Bring Me Back - B A Paris

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station, as you pushed yourself further into the wall to avoid the crowds, your hair caught under the artificial lighting and it seemed to be on fire. With your tiny purple skirt, lace-up ankle boots and curvy figure, you looked so different to the stick-thin women in their smart suits and dark winter coats. Then you raised your head, and our eyes met. I felt embarrassed to be caught staring at you so intensely and tried to look away. But your eyes pulled me towards you and before I knew it, I was striding across the concourse.

       ‘Do you need help?’ I asked, looking down into your green-brown eyes. Hazel, I learned later. ‘You seem a little lost.’

       ‘It’s just that I didn’t expect London to be quite so busy,’ you replied, your voice lilting with a Scottish accent. ‘All these people!’

       ‘It’s New Year’s Eve,’ I explained. ‘They’re on their way out to celebrate.’

       ‘So it’s not always like this?’

       ‘Early morning and late afternoon, usually. Did you want to buy a ticket?’

       ‘Yes.’

       ‘Where are you going?’

       Do you remember your reply?

       ‘To a youth hostel,’ you said.

       ‘Where is it?’ I asked.

       ‘I’m not sure. Near Piccadilly Circus, I think.’

       ‘Do you have an address?’ You shook your head. ‘On your reservation?’ I persevered.

       And then you admitted that you hadn’t reserved a room.

       Your naivety both appalled and charmed me. ‘It might be difficult to find a bed on New Year’s Eve,’ I explained.

       Your skin paled, heightening the freckles, and that’s when I fell in love with you.

       ‘Have you got a mobile?’ I asked.

       You shook your head again. ‘No.’

       To meet someone so unorganised, so unaffected by modern life and the London rush was like a hit of alcohol. If it had been anybody else, I would have walked away quickly before they could ask me how to find a number for a hostel. But I was already realising that I couldn’t walk away from you.

       ‘How old are you?’ I asked, because suddenly, I needed to know everything there was to know about you.

       ‘Eighteen. Almost nineteen.’ You raised your chin defiantly. ‘I’m not a runaway, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

       I was saved from answering by Harry appearing at my elbow.

       ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Didn’t I leave you standing over there?’

       My eyes stayed fixed on you. ‘This young lady is looking for a youth hostel near Piccadilly Circus. Do you know it?’ I asked, safe in the knowledge that he wouldn’t, because I was already counting on bringing you back to ours.

       ‘No, I’m afraid not.’ He looked thoughtfully at you. ‘They must have given you the address when you reserved.’

       ‘She doesn’t have a reservation.’

       His eyes widened. ‘I doubt you’ll find a bed on New Year’s Eve.’

       ‘Then what should I do?’ you asked, a slight panic creeping into your voice.

       Harry scratched his head as he always did when faced with a problem. ‘I have no idea.’

       ‘We’ll have to think of something,’ I said, my voice low.

       He turned to me with that ‘it isn’t our problem’ look in his eyes. And he was right, it wasn’t our problem, it was mine. ‘Look, I’ll help her look for a hostel, or a hotel, or something,’ I told him. ‘We can’t just leave her here.’

       ‘Well, maybe somebody else can help her. We’re going to the theatre,’ he reminded me.

       ‘Look, don’t worry, I’ll be fine,’ you said. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time already. It’s my fault, I should have planned ahead. But I never realised London would be so . . . ’ you searched for a word ‘ . . . crazy.’

       I reached into my jacket pocket and took out my wallet. ‘Here,’ I said, fishing out my theatre ticket and handing it to Harry. ‘Take Samantha. She wanted to go, didn’t she?’

       ‘Yes, but—’

       I pressed the ticket into his hand. ‘It’s fine. I’ll see you at the party later.’ He tried to catch my eye but I ignored him. ‘Phone Samantha. She can meet you at the theatre.’ And before he could say another word, I took your bag and set off across the concourse. ‘Follow me.’

       I headed for the exit, my heart now hammering as it always did when I was on the verge of doing something exhilarating, or dangerous. Worried I would lose you in the crowds that thronged the streets, I reached for your hand.

       ‘Stay with me!’ I shouted above the noise of the traffic.

       Your hand tightened around mine. ‘Don’t worry, I will!’ you called back.

       And I hoped that you would, forever.

       Now

      It’s Saturday, so Peggy and I go to get fresh bread for breakfast while Ellen has a lie-in. On Sundays, I usually lie-in while Ellen makes bacon and eggs. Ellen says that one day we’ll be too old to lie-in and will be up at dawn, making porridge, unable to stay in bed any longer after being awake half the night with insomnia. She’s probably right.

      It’s a short walk to the village where the bakery stands between the newsagent’s and the butcher’s. I buy a granary loaf and a couple of newspapers, and when I go in to say hello to Rob, the butcher, I see a nice leg of lamb for our lunch tomorrow, a little too big for just me and Ellen, but there’s Peggy too.

      I take Peggy for a detour along the river on the way home, hoping I won’t bump into Ruby, the owner of our local pub, The Jackdaw. She often walks her Airedale in the mornings and it’s still a bit awkward when we meet. I first got together with Ruby back in 2014, about a year after a small memorial ceremony we’d had for Layla, where I met Ellen for the first time. Until then, nobody in Simonsbridge knew I was the ex-partner of the young woman who’d gone missing in France. When my true identity was revealed in a newspaper article, not long after the ceremony, it didn’t give anyone cause for concern, as I’d been living peacefully among them for six years. People were interested, rather than frightened, about having a possible murderer in their midst. This gave me the confidence to stop hiding myself away and I began to mix with the locals in a way I hadn’t before. If people asked me about my past, I spoke truthfully – well, with as much truth as I wanted them to know.

      In a strange twist of fate, the journalist who traced me to Devon and ‘outed’ me was a cousin of Ruby’s. She felt bad about the role he’d played and made it up to me in more ways than one. I enjoyed being with Ruby; she was vivacious and easy-going. When Harry persuaded me to go back to work, I would stay at the flat in London during the week and return to Simonsbridge at the weekends to see Ruby, and Peggy, who would stay at The Jackdaw while I was away. As far as I was concerned our relationship was a casual thing,

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