The Night You Left Read online

  The Night You Left

  Emma Curtis

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Praise

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part 1 Grace

  Grace

  Taisie

  Grace

  Taisie

  Grace

  Nick

  Grace

  Taisie

  Grace

  Nick

  Grace

  Taisie

  Grace

  Nick

  Grace

  Taisie

  Grace

  Nick

  Grace

  Nick

  Grace

  Taisie

  Grace

  Taisie

  Grace

  Nick

  Grace

  Taisie

  Grace

  Nick

  Grace

  Taisie

  Grace

  Taisie

  Grace

  Nick

  Grace

  Taisie

  Part 2 Grace

  Grace

  Grace

  Grace

  Grace

  Grace

  Grace

  Part 3 Anna

  Grace

  Anna

  Grace

  Anna

  Grace

  Nick

  Grace

  Nick

  Grace

  Anna

  Grace

  Nick

  Grace

  Anna

  Grace

  Anna

  Grace

  Anna

  Grace

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Emma Curtis was born in Brighton and now lives in London with her husband. After raising two children and working various jobs, her fascination with the darker side of domestic life inspired her to write her acclaimed psychological suspense thrillers One Little Mistake, When I Find You and The Night You Left. Find her on Twitter: @emmacurtisbook

  Also by Emma Curtis

  ONE LITTLE MISTAKE

  WHEN I FIND YOU

  and published by Black Swan

  Praise for Emma Curtis

  ‘An excellent read! So original and clever that I was completely absorbed … Gripping, tense and twisty with an unexpected ending. Phenomenal.’ Claire Douglas

  ‘A compelling, twisty read that kept me turning the pages late into the night.’ Kerry Fisher

  ‘A dark, gripping page-turner.’ Sarah Vaughan

  ‘It’s so good that I had to put everything on hold just to finish it.’ Nuala Ellwood

  ‘When I Find You is a winner … I absolutely raced to the end.’ T. A. Cotterell

  ‘A tense and utterly engrossing story.’ Tammy Cohen

  ‘A dark page-turning debut of friendship, deceit and lies.’ Woman & Home

  ‘Kept me up the entire night.’ Cari Rosen

  www.penguin.co.uk

  This book is dedicated to

  Hedi Radford.

  A very dear friend.

  He would not stay for me, and who can wonder?

  He would not stay for me to stand and gaze.

  I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder,

  And went with half my life about my ways.

  A. E. Housman, 1859–1936

  PART 1

  GRACE

  Saturday, 14 April 2018 Day Zero

  HE DIDN’T TAKE THE DOG.

  I check my phone to make sure I haven’t turned the sound off by mistake and missed a message, but there are no notifications. Nick said he wouldn’t be long, he just needed to clear his head, but he left before nine and it’s gone eleven. I knew something was amiss when I came down to find Toffee shut in the kitchen.

  I peer up and down the street from my position in the large bay window. Beside me, his front paws on the windowsill, Toffee yawns widely and gives a gruff little yelp. The stillness of suburbia is usually a comfort, but tonight the windows in the houses opposite give me back nothing but blank stares, as if they don’t want to get involved. I shiver and turn away, swiping my thumb over the In-Step app to check Nick’s stats. His numbers aren’t rising. He isn’t moving.

  I sometimes wonder if I’m the only one who does this; who watches the numbers change, imagining where the members of my small group are, what they’re up to, who’s with who. It wouldn’t occur to Nick, but the others, well, maybe.

  I crouch and stroke Toffee’s head, then pull him against me until he gets fed up and wriggles out of my arms, his nails catching at my dressing gown. I added Nick to the app recently because he’s been moaning about his sedentary job. Since then he’s taken over Toffee’s early Sunday morning walks, leaving me to linger in the warmth of our bed. I doubt that’s going to happen tomorrow; he’ll want to sleep in after this. I smile to myself. Unless I kick him out.

  My smile vanishes. This isn’t funny. I can’t sit around fidgeting any longer; I run upstairs and put my clothes back on and let myself out into the night.

