Beth left on Saturday morning while I was arguing with the washing machine.
There was no signal in the sky, no sound from the crescent that told me a life had changed. I had a wet towel at my feet and a message on my phone.
I’m out. Going to the room first, then work. Speak tonight.
I read it once and replied as we had agreed.
Speak tonight. Good luck with the preview.
Then I picked up the towel.
It felt indecently ordinary, continuing with my day. But Beth had not asked me to spend it in suspense on her behalf.
Poppy had a birthday party. Tom offered to take her, then asked where the present was. I pointed to the bag by the door and stopped myself listing its contents. He could read the card.
At eleven, Martin rang our bell.
This time he carried nothing.
“Is Beth here?”
“No.”
He looked past me, as he had before.
“Do you know where she is?”
“She’s working today.”
“I know about the job. I’m talking about where she’s staying.”
“She hasn’t given me the address.”
His mouth tightened.
“Right.”
He seemed to be testing whether the answer was an insult.
“She’s upset. People have been encouraging her to make decisions before she’s thought them through.”
“You need to speak to Beth.”
“She isn’t answering.”
“Then I can’t answer for her.”
For a moment, the friendliness dropped from his face. Not rage. Something colder and less effortful.
Then he looked towards the pavement and put it back.
“If you hear from her, tell her I’m worried.”
“I’ll tell her you called.”
I shut the door, recorded the visit in a brief message and put my phone on the kitchen counter. I did not ask Beth to respond while she was working.
At lunchtime, Vivienne rang.
Before I answered, I noticed that Martin had left an umbrella beside the porch. I had not seen him carrying it. For a moment I imagined another visit, another reason to look past my shoulder.
Then I remembered Tom leaving it there that morning while he loaded the car. I felt foolish, and slightly alarmed by my own eagerness to join unrelated things together.
I moved the umbrella inside. Whatever I thought of Martin, I did not want to become somebody who could turn an ordinary object into evidence by worrying at it long enough.
“Have you heard from her?”
“This morning.”
“She could have let us know the full arrangements.”
“She knows them.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Perhaps it is.”
Vivienne sighed. I expected the conversation to become difficult, but after a moment she said, “I just want her safe.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t much like feeling useless.”
That was honest enough to change my reply.
“Neither do I.”
We spoke for another few minutes, more easily. She offered to save Beth a portion of dinner. I suggested asking whether she wanted it rather than bringing it round. Vivienne said I was becoming very particular about verbs.
At half past nine, Beth sent a photograph. Three neat rows of chairs faced a display, and a vase of white flowers stood beside the entrance. No people. No caption for several seconds.
Then: Done. All went well.
She rang from her room just after ten.
“The microphone failed.”
“You said it went well.”
“It did. I found another microphone.”
I laughed.
“And nobody remembers the one that failed,” she added. “That’s the job.”
She told me about the late delivery, the guest with an unexpected access requirement and the manager who thanked her in front of the client. The stories came quickly, full of practical detail. She was tired in a way that sounded good.
“Did you eat?” I asked.
“Pasta. In the kitchen. After nine.”
“Reckless.”
Her laugh was unguarded.
Then she said, “I cried when I put my toothbrush down.”
I waited.
“There was a cup on the shelf. I moved it because I wanted the other side. That was all.”
The quiet lasted long enough that I thought she might have gone.
“I’m glad you can move the cup,” I said.
“Me too.”
She had seen my message about Martin. She said she had sent him one written reply and would deal with practical matters when she was rested.
“He says I’ve embarrassed him.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing to that part.”
After we hung up, I stood in our kitchen with the lights off. Across the crescent, Martin’s house was bright downstairs. A car pulled away from the kerb.
Beth sent one final message before bed.
Imogen has confirmed the launch as well. First payment due next week.
I was smiling when another notification arrived in the residents’ group.
Martin had posted a photograph of himself and Beth, taken in summer.
If anyone hears from my wife, please ask her to come home. We’re all worried about her.
Within a minute, three people had offered to help.