Chapter 9

On Monday evening she was not coming to the flat. Knowing that, I spent most of the evening at work, assessing the programme and the code my highly efficient team were bringing in. I arrived home at ten thirty, and realised she had not phoned. After a sandwich supper I phoned her mobile but it seemed she had switched it off, no doubt she’d already gone to bed.

Exhausted, I sighed and followed her example.

Tuesday was another busy day at work, I went in early and there was no respite or time to call her. I made sure to be home at the usual time in case she arrived, but she didn’t show and there was no text or phone call.

Before going to bed early I phoned her to say goodnight, but it went immediately to voicemail: a puzzle since she always kept her phone switched on. Perhaps its battery was flat. I sent a text saying goodnight, and asking why her phone was off. I actually waited for another hour for a reply, but none came.

Wednesday was a carbon copy of Tuesday, and I was inundated with queries and problems at work. While the big project was very close to completion, the rest of our work carried on as usual. At lunchtime I tried her phone again and there was still no reply, and in addition it appeared the voicemail was now switched off as well. I began to feel very uneasy. This was so unlike her.

That evening I called at her flat, but she was not at home. After dinner, I tried her phone again and it seemed to be switched off. Still no voicemail available. I returned to her flat near midnight, but she was still not there. Now I was really worried. I phoned Cassie. Cassie was a night bird and answered immediately. I confided my worries.

“Strange,” she said. “Have you tried her parents’ place?”

“Good idea,” I replied with a surge of hope, wondering why I didn’t think of that.

Next morning, once again being early in the office, before I started on the small ‘pile’ of work on my screen, I phoned the Granthams.

“4382 Desmond Grantham.”

“Des, it’s Rod. I’ve been trying to reach Rachel, but her phone’s off all the time and she’s not at her flat.”

“She didn’t say anything?”

“No. We parted on Sunday evening, She said she’d not be round on Monday evening, but after that, nothing.”

“Really? OK, Rod, I’ll try. If I get through, I’ll get her to ring you.”

“Thanks, Des.”

That night I tried her phone again and again there was no answer.

Where was she? I waited until after midnight, then again drove back to her flat. There was no answer to my insistent bell ringing, so I walked round the building to the windows of her flat, blessing the fact she did not live on the fifth floor. The curtains were open and the rooms dark. What could I see?

Well, actually, nothing! I used my phone’s flashlight. The place was empty and it seemed un-lived in, as if she’d not been home for a while. With a sinking feeling, I drove home.

As I sat in my living room I tried to make sense of it. Unsurprisingly I failed completely. At the weekend we had been welcomed by our families, we had made plans for Christmas and had presents organised. We were very happy.

Admittedly she looked depressed as she left on Sunday, but to disappear completely for three days? No contact, no explanation? No phone call from Desmond Grantham either, so it seemed he had not had any success.

I went to bed feeling powerless and frightened for her, and lay awake for some hours fretting over what had happened. I overslept and was late to work, which I didn’t need.

Friday had to be dedicated to the project. My team had worked extremely hard and now we had neat batches of code which we needed to meld together into a cohesive whole. The code we were writing would be much tidier than the previous effort, but I could see hours of work, then more hours debugging it to give it its final foolproof finish. The pressure was on to complete the task within the contract time the following Wednesday.

I got down to work with my team, had been at it all morning, and now there were glimmers of the end in sight. As usual I was pre-occupied with it.

With every break in the work the hollow feeling of unease and loss returned.

At lunchtime, Reception asked if I would accept a phone call from a Mr Grantham. My spirits surged.

Hello, Des,” I said with some excitement. “You have news?”

“Well, yes and no,” he said, clearly worried. “I called her mobile every day and Crystal did the same. Crystal was getting very anxious when this morning, Rachel actually answered. I told her how worried we’d been, and she didn’t answer beyond saying we needn’t worry, she was OK, but she gave no explanation.

“I said you were extremely worried that she’d not been in touch. She didn’t answer that either, so I was getting annoyed as I asked what was going on. She then said something I didn’t follow, that she needed to get away for a while and think.

“I asked what had brought this on, and she said she wasn’t sure about ‘things’. I asked what that might mean, she said she needed to get things clear in her head.

“Then she said something about being a failure. She’d failed with Gary and she was afraid she’d fail with you as well. She said she was talking it through with a friend.

“I told her in no uncertain terms that you were the one she should be talking with about it. She was being most unfair to you and was causing you a lot of suffering. She said nothing to that. I asked her to phone you and explain what was going on. She said she’d think about it.”

“She didn’t say where she was?” I asked him. “She’s not been near her flat all week.”

“Sorry, Rod, I was so confused by this turn-around that I signed off without asking her. Look, if and when she rings you, will you let me know?”

“And if she doesn’t?” I answered without much hope.

“If she’s not been in touch by Sunday, please ring me again.”

I promised I would, and disconnected. I immediately phoned her mobile, but it was turned off. Now I realised she must be blocking my calls. Added to my distress there was the beginning of resentment. She had gone to someone else?

It is a significant sign of my state of mind, stressed as I was with the project at work, that I began to suspect she’d gone back to Gary, and it was he with whom she was talking and now living. It was a stupid supposition, but as I said, I was stressed.

The rest of the day I buried myself in the project with the team. We made good progress tying everything together by shunting ideas to and fro; I was grateful for their intense hard work, and I packed them off an hour after home time and stayed another couple of hours before admitting I was losing concentration. Rachel was impinging more and more and distracting me, so I made my way home.

I went out and got a take-away, picking up six bottles of my favourite beer, Holt’s Maplemoon. I consumed the food, and the contents of three of the bottles.

A ring at my door. Rachel! I rushed to open it and found – Cassie. My disappointment must have shown.

“Ugh, so pleased to see me, eh?” she growled with a frown.

“Cassie,” I said apologetically, “I hoped it was ... She’s not been in touch.”

“You phoned? Texted? Phoned her work?” she said, not expecting an answer. “Not at home – parents’ home I mean?”

I shook my head. “Done all that. Des managed to get in touch with her on her mobile, and asked her to call me, but she hasn’t.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“What did she tell him, dumbo?” It was a sign she loved me: that insult.

“Something like she couldn’t trust herself and it wouldn’t last. She’d failed in this marriage and she’d fail in ours. She needed time to think things out.”

“How did she sound when she was telling him all this?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t ask him.”

“Honestly!” she expostulated. “You men! You’re hopeless! Phone Des now – ask him!”

I loved Cassie. She was always so positive and really so dynamic. So I phoned Des as instructed.

“Cassie, my sister, has ordered me to phone you,” I explained.

He laughed loudly. “Go on!” he said.

“She wants to know how Rachel sounded when she was talking about herself and me. Apparently we men miss these things and they are important.”

He laughed again. “Point taken,” he said. “Tell Cassie she sounded wooden, flat and I suppose, depressed. She was not happy that’s for sure, not relieved to be out of her marriage or confident about your relationship.”

“Thanks Des, I’ll pass that on.”

Which I did once we had disconnected; Cassie looked thoughtful, her brow furrowed. Then she looked up.

“It doesn’t ring true on a number of levels,” she said reflectively. “I think she was just saying anything to put her father off.”

Then her face lit up. “Roddy, what’s going on in her life at the moment?”