24 Hours: An intense, suspenseful psychological thriller (22 page)

I
put Polly
in her best dress, the pale pink one with tiny red flowers sewn round the hem, and her red cardigan, and tried to calm her curls a little; plonked her in front of Wallace and Gromit and went back upstairs to change. I put my smart jeans on with a white shirt and tied my own hair back.

Then I took it all off again and, as a concession to the occasion, I put on my own best dress, sea-green silk from Stella McCartney, cut beautifully on the bias. Along with the ring, it was one of the few presents Sid had bought me after he started to make money. He loved to spend money on Polly, but I was a different matter. Still, two Christmases ago it had sat under the tree, lavishly wrapped. ‘It’s the best colour for your eyes,’ he muttered when I pulled it out of the paper, and he was right, of course. If there was one thing he was sure of, my husband, it was his colour chart.

Emily had still not been in touch, although I’d texted her yet again, along with the address of the gallery, asking her to please come tonight. Safety in numbers, and all that. I was struggling to believe she was still so angry she wouldn’t even speak to me – but apparently it was true.

Polly, on the other hand, was thoroughly overexcited, jumping up and down frantically beside me as I tried to apply my mascara in the hall mirror with a hand that shook a little. In truth, I craved a drink, the vodka bottle in the cupboard was all but calling my name – but instead, I had poured myself some fizzy water. Rock and roll.

‘Can I have some ’scara?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘You’re much too little.’

‘Some lipstick then?’ she waved the smashed Chanel lipstick in my face. ‘Jolie lets me.’

I bit back my retort. ‘No.’

Polly’s bottom lip wobbled. I grabbed her and hugged her; sank my own lips into her fat little cheek, and conceded.

‘How about a little bit of nail varnish instead?’

So we were late leaving because I had to daub each tiny nail with brilliant polish, keeping the cab that I’d called with great extravagance waiting for a good ten minutes.

From the back seat, I watched North London slide by, clutching my daughter’s hand so tight I left my fingerprints on the fresh varnish. This would be the first time I’d been to any exhibition of Sid’s since we’d separated. I would stay for one drink – long enough for Polly to see her father – and then we’d leave. And tomorrow – tomorrow I would think about a new life. Tomorrow would be the time to address some serious change. I couldn’t continue with this heart-stopping pain; adrenaline flooding my body at all the wrong times; this raw, ugly mish-mash of my life. Polly needed stability and calm, and it wasn’t possible here, right now.

We got out on Piccadilly and walked up New Bond Street, past Gucci and Prada and the haunts of the Russian mafia; the hallowed enclave of the pop-star and modern celebrity, heading towards a hum of laughter and chat. Polly admired her reflection in every gilt-rimmed window; I felt less confident in the heels I rarely wore, repeatedly checking my phone in the vain hope Emily might say she was on her way.

The gallery was absolutely heaving by the time we arrived, a few paparazzi on the pavement opposite, contacted no doubt by Randolph’s team. A crew from the BBC’s
Culture Show
were setting up in the corner and Randolph himself was holding court in the middle of the room, dressed in some kind of Indian kurta suit, a long white tunic covering his bulbous gut, his nose already puce from too much alcohol. When he saw Polly he shouted, ‘Aha, little one, come here to Papa,’ and everyone around him ooh-ed and ah-ed. I winced at his self-conscious styling as some sort of benevolent guru, some loving relative.

His jolly assistant, Missy, appeared by my side. She grinned apologetically at me through train-track braces.

‘So cute! Can I?’ Missy held a hand out to Polly. ‘Just for a minute. Everyone’s dying to meet her.’

‘Okay?’ I bent to ask my daughter – but she was already skipping off to be fawned over without a backwards glance.

I helped myself to a glass of warm orange juice, eschewing the retro Cava, and tried hard to blend into the crowd. It was a less lavish do than the last; even the art world was not immune to recession, apparently. I recognised a few faces, received some air kisses and said some hellos to people I hadn’t seen since Sid and I had split, trying not to meet anyone’s eye for long enough to make in-depth conversation. I just wanted to see Sid’s new work, retrieve Polly and leave again – but there was such a throng round the small pictures in this room, it was difficult to even determine the subject matter.

Waiting my turn, I heard one over-made-up collector comment: ‘This is really quite a departure for Smith, isn’t it? I’m quite shocked.’

‘Maybe. But not in the way you’d have hoped.’

‘Tame, I’d say,’ someone else murmured. ‘Bit disappointing really. Lost his balls, perhaps. Gone soft.’ They laughed. ‘Soft balls.’

