Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (always you kirsty moseley .txt) 📗

Barefooted, they chase each other up, tripping and laughing, knowing as well as I do they will both get two.

‘Lay with me, Mummy,’ Joe says after I’ve finished his second story.

I smile, casting my mind back to that terrible period in my life when he was born. He came early with a serious heart defect, and we nearly lost him. Mercifully, he’s OK now. ‘Just five minutes,’ I say, sliding my arm around him. ‘Your sister’s waiting for me.’

After I’ve read to Isabella, I sit at the top of the stairs, where they can both still see me from their beds. I cross my legs and close my eyes, ready to attempt my daily dosage of mindfulness – five minutes of focused breathing to keep me balanced and calm, and all such claimed benefits. Years ago, I used to count things randomly all the time to keep me calm, a habit which motherhood knocked out of me, and then Sasha taught me about this technique. Some evenings I manage it, others not. On the days I do succeed, I’ve yet to determine if it makes a difference other than the relief it brings to know the kids fall asleep straight away if I’m there outside their bedroom doors.

Taking a deep breath, I drop my head and try to banish the intrusive thoughts invading my concentration. I rake my fingers through my hair, wincing at how dry the ends feel. I must book a trim. It’s grown past my breasts. But, it’s no surprise. I haven’t been to the hairdressers since Christmas. Strands shed away in my hands. Opening my eyes, I see ten or so curls land on my trousers. I gasp as I pick out a grey lock amongst the wisps of blonde. I thought they were a treat for your forties, not your early thirties. Perhaps I need to change my shampoo? An image of Sasha’s forlorn face from earlier flashes into my mind and my thoughts turn to her husband’s disappearance.

Tonight, it’s not happening. Marc has taken the space reserved for meditation.

Once I hear the kid’s delicate snores, I creep downstairs and, after dimming the kitchen lights, head straight to the fridge. ‘It’s only Monday,’ Jim reminds me with raised eyebrows and a teasing smile, to which I reply, ‘You’ll want a glass too when I tell you about my day.’

My stomach rumbles as I hand Jim the bottle of chilled white. ‘Sounds like you skipped lunch again,’ he says. He fetches two glasses and wheels himself to the table and half-fills them both.

I lower the lights of the ruby red chandelier that hangs above the table and dish up what’s remaining from Mel’s daily culinary delights. Sticky chicken and roast potatoes she would have prepared while the kids were at school. There are sides of buttery peas and honey-glazed carrots. She’s even set the table. What would I do without that woman?

I switch over the radio station before sitting down on the wooden bench opposite him. Classic FM treats us to a Beethoven piano concerto. Number four, I think. I move aside the glazed ceramic bowl piled with fresh fruit from the middle of the table. Marc and Sasha brought us this bowl back from their holiday in Thailand a couple of years ago. Marc had chosen it, Sasha told me, because he knew turquoise was my favourite colour. ‘The sea was exactly that shade of blue,’ Marc said. ‘I knew you’d love it.’

‘I wonder why the pain is so bad again,’ I say.

‘I needed to keep alert today as I had a deadline for Chrissie, remember? So I skipped the painkillers this morning. I took some when you were upstairs with the kids. I’ll be fine soon.’

‘I’ll give you a massage later.’

He air-kisses me. ‘I’ll never say no to that.’

‘Did you get the first draft off to Chrissie?’

‘Yep. All done. I feel confident about this one. More so than book one and two. I’ll wait to see what Chrissie has to say.’

‘You know her. She won’t hold back if she doesn’t agree.’

‘Rightly so. That’s an editor’s job.’

I relay the Sasha and Marc drama as we tuck into dinner.

‘For Christ’s sake, Eva. You can’t get involved.’

‘I can’t not, either.’

‘You could get yourself into deep water.’

‘Not sure it’d go that far.’

‘You certainly won’t get promoted if they discover you’re helping to find someone who has clearly stated they don’t want to be found. You’ve worked yourself to the bone to get where you are.’ He adds with a little too much emphasis, ‘And sacrificed loads.’

‘She’s my friend. And Marc. Yours too. Think about how much they’ve done for us.’

He reaches out and squeezes my hand. ‘I know. But still.’

‘She needs my help. She’s desperate. You know she’s like a sister to me.’

‘Don’t you think it’s weird that he went into your station? Did he not consider he might bump into you?’

‘He couldn’t have been thinking rationally. I suppose it’s his local.’

‘Where do you reckon he’s gone?’

‘Haven’t a clue, but I tell you what, I’ve got a dreadful feeling he’s not coming home anytime soon.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘The way he was with me at the Tube station. He got a bit nasty. Actually, not just a bit. He shouted at me to get lost in so many words. He meant it too.’ I shove a carrot into my mouth.

Jim arches a brow. ‘That doesn’t sound like the Marc we know.’

‘That’s what I mean. Has he said anything out of character to you lately?’ Over the past couple of months, since Jim started having intensive physio with Sasha again, we’d often go into their house after the session for half an hour or so. Sasha and I would chat over a coffee, or sometimes something more substantial, while Marc and Jim would squash into Marc’s office, a tiny room opposite the front door that barely has space for Jim’s wheels when he’s using them.

He shakes his head. ‘Nothing that springs to mind.’

‘What do you two talk about when