  The sky is clear and there’s a thin crescent moon rising above the Common. The street lights cast a soft orange glow over the pavements and colour the leaf buds on the trees. I follow the route Nick is most likely to have taken, avoiding the Common, both because it’s scary after dark, and because without the dog he will have had no reason to go there. When I reach the parade I’m surprised at how many people are out and about; a late worker on his way home from the station; someone coming out of the minimart; a couple walking their dog. When I get to the pub, I pick Toffee up, push open the door and do a quick circuit, then leave once I’ve established Nick’s not there. There’s no way I’m asking the landlady if she’s seen my boyfriend. That would be embarrassing.

  Fiancé, I think, with a jolt. He’s my fiancé now. After seven years together, seven years of Nick helping me raise my daughter, today he asked me to marry him and I said yes. That’s why this is so weird. With Lottie at a sleepover we should have been spending a romantic evening together; instead I’m all worked up, pounding the streets in search of him, dragging a reluctant dog along with me, trying not to think the unthinkable: that he’s with someone else.

  A cool breeze lifts my hair and sends a small piece of litter scuttling into the doorway of the estate agent’s. A young couple leave the burger restaurant, crossing the road towards the bus stop. Behind me someone pushes open the door and I jump out of my skin. A man comes out, telling a story over his shoulder to the woman following him. She laughs and lights a cigarette.

  Sirens wail in the distance and I wait, watching the main road that flanks the Common as the blue lights flash. He’s had an accident. I imagine a hit-and-run, Nick’s body flying, his head smashing into the kerb. I hold my breath as two police cars speed by, but they don’t stop.

  Toffee strains at his lead, wanting to get back to his nice warm bed. I walk away from the parade into the residential streets and soon find myself at the end of Camomile Avenue where Anna Foreman lives. The lights in her cottage are out. I linger in the shadows for a few minutes, crouched beside Toffee, my hand on his head to keep him from getting anxious. I watch her door then walk away, angry at myself. My suspicions are laughable; awakened by such a tiny thing. Nick wouldn’t. He’s the most loyal person I’ve ever met.

  I type out a message. Where are you? I’m getting worried. Two minutes later I still haven’t had a reply. My phone is hot in my hand.

  He might be back when I get home. Oh God, I hope so. And if he’s not, then he will be some time during the night. I imagine waking up to find his warm body beside mine,
the excuses he’ll make. Then normality; downstairs to let Toffee out into the garden, coffee on to brew, and the familiar slow routine of a Sunday morning. That’s normal. That’s what will happen. All this is just a wrinkle. It’ll smooth itself out.

  The house is silent, Nick’s keys aren’t in the dish, and his coat isn’t hanging from its hook; their absence as tangible as the objects themselves would have been. I unwind my scarf, remove my coat and hang them up. In the kitchen, I check In-Step again, as Toffee yawns and settles back down in his bed. Nick hasn’t moved.

  In desperation, I call our local A & E, but they’ve had no one in who matches Nick’s description. An odd mixture of relief and disappointment churns through me.

  Should I call the police? If I do, it makes it real. If I don’t, I may regret it. But they’ll think I’m pathetic. They probably get calls like this all the time: some clingy woman can’t sleep because her boyfriend hasn’t come in. I lay my phone down in front of me and switch on the television, scrolling through Netflix until I find something to take my mind off the time. It’s past two o’clock when I finally can’t stand it any more and crack.

  The voice on the other end of the line is a woman’s; her tone is sympathetic but professional. I answer her questions and feel her lose interest.

  ‘I’ll get a message to Control, but he doesn’t sound as though he’s at risk.’

  ‘But he hasn’t come home.’

  She sighs. ‘Come into the station in the morning if he hasn’t returned.’

  I’m a cliché, a needy girlfriend. She thinks I’m an idiot, a time-waster; either I’ve forgotten he’s told me he’d be staying out, or he’s playing away.