I felt a surge of anger. His work might be different, but there was no doubt, even without seeing the pictures, that he was a brilliant craftsman.

‘Who gives a toss about his family anyway?’ they sneered. ‘It’s hardly original content.’

I turned away before I interrupted. Everything I loathed about the avaricious world of the collector.

Looking around for Sid, I couldn’t see him anywhere. Jolie, however, was very present, dressed rather like a mermaid in iridescent sequins that barely covered her bottom, tiny shells in her braided hair, taller than most of the men on whore-ish silver heels. It was immediately obvious that she was quite drunk; her heavy-lashed eyes looked glazed as she staggered slightly on the five-inch spikes.

Still, when she saw me, she waved nicely, and I waved back – but as I turned away, I saw her whisper something to her companion whom I recognised as a radio DJ, be-quiffed and leather-jacketed, friend to the Mosses, Osbornes and Geldofs of this world. They glanced over; both fell about laughing.

God, I wished Emily was here. I drained my orange juice and contemplated the Cava, finally managing to slide into place in front of one of the paintings.

It was a beach. I thought I recognised it; I thought it was Sennen, where Sid and I used to go and swim and surf when we lived in Cornwall.

And then my heart was in my mouth, because, despite the dark colours and the blurred figure, there was no doubting that it was a picture of me.

Sid never ever painted me, not since the first portrait when we got married. I stared and stared at it and then suddenly a voice was in my ear. Jolie.

‘’Spect you’re really proud now, aren’t you?’ she slurred. ‘A whole exhibition dedicated to his family.’

I couldn’t quite tell if this was sarcasm or not.

‘I’m looking forward to seeing all the pictures,’ I said. ‘I expect you’ve seen them already?’

She ignored my attempt to appease her.

‘You know, he may disappear sometimes,’ she wobbled backwards and then leant into me and whispered, ‘but in the end he always comes back to me.’

‘Yeah, well,’ I said wearily. ‘Good luck with that.’

‘What do you mean?’ I felt the tension exuding from her. ‘Are you saying I’m a liar?’

‘No,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m not saying that at all.’ People were starting to look; I was deeply uncomfortable. This was exactly why I hadn’t wanted to come. And I was aware suddenly of a new dynamic too, presumably because I’d been foolish enough to sleep with Sid again. Although she didn’t know that.

‘Why don’t you just let him go?’ she was relentless. ‘It’s pathetic, the way you hold on. And he’ll paint me soon. I know he will. He’s started already.’

‘I’m sure he has. Please, Jolie—’ I started to move away, but she grabbed my arm.

And then Sid was there too, in a sharp-fitting grey suit, his dark mop tamed a little, reminding me of Polly’s, and his eyes wary as ever, narrowed in anticipation of trouble.

‘Come on, you,’ he said to his girlfriend, and he took her arm and led her away, and I was surprised by how gentle his tone was – and then I was more surprised at the jealousy I felt. Immediately, I despised myself for it. I had made a huge mistake coming here. What the hell had I been thinking? I couldn’t look at these pictures and I couldn’t be here anymore, I had to get out.

I stumbled through the crowd, looking for Polly, looking for a friendly face. My daughter was on the other side of the room being fed crisps by one of Randolph’s lackeys; I pushed my way through the crowd to her.

‘Come on, Pol,’ I said, holding my arms out to her. ‘Time to go.’

‘But I haven’t even seen Daddy yet,’ she pouted and then someone else arrived brandishing a bottle of Coke for her, and a pot of peanuts, and I knew getting her to leave quietly was going to be a nightmare.

‘Polly, we’ve got to go, baby. You’ll see Daddy on Sunday. He’s very busy with his work.’

But my beady-eyed child had spotted her father through the window; he was outside with Jolie, smoking, and quite obviously arguing, albeit in hushed tones. The diamonds on her wrist glinted under the gallery’s neon lights but her pretty face was ugly as she snarled at him, and it came to me in a sudden flash; despite the jealousy, despite the loyalty I felt towards him still, why I was glad not to be with him anymore. Because it was
always
like this. Always high drama; too much emotion. Everything buttoned up and yet too much on display; the result of Sid desperately keeping all the pain in was that it then so often imploded publicly.

And as I watched, Polly slipped from my grasp, made her way through all the legs and escaped outside, hurling herself at her father like a small missile. His face lit up as he swung her into his arms and buried his face in her hair.

