The One I Love Read online

  Elle shook her head. “He’s really gone this time, Janey.” Then she sobbed on her sister’s shoulder until her tears ran dry.

  Chapter 5

  Authentic Fake

  Pillows bursting at the seams,

  feathers floating like dreams,

  naked on the wooden floor,

  night porters banging at the door,

  and we just turn the music up.

  Jack L, Broken Songs

  January 2008

  Although it was cold the sky was blue and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. Jane favoured cold, dry days but they were so few and far between. She wasn’t a fan of central heating as it made her skin itchy. She liked a nip in the air and couldn’t understand when her son complained that he was cold – she had spent so much money on clothes for him yet he had the audacity to stand in front of her in a T-shirt and boxer shorts wondering what it would take for her to put on some heat. The kitchen was warm because she had spent the morning baking. Kurt came in, rubbing his hands together and blowing into them for effect.

  “Put on a jumper and jeans,” she said, with her back to him.

  “Who’s coming?” he asked, ignoring her and putting on the kettle.

  “Tom and Leslie.”

  “Oh, them.” He made a face.

  “‘Oh, them,’” she repeated, amused. “What’s wrong with them?”

  “He’s haunted and she’s a bit of a freak,” he said, spooning coffee into a cup. “Oh, and Gran thinks he’s a murderer.”

  “For God’s sake, stop listening to that twisted woman!”

  “Well, you can’t say it hasn’t crossed your mind.”

  “I can say it hasn’t crossed my mind,” she replied. “Alexandra disappeared when Tom was in work, and he has witnesses.”

  “So it has crossed your mind but you’re satisfied with his alibi,” Kurt said, pointing his spoon at his mother.

  “Fine.” She put her hands up. “I’m satisfied with his alibi.”

  “Lots of people have good alibis, and then that alibi turns out to be crap.”

  “Kurt,” Jane said, “please stop calling Mammy’s new friend a murderer.” Kurt laughed a little. He always enjoyed it when his mother attempted to talk down to him. “Okay, but be careful. You don’t have the best track record as a judge of character.” He poured boiling water into the cup and gripped it tightly. “God, Mum, it’s freezing in here.”

  He left to go to his room and sit at his computer with his duvet wrapped around his body and arms while his hands remained uncovered and unencumbered. Jane remained in the kitchen, cleaning the spilled coffee granules from the counter while keeping an eye on the oven and clock.

  This would be the third time Leslie and Tom had come to her house to discuss their project’s progress. Elle had been there both times before but she was taking her break-up with Vincent pretty hard. When Jane had spotted the “Gone Fishing” sign on her door earlier that morning, she knew it meant that Elle might be away for a week or a month. She wasn’t sure how she was going to break this news to Tom.

  Tom had become incredibly excited at the last meeting when Elle had revealed the painting she had done of Alexandra. He had previously given her a box of photos of his wife and she’d gone through all of Jane’s from when Alexandra was younger. After she’d spent a week looking at the woman’s face, she spent another week capturing it. According to Tom, Jane and even Leslie she had done so beautifully.

  “I made her look sad,” Elle had said. “I hope you don’t mind because I know she’s a happy sort but I think she needed to look sad.”

  “I don’t mind. She’s beautiful,” Tom said, staring at the painting, which leaned against Jane’s kitchen wall. “How did you do that? How did you make her look lost?”

  Elle had stared at the face she had come to know so well and hunched her shoulders. “I don’t know.”

  Tom bit the side of his mouth so hard there was an indent in his cheek. He nodded and looked at Elle. “You’re incredible.”

  Elle loved it when people complimented her. She’d blush and say she hated it but her heart would flutter, her pulse would race and, for a moment, she’d feel a great high, which she’d come down from all too soon.