  I shut Toffee in the kitchen, then sit on the bottom stair and watch the door until I grow cold, then I give up and go to bed. I drift off, waking at regular intervals, reaching for my phone, checking for messages.

  Birds are singing, the morning light is a pale shimmer at the edges of the curtains. I open my eyes, forgetting, then touch the emptiness beside me, the smooth, cold pillow, the cool sheet. He hasn’t come home.

  GRACE

  Thursday, 12 April 2018 Two Days Earlier

  ‘GOD DAMN IT. WE’RE OUT OF MILK.’ I CLOSE THE FRIDGE and cast around for my keys. ‘I’ll nip out to the shops. Can you finish the peeling?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll go.’

  ‘But you’ve only just got in.’

  Nick scoops up the dog, averting his face as Toffee tries desperately to lick him. ‘No problem. I need to get some more steps in. You want to go out too, don’t you, boy? Yes you do!’

  I laugh. ‘Put him down, you’ll get hairs all over your suit.’

  He leaves, Toffee beating him to the door, wild with excitement, I go back to the potatoes and Lottie makes a start on her homework. Not that she appears to be tackling it with much enthusiasm. A maths book is open page-side down on the table while my ten-year-old daughter’s fingers fly across her phone, her head bent, fine brown hair falling forward.

  ‘Who’re you talking to?’ I ask.

  No response.

  ‘Lottie.’ I pause. ‘I’ve decided to get a tattoo.’ No reply. ‘On my forehead?’

  ‘Oh, Mum. Shh.’

  ‘I thought you were doing your homework.’

  ‘I’m having a break.’

  ‘Your life is a series of breaks.’

  ‘Ha ha.’

  I cut myself a triangle of Cheddar to nibble. The mince is simmering in the oven, the sun is dropping, and I feel chilled and content. I reach for my phone, as bad as my daughter, and tap the In-Step app. Six thousand seven hundred and thirty-four steps today. Two hundred and ten calories burned. Almost four kilometres walked. Not as much as I’d like to have achieved, but not bad; better than Cassie or Mara. My avatar on the app is a dog; Nick’s is a bird.

  I watch Nick’s numbers rising; two thousand four hundred and fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six. I help myself to another wedge of cheese. He stops, and I wrinkle my nose, imagining him waiting while Toffee has a pee, then they’re off again.

  I forget for a bit, and get on with the supper, then pick my phone up a few minutes later. Anna Foreman, one of the new school mums and a recent addition to the group, is on the move too. I don’t know her well, but Cassie added her, to make her feel welcome. Her avatar is a cup of tea.

  I keep half an eye on their stats, sipping my wine, occasionally glancing at the garden. We’re halfway through April and my flower beds are already full of colour, grape hyacinths mingling with yellow-green euphorbia. The foxgloves are showing hints of new growth in the depths of their thick leaves. I love foxgloves. There’s a flurry of activity around Nick’s newly refilled bird feeder. Two goldfinches and a couple of tits fly in and out, while beneath them a pair of ring-necked doves peck the grass for fallen seed. Having been brought up in a gardenless flat, I don’t have a clue about birds, apart from the obvious. Nick tells me who’s who.

  I glance at the app. Both Nick and Anna are still walking, although Nick must be nearly at the shops, even if he did loop through the Common. When his numbers stop rising, I imagine him at the till, handing over the milk, tapping his card. Anna isn’t moving any more either. A minute passes, and another. The oven beeps and I open it, take out the mince and give it a stir. It’s stuffed with this week’s leftover veg, everything tinged orange by the sweet potato. Five minutes later, when I check again, their numbers are still in stasis. I find that I’m holding my breath. Then Anna moves and a second or so later Nick moves too.

  I put the phone down slowly. Probably a coincidence. I look out of the window, follow the arc of a goldfinch as it flies between the holly tree and the feeder. And I feel odd, weighted down and queasy, with a strange sense of urgency and a low-level hum in my brain.