Afterwards I decided it was this that finally unhinged Jolie that night. I arrived behind Sid seconds later – but she’d already begun her attack.

‘You got just what you wanted.’ All the sweet-little-girl charm dissipated in a trice. ‘You know, I never trust people with jobs like yours. Your nose in everyone’s lives. A sancti … sanctimon—’ she was too drunk to get the word out. ‘Just plain meddling,’ she managed in the end. ‘Why don’t you just
fuck off
?’

I wasn’t even sure who she was talking to; Polly or me. Missy came out now, no doubt sent by Randolph to keep a lid on things.

‘Jolie,’ Sid hissed. ‘Mind your language.’

‘Why the fuck should I?’

‘Daddy,’ Polly’s eyes were huge. ‘She said the fuck word. Two times!’

Missy held her hand out again. ‘Polly darling, why don’t you come with me?’

‘No,’ I stood between her and my daughter. ‘It’s fine. We’re leaving.’

‘That’s right. You run away, you stupid bitch.’

The paparazzi were gathering now, blood lust alerted by the shouting.

‘Don’t talk to my mummy like that,’ Polly said to Jolie crossly, and burst into tears.

‘If you publish a single photo, I’ll throttle you all with my bare hands and then I’ll sue you,’ Sid snarled at the press. The flashes continued.

‘Please, guys,’ Missy turned to them now, arms wide, beseeching. ‘This is a private party.’

But they were having none of it. This was their dream; a field day for the press.

I held out my arms for Polly. Sid relinquished her, just as the
Culture Show
presenter appeared at his side.

‘Any chance of that interview now, Sid?’ she purred, all tawny highlights and perfect St Tropez. ‘We’re throwing live to the studio in five.’

Missy looked like she was going to have an apoplectic fit.

I started to walk away, my daughter in my arms.

‘Walk away, walk away,’ Jolie taunted. ‘Just like he did from you. Left you ’cos you’re all dried up, honey. Knew he was on to a good thing.’

I deposited Polly in the doorway of Nicole Farhi. ‘Stay here, baby, just for one second, okay? I’ve forgotten something.’ Polly tried desperately to hold on, but I couldn’t contain it any longer, prising her small hands off. ‘One sec, I promise.’

I ran back up the road to where Jolie stood, swaying on her Bambi legs, and I stood very near to her now so that only she could hear me. ‘No, actually, you stupid cow, it was
me
that left
him
. Whatever he might have told you. So put that in your crack pipe and smoke it.’

And then I gathered Polly back up and hailed the first black cab I saw.

I
n the taxi
, I couldn’t hold back the tears that broke after all the tension. I tried my utmost not to let Polly see, shoving my old sunglasses on and giving her my lip-gloss to play with whilst I rang Emily again.

‘Please, Em. Where are you? The exhibition was a disaster. I feel like I’m totally losing it.’ Hot tears slid down my face no matter how I tried to stop them, but Polly by now was more interested in counting blue cars for the reward I had promised her.

‘Eight – nine – eleventeen.’ Numbers were not Polly’s forte. ‘She was very cross, wasn’t she? Why was Jolie so cross? She didn’t look very pretty when she was shouting,’ Polly turned back to me. ‘Her skirt was very short, Mummy, wasn’t it? I nearly see-ed her bottom.’

‘Gosh,’ I said and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but I found I was sort of doing both. I found some old chewing-gum at the bottom of my bag and gave it to Polly, whose eyes widened at the unexpected treat.

‘Just don’t swallow it. I’m sure Jolie will calm down again soon.’

And when the cab pulled up outside our house, and I fumbled around for change, another car came round the corner too fast, and my heart lifted because it was Emily’s old Jeep.

We stood at the gate and we didn’t say anything, just hugged each other. And I couldn’t stop crying, but I knew it would be all right now, because Emily was here.

But even Emily couldn’t control what happened next.

S
o he’s done it
. Randolph has shopped me to the police, and actually, I am relieved. They will arrive soon, and I can tell them that Polly and my mother are with Sid, and they can arrest me if they like, I don’t care, I am beyond caring now, but it will be all right if they just find my family and make sure that they’re safe.

‘What did Sid say?’ I ask Randolph, and he says, ‘Everything’s fine. They’re all fine.’

‘Can I call him?’ I hold out my hand for the phone. ‘Please.’

Randolph moves the phone out of my reach. ‘He says they’re all sleeping. They’re fine. Really.’

‘Why don’t you let me decide that?’

