullshit.
‘Clare, I saw Dom in a car last night. With a woman. Some blonde I didn’t recognize.’
She narrowed her eyes at me. ‘When was this?’
‘A little after ten o’clock. Martin gave me a lift home. I stopped at the Sainsbury’s on Salusbury Road. I saw Dom leave the restaurant. He got in a car on one of the side streets.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I followed him.’
‘That’s becoming a habit, isn’t it?’ she said tartly.
‘Clare, I’m just telling you what I saw.’
‘Oh, and that’s pretty reliable these days, isn’t it?’
Her words upset me, but I forced myself to remain calm. I wouldn’t want to hear it either, if I was in her shoes.
‘So what then?’ she asked, her arms folded. ‘Did they drive off?’
‘Eventually.’
‘Eventually?’
I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to hurt Clare but I didn’t want Dom to get away with treating my friend so badly, the way she had allowed him to do for years and years.
‘I saw them kissing in the car,’ I said finally.
‘He was kissing this blonde?’
She put her hand up to her throat, moving her fingers in circles as if she was trying to manually force air into her lungs.
‘Are you certain?’
‘It was dark, but yes, I could see inside the car.’
‘Even though it was dark?’ I knew she was challenging me, so I paused, thinking. I wanted to make sure I told her exactly what I had seen.
‘You’re not sure, are you?’ said Clare, a laugh in her voice. ‘You’re not sure it was Dom. This could all be crap.’
‘There’s a chance I was mistaken, but I don’t think so,’ I replied. ‘I didn’t see the woman clearly, but it was definitely Dom.’
Her hand curled into a ball and she hammered it down on the breakfast bar.
‘Don’t say these things unless you are sure,’ she said, her voice harsh. ‘Just because you’re not happy and have made the wrong choices, don’t point the finger at other people’s relationship’s.’
‘I told you because I care about you,’ I said softly. ‘You work so hard, Clare. You’ve supported Dom through every business and you think that you’re helping him, but the truth is, he resents you. Sometimes you don’t want to see what’s in front of your eyes and you need someone else to tell you the truth.’
‘The truth?’ she barked. ‘You should take a look at your own bloody life, Fran!’ She grabbed one of the papers and shook it at me. ‘Read what the headlines are saying about your dreamy new boyfriend.’
‘Please, Clare, I’m only trying to help. If you don’t want me to—’
‘What? You’ll walk out again? You’re good at that, aren’t you? Only coming crawling back here when you’re falling apart.’
I gaped at her, unable to believe what she was saying.
‘Why don’t you fuck off to your fancy new friends?’ she sneered. ‘They seem to have plenty of time for you – at least when it suits them.’
‘Clare, please …’ The ferocity of her words frightened me.
‘Just go,’ she hissed, wiping her eyes.
I nodded. I’d known her long enough to know that she had a sting in her tail. That although she would calm down, for the time being, the best thing would be to leave her alone.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘But at least think about what I’ve told you. Ask the staff at the restaurant, ask Dom. Ask yourself if you’ve got the marriage you want,’ I said.
She folded her arms in front of her chest, her defiant eyes glistening with unshed tears.
‘Some of us don’t have any choice,’ she said.
‘There’s always a choice,’ I said.
‘Not for me,’ said Clare, shaking her head. ‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Oh, Clare.’ I stepped forward to embrace her, but she brushed me away.
‘No!’ she shouted, backing off, her hands up in front of her. ‘Just leave me alone, can’t you? Piss off to Martin and Sophie, and leave us to live our own lives without bloody judging us.’
‘Clare, I didn’t mean—’
‘Please,’ she said, pointing towards the front door. ‘Just go.’
So I did what she had clearly always expected me to. I walked out the door.