LITMIR.BIZ

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went through when it switched on. She did the same thing when waiting for a lift; if it was slower to arrive than expected she would press the call button again. And sometimes again.

      Won’t come any faster, some wag might say, and she’d reply, with a thin smile, well, you never know.

      Come on, she thought. Come on.

      This had happened before, resulting in an uncomfortable encounter with Mrs Jameson, the retired teacher who stayed after school with the children whose parents had neglected to turn up on time. It was going to happen again today. There’d be the stern, disappointed look, then the gentle reminder of school policy.

      Mrs Crowne, I realize you are busy but could I remind you that the school cannot provide after-hours childcare without prior arrangements being made. If you need such assistance then we can provide it, but you must inform us ahead of time so that we can make the necessary arrangements.

      I’m sorry, she’d mumble, feeling like she was back at school herself, hauled in front of the head teacher for smoking or wearing her skirt an inch too short, but my case ran over and I would have called but my phone ran out of juice and thank you Mrs Jameson for being so flexible. I appreciate it, I really do.

      And then she’d leave, feeling like a terrible parent but wondering why, since Anna would be perfectly fine, babbling away in the back seat, telling Julia about her day and asking what was for dinner and could they read The Twits again that night, and Julia would be shaking her head and thinking I’m not a bad mother, just a busy one.

      And she was about to get busier. When she and Brian separated she would have to pick up almost every day, and God knew how she was going to do that. At least now she had Edna, Brian’s mum, to help: she took Anna on Mondays and Wednesdays, and Brian normally got out of school early enough to get her on Fridays, which left Julia with two days on which she had to cram her meetings into the morning and spend the evenings catching up on emails. From time to time, if she was going to be late, she could give Edna a call; in fact she had tried that morning, but Edna was out so she had left a message, a message that Edna had ignored. And then, damn it, in the dash from one meeting to another she had stupidly let her phone run out of battery. Mental note: always keep the phone charged on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

      And maybe other days as well. She doubted she would be able to rely on Edna after the divorce; behind her sweetness, Edna was a traditional matriarch, and Julia had never felt that she liked her son’s wife all that much.

      Anyway, it would be what it would be. Whatever happened, Julia could take it. That was the price she would have to pay for the life she wanted.

      Finally, her phone beeped as it booted up. She found the school’s number and pressed send. It rang through to the answering service pick up.

      ‘This is Julia Crowne,’ she said. ‘I’m running a little late, but I should be there—’, she glanced at the clock on the dashboard ‘around three twenty. Anyway, just to let you know, I’m coming.’

      Ten minutes later she arrived at the school. As she pulled up outside the school gates, her phone rang. She unplugged it from the car and opened the door.

      ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘This is Julia.’

      ‘Mrs Crowne,’ a voice said. ‘This is Karen, from Westwood School.’

      ‘Oh,’ Julia said. ‘Don’t worry. I’m here. I just arrived.’

      ‘Mrs Crowne,’ Karen said, her voice uncertain, ‘do you have Anna with you?’

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m coming to pick her up. I left a message.’

      ‘I thought that was what you said,’ Karen murmured. ‘Mrs Crowne, I think there’s been a mix-up.’

      A mix-up. Not words you wanted to hear in connection with your five-year-old daughter.

      Julia stopped. She stared at the cast iron school gates. Both were adorned with the school crest: an owl clutching a scroll above the letters ‘WS’.

      ‘What do you mean?’ she said, her voice tightening with the beginnings of worry. ‘What kind of mix-up?’

      ‘Anna’s not here,’ Karen said, her tone retreating into something official, something protected. ‘We thought she’d left with you.’

       iii.

      Julia broke the connection. She ran through the gates to the school entrance and pushed open the worn green door, then ran along the corridor in the direction of the administrative offices. Karen, the school secretary, tall and thin, with a head of tight black curls, was standing outside the office door, her face drained of colour.

      ‘Mrs Crowne,’ she said. ‘I’m sure everything’s ok. Perhaps your husband picked her up.’

      The twitchy, alert look in her eyes belied the calm reassurance of her tone. Julia’s stomach fluttered, then contracted. She had a sudden, violent urge to vomit.

      ‘I’ll check,’ she said. She dialled Brian’s number.

      ‘Hello.’ His voice was hard; his dislike of her deliberate and obvious. ‘What do you want?’

      Julia licked her lips. They were very dry. ‘Brian,’ she said. ‘Is Anna with you?’

      ‘Of course not. I’m at school. It’s your day to pick her up.’

      ‘I know,’ Julia paused, ‘but she’s not here.’

      There was a long silence.

      ‘What do you mean she’s not there?’ The hardness in his voice had softened into concern. ‘Where is she?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ Julia said, wanting, even in this situation, to add a sarcastic obviously. ‘Maybe your mum picked her up?’ She almost smiled with relief. This was the answer, after all, of course it was. Edna, her grandmother, had come on the wrong day. The relaxation was almost palpable, like the glow from a stiff drink.

      ‘It wasn’t mum,’ Brian said. ‘She’s at home. She called an hour or so ago to ask about something. She wanted to know where the stopcock for the mains was. Apparently, there was some kind of leak in the kitchen.’

      The hopeful glow faded. Julia swallowed; her mouth powder dry. ‘Then I don’t know where she is.’

      They were words you never wanted or expected to say to your husband or wife or anybody at all about your five-year-old daughter. Five-year-old children were supposed to have known whereabouts at all times: with one or the other parent, at school, at a friend’s house, with a select few relatives, who, in Anna’s case, were Brian’s mum Edna, or, occasionally, when they were back from Portland, Oregon, Brian’s brother Simon and his wife Laura, these being the extent of their relatively small family circle.

      ‘You don’t know where she is?’ Brian asked, his voice caught between anger and panic. ‘You’d better find her!’

      ‘I know.’

      ‘And it’s nearly half past three! How come you’re just calling now?’

      ‘I was a bit late,’ Julia said. ‘I just got here. I thought the school would be – I thought she’d be here.’

      ‘Did you let them know you’d be late?’

      ‘No, I … my phone was dead. I just assumed … ’, her voice tailed off.

      ‘Jesus,’ Brian said. ‘She could be anywhere. In thirty minutes, she could be anywhere. She could have wandered … ’ he paused. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. Start looking for her. Search the grounds and the streets nearby.’

      ‘OK.’ She felt frozen, unable to think. ‘We’ll search for her.’ She looked again at Karen, who nodded.

      ‘I’ll tell the cleaning staff to help,’ Karen said. ‘And Julia – don’t

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