  TAISIE

  July 2000

  TAISIE BRUSHED HER HAIR WHILE ROSA CHECKED HERSELF out in the long mirror attached to the inside of her wardrobe door. Taisie had the biggest bedroom, after her mum and dad’s, because she was the oldest, but she still regretted not picking Alex’s when she had the chance, because it was under the roof and not on the same floor as anyone else’s. Unfortunately, when they moved here Taisie was only eight and hadn’t known any better and Alex was four, so their mother chose for him. When she was thirteen, she’d tried to persuade Alex to swap, even bribing him, but the little bastard wouldn’t budge. She loved him, really. Well, kind of. She wasn’t a fan of small boys.

  Rosa was her best friend, although sometimes she wondered why. She was so self-obsessed; always bringing the conversation round to herself. They could be talking about the weather, and next thing you knew, they were back to Rosa again. Rosa was off to California next week. Taisie was going to Devon, like they did every year, to visit family friends. This year was different because the Ritchies were coming, which meant Nick would be there. Taisie put the brush down and wove her fingers through her hair, draping a few strands across her forehead, to look more mysterious. She rummaged through her earring box for the black onyx pair she’d got for her birthday and put them on.

  ‘What do you think?’ Rosa asked, tugging at the hem of the dress.

  ‘You look gorgeous. The colour really suits you.’

  It was Taisie’s, but she didn’t mind lending it, because Rosa didn’t look half as good in it as she did.

  Rosa came over and squeezed on to the chair beside Taisie and started to do her make-up.

  ‘Got your eye on anyone in particular?’ Taisie asked.

  ‘Nah. They’re all idiots. What about you?’

  She smiled. ‘I have my plans.’

  Rosa dabbed spots of foundation over her face before blending it in with her fingers. ‘They all fancy you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You’re much prettier than me.’

  ‘Aw. Thanks. What about Nick?’

  ‘Nick?’ she said innocently.

  At the barbecue at her house last weekend, he had kissed her. She hadn’t told anyone even though she wanted t
o, and she was sure Rosa didn’t see anything. Taisie wasn’t altogether sure how she felt about it yet, because she and Nick had been friends since they were two. And what if no one else thought he was fit? They’d had a lot of the punch, but even so, it felt like he was really into her. Nick was sixteen, the oldest in their year group, with his birthday on the third of September, and that gave him a certain kudos.

  ‘Yes, Nick,’ Rosa said. ‘Is there anything going on there? You were very cosy at the barbecue.’

  ‘We’re just friends.’

  Taisie didn’t want to tell her yet. For one thing she hadn’t seen Nick since; not to speak to anyway. She’d passed him in the corridor at school and had spotted him in the distance in the playground. But he was always surrounded by his friends.

  ‘Don’t you fancy him?’ Rosa leaned forward with her mascara wand and combed it through her lashes, opening her eyes wide.

  Taisie shrugged. Rosa was angling, but she didn’t trust her. What was hers was Rosa’s. That was how her friend’s mind worked.

  ‘So maybe he doesn’t see you that way,’ Rosa said. She picked a tiny blob of mascara from the end of one eyelash and wiped it on a cotton bud.

  ‘Actually,’ Taisie said, because she wasn’t letting her get away with that. ‘He’s been after me for ages, but I keep saying no because he’s, like, part of the family. I only have to snap my fingers, though, and he’ll come running.’ She demonstrated, laughing.

  ‘Alana’s into him,’ Rosa said.

  ‘Alana?’ Taisie felt a twinge of concern, but she managed to sound off-hand. ‘She doesn’t have a hope in hell.’

  Rosa leaned back and gave her an odd look, her eyebrows raised. ‘You like him,’ she teased.

  Taisie shoved her so hard that she fell off the chair. But she was secretly pleased.

  Nick rang the doorbell dead on seven o’clock. Taisie and Rosa ignored it, waiting in her bedroom until Alex got off his bum and sloped out of the sitting room to let him in. Then they sauntered downstairs.