  Leslie had created a fantastic website – www.findingalex-andra.com – which incorporated Alexandra’s most recent photos and a map of her last movements. She’d even managed to attach the CCTV footage from Tara Street and Dalkey DART stations. She had created a blog space for Tom to update if and when he wanted, a chat room for anyone who might wish to post a comment and, of course, there was an email address for anyone with information. Tom had been overwhelmed, especially when she revealed the link to Jack Lukeman’s website. When she clicked into Jack’s site there was a link to findingalexandra. Tom was dumbfounded. Jack’s website even mentioned Alexandra and asked his visitors to check the findingalexandra site to work out if they had seen her.

  “How did you manage that?” Tom asked.

  “I designed Jack’s site.”

  “Wow, that’s fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.”

  “And you said you couldn’t help!” Elle teased.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re happy,” Leslie said, a little chuffed with herself.

  “How did you get Jack to agree?” Jane asked.

  “Alexandra’s a Jack fan and I got Myra in his office to agree, and once she agreed it was pretty much done and, by the by, they asked if there was anything else they could do.”

  “You are shitting me?” said Elle.

  “No,” Leslie said. “And I’m not sure I even know or care to know what shitting a person is.”

  “Of course there’s something else they can do,” said Jane suddenly.

  “Yeah,” said Elle, beating Jane to it. “Jack can sing at the Missing Exhibition opening.”

  “It would make the PR a cinch,” said Jane.

  “I’ll talk to Myra,” said Leslie.

  Tom didn’t know what to say. He was bowled over. In the few short weeks he had known these three women, his search for his wife had taken on a whole new life and he could hardly express his gratitude to them.

  Jane smiled at him when he became tongue-tied and slightly tearful. “We’ll find her,” she promised.

  Now, less than a month later, her promise appeared slightly premature, if not a tad arrogant. Elle was missing in action and that meant she wasn’t painting, and if she wasn’t painting the exhibition might not happen in April as had been planned, and if the exhibition didn’t happen in April Jack wouldn’t be available to play until after he’d finished with the European festivals in September, and he was key to publicity. She had tried to call Elle but to no avail. “Gone Fishing” meant no contact.

  Jane felt sick at having to disappoint Tom, and Leslie after all the work she’d put into promoting the exhibition on the website, and she wasn’t even sure if she should tell them. Maybe I’ll give it a week, she thought. I’ll give it a week and see what happens and then, if I have to tell them and break Tom’s heart, I’ll do it. Damn it, Elle, this is no time for your selfish crap – come home.

  Leslie was the first to arrive. Jane opened the door and Leslie pointed to the basement and asked if Jane knew who the old woman was.

  “My mother.”

  Leslie nodded. “Oh,” she said. “She has Tom.”

  “Sweet Jesus! There’s coffee made. I’ll be a minute.” Jane took off down the front steps like a hare before Leslie could respond.

  Tom was sitting in a chair opposite her mother when she burst into the room as though she was a gangbuster. Rose was swirling liquid in her mug and Jane prayed it was tea. Tom was silent, his hands clasped and resting on his knee.

  “What has she said?” Jane asked Tom.

  “I asked him if he’d killed his wife,” Rose said. “I further inquired as to whether or not he had any intention of killing you.”

  “Oh, God.” Jane closed her eyes for a moment to compose herself.

  “I said n
o on both counts,” Tom said and, thankfully, he seemed a little amused.

  “You see, Jane?” said Rose. “We’re only having a nice quiet chat. There’s no need to run down here like your anus is on fire.”

  Tom laughed a bit.

  “Tom,” Jane said, “time to leave.”

  He stood up.

  “Rose, I’ll talk to you later,” said Jane.

  Tom said goodbye to Rose and followed Jane out into Rose’s small hallway where he managed to kick over her stack of unsolicited mail. He stooped to pile it back together and, before Jane could tell him to ignore it and move on, her mother shouted from her sitting room: “And, Tom dear …”

  “Yes?” He moved back to the doorway.

  “If my daughter happens to go missing, you’ll die roaring. I’ll make sure of it,” she said, in a sweet and airy tone, as though she was promising to take him out to dinner.

