year. Everyone we invited from her old school and the new one. We have the new class list. I think I have it on my phone.’ As I scramble to open contacts, Jake places his hand over my phone.
‘Just take a breath, Lexi. She’s just out there, drunk and sleeping it off. Let’s not make a fuss. Blow this out of proportion. What sort of first impression are we going to make on the parents at the new school if we call and say she’s missing at her own party? If we call at this time of night, they’ll all just worry about their own kids, half of which have gone home with different friends etc. It would cause a panic.’
I glare at Jake but reluctantly accept he might have a point. I leave Logan in the dance tent with Jake and go outside to look for Emily. I tell myself that most likely there is nothing seriously wrong but my years of mothering means that I do know one thing: if a child doesn’t want to be found, they probably should be.
The weather forecast was accurate. The night air has turned cold, rain starts to splatter on the ground, mocking the British optimism in summer. Many people abandon the outside attractions and head for shelter, others call it a night and start falling into minicabs. Like a salmon heading upstream, I walk out into the blackness, scouring the crowds and the shadows for my daughter.
35
Lexi
‘Emily, Emily!’ My voice pierces the night, the sounds from the party fall away into the distance – the laughing, the noise from the fair rides, the music from the DJ. I don’t hear any of it. I only hear my heart beating against my ribcage and my ears strain as I wait for her to yell back a response. I’ve scoured the entire party site but there’s no sign of her. I’ve asked everyone I’ve bumped into if they’ve seen her recently. I’m met with nothing other than blank shrugs and vague apologies that no, they haven’t. Most people just want to get out of the rain, and I don’t think they really give my question much thought. ‘She was dressed as Zendaya as she appeared in The Greatest Showman.’ A shrug. ‘You know, purple leotard thing.’ I lose patience with their glassy eyes, their dumb indifference and rush on with my search. I start to run. I’m not as fit as I should be. I’ve spent too many long hours behind a desk. My breath never makes it to and from my lungs but instead it harbours in my throat and I’m suffocating.
I imagine her unconscious, choking on her own alcohol-induced vomit. I imagine her cold, wet, alone. The woods loom in the background of my every thought and breath, shadowy, threatening, overpowering. She’s nowhere to be found at the party – I need to head into the woods next and search there. The trees are dense, some fat and ancient, others scrubby and slight, saplings really. Their combined canopies block out any moonlight that the clouds haven’t already stolen. I stumble around, possibly in circles because there are no clear paths and even if there were, I wouldn’t know how far to follow one, or in which direction. Brambles rip at the thin cotton of my costume and soon my legs and arms are scratched. I wish I was wearing jeans. I wish I’d just spot her lying asleep under a fat tree. I wish I had kept her by my side all night. I wish we’d never had a party. I wish so many things; my slashed calves are the least of my problems.
Even using the torch on my phone, it’s too dark to see anything much. I decide I need to go back to the party and rouse security. They can help me search; we need to do this systematically. I run back to the dance tent. I only realise how long I’ve been searching when I notice that the music has stopped, the DJ has packed away; he’s probably back on the motorway by now. The dancefloor looks like a crime scene, pocked with spilled drinks and shards of crushed plastic glasses. The colours from the party popper streamers have bled into the puddles caused by wet and muddy footprints. With the lights up, the scene that had seemed thrilling just a short time ago now has the dank, grubby quality of a public toilet. No one is tidying