The Disappearance of Emily Marr Read Online Free PDF Page B

the meaning of my question from an extensive list of options. ‘Eleven. Right at the other end of the street.’ It was the first time he’d spoken since giving his name in greeting and I loved his voice instantly: it was low-pitched and earnest, a voice designed for discretion.

‘Have you lived on the Grove long?’ (This was how you referred to it, I had learned, as if there could be no other.)

‘Since before the children were born, twenty years, something like that. They’re much too old for your egg cups, I’m afraid.’ So he had been listening.

‘That’s OK. I’m not here to drum up business. I get no share of the profits, more’s the pity.’ ‘More’s the pity’ was not the sort of expression I used often, but, as I say, there was something about Arthur that made me want to try harder. I was pleased when he gave a little smirk in response.

‘Is your wife here too?’ I asked.

‘Somewhere, yes.’

With the famous Nina, presumably, co-founders of the Comanches or whatever the clique was that the men found so amusing. Everyone here knew each other, by definition, of course: if you put a finger in the air you’d be able to touch the threads of the entanglements, the cat’s-cradle of private connections and presumed knowledge. There was a smugness in the room’s energy, a self-satisfaction bordering on glee. No one was casting about for a better bet in that way you often find at parties, all were utterly fixed on the person or people they were with. I felt sure that if my little group disbanded I’d be left alone, ignored until I left. Indeed, Ed and the voiceover artist were already drifting from Arthur and me. Did he hope to follow? I had the unsettling impulse to reach for his hand.

‘I don’t know a soul here,’ I told him. ‘I feel like a gatecrasher.’

‘Well, if you’ve just moved into the area,’ he said. Now we were out of earshot of the others he had lowered his reserve somewhat, eyeing me if not in appreciation then with encouragement.

‘I haven’t even met anyone in my own building yet – I’ve not been home much since we moved in, still got half the boxes to open. My dad’s very ill, you see, and I visit him after work whenever I can, then when I get back I just feel so tired the last thing I want to think about is unpacking, let alone decorating.’ Though I always tried to be friendly with new people, it was not like me to pour forth to a stranger in this confessional way, and I couldn’t understand what was making me do it; the champagne, I decided at the time – by then I’d dispatched my second glass and accepted a third. Later I understood that it was Arthur’s bedside manner, a mild-mannered charm common to many hospital consultants. Designed to calm and reassure, it acted on me as a reverser of inhibition.

‘What’s wrong with your father?’ he asked. His eyes met mine with deeper interest and I saw the colour of the irises properly: acorn brown flecked with amber, like tortoiseshell.

‘He’s got Alzheimer’s. It’s pretty advanced. They don’t expect him to make it to the end of next year.’

He raised his brows a fraction. ‘They’ve said that to you?’

‘Not in so many words, but reading between the lines, you know.’

‘He’s in a care home, I assume?’

‘He was until recently, yes, but now he’s been transferred to the hospital unit. He’s not eating enough, he keeps getting infections.’ Feeling distress rise in my gullet, I took a gulp from my glass to wash it back down. ‘But I hope he’ll go back to the nursing home. It was nicer there.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Sixty-two.’

‘That’s pretty young.’

‘Some of the people I’ve met there are a lot younger. It’s such a sad place.’ I felt suddenly very low, both for the poor patients in Dad’s unit and for my situation as a whole. I had nothing, I thought with sadness, no one. Looking down at the strawberry dress, the garment seemed to me to symbolise the