The Day We Disappeared Read Online Free PDF Page A

borrow from the bank and brave it out in private
     practice until the recession ended, but she had no real understanding of money. She
     had a freak scientific brain – the only one in our family – and spent her days
     designing crazily complicated algorithms that somehow translated themselves into
     smartphone software. The money was good but she lived as if she were the chief
     executive of Apple, rather than a tiny, tiny bite of its operations. Dad and I had
     bailed her out more than once.
    Claudine usually went quiet when the
     subject came up because she’d had no trouble finding a new clinic and was now
     making buckets of money. She was excellent at shouty advice but poor at
     hand-holding. And Tim was great with suggestions for finding peace amid the madness
     but he was a bit stumped on the subject of how to get me a new job.
    I’d written a rambly blog for a
     while – as if that was going to help anything – but had stopped because I felt
     uncomfortable putting myself out there into the world. The world knew too much about
     me already.
    So, the dent of unhappiness and
     frustration in me had deepened, and with that had come a low-level rumbling of fear.
     I had by no means forgotten what I was capable of when I was really low.
    Then the day before yesterday the end of
     the tunnel
had appeared, seemingly out of
     nowhere. An angel called Stephen Flint had walked into my Farringdon clinic and
     everything had changed, for ever.
    As my penultimate massage had come to an
     end I’d been dimly aware of some sort of rumpus in the reception area. It had
     taken me quite a while to calm myself – I had initially decided we were being
     robbed, of course – but eventually I made it out to Reception where my next client,
     who appeared to be at the centre of the commotion – was waiting. Somehow he had
     reduced Dorota, our usually mute and evasive receptionist, to shrieking giggles.
    Amazed, I turned back to look at him. He
     was a typical City client – moneyed, extremely well dressed, attractive. But the
     almost-palpable charm of the man, the powerful electrical field around him, was not
     so typical. Dorota was as shiny as a bauble.
    ‘Oh dear.’ He smiled.
     ‘We’ve distracted you. It was her fault,’ he said, in
     Dorota’s direction.
    Dorota screamed.
    I took in the client’s long legs
     in expensive tapered trousers and his pale, piercing blue eyes. Sandy hair styled
     neatly, and a cardboard espresso cup, even though it was nearly eight p.m. I wished
     I could go home now, rather than having to massage a caffeinated businessman who
     flirted with Slovakian receptionists while his wife was probably putting the kids to
     bed.
    In time I would remember that moment.
     The moment before Stephen Flint meant anything to me. I was barefoot, my hair in a
     raggedy plait. I was wearing a long skirt I’d bought in India and I smelt of
     geranium oil. I was still
Annie
     Mulholland. I was still in the driving seat of my own life.
    ‘Sorry,’ he said, with a
     subversive grin. ‘Best behaviour now.’
    ‘No problem. Stephen Flint, yes?
     Come on through.’
    ‘Thanks.’ He was up already
     – surprisingly tall – and shaking my hand. ‘And you must be Annabel. How are
     you?’ He asked it as if he’d known me for years.
    ‘Er, take a seat. Can I get you a
     glass of water?’
    ‘Oh, go on, then. If I
     must.’ He sat down, grinning at me with ice-bright eyes as I handed him the
     water and closed the door. It was lucky, I thought, that I could so comfortably
     welcome male clients into a treatment room when I hated being alone with men in any
     other situation. A little reminder that I really did love my job, in spite of all
     the trouble that was attached to it these days.
    ‘So, is this your first time
     having massage therapy?’ I began, noticing a hangnail on my thumb. The room
     smelt of massage oils and tiredness; I was relieved to be going home in an hour.
    ‘It is,’ Stephen