Page 65 of The Engagement

Belle eyes the aisle, wishing she could escape, but he has a suitcase parked next to him. ‘I’m a grown woman. I can do what I like.’

‘That’s what my lass keeps telling me,’ he says with a chuckle, pulling a flask from the bag between his feet. He unscrews the plastic cup from the top, revealing a second cup beneath, and pours steaming milky liquid into both. ‘Are you too grown up for tea?’ He slides one across the table towards her.

Belle freezes, not knowing what to do. She hears the man crunch into a biscuit, sees crumbs falling down his front. Then she watches as her hand reaches for the plastic cup. ‘Thank you.’ She sips the tea and it tastes warm, sweet and comforting.This feels good, she hears in her head. A stranger, tea, biscuits and two women in beige clothes reading and doing a puzzle. I am surrounded by normal things, normal people. Livingmylife,myway. ‘Actually, my parents don’t really like him,’ Belle says, leaning across to the man and speaking in a low voice.

The man arcs his head, rolls his lips inward. ‘Ah,’ he says, unzipping his anorak, revealing a white dog collar beneath. ‘And what about you?’ he says, his voice kind and soothing. ‘Doyoulike him?’

Belle is standing on the platform, her backpack slung over one shoulder. The two women in comfy beige clothes walk past, arm in arm, and, for a moment, Belle glances around to see if she can see the man who gave her tea on the train. For the remainder of the journey he told her about his daughter, Rachael, and how she wants to be a nurse when she leaves school. He spoke about his wife too, and she imagined them all living in their neat semi-detached and him preaching to his congregation on a Sunday. She could almost smell the afternoon teas and church flowers. It had been, surprisingly, a moment of calm for her cartwheeling mind. And she still hadn’t answered his question: doesshelike Jack?

Of course I do…she says to herself now as she hitches up her pack and strides along the platform.Don’t I?

Belle swipes her ticket at the barrier and follows signs to the Underground. She’s never been on the Tube before and is surprised at the number of people all shoved in together. It’s early afternoon, not even rush hour, yet still it seems that the entire world is using this train. She stares at her feet as she grips the handrail above her, trying to ensure that no one unzips her backpack and steals anything. She’s not wearing her precious necklace or earrings and, instinctively, she swivels her ring around so the diamonds are hidden in her clasped palm.

She changes trains, navigating the Tube network with ease and, shortly after, she emerges at Tottenham Court Road, ready to walk the rest of the way to Winlow Court. She’d googled the Cloisters before she left, trying to find an actual address, but nothing much came up – apart from some seedy websites about massages and private dances, which she reckoned must just be somewhere else with the same name. She figured she’d work out exactly where it was once she got to the right street. But first, she needs some water, so she ducks into a corner shop to buy a bottle.

Charing Cross Road seems to go on forever with its mix of glass-fronted offices, old red-brick buildings and constant stream of traffic. She dodges and weaves between groups of people – a mix of tourists, locals and workers – though it’s only a few minutes until she spots the right turn she needs to take onto Old Compton Street. This road is narrower and stuffed with bars and cafés, and Belle smiles inwardly as she spots couples sitting at outside tables with their coffees and drinks, imagining her and Jack doing the exact same thing. She’s already energised by the buzz of the city, its eclectic blend of people and shops, the constant hustle and bustle that she knows won’t let up even at night. As she presses on further into Soho, she notices that the signs are changing:Massage…Girls…Sex Shop…Striptease…Private Lounge…Dancers…Thai Massage…

Belle takes it all in as her pace slows, marvelling at how all this sits among bookshops, ice cream chains, London pubs and restaurants. She imagines what the area will look like at night, all lit up and even busier with people keen to eat dinner before they head to the nearby theatres. Another thing that she and Jack will do, she thinks with a grin, jolting as she’s shoved sharply from behind.

‘Sorry!’ she hears a voice say as a man bumps into her, catching hold of her and spinning her around as he steadies himself. Then he hurries on. For a second, she’s disorientated as she regains her bearings, but then she spots a street sign above what looks like not much more than an alleyway or passage tucked between a couple of tall buildings – Winlow Court. Thank God.

Belle runs her fingers through her hair and dabs on a few spots of lip gloss before ducking down the alley – darker and smelling different to the street she was just on. The tantalising aromas of all types of food give way to the stink of stale urine and rubbish bins.But that’s London…she thinks.So eclectic. It’s every bit as amazing as she thought it would be.

‘Excuse me,’ she says to a woman, who’s struggling along the narrow lane with heavy bags of shopping. ‘You don’t know where the Cloisters is, do you?’ The woman, who has a tired and gaunt face, doesn’t look at her. She just shakes her head and keeps on walking. Belle asks several other people – one a man in his fifties, who appears equally lost, and another, a younger girl, who presses a button on her earphones as she stops to speak.

‘Is just there,’ she says with a thick accent, pointing at a tall, dark, red-brick building several doors along. She hesitates, and Belle wonders if she’s going to say something else, but she doesn’t. She simply gives Belle an imploring look that must mean something, though she’s not sure what.

‘Do you know it?’ Belle asks, wanting more information. She gets a glimpse of the black paintwork of the door and windows, the nondescript facade of the building. The windows are blacked out, and it’s not clear what the place is – an office, flats, some other kind of business. There are no signs.

