Page 6 of All Our Missing Pieces

Then I put on my coat and headed out into the cold, bright morning.

Anger and adrenaline carried me to the end of the road, past the corner shop with its stacks of newspapers outside, past the greasy spoon where solitary old men and groups of students were piling into bacon and eggs washed down with cups of tea, through the park where daffodils turned hopeful faces up to the thin sun, and across the bridge over the canal, wanting to put as much distance between me and Samantha and Gary as I could. I walked on and on, not really noticing where I was going. Red buses roared past me, women in black abayas stood chatting in doorways, a group of men in Lycra whizzed by on racing bikes, but I barely saw any of them.

I must have walked for almost an hour before hunger made me slow down, pausing to take stock of where I was. I’d passed through the run-down bustle of Whitechapel and almost reached the City. Over the hum of traffic, I could hear market traders’ shouts, and a small stream of people seemed to be making their way down a side street to my left. I followed them, deciding to find a shop where I could buy a paper and then get some food.

It didn’t take long for me to find what I was looking for. On opposite street corners were two shops. One was an off-licence, a dishevelled old man emerging from it clutching a can of extra-strength lager and rolling a cigarette. The other was smaller, a traditional newsagent with metal racks outside holding Sunday papers from all over the world and shelves laden with magazines inside. As I approached the doorway, the comforting smell of paper and ink drifted out, mingling with incense.

But I didn’t go inside. The window, I noticed, was full of cards that had been stuck to it from the back. They were all colours: mostly white but also pink, pale blue, light green and yellow. Some were handwritten and others printed. I couldn’t get close enough to read any of them because a woman was standing by the window, hands on hips, gazing at the cards.

She wasn’t tall, but the way she held herself and her wedge-heeled boots made her look that way. Her hair was cut short, in a spiky pixie crop, deep brown threaded with grey. She was wearing a long tweed coat, the cuffs of her wide-legged trousers just visible below it. Above the collar of her coat, the line of her jaw was sharp and clean and her full lips were bright red.

My first thought was, She looks like a film star. But she couldn’t be, of course – not here, in the melting pot of East London on a Sunday in March. She was just some random lady out for a walk, curiosity leading her to stop and browse in a window not for clothes she might buy but for the details of people’s lives she might glean from reading the display of cards.

But she wasn’t browsing, I realised. She was gazing intently at one of the cards, right in the centre of the window, the Blu-Tack that held it there still fresh. As I watched, she nodded as if in satisfaction, then abruptly turned on her heels and strode away.

At least, she would have stridden if I hadn’t been there, loitering right by her shoulder, trying to see what was written on the card she’d been studying so closely. Instead, she cannoned into me and almost sent me flying.

‘Oh my God,’ she gasped, torn between shock and embarrassment. ‘I’m so very sorry. I just didn’t see you there.’

‘It’s my fault. I was standing too close, practically breathing down your neck trying to read those.’

‘Are you all right?’ Her voice was breathy, with the hint of an accent I couldn’t place. ‘I didn’t hurt you?’

‘Really, I’m fine,’ I said. Up close, I caught the vanilla scent of her perfume and could see the colour of her eyes – a hazel so bright they were almost golden. ‘I was just waiting for you to…’

I gestured towards the window.

The woman smiled. ‘I just put a card in there. Or rather, Imran did on my behalf. Probably nothing will come of it, but I had a stroke of luck with one the other day and I thought I’d try the same thing myself. Serendipity, you know. Or more likely superstition.’

I took a step closer so I could read the card she’d been staring at.

Rooms for rent in house on Damask Square. Reasonable rates. Call Orla. And a phone number.

Serendipity, I thought.

I said, ‘Orla – is that you? My name’s Livvie.’

SIX

Beatrice stepped into the elevator, which had been opened by a uniformed doorman using a code. Because it only led to the penthouse level, it was small and had no buttons to press.

But it did have a mirror. As the doors glided shut in front of her, she turned and scrutinised her reflection: her make-up was carefully toned down, her blonde hair in a ponytail. She knew her tailored wool pants were carefully pressed and she could see that her primrose-coloured cashmere sweater was clean. She reckoned she’d nailed the nanny aesthetic: smart but homely, conservative yet relaxed.

The elevator was warm. Beatrice could feel the fibres of her sweater prickling her armpits under her charcoal wool coat, and realised she was sweating. She had no reason to be nervous, and yet she was. These people, who she’d only met over Skype, would be not only her employers but as good as her family. She’d be expected to change the smaller one’s diapers, kiss them both goodnight, cook their meals and dry their tears.

Hopefully they wouldn’t cry too much. Hopefully they wouldn’t shit too much either. But there wasn’t much chance of that.

The elevator came to a stop with a barely perceptible jolt and the doors silently parted. Beatrice stepped out on to an expanse of polished parquet, a white-walled hallway stretching ahead of her. She could smell something cooking – a casserole, maybe. She wondered if they’d ask her to stay for dinner; part of her dreaded that prospect, but she was also hungry.

‘Beatrice!’ A woman hurried into view, her high heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Her face was familiar from the Skype calls – a sharp dark bob, heavy brows, pale lipstick – but Beatrice hadn’t seen the rest of her before, and she was reluctantly impressed by the tight black leather pants, cream silk blouse and catwalk slimness. ‘I’m Frances.’

Frances leaned in to embrace her, and Beatrice cautiously returned the hug. She didn’t like touching people much, especially not strangers.

‘Great to meet you,’ she managed.

‘May I take your things?’ Frances helped Beatrice off with her coat. ‘Did you find the place okay?’

‘Not really,’ Beatrice admitted. ‘It’s kind of confusing out… down there.’