42. Now

‘Dan, where are you?' The line is fuzzy. I pull the phone back and see I have a missed called from an unknown number. Who was it? I press the phone back to my ear. ‘Dan?'

I've retreated to our living room. The cool night air is making everything damp: the sofa, the moth-eaten carpet. I should draw the curtains and turn on a light.

My parents went home, complaining about having been kept up late. They didn't think we should join the search around the school. The lawyer will stay at a Travelodge until the formal interview requests arrive.

I had thought my mother might at least give me a hug, but she has barely looked at me.

Mina went for a shower, having finally caught my eye, but her look was unreadable. The twins vanished before I could question them. Theo and Tristan went to his office. Campaign, campaign, campaign.

The line crackles. ‘Dan?'

‘Frankie! I'm on my way.'

‘It's almost midnight. You said that three hours ago.' And our daughter is missing.

‘I – uh – I'll be a bit longer.'

‘But where are you?' Even with traffic it shouldn't take more than two hours from Exeter.

‘Ah, sorry. I forgot to tell you. I had to go up to London today.' He's coming from London? Or from his mistress? He forgot.

‘Where are you now?'

Fuzz comes down the line and what he says sounds like techno music.

‘Dan?'

‘Hello? I'm, ah, coming up to Swindon.'

‘You're four hours away? When were— I told the police you were coming from Exeter. They're expecting to have spoken to you already.'

‘I… Frankie, I'm sorry.'

‘Why didn't you tell me earlier?'

‘I – uh… I guess I was hoping she'd turn up.'

I roll up my dress to study the cuts, the fresh superglue like bloody snail trails.

‘Frankie? I'm sorry. I'll explain when I see you. I thought I'd be back earlier. I guess I didn't want to believe this was happening. I'm sorry.'

I ignore him and tell him about the police, the search, the weirdness with the necklace and Ash and Ava, my brother and parents refusing to be interviewed, Glastonbury, the bullying, the fact that Jenna doesn't have any friends, and we didn't know. We didn't see she was struggling.

‘Of course she's struggling.' His voice slices through my monologue, sharp, clipped.

‘What?'

‘We don't talk about it because we're Beaufort-Bradleys, but we all know she's struggling, don't we, Frances?'

It's my turn to be speechless. We all know?

And he isn't a Beaufort-Bradley, actually. His surname is Mayfield.

He sighs. ‘She really could be at Glastonbury. She wanted to go. We should've—' The line goes crackly.

‘Dan?'

There's a noise like hail, and then he's gone.

I try calling him. Again. Again. I squeal and throw my phone at the sofa.

We all know she's struggling, don't we, Frances?

I recall Jenna's sixteenth birthday, the wall of his back as he stalked off, disgusted with me.

He knew. He thinks I knew too.

He told me once he pretended to love her like a father when we first got together, but then one day it just started hitting him in waves, how wonderful she was, how much he loved her, how he really was her father and couldn't imagine life without her.

Has he been trying to talk to me about this?

Is this why he's cheating on me?

I pick at the superglue, opening the cuts for the third time.

I try him again then call back the unknown number. It rings and rings and I'm sure they're not going to pick up but then:

‘Hello?'

‘Hi, I had a missed call?'

‘Oh, hi, it's me from Mumsnet. Yummummy25. Stupid name. Daisy, actually. You want to know about Georgia Smith?'

‘Yes, I?—'

‘That bitch broke my daughter's arm – snapped it – and what did the school do about it?'

I gasp. ‘She what? How? Why?'

‘I swear she had it in for her the moment she saw her. Well, I've taken my money elsewhere, thank you very much. You be careful. She?—'

‘How did it happen? Did you go to the police?'

‘Honest to God I think she was screwing the head. I told him she was harassing us – emails, phone calls. She came round the house! And he acted like she shat gold eggs, I swear. I knew something bad was going to happen. Her arm still hurts to this day. No word of a lie. She?—'

‘Daisy, I'm sorry, it sounds awful, but what actually happened?'

‘What happened? She broke my little girl's arm!'

‘But how?'

‘I'm telling you, aren't I? She pushed her – pushed her hard, you know? And Meadow fell and it's like I keep saying, that woman was trying to hurt her. She had?—'

‘Why did she push her?'

‘That's what I'm saying – because she had a problem with my daughter. There's no good reason, is there? She's nuts – she shouldn't be a teacher.'

I rub my forehead. ‘Why didn't the school do anything?'

‘Well, I've never personally seen the head with his pants down but I'm guessing he has a penis.'

‘But why did he say he wasn't going to… take things further?'

‘That's what I'm saying – he didn't give me one good reason.'

‘Do you have a statement or something I can give the police? My daughter… my daughter…' I close my eyes and press my hand on my mouth. I manage a whisper: ‘My daughter is missing and I think Georgia Smith is involved and I don't think the police believe me.'

‘That's it right there. Fucking police. I've tried telling them.'

‘Can I give you a number? The detective in charge of my daughter's case.'

‘Yeah, of course.'

I read the number out.

‘I'll call right now. Right this minute.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Fucking Georgia Smith.' She hangs up.

Georgia hurt this woman's daughter – physically harmed a child in her care. I squeeze my thigh and watch the cuts gape open.