and a few times a month there was a trip somewhere, maybe a new Pilates studio, the launch of a new fashion brand, or – the most coveted invitations – an overnight visit to a spa hotel or retreat, to try what they had to offer and write about my experiences. It was all a far cry from my early days as a news reporter, when I’d worked my way up through the regional press and finally landed my dream job at The Telegraph. I’d thrived for a while, adoring the buzz of chasing the big stories and landing the major interviews, but after a few years, the long hours and endless stress had begun to take their toll. Unexpectedly, I’d found myself becoming increasingly anxious, developing insomnia so crippling that I’d go days without sleep, panic gripping me as I stared at my blank screen, unable to write a single word. It all came to a head the day I was pulled into the editor’s office for a dressing-down for the second time in two weeks for failing to meet a deadline. That night, I staggered, sweating and shaking, off my tube train home two stops early, gasping for breath and convinced I was having a heart attack. When my doctor informed me the next day that it had most likely been a panic attack and told me frankly that I looked dreadful and needed to take some time off work for the sake of my mental health, I rang the paper and handed in my notice that same afternoon. It had been as if a huge, heavy weight had been lifted off my back, and I’d slept soundly that night for the first time in months. And I’d got lucky. A few high-profile stories during the previous year had boosted my profile, and when I decided to try going freelance and started looking around for work, I’d quickly been signed as a columnist for Camille, one of the UK’s biggest selling women’s monthly magazines. It paid well, very well, and the kudos the job gave me meant that other magazines were keen to commission me too. All the same, the transition hadn’t been easy, not in the early days. I missed the newsroom banter and my work friends, terribly at first, but we’d kept in touch, and very soon the freelance life began to suit me so well that I’d never regretted my decision. And OK, so writing about lipstick and wallpaper wasn’t quite the same as interviewing the Home Secretary or covering a murder trial, but I’d been there and done that, and I realized that I needed this quieter life, one where I could sleep and breathe and live instead of being chained to a news desk, on call twenty-four hours a day, always on alert for the next big story.
It had been when Albert had come into my life too. Before, my hours had been too long and unsociable to even think about dating, never mind consider having a pet. But suddenly, anything was possible, and getting a dog seemed to be the perfect way to celebrate my new lifestyle: a companion at home, lying at my feet as I wrote, and an excuse to get outside daily and walk in the fresh air. Albert had brought me so much joy, and fortunately when Danny had arrived on the scene, he’d instantly fallen in love with my gorgeous, clever puppy too.
‘Gemma, he’s feckin’ perfect,’ he’d said, crouching down to get a better look. Albert had promptly rolled over for a tummy rub, and Danny had laughed and obliged.
‘We always had dogs growing up in Ireland, but since I moved to London I haven’t been able to, you know, with work and everything. Can we take him for a walk, now? He can come to the pub with us!’
His enthusiasm had sent a ripple of happiness through me, and the attraction I was already feeling towards Danny had doubled, instantly. Eighteen months later, I’d never been happier. Well, never been happier until Friday of course. Danny’s face floated into my head again and my throat tightened. Trying to write had kept me from obsessing for an hour or so, but now the fear was returning. It was Monday morning. Day four without a word, my repeated emails unanswered, attempts to Skype him failing, his status still showing as offline.
Where are you, Danny? For God’s sake, this isn’t funny anymore!
I’d thought hard about when to tell my and Danny’s families what was going on, and had decided to leave it just a few more days, a week maybe. Surely he’d be back by then anyway, I reasoned, and I’d have freaked everyone out for no reason at all. Trying to deal with the freaking out I was doing myself was quite enough. Purely for something to do, I flicked the kettle on for what must have been my fifth cup of coffee of the morning and, realizing that, although I’d fed Albert, who was snoozing in his bed, I hadn’t eaten anything myself since the previous day, since before my visit to the police station, pushed a slice of bread into the toaster. I needed to dig out another photo of Danny, I remembered – they’d asked me for one of him on his own, a recent one if possible. They’d been nice, those two police officers, the woman – DCI Dickens, was that her name? – petite but formidable at the same time, her body lean and taut, hair tightly cropped into a blonde pixie cut and those intense, dark blue eyes. And her sidekick, her deputy, DS Clarke, a little quieter and gentler, tall and solid, good-looking with his neatly trimmed facial hair, white even teeth, smooth dark skin. A right handsome pair. Are they romantically involved? I wondered idly, then pushed the ridiculous thought aside. They were police detectives, in Bristol and not in some TV cop drama. They were probably so busy they barely had time to pee, never mind have illicit workplace affairs.
I took my coffee and toast into the sitting room and sank onto the sofa. It was a lovely room – big and bright and high-ceilinged, with a huge working fireplace, cushioned window seats and a polished, dark wood floor. We’d bought a new sofa in yellow velvet and, after checking that the owners wouldn’t mind us doing a little decorating, had found a delicate, trellis-patterned wallpaper in the softest dove grey to cover two of the walls. I’d put it up myself in an afternoon, and I loved it. The place was in immaculate condition but if we were going to live in it for a year or more, we wanted to put our own stamp on it.
‘It’s a parterre pattern,’ I’d explained to Danny, when the wallpaper sample had arrived. ‘You know, you see it in Victorian-style gardens? When they plan the flower beds so that they form a beautiful pattern. It’s in keeping with the house, but sort of a modern interpretation.’
He’d frowned at me in an exaggerated fashion, clearly bemused, and I’d laughed and given up. To say that Danny wasn’t very interested in home décor was an understatement, but the upside of that was that I could basically do what I liked. He’d help, happily, if I asked him to, but I called the shots, and that was fine by me.
I sat there for a moment, gazing around the room, then remembered what I’d gone in there to do and pulled out my phone. I clicked onto the photos file and started to scroll, looking for a decent snap of Danny. He’d never really liked having his photo taken – for such a gorgeous man he was remarkably camera shy – but we’d taken a few pictures since we’d moved and I thought one of them would be perfect for the police: a close-up shot of Danny lost in thought, standing in the middle of the lounge, staring at the wall as he tried to help me work out which of our several large pieces of art would look just right above the fireplace. I’d taken the photo before he’d even noticed I was there, and he’d growled and leapt on me, pulling me down onto the Persian silk rug, telling me I was ‘worse than a bloody paparazzo’ and then kissing me so hard I could barely breathe.
Oh Danny, I miss you so much. Please come home.
I paused, finger resting on the screen of my phone. I’d gone back through a month’s worth of pictures without finding what I was looking for, and I frowned and started scrolling forwards again. Where was it? In fact, where were lots of the photos we’d taken since we’d come to Bristol? There were a few of my work ones from recent weeks, shots of pots of moisturisers and faded jeans and a vibrant pink orchid in a glass bowl. And there were a couple of the house, pictures of some of the rooms, images I’d taken to try to visualize the walls in different colours, to plan my decorating. But where were the photos of Danny gamely attempting DIY, putting up a decidedly wonky shelf? Or the selfies we’d taken, the two of us crashed out on our bed after a full day of trying to sort the bedrooms out and lugging boxes up and down the stairs, sweaty and exhausted but grinning ear to ear? The picture of us both cuddled up in one big armchair, clinking glasses of champagne? I tapped each photo in turn, slowly now. I must have been going too fast, missed them. But no – once again, I was back onto pictures from London, shots I’d taken before we moved. Where the hell were the photos I wanted, the ones from the past few weeks? And why were only some of the recent pictures missing, and not all of them? Some sort of blip with my camera app? They’d all be