Page 43 of You Lied First

M argot’s always had the ability to lose herself in her work.

There’s something about focusing on fiddly, physical tasks that enables her to control her thoughts.

She spends the morning cutting out the frame of the house she’s making, then fitting the pieces loosely in position, ready to start gluing.

All the while, she tells herself a different version of what happened in Oman.

A version in which they never set eyes on Celine; one in which they didn’t know her and didn’t see her, didn’t go camping with her and certainly didn’t bury her in the desert.

As fast as images from the real holiday flash in front of her eyes, she replaces them with alternatives; ones she can try to believe in – for her own mental well-being.

But her morning is interrupted when Guy steams into the room and slaps a newspaper down on her work bench, causing the tiny beams and boards to scatter every which way, wasting her entire morning’s work.

‘Guy!’ she snaps.

‘Have you seen this?’

‘What is it?’ she asks, but she knows what it will be. Of course she does. The feeling of dread has been in her belly for days. There’s only one reason Guy would buy a paper copy of a newspaper and bring it to her.

As he picks up Margot’s phone and turns it off, she reads:

Fear for missing expat

Fears are currently growing for the safe return of the ‘fun-loving’ British expatriate who was reported missing in the Sultanate of Oman five days ago.

A local police investigation has not drawn any leads in the hunt for Celine Cremorne, and friends of the missing woman have launched an appeal on Facebook.

Cremorne was last seen getting into a taxi to go home after a celebration on Christmas Day.

The family declined to comment at this stage.

‘Oh,’ Margot says.

‘Turn the page,’ Guy says. ‘There’s more.’

Reluctantly Margot turns the page to be assaulted by a montage of images of Celine.

She’s pictured in skimpy shorts, dresses and even swimwear.

She’s on the beach, on a yacht with her hair flying in the breeze, holding a glass of champagne and cuddling a cat.

In one, she’s in running gear wearing a race number and a T-shirt emblazoned with the name of a charity.

In another, she’s surrounded by small children.

In all of them she’s smiling, tanned, sunlit and happy. Margot looks up at Guy, appalled.

‘Read it,’ he says.

Exclusive: Who is Celine Cremorne?

The Briton missing in Oman is a fun-loving primary school teacher who makes time for everyone, concerned friends told the Daily Mail last night. She moved to Muscat, the capital of Oman, seven years ago, and works in an exclusive private school, teaching the children of wealthy expatriates.

‘We are devastated,’ says Lara Peters, a friend and colleague. ‘You couldn’t find a nicer person. Celine has time for everyone, and is incredibly popular with the children. She’s such a vibrant person. It makes no sense that she’s disappeared. I can’t get my head around it.’

While many expatriates in the Middle East fly home for the Christmas holidays, Cremorne chose to remain in Oman for the school holidays, telling friends she was tired after the autumn term and wanted to enjoy the sunshine.

Peters recalls her friend saying she would stay in the luxury three-bedroom villa she shares with friends and make the most of the pool and beach.

Average daily temperatures in Muscat at this time of year can be expected to reach a balmy 27°C (80°F) with just one day a month of rain.

Young expatriates living in the sunny Sultanate often share rented villas on private compounds, giving them access to facilities such as a swimming pool. Expatriate teachers in Oman can earn up to ￡2,600 per month, and there is currently no personal income tax.

Celine is the only child of Howard and Philippa Cremorne of Guildford, Surrey, who are believed to be flying to Oman to help the search.

‘We are deeply concerned, and are assisting police with their enquiries. It is all our hopes that Celine is found soon,’ headmaster Timothy Jackson said last night.

Margot hands the paper back to Guy.

‘I guess it was bound to happen.’

Guy throws himself onto the sofa. ‘Yep.’

‘But what can we do?’ she says. ‘We just have to sit tight, right?’

‘Yep. Business as usual. And we need to keep an eye on Sara. Last thing we need is her cracking.’

The memory of the tent zip opening in the night comes back to Margot. The tick-tick-tick she thinks she heard. If it wasn’t Flynn … She doesn’t want to, but she has to ask.

‘Can I ask you something?’ She keeps her voice steady; doesn’t want to imply any sort of accusation.

‘Fire away.’

‘Please don’t get angry, I’m not accusing you of anything, okay? But on that night – the night we camped – I thought I heard the tent zip go down?’ She pauses. It’s out there now. She has to say it. ‘Did you get up for anything?’

His eyes narrow. ‘What are you asking?’

She holds her hands up like a surrender. ‘Nothing. I just wondered if you saw anything – if you did get up?’

He angles his head at her like he’s having trouble understanding. ‘You think I wouldn’t have said by now?’

Margot closes her eyes and exhales through her nose, aware that one wrong word will trigger him.

‘But, in answer to your question, no,’ Guy says. ‘I slept straight through. Drunken coma. You know me.’

It wouldn’t be the first time he passed out through alcohol.

‘I just wondered.’

‘You’d drunk a skinful, too, to be fair,’ Guy says. ‘If you heard something, it could have been an insect or anything.’

Margot twiddles her pencil in her fingers. ‘So, do you think they’ll find her?’

‘Honestly? The chances are minuscule. We were a hundred and fifty miles or more from the city, in thousands of square miles of sand. She’s a needle in a haystack.’

Maybe, but maybe not. This is no longer a tiny story in a newspaper in a foreign land.

Celine is pretty and led a photogenic lifestyle, and there’s not much else going on in the news right now.

For sure, the police will push and the tabloids will run with the story until someone, somewhere remembers or reveals something.

Margot imagines that the next few weeks and months are going to feel like driving a dodgem blindfolded, never knowing when something will ram into her. The thought makes her want to throw up.

‘Well,’ she says. ‘We’ll need to tell Flynn something because he’s going to see this.’

‘She went missing after we got back. It’s sad, but nothing to do with us. Keep it simple.’ Of course he assumes that she’ll be the one to do it. ‘Just drop it in the conversation when you see him. Don’t make a big deal of it.’

Margot starts to rearrange the scattered pieces of wood back into the rooms of the mansion and Guy comes to stand behind her.

He towers over her, watching while she works.

It’s his way of reminding himself that he’s her manager, her boss.

That he’s the power in the company she created. How did it come to this?

‘Don’t forget we’ve got a deadline,’ he says, as if he hasn’t just ruined her morning’s work. ‘You can’t afford to lose any more time on it.’ He drops the newspaper onto the sofa. ‘And one o’clock for lunch today, please. Something nice.’