callers and nutjobs who think it’s funny to abuse her or pretend they have information. One in particular likes calling her—a man with a raspy thin voice, who sounds like he smokes too much. “I know where your husband is,” he says. “I know where you buried him.”
Another caller asks if she’s lonely and what she’s wearing. His voice is vaguely familiar and she can hear his fist furiously working.
Marnie hangs up on them, but dutifully records the date, time, and content of the calls so that she can tell her police liaison officer, PC Rhonda Firth. Rhonda told Marnie to note every phone call because it might be important. She also told her not to give up hope, but now Marnie wonders what “hope” is supposed to look like. She imagines it as a small animal—a bird perhaps—perched in her ribcage, fluttering occasionally.
Not surprisingly, Marnie was a suspect for a while, although nobody told her that officially or unofficially. Nor did they apologize for the awkward questions and the DNA tests and the vital days that were lost. The police think an apology is an admission of failure, but sorry can just mean sorry.
On Daniel and Marnie’s first date they argued about politics. Daniel thought the British Royals were an anachronism.
“That’s because you’re Australian,” Marnie told him.
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“You’re still smarting about our ball-and-chain tourism policy.”
“So you’re starting already with the convict jokes.”
“I could have started with foreplay jokes.”
Then he smiled. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Are you upset?”
“I’ll get over it.”
They went to dinner at a cute Italian restaurant in Hampstead. Daniel began talking about sport. Marnie flicked him hard on the right ear.
“What was that for?”
“You can watch sport and play sport and talk about it with your friends, but when you’re with me we talk about something else.”
“That doesn’t seem very fair.”
“I have no-go areas,” she said. “If I talk about shoes or period cramps you can pull me up.”
“So what do we talk about?”
“Feminism. The single currency. Coronation Street . Are you the sort of journalist who makes up lies?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Daniel looked back at her for a full ten seconds. “You’re truly something.”
“Yes I am,” said Marnie, feeling pleased with herself. “There’s something else you should know about me. I have a daughter.”
“Oh.”
“Is that a problem?”
“I don’t eat children, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Good to know.”
Later that night she kissed him on the doorstep. He wanted to come inside. “Another time,” she said, before closing the door.
Marnie paid Zoe’s babysitter and walked her down the stairs. Daniel was still waiting outside.
“You’re still here.”
“I’ll still be here tomorrow morning,” he replied.
She invited him inside, whispering for him to be quiet. Before she could shut the door his hands were on her body. They had sex. Later, they had sex again. Sleeping with a man on the first date was something Marnie had promised herself she would never do. In the morning Daniel left early for a skiing holiday in Italy with three of his mates. Pre-planned. Booked. Paid for.
“I’ll call you when I get back,” he told her.
“Yes, you will,” she said.
Only he didn’t call. She waited a month. Heard nothing. She went from angry to furious and then hating him and then chastising herself for being so naïve as to confuse flirtation and sex with anything deeper. And then he turned up one day at her father’s house, asking for her number. She didn’t return his calls. He sent her flowers. She didn’t respond. One lunch hour she was sitting in the spring sunshine in Green Park, with her skirt pulled up to get some color into her legs, when Daniel sat down next to her.
“I’m here to apologize.”
“You’ve done that already.”
“I’m really,
Another caller asks if she’s lonely and what she’s wearing. His voice is vaguely familiar and she can hear his fist furiously working.
Marnie hangs up on them, but dutifully records the date, time, and content of the calls so that she can tell her police liaison officer, PC Rhonda Firth. Rhonda told Marnie to note every phone call because it might be important. She also told her not to give up hope, but now Marnie wonders what “hope” is supposed to look like. She imagines it as a small animal—a bird perhaps—perched in her ribcage, fluttering occasionally.
Not surprisingly, Marnie was a suspect for a while, although nobody told her that officially or unofficially. Nor did they apologize for the awkward questions and the DNA tests and the vital days that were lost. The police think an apology is an admission of failure, but sorry can just mean sorry.
On Daniel and Marnie’s first date they argued about politics. Daniel thought the British Royals were an anachronism.
“That’s because you’re Australian,” Marnie told him.
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“You’re still smarting about our ball-and-chain tourism policy.”
“So you’re starting already with the convict jokes.”
“I could have started with foreplay jokes.”
Then he smiled. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Are you upset?”
“I’ll get over it.”
They went to dinner at a cute Italian restaurant in Hampstead. Daniel began talking about sport. Marnie flicked him hard on the right ear.
“What was that for?”
“You can watch sport and play sport and talk about it with your friends, but when you’re with me we talk about something else.”
“That doesn’t seem very fair.”
“I have no-go areas,” she said. “If I talk about shoes or period cramps you can pull me up.”
“So what do we talk about?”
“Feminism. The single currency. Coronation Street . Are you the sort of journalist who makes up lies?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Daniel looked back at her for a full ten seconds. “You’re truly something.”
“Yes I am,” said Marnie, feeling pleased with herself. “There’s something else you should know about me. I have a daughter.”
“Oh.”
“Is that a problem?”
“I don’t eat children, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Good to know.”
Later that night she kissed him on the doorstep. He wanted to come inside. “Another time,” she said, before closing the door.
Marnie paid Zoe’s babysitter and walked her down the stairs. Daniel was still waiting outside.
“You’re still here.”
“I’ll still be here tomorrow morning,” he replied.
She invited him inside, whispering for him to be quiet. Before she could shut the door his hands were on her body. They had sex. Later, they had sex again. Sleeping with a man on the first date was something Marnie had promised herself she would never do. In the morning Daniel left early for a skiing holiday in Italy with three of his mates. Pre-planned. Booked. Paid for.
“I’ll call you when I get back,” he told her.
“Yes, you will,” she said.
Only he didn’t call. She waited a month. Heard nothing. She went from angry to furious and then hating him and then chastising herself for being so naïve as to confuse flirtation and sex with anything deeper. And then he turned up one day at her father’s house, asking for her number. She didn’t return his calls. He sent her flowers. She didn’t respond. One lunch hour she was sitting in the spring sunshine in Green Park, with her skirt pulled up to get some color into her legs, when Daniel sat down next to her.
“I’m here to apologize.”
“You’ve done that already.”
“I’m really,
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