The girl, about Belle’s age, pulls her earphones out completely, clutching them in her palm. ‘Why you want go there?’ she says, reminding Belle of the way Natalia speaks. The girl hugs her denim jacket around her, covering up the cropped tee she’s wearing underneath. She shifts from one foot to the other in uncomfortable-looking heels.

‘Oh…my boyfriend, he…he works there.’ Belle isn’t sure if that’s true, but it must be because it’s what the weaselly man at Scarlett’s told her. And it’s obvious that the two places have a similar vibe. Hidden gems where all the cool people go.

‘Your boyfriend?’ the girl says, seeming nervous. She glances behind her, then up at the windows above them.

‘Yes, Jack,’ Belle says, trying to inject some pride into her voice. Though she can’t deny, something about this interaction is making her feel a little…off. She doesn’t know if it’s the grim alley, or this girl in particular, or the smells…or what. But she tells herself not to judge on appearances. Fleetingly, her mind casts back again to what she saw in the office at Scarlett’s in Bristol – the folder containing pictures of girls about her age wearing less than nothing, each with a name and brief description. On the train journey, she’d convinced herself that her initial reaction was prudish and naive – a product of being cosseted by her mum, growing up. The photos were simply arty, glamorous shots of the waitresses and dancers at the club. Nothing sinister. She looks up at the building again, shaking her head. Yes, she’s being ridiculous. This is London, for heaven’s sake. Inside the Cloisters, there’s probably a huge, trendy, open-plan bar and office space – all brick walls, heating ducts and lush plants. Her mum’s business services similar places in Bristol.

Her mum, she thinks, swallowing down the lump in her throat. For a second, she wishes she was here beside her. Wishes that they were going shopping on Oxford Street and then out for dinner before watching a West End show. Then they’d go back to their hotel and—

‘You have wrong place,’ the girl says abruptly, almost looking relieved on Belle’s behalf. ‘No Jack in the Cloisters, for sure. Don’t go there, no Jack.’ And the girl pops her earphones back in and continues on her way.

Belle decides it’s time to quickly turn on her phone, to use Google Maps to double-check she has the right place, or even call Jack, so she pulls her bag off her back to unzip the side pocket. But it’s already open. And her phone is gone. She lets out a wail, panicking as she searches the rest of her bag, checking her jacket, retracing her steps in case it fell out, but there’s no sign of it.

Feeling defeated, she knows Jack will help, perhaps even get her a new phone – she’ll need one for work, after all – so she heads back to the building the girl pointed to. But as she draws close, she’s suddenly rooted to the spot as she sees a man come out of the door of the Cloisters. A man who looks familiar. ThankGod– it’s Jack.

She’s about to call out to him, run up and melt into his arms, but a girl – no, awoman– follows him out of the door, and Jack slips his arm around her. She doesn’t see her face, it all happens so quickly and she doesn’t realise it at first, but tears are blurring her eyes, making it hard to see anything. Though she sees enough to know that the woman is blonde and shorter than Jack, with her hair scooped back in a ponytail. There’s a gap at her thick waist, where her top meets her black leggings, and she’s laughing up at him as they stride off together, with Jack leaning down to give her a lingering kiss.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

HANNAH – NOW

I’m not exactly sure where I am…somewhere in west London, Hammersmith area. The traffic is at a standstill. Gridlocked. I’ve moved about ten feet this last half an hour. Rob has been on the phone several times, asking where I’m at, and, naturally, I ask if Belle has come home, praying that she has so I can swing the car around and get back on the motorway, relieved that this was just one big misunderstanding. But no, Belle is not home yet. The nightmare goes on.

‘I’ve phoned around more of her friends,’ he told me. ‘Nothing. No one’s heard from her. They’ve tried using Snapchat and other ways of contacting her, but she’s offline. Gone dark, they said.’

Gone dark, I think, drumming my fingers on the wheel. Is that what my mother had thought about me when she realised I hadn’t come home? I’ve often wondered how long it took her to notice I wasn’t in my bedroom or in the kitchen hunting for scraps of food. That I wasn’tanywhere. Did she call the police? Did she send out search parties, go round to my friends’ houses to see if I was with them? Not that I had many friends. I imagine her making an appeal on TV, tears streaming from her eyes as she pleaded with the public to look out for me as my photo appeared on-screen. I wonder which picture she’d have used, seeing as she never took any. There were a few snaps of me as a little kid, but they’d have looked nothing like me when I ran away.

I’d thought about writing to her over the following weeks – just a note letting her know I was OK (even though I wasn’t), and telling her not to try to find me (even though I knew she wouldn’t). But I didn’t bother. As tough as it was those first few weeks at the Cloisters, it somehow felt as if I’d come home – to my real home, along with my sisters, people likeme, the place I’d been unconsciously seeking my entire life. It turned out that we’d all fled neglectful mothers, abusive fathers, violent boyfriends, angry step-parents, and some girls had been kicked out onto the street by their families for being ‘unmanageable’. Others had been recruited by Luba, tempted from Eastern European countries to London by the promise of a new life. Some of us escaped. Some of us didn’t. Though ultimately, there is no real escape from that life. It lives on inside, tainting every single minute of every single day – affecting decisions, choices, self-worth – and the constant effort of wearing a mask, of hiding the past from the present, eventually takes its toll. And now it’s infected my daughter. My precious Belle.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com