away. ‘I need to find Alice, make sure she’s OK,’ he said. ‘I’m going upstairs to ring her.’
He had left the kitchen and, finding herself alone, Helen had felt the urge to flee. She grabbed her car key and headed out. At the gym, she had bought a whole new kit and towel from the little shop. The gym was in a hotel, Grant’s, by Richmond Park, and she often came here when Frankie was at nursery so she could work out before relaxing for a while in the hotel lounge with a coffee. With no family or work pressures, these were the only moments she got to herself.
She was beginning to slow down her pace when she heard someone say her name. She looked up – it was Marion, a friend she’d met here at the gym a few months ago. Sometimes, when Helen wanted solitude, the presence of a friend at the gym was a nuisance, but most of the time it was nice to have someone to chat to about stuff that wasn’t related to children or domestic duties.
Marion was another mixed race woman, like Helen, with a white mum and a dad who, Marion hinted, was a well-known musician, though she’d never revealed who he was. She didn’t have any kids of her own and Helen was envious of her skinny body and free-and-easy life. Your life can be easy like Marion’s now , a cruel voice whispered inside her skull, and she shook her head violently. She would never ever complain about the nursery run or the endless chores that came with having a small child ever again.
‘What are you doing here?’ Marion asked, wide-eyed, stepping onto the treadmill beside Helen’s.
Panting, Helen answered, ‘I had to get out.’
Marion nodded seriously. ‘Has there been . . . any news?’
‘No.’
Marion started to run. Right now, Helen wished she would either go away or talk about something else. Tell her some stories about her pop star dad or moan about her manicurist. Just for five minutes, that was all. Give Helen’s brain something else to think about before it ate itself.
‘I heard about Iz . . .’
Helen didn’t give her a chance to finish the sentence. ‘I have t o go.’
She slowed the treadmill to a halt and began to walk away. Then, feeling guilty, she turned back.
‘I’m sorry, Marion. I just can’t talk about it.’
‘I understand. You poor thing. But I’m sure she’ll turn up, safe and sound. Just wait and see. Everybody is looking out for her. I saw it on Facebook – a special page.’
‘I didn’t know about that.’
Marion nodded. ‘It’s got thousands of members. The whole country wants to find her, Helen. We’re all praying for you.’
As soon as she got home Helen went onto Facebook and searched for her daughter’s name. Within moments she was on the ‘Find Frankie’ page that some well-meaning local had set up. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of Frankie’s little face in the photograph, and she reached out and touched the screen with her fingertip, stroking Frankie’s cheek. There were already 43,000 ‘likes’ of the page. To comfort herself, she began to scroll down through the hundreds of comments, needing to know that other people cared about Frankie too, that she wasn’t alone.
The first few did help: ‘God bless that little mite, and keep her safe. Please share her photo so that everyone can look for her,’ ‘My heart goes out to the family, hope she’s found soon,’ and many similar. But the next one made Helen catch her breath: ‘Those comments below should be deleted, they’re horrible. How can people be so cruel?’
What comments?
Fresh tears welling, Helen considered closing the laptop lid and walking away – but she knew she couldn’t, not without looking .
She scrolled down, and the vitriol she discovered in the next few remarks made bile rise in her throat.
‘I blame the parents. What were they thinking, going out and leaving a child to look after that little girl?’
‘Frankie’s mum and dad should be in prison – they DISGUST me. Leaving that child at
He had left the kitchen and, finding herself alone, Helen had felt the urge to flee. She grabbed her car key and headed out. At the gym, she had bought a whole new kit and towel from the little shop. The gym was in a hotel, Grant’s, by Richmond Park, and she often came here when Frankie was at nursery so she could work out before relaxing for a while in the hotel lounge with a coffee. With no family or work pressures, these were the only moments she got to herself.
She was beginning to slow down her pace when she heard someone say her name. She looked up – it was Marion, a friend she’d met here at the gym a few months ago. Sometimes, when Helen wanted solitude, the presence of a friend at the gym was a nuisance, but most of the time it was nice to have someone to chat to about stuff that wasn’t related to children or domestic duties.
Marion was another mixed race woman, like Helen, with a white mum and a dad who, Marion hinted, was a well-known musician, though she’d never revealed who he was. She didn’t have any kids of her own and Helen was envious of her skinny body and free-and-easy life. Your life can be easy like Marion’s now , a cruel voice whispered inside her skull, and she shook her head violently. She would never ever complain about the nursery run or the endless chores that came with having a small child ever again.
‘What are you doing here?’ Marion asked, wide-eyed, stepping onto the treadmill beside Helen’s.
Panting, Helen answered, ‘I had to get out.’
Marion nodded seriously. ‘Has there been . . . any news?’
‘No.’
Marion started to run. Right now, Helen wished she would either go away or talk about something else. Tell her some stories about her pop star dad or moan about her manicurist. Just for five minutes, that was all. Give Helen’s brain something else to think about before it ate itself.
‘I heard about Iz . . .’
Helen didn’t give her a chance to finish the sentence. ‘I have t o go.’
She slowed the treadmill to a halt and began to walk away. Then, feeling guilty, she turned back.
‘I’m sorry, Marion. I just can’t talk about it.’
‘I understand. You poor thing. But I’m sure she’ll turn up, safe and sound. Just wait and see. Everybody is looking out for her. I saw it on Facebook – a special page.’
‘I didn’t know about that.’
Marion nodded. ‘It’s got thousands of members. The whole country wants to find her, Helen. We’re all praying for you.’
As soon as she got home Helen went onto Facebook and searched for her daughter’s name. Within moments she was on the ‘Find Frankie’ page that some well-meaning local had set up. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of Frankie’s little face in the photograph, and she reached out and touched the screen with her fingertip, stroking Frankie’s cheek. There were already 43,000 ‘likes’ of the page. To comfort herself, she began to scroll down through the hundreds of comments, needing to know that other people cared about Frankie too, that she wasn’t alone.
The first few did help: ‘God bless that little mite, and keep her safe. Please share her photo so that everyone can look for her,’ ‘My heart goes out to the family, hope she’s found soon,’ and many similar. But the next one made Helen catch her breath: ‘Those comments below should be deleted, they’re horrible. How can people be so cruel?’
What comments?
Fresh tears welling, Helen considered closing the laptop lid and walking away – but she knew she couldn’t, not without looking .
She scrolled down, and the vitriol she discovered in the next few remarks made bile rise in her throat.
‘I blame the parents. What were they thinking, going out and leaving a child to look after that little girl?’
‘Frankie’s mum and dad should be in prison – they DISGUST me. Leaving that child at
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