Bring Me Back: The gripping Sunday Times bestseller now with an explosive new ending!. B Paris A
that no matter how many years go by, we will never be completely free of Layla.
Barely a month goes by when we don’t hear her name – someone called out to in the street, a character in a film or book, a newly opened restaurant, a cocktail, a hotel. At least we don’t have to contend with supposed sightings of Layla any more – Thomas’ yesterday was the first in years. There’d been hundreds after she first disappeared; it seemed that anyone who had red hair was put forward as a possible candidate.
I look down at Ellen, snuggled in the crook of my arm, and wonder if she’s thinking of Layla too. But the steady rise and fall of her chest against me tells me she’s already asleep and I’m glad I didn’t tell her about Tony’s phone call. Everything – all this – would be much easier if Ellen and I had fallen in love with other people instead of each other. It shouldn’t matter that Ellen is Layla’s sister, not when twelve years have passed since Layla disappeared.
But, of course, it does.
Before
It feels a lifetime ago that I first saw you, Layla. I’m not sure if you even know this but at the time I had a girlfriend, someone so unlike you, someone who was as high-flying in the world of advertising as I was in my city job. Time is an oddity when it comes to memories; I always think of you when I remember Harry and the flat in St Katharine Docks, yet you spent much less time in that world than my ex did. You instigated the end of the life I had. Everything became ‘Before Layla’ and ‘After Layla’.
It must have been just after 7 p.m. on New Year’s Eve 2004. You probably don’t remember that but I know, because Harry had insisted we leave too much time to get to the theatre. I’d felt indifferent to it being a big night but I was indifferent to so many things back then. Until I met you.
As Harry and I went down into the underground station at Liverpool Street, I never thought I was about to fall in love. He needed to top up his Oyster card so while he queued at the machine, I watched everybody rushing to get wherever they were going to celebrate the New Year.
After a few minutes my attention was caught by a flash of colour amongst the greys and blacks of the Londoners, the most beautiful red I’d ever seen. And of course it was you – or rather, your hair. Do you remember how you stood with your back against the opposite wall, your eyes watching in alarm at everyone surging around you? You looked scared, but back then the simplest things seemed to scare you; crowds, dogs, the dark. You were so terrified of dogs that if you saw one coming towards you, you would cross over to the other side of the street to avoid it, even if you were with me, even if it was on a lead. And that day in the underground station, as you pushed yourself further into the wall to avoid the crowds, your hair caught under the artificial lighting and it seemed to be on fire. With your tiny purple skirt, lace-up ankle boots and curvy figure, you looked so different to the stick-thin women in their smart suits and dark winter coats. Then you raised your head, and our eyes met. I felt embarrassed to be caught staring at you so intensely and tried to look away. But your eyes pulled me towards you and before I knew it, I was striding across the concourse.
‘Do you need help?’ I asked, looking down into your green-brown eyes. Hazel, I learned later. ‘You seem a little lost.’
‘It’s just that I didn’t expect London to be quite so busy,’ you replied, your voice lilting with a Scottish accent. ‘All these people!’
‘It’s New Year’s Eve,’ I explained. ‘They’re on their way out to celebrate.’
‘So it’s not always like this?’
‘Early morning and late afternoon, usually. Did you want to buy a ticket?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where are you going?’
Do you remember your reply?
‘To a youth hostel,’ you said.
‘Where is it?’ I asked.
‘I’m not sure. Near Piccadilly Circus, I think.’
‘Do you have an address?’ You shook your head. ‘On your reservation?’ I persevered.
And then you admitted that you hadn’t reserved a room.
Your naivety both appalled and charmed me. ‘It might be difficult to find a bed on New Year’s Eve,’ I explained.
Your skin paled, heightening the freckles, and that’s when I fell in love with you.
‘Have you got a mobile?’ I asked.
You shook your head again. ‘No.’
To meet someone so unorganised, so unaffected by modern life and the London rush was like a hit of alcohol. If it had been anybody else, I would have walked away quickly before they could ask me how to find a number for a hostel. But I was already realising that I couldn’t walk away from you.
‘How old are you?’ I asked, because suddenly, I needed to know everything there was to know about you.
‘Eighteen. Almost nineteen.’ You raised your chin defiantly. ‘I’m not a runaway, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
I was saved from answering by Harry appearing at my elbow.
‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Didn’t I leave you standing over there?’
My eyes stayed fixed on you. ‘This young lady is looking for a youth hostel near Piccadilly Circus. Do you know it?’ I asked, safe in the knowledge that he wouldn’t, because I was already counting on bringing you back to ours.
‘No, I’m afraid not.’ He looked thoughtfully at you. ‘They must have given you the address when you reserved.’
‘She doesn’t have a reservation.’
His eyes widened. ‘I doubt you’ll find a bed on New Year’s Eve.’
‘Then what should I do?’ you asked, a slight panic creeping into your voice.
Harry scratched his head as he always did when faced with a problem. ‘I have no idea.’
‘We’ll have to think of something,’ I said, my voice low.
He turned to me with that ‘it isn’t our problem’ look in his eyes. And he was right, it wasn’t our problem, it was mine. ‘Look, I’ll help her look for a hostel, or a hotel, or something,’ I told him. ‘We can’t just leave her here.’
‘Well, maybe somebody else can help her. We’re going to the theatre,’ he reminded me.
‘Look, don’t worry, I’ll be fine,’ you said. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time already. It’s my fault, I should have planned ahead. But I never realised London would be so . . . ’ you searched for a word ‘ . . . crazy.’
I reached into my jacket pocket and took out my wallet. ‘Here,’ I said, fishing out my theatre ticket and handing it to Harry. ‘Take Samantha. She wanted to go, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, but—’
I pressed the ticket into his hand. ‘It’s fine. I’ll see you at the party later.’ He tried to catch my eye but I ignored him. ‘Phone Samantha. She can meet you at the theatre.’ And