  “I understand.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Jane apologized, as she drew him away from the door and slammed it. “I really am so very sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” Tom said.

  “You need locking up!” she screamed at her mother, through the closed sitting-room door. She opened Rose’s front door and Tom followed her into the cold air. He was a little miffed and a little entertained.

  Jane was pissed off. “Sorry you had to witness that.”

  “It’s fine,” he said. “Worth it. After all, without you and Elle I’d still be handing out flyers at gigs.”

  Oh, God, Elle! Come home, for Christ’s sake, just come home!

  Jane smiled at him and pretended everything was okay. He followed her up the steps and into the house. They went to the kitchen where Leslie was hugging her cup of coffee.

  “Is the heating broken?” she asked.

  “I’ll put it on.” Jane went into the hall.

  Kurt heard the familiar clicking and came out of his bedroom dressed in his duvet. “Oh, yeah, Mum, you’ll put on the heat for visitors but not your only son. Nice one.”

  Jane ignored him and, after taking a detour into her bedroom to quickly smear her face with moisturizer for extra-dry skin, she made her way back to the kitchen in time to hear Leslie inform Tom that the hits on the findingalexandra site had increased by seventy per cent since they’d linked up with Jack Lukeman’s.

  Jane offered them a choice between carrot cake, chocolate log and coffee queen cakes and brewed fresh coffee. Once they’d complimented Jane on her baking skills, Leslie revealed that before she’d left her apartment she’d received an email from someone who believed that they’d spotted Alexandra at a Jack Lukeman gig in London the previous week. “I think it’s important not to get excited,” Leslie warned, producing a printout of the email. “It could have been anyone.”

  “But it could have been Alexandra,” Tom said. “Please read it.”

  She unfolded the printout.

  Tom lowered his head so that he could focus on the floor. “‘Hi, my name is Michelle Radley. I work at the Pigalle Club in London. Last month Jack Lukeman was playing. It was a busy night, two of the girls were off sick and the toilet attendant didn’t show up. There was a young girl who’d had too much to drink and she was getting sick in the toilets. I was called in to help her but the club was so busy I couldn’t really stay with her. So a woman that looked exactly like the one in your picture said she would. We talked for a minute or two. She said her name was Alex. She really did look like the woman in your picture but she was thinner and her hair was shorter. When I returned to the toilet she and the sick girl were gone. Jack Lukeman is returning to play a show on Saturday, 1 March, and I’ll be working so I’ll watch out for her. If you would like to give me a telephone number I could phone you if she returns. Regards, Michelle.’” She added her own number as a PS.

  Leslie stopped reading and looked at Tom, who was still staring at the floor. She looked at Jane, who was wiping her hands on a tea-towel for a little longer than necessary.

  “This could be it,” Jane said, and threw the towel onto the counter.

  “It’s her,” Tom said.

  “Hang on,” Leslie said. “Hang on one second. This is a thin, short-haired woman who just looks like Alexandra.”

  “She called herself Alex,” said Jane.

  “But Tom told us she hasn’t called herself Alex since she was a teenager,” Leslie said.

  “But helping a drunken girl in a toilet is something she’d do,” Tom said.

  “It’s something a lot of people would do,” Leslie said. “I really think it’s important not to get ahead of ourselves here. We should just pass the information on to the police and let them handle it.”

  Tom looked up from the floor. “I’m going to London for the show.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Jane said.

  “Really?” he asked.

  “Absolutely.” It’s the least I can do, considering my sister has gone AWOL.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Leslie said. “You pair haven’t listened to one word I’ve said.”

  “We have,” said Tom. “Look, Leslie, I will pass on the email to the police but I can’t just leave it at that. We’re so close!”

  “But you might not be,” said Leslie.

  “But we might be,” said Jane.

