The Disappearance of Emily Marr Read Online Free PDF

It was high-quality stuff, creamy and soft as it effervesced on my palate. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d tasted something so expensive.

‘Careful Nina doesn’t get wind of that sort of talk,’ Marcus said. ‘That’s Ed’s wife,’ he added, for my benefit. ‘She’s not someone you’d want to cross.’

I didn’t want to cross anyone, but the conversation was moving much too fast to allow me to protest.

‘Nina writes for the Press ,’ the voiceover artist explained. ‘She’s claimed more scalps than the Comanches.’

I did not often read the Press , a national tabloid, and had not heard of the Comanches, but it didn’t matter because ignorance was expected of me, I saw. I’d already been judged lacking in the sphere that counted the most: connections (or perhaps money). I was only decorative, the quintessential dumb blonde; perhaps by dressing in the style of a bygone era, I attracted bygone attitudes. ‘What do you mean, scalps?’

‘You know, all the people she’s hung out to dry over the years. Ministers, actors, pop stars. Oh, that TV presenter with the red hair – she’s in the Priory now, right, Ed?’ He crowed at my blank expression. ‘The TV presenter, I mean, not Nina. Sarah’s friendly with her, isn’t she, Marcus?’

‘Not as friendly as she’d like,’ Marcus said, and given his wife’s cool reception of me I couldn’t help thrilling to this small disloyalty. Raising an eyebrow at Ed, who remained modestly silent on his wife’s behalf, Marcus sought the opinion of the only one of the men yet to contribute. ‘But Arthur’ll tell you, won’t you, mate? His wife Sylvie’s a founder member of the feared Grove coven.’

But Arthur remained aloof from the banter, absorbed in his thoughts; it wasn’t clear that he’d been following the conversation at all. Unlike the others, he did not press physically, or im press particularly. He was no taller than me in my heels, with a boyish slightness to his build and a pronounced weariness in both posture and expression. Whereas the others ogled my neckline in exactly the manner I deserved, his gaze moved only reluctantly across me, as if over a display in a shop he’d been forced to enter when he’d expressly stated a preference to wait outside.

‘I’d love to be able to write,’ I told Ed. ‘That’s my ambition. But if I did, I don’t think anyone would want to read it.’

‘That’s not a million miles away from how I feel myself,’ he replied. ‘Let’s swap jobs, eh?’

‘What do you do?’ Marcus asked me. ‘I don’t think I know.’

‘I work in the pottery café on Linley Avenue. We do children’s birthday parties, half-term classes, that sort of thing.’

But Earth, Paint & Fire was below their radar, evidently. Ed’s was the only face to clear and he was not quite fast enough to conceal his contempt: ‘Is that that place where kids paint spots on an egg cup and the parent gets charged twenty quid for the privilege?’

‘God, is that what it is? I’ve always thought someone who actually enjoys working with small children must be a bit touched ,’ the voiceover artist said.

‘Oh.’ Even without their comments, mine had already sounded an insignificant way to earn a living next to their grand careers, and I thought it best to accept my inferiority with a good grace. ‘It’s not for ever,’ I said, smiling. I imagined myself in a year’s time – same party, different house – but with a raised status. I’d be a trainee reporter or a novelist with a work in progress. I’d be one of them.

Marcus left us after that, and as Ed and the voiceover artist returned to the subject of Nina’s latest victim, I waited for the opportunity to make eye contact with Arthur. I felt an urgent need to redeem myself, to see something finer reflected in his eyes than the top half of my own breasts. ‘So which number are you?’ I asked him, when at last our glances intersected.

He paused, as if judging