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Fifteen
Ava
It feels weird to be out without Fred. It’s weird to have a hair appointment. It’s weird to exist in any way in the world, but then I don’t, I don’t think. I hover over it. Swim through it maybe. Drown. Whatever, this morning, I barely know how to walk. Without the pram, my arms swing, self-consciously as a clown’s. My feet look strange, the unending left, right, left, right of my white Converse absurd on the wide grey pavement. Also absurd is the memory of the me who used to covet these shoes, or any shoes, the me who, whilst not overly materialistic, I think, still derived pleasure from physical things. I remember getting these trainers home. I remember the small electric pulse when I pulled the iconic starred box from the bag, the almost illicit thrill of the tissue paper within, theahthat left my mouth when I pulled out the pristine canvas pumps. That person is entirely gone, I know that. This one, the me I am now, walks on surreal feet, disoriented, ethereal, too light in the heaviness of my being.
But the joyful she of that time, the time before,isme, I know that. Just as the wretched woman of that terrible morning is me too; just as the dazed automaton is me now, in this present. And here I am, stomach a fist, marching towards a hair appointment I’m not sure I can face for a party I don’t want to go to, my mind performing its daily, hourly loops: the second by second, the beat by beat, the yesterday, last year, today. And just as the me of long, long before would try to master a fiendishly difficult piece – Liszt’s Liebestraum No. 3, say, whose massive chords my hands could never hope to span, whose rushing arpeggios used to leave my fingers in knots; or Chopin’s Ballade No. 1, which would make me weep with frustration at college – so the me of now tries, raging, to get to grips with my episodic memory, to make sense of the unresolved devil’s chord that is my daughter’s disappearance. The empty buggy in the hall, the open front door, the deserted street, the hot, swelling mass of my panicked heart. Matt’s face, the sound that left me when he told me the police were on the way, the chequerboard cars, the vans, the uniforms, a little black lens on a lapel, the barking of the dogs, the neighbours, the helicopter, the clamour of the press, the flash of cameras, the quiet surrender to the darkening sky. My husband and his best friend crying on the front step at midnight.
The picture of my daughter’s soaking-wet coat on DI Farnham’s phone.
In the salon, Bella is waiting for me. She is solicitous, she is kind. She shows me to the waiting area as if I were a special guest, even though, since we met, I’ve always had my hair cut here, by her. It has been my attempt to find some common ground, for the sake of Matt and Neil’s friendship. My hairdressing needs are not great: a wash, a trim, sometimes a little longer, sometimes shorter. I had never coloured my hair, never curled it, until I met Bella. Bella persuaded me to highlight it after Abi was born to give me ‘a lift’. Now, at thirty-five, there are whitish strands amid the brown roots. But I have no real opinion on them.
‘Sit there, lovely.’ Bella’s brightness is unnatural, but I try to squash the thought. We were never so sure of our bond as to be able to tease one another. ‘I’ll bring you a drink. Coffee or tea? Or something stronger for a Friday? I’ve got some Bailey’s, I could do you an iced Bailey’s?’ Like Matt’s, her eyebrows rise.
‘Oh, just tea’d be great.’ I feel the apology in my smile; I cannot raise my game. ‘Thanks, Bel.’ Bel. There – my attempt to reassure her that I am still me, that we still know each other. I don’t need to imagine how anxiety-inducing I must be to deal with; I have experienced it vicariously in the expressions of everyone I’ve met for a year, and see it now on my friend’s too-eager-to-please face.
In the waiting area, I sit down on the red leather sofa. My arms float. I’m not sure where they should go.
‘Look at some pictures.’ She nods at the magazines, as if she has read my mind. ‘Find something you might like, yeah? No perms though.’ She giggles briefly, before downgrading to a benevolent smile. In her expression there is a trace of something – that she’s proud of me for managing to come, or perhaps that she feels she can help me with her beautician’s sorcery. Bella is a firm believer in appearances; I have always suspected my own isn’t quite up to her standards and that this is why she doesn’t invite me on nights out with her ‘girls’ – why she didn’t, even before. Her other friends possess a specific type of glamour. Their clothes are always on a trend I haven’t tuned into yet and that now I never will; their hair is always the right kind of colour and cut, the kind that looks like they’ve emerged from the sea or minutes earlier hiked down from a hilltop, a little bleached-out and wind-blown – a little post-coital, perhaps, is what they’re going for, who knows? Women like Bella know things I don’t: clothing lines, brands of make-up, new boutiques in the area; what shoes to wear with which dress. Their nails are perfection, their Instagram feeds photo shoots. I don’t think she’s wrong to believe in appearances – a public face is useful, essential even. Right now, it is the only thing protecting me from falling apart.