  “I give up!” Leslie got up and cut herself another slice of carrot cake even though she’d been watching what she ate since Elle had sat her down in a coffee shop the week before Christmas and told her that not only did she need her hair dyed and styled and a complete new wardrobe but she should lose a minimum of six pounds. When Leslie had argued that she was happy the way she was, Elle was having none of it and asked her new friend one simple question: “Do you ever want to have sex again?”

  Leslie had thought about this question for a long time before answering because she really wasn’t sure. It had been so long since she’d had sex with anything that wasn’t battery-operated that it seemed like it might be a little too much work. After serious consideration, during which time Elle had managed to finish her cappuccino, order another, go to the loo and send two text messages, she had admitted that, yes, she probably would like to have sex again in her lifetime.

  “Well, then,” Elle had said, pointing to Leslie’s head and moving her finger downwards towards her toes, “sort yourself out.”

  “I’m not that bad!” Leslie had argued.

  Elle agreed that she wasn’t that bad, going so far as to comment that in fact, for a woman in her early forties, she looked quite good.

  “Thanks a lot,” Leslie had said, once again wondering why she was allowing herself to be friends with a girl in her twenties.

  Elle had smiled at her and, after rummaging through her bag for a few minutes, had taken out a card that was bent and covered with bag dirt. She cleaned it off, straightened it out and handed it to Leslie. “That’s my hairdresser. She’ll take care of you.”

  After thinking about it for about a week, Leslie had decided to get her hair done but had put it off until after Christmas to avoid the crowds. Her appointment was for later that afternoon. She halved the slice of cake, then ate half of the half because since Elle had mentioned her thickened midriff she’d become conscious of it. “Where is Elle?” she asked, after pinching some crumbs together and popping them into her mouth.

  “Working,” Jane lied.

  “I’m really looking forward to her exhibition in two weeks,” Leslie said. “She showed me some of the paintings last time we were here. They’re stunning and just a little bit frightening. Love them.”

  “Yeah,” Jane said, nodding, “she’s a genius.” Stop nodding, Jane.

  “Would it be okay if I called in on her for just a moment before we leave?” Leslie asked.

  “No,” Jane said. “I’m really sorry,” she added, “she’s just so busy with the exhibition pieces.”

  “But I thought she’d finished those paintings?” Tom said. “Is she working on the Missing Exhibition already? I thought you were still
waiting on permission from the families.”

  “No, she has some work to do for this upcoming show – she’s a perfectionist. And we are still waiting on permission from the families – although that man missing from Clare, Joe something, his family have come back and said they would love to be involved.” Oh, Christ, I hope she comes home in time for the show in two weeks.

  “Okay,” Leslie said. “I’ll call her later.”

  “Fine,” Jane said, “but don’t be surprised if she doesn’t answer. When she’s in the zone the whole world could be collapsing around her and she wouldn’t notice.”

  “Right,” Leslie said, and let it go at that. “Probably better to leave her be.”

  Jane nodded enthusiastically. Stop nodding, Jane.

  Tom left soon after. He had promised to go on-line to book the tickets and accommodation for the London gig and insisted on paying for it. Jane had then insisted that he and Leslie take home slices of carrot cake, chocolate log and a biscuit cake she’d spotted in the fridge that she’d made two days previously and forgotten about.

  Tom hugged both women before he left. “Thank you,” he said, “thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” He sighed and smiled, then turned and walked down the steps, leaving Leslie and Jane standing together at the door. They watched him get into his car and waved to him as he drove off.

  When he was out of sight Leslie turned to Jane. “So what’s really going on with Elle?”

  For somebody who didn’t spend a lot of time with people she was incredibly intuitive. “You’d better come back in,” Jane said.

  Jane brewed another pot of coffee and told Leslie about Elle’s New Year’s Eve.

  “Good God,” Leslie said, “could she go to prison for that?”

  “I have to meet that snivelling little snot Vincent next week to sort out compensation. Basically if we buy him a new car he won’t press charges and if he doesn’t press charges hopefully the DPP won’t either.”

  “‘I want you, I need you, but let’s face it, I’m never going to love you,’” Leslie said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the water.”