‘Sid won’t want to talk to you,’ he smiles his oily smile. ‘Come on, Laurie. Face it like the brave little cunt you are.’

Oh God, I loathe this man.

I contemplate trying to wrest the phone off him but frankly I don’t rate my chances. I have no energy left; I am so washed out; I am bruised and sore where he has pushed and shoved me; more bruised and sore than when I left the hospital yesterday morning. I am not sure my body can withstand any more damage today.

I contemplate trying to get to another phone in the flat, but I don’t know where they are, and I feel his eyes on me all the time as we wait.

And so, finally, twenty-one hours in, I give up.

I sit on Randolph’s huge white sofa staring into space and I try to order my mind.

Whatever Sid has tried to do to me, and my one fear that reared up recently after the gallery incident, a fear I’d not felt before, that he might try to hurt his daughter purely to wound me, I am sure now – almost sure now – that she must be safe, if so many people know where she is. I have to believe this – but I am confused too. Everything is so surreal.

Still, images and headlines about suicidal fathers killing their children assail me. But Sid is
not
suicidal. He just hates me. He was so furious the last time I saw him, more furious than I’d ever known him. Literally beside himself with rage about Mal; about me preventing him from seeing Polly.

Randolph turns the television on to check the FTSE index. He flicks over on to the news channel. Stories about Syria and Southern Sudan. A story about the impact industry is having on global warming. Domestic news. A story about Prince Harry’s regiment in Afghanistan.

And then the story about me.

I sit up and listen. The facts, spooled out again. The wrong facts. A shot of a weeping Pam Southern leaving the Royal Hospital. Nausea sweeps through me. Comments from Forest Lodge staff about the fire. I dig my fingernails into my palms.

‘
The authorities are still investigating the cause of the fire,
’
the glossy presenter says. ‘
Meanwhile, Laurie Smith is still wanted by police for questioning. Initially believed to have perished herself, it later became clear that it was in fact her friend and room-mate Emily Southern who had died. It is thought there may have been some kind of struggle in the hotel room though fire officers refuse to confirm this, given the extensive damage to the building. Smith has been spotted since, but her whereabouts now are unknown, although it’s thought she is in London.
’

A gruff policeman from the Cornwall and Devon force appeared on screen.
‘
It’s extremely likely that Mrs Smith is suffering severe shock, as well as any other injuries sustained on the night, such as smoke inhalation. She needs to be treated as soon as possible. We would ask the public to inform us should they see Laurie Smith.
’

‘How caring,’ Randolph scoffs. ‘Personally I think they’d be safer carting you off to the loony bin.’

‘Oh shut up,’ I snap.

Now a woman appears on screen, captioned as
Friend of Laurie Smith
. My eyes nearly pop out of my head.

Suzanne O’Brien.

‘
I never really knew her
,’ she is saying to the reporter, all wide-eyed solemnity, ‘
I mean, I thought I did but it turns out she duped us all. She’s a very clever, conniving woman
.
Quite dangerous, I’d say
.’

‘Yet another fan, Laurie, dear?’ Randolph sneers.

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ I mutter. ‘Do they actually check their sources? That’s libellous.’

‘Hardly,’ Randolph laughs unpleasantly. ‘I can vouch for the punch you pack.’

‘So sorry, Randolph,’ I smile sweetly at him. ‘When you’re such a gentleman yourself.’

He snaps the television off.

‘The police are taking their time, aren’t they?’ I am dry-mouthed, empty-bellied, weak. ‘Can I make myself a drink?’

‘Whatever,’ he shrugs. But he follows me into the kitchen area, removing the block of sharp knives pointedly. ‘Just in case,’ he says nastily.

I don’t even bother to comment, but I do look for a phone.

The kitchen is a tiny galley off the main room and, compared to the palatial luxury of the rest of the apartment, it’s a mess. The bin stinks and I open the window; the moths that have gathered hopelessly along the windowpane fly out to freedom.

Dawn has not broken yet as I switch the kettle on and gaze out at the plane trees, thinking I have never ever felt this tired in my life, not even after I gave birth to Polly, because at least I got to lie down afterwards – and then my eye rests on something glittery beside the Fairy Liquid. I look more closely; it’s a woman’s diamond bracelet. Typically brash for any lover of Randolph’s, although frankly, I’ve often wondered whether he prefers men. Men like Sid.

I take the tea and sit back on the sofa and then the door buzzes.

And the police are downstairs and so I walk down to my fate, frankly relieved to be out of Randolph’s clutches.