Further into the salon, hairdryers drone above commercial radio. Does the Magic newsroom have magic news? I wonder. The smell of hair and nail products pervades. I flick through magazines, try not to look too openly aghast at the misogynistic shaming of other women’s bodies, the gleeful revelling in celebrity breakdowns. How can any girl grow up not hating herself? Really though, how? In the end, and in disgust, I throw down the dog-eared pages and decide to ask for a simple trim.
A young woman in a pink apron and holding a white mug of tea shows me to a styling chair and places my drink on the little shelf in front of me. In the mirror, my appearance is an assault. My brown roots are much longer, much more noticeable than I thought – they are over halfway down my head, the rest a straggly semi-blonde mess. My cheeks have hollowed; around my eyes are greyish-black pockets I have chosen not to see in the mirror at home. I am reminded of Munch’sThe Scream, the rest of me thin but not toned, my belly popping out like a moulded jelly – a snake that has swallowed a soft-boiled ostrich egg.
‘So, what we having done?’ It is Bella, smiling into the mirror from behind immaculate make-up and rich auburn-brown Hollywood-shiny hair. Her teeth look preternaturally white, and I see her that morning, that same immaculate appearance belying the distress and pain on her face. Running along the middle of the street in her little high-heeled ankle boots, super-skinny jeans and off-the-shoulder top, crying.
‘Ava? Matt? Abi?’ Her hair was aubergine back then – falling over one eye. Her forefingers propping up her eyelashes, a way of crying that, looking back, I realise prevents the make-up from running. ‘Oh my God,’ she sobbed. ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it. Little Abi.’
Both she and Neil were unhesitating that day. Everyone was. It has been afterwards that has been more difficult for all of us. When a child goes missing, you search. You burst into action. When they cannot be found, that agency is lost; it is hard to know what to do. And if it is hard to know what to say to a grieving parent, it is even harder to know what to say to one who cannot grieve.
But here she is, smiling at me in the mirror. This Icando, the smile says. I can fix the outside.
‘Just a trim,’ I say, pulling at the ends and letting them drop.
She looks at me through those laborious top lashes of hers. ‘I think we can do better than that.’ She mimes scissors with her fingers and holds them across my hair, level with my chin. ‘If I chop it here, it will lift your face and show off your amazing cheekbones.’
Ah. Where I see skeletal hollows, she has seen cheekbones. ‘OK.’
‘I’ll run three tones through it to make regrowth less obvious. You’ve got a few grey hairs coming in at the top, babe.’
I have no idea whether or not it is early to have grey hair. I suspect so. I realise I don’t give a monkey’s what she does, and the idea frees me. She’s probably right: a cut might take off some of the weight.
‘Whatever you think.’ I smile back at her in the mirror and she goes off to mix the bleach.
Five minutes later, she is applying paste to my hair and wrapping it in foils. To her credit, she doesn’t ask if I’m looking forward to the party. What she says is: ‘So, do you think you’ll manage an hour tomorrow night then?’
I nod. ‘I’m going to try.’
‘Great stuff. We’re coming to yours for a drink first, aren’t we? And you’ve got Matt, so you won’t be alone.’
‘I’m taking Fred. I know they said no kids, but…’
‘I know, but it’s not like he’s going to start running round their Danish flooring or whatever, is it?’
‘Is that what they have?’
She frowns. ‘I think they had polished concrete in the end. I’ll check with Neil. I know they had a hand-made kitchen ’cos Neil didn’t have to fit it; it was some carpenter from Devon. And I know they spent a bomb on the lighting. The garden’s been done now as well apparently. Apparently they have a pergola and, like, this zinc cube garden office thing. I can’t wait to see it. I bet they have caterers.’
‘Jen popped in the other day,’ I offer. ‘I know they’ve ordered some posh food.’
