Mum in the Middle: Feel good, funny and unforgettable

Mum in the Middle: Feel good, funny and unforgettable Jane Wenham-Jones ‘Fresh, funny and wise’ Katie Fforde‘I love Jane’s writing!’ Jill Mansell‘feel-good’ Woman and HomeTess has downsized to a lively new town and is ready for “me” time. But her Zen-like calm is tested by her boomerang offspring, who keep fluttering back to the nest (usually with a full bag of dirty washing) and by her elderly mother’s struggle to hold on to her independence.Tess is also surprised to discover that there are dark resentments simmering beneath the vintage charm of her new hometown and a spate of vandalism has exposed the rift between the townsfolk and new arrivals like Tess.Tess enlists the help of gruff newspaper editor Malcolm to get to the bottom of the mystery but when her ex-husband pays an unexpected visit and her mother stages a disappearance, Tess starts to feel her new-found freedom wearing just a little thin… A division of HarperCollins Publishers www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) HarperImpulse an imprint of HarperColl?insPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2017 Copyright © Jane Wenham-Jones 2018 Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018 Jane Wenham-Jones asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008278670 Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9780008278663 Version: 2018-08-10 Table of Contents Cover (#ufaa458cf-cc33-5c6a-b551-629fbf3e4994) Title Page (#ud2d31401-e2e2-5b2f-b98e-30b89dd47c41) Copyright (#uf4ea217b-8984-508f-a9fd-9658d009a01f) Dedication (#u0957aa43-283c-580d-ab4e-192930b4b82c) Chapter 1 (#u57076d49-9b9f-5c0d-a801-d8423c38a065) Chapter 2 (#u21565f82-ff8d-5cbc-90cf-7784ce33f12b) Chapter 3 (#u0b262e5a-339e-5dc7-84ba-f85613e34a08) Chapter 4 (#ud07c668f-47a3-50cb-868a-14cd197efea2) Chapter 5 (#uc93ac74e-947c-522a-b77e-78ac63fb4771) Chapter 6 (#ue99ec604-d323-5214-a765-052030c8ad5b) Chapter 7 (#u67ffdbcb-6562-5477-9e6a-520f322da25c) Chapter 8 (#u1a3f1f63-0297-5913-a19b-b28b6c41b7df) Chapter 9 (#u024fa6c1-5aae-5901-8821-ee6be1a07437) Chapter 10 (#u481d6b41-d04c-5cfe-9fa6-fe8e39f9f1ba) Chapter 11 (#u79ed746c-a97e-50f9-8e7b-660ac8dddc37) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Family Gatherings and How to Survive Them – Jane’s Top Tips (#litres_trial_promo) About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) For Karen with love – I wish you were here to read it. Chapter 1 (#u97f4e9c5-778f-59a3-be7a-3b07732c001a) To a Wonderful Mother on Mother’s Day. Mum, I want to tell you On this your special Day How much I do appreciate You in every way I may not always show it I may forget to phone But today I just want you to know … Ahh. They may fleece you, your kids. They may fill your spare bedroom – the one you need to turn into an office – with their junk and unstrung guitars. And empty a fridge in one sitting and spill cider on the new rug. But when push comes to Mothering Sunday shove they come up trumps. A small sentimental lump rose in my throat as I turned over the card from my darling youngest son: … I need another loan! Ho ho ho! Ben had scrawled, next to a large smiley. Ha, Ha, Ha! You and me both, sonny. I put the card on the kitchen dresser, with the one from Tilly and the florist’s greeting from Oliver, who’d sent an extravagant arrangement of creamy roses the previous day (no doubt arranged by his girlfriend, Sam, but gorgeous of him nonetheless) and surveyed the line-up. My three lovely children – still costing me a bloody fortune but caring enough to remember what day it was. Even if they couldn’t be here. I allowed myself a small pang of self pity. ‘You time,’ Caroline, my best friend and one-time sister-in-law, had said at our last drink, before I’d got the train from London back to Northstone. ‘Time to get your life back.’ She had wagged a perfect ruby nail in my direction. ‘Kids gone, new house, new town, all sorts of fresh opportunities.’ By the back door was the final remaining black sack stuffed with detritus from Ben’s bedroom. I missed him crashing and banging his way around the kitchen, leaving trails of sweatshirts and unwashed cups. And not simply because my boss had dropped a bombshell at Thursday’s meeting and put me in charge of the company Facebook page and I didn’t have a clue where to start. Feeling a twinge of anxiety rising – Instagram had been mentioned too – I looked at the clock, grasped keys, handbag and Ben’s unwanted junk and went outside to peer into the bins. Not having yet got the hang of what was collected when, I’d left both wheelies on the pavement. The blue one was full of beer cans and last week’s newspapers. The black one was empty. I dumped the sack inside it and began to pull the bin back up the drive of Ivy Cottage. A misnomer if ever there was one, since the only ivy in the entire place was wrapped around an old sycamore tree at the bottom of the garden of this decidedly non-cottagey, rather lumpen-looking semi, with an incongruous extension on the back. The estate agent had called it quirky. ‘Quaint,’ he’d added, waving his arm at the way the front door opened straight onto the square sitting room – a feature which still slightly took me by surprise if I came home post-ros? – and the steep stairs that ran up one side. The kitchen beyond needed updating. The whole place cried out for paint. But it had a garden and a pond and a walk-in larder. And after too many years of living in a house still half-owned by my ex-husband, it was all mine. ‘Living the dream,’ Caroline had called it. Away from the rat race in a gorgeous little town I’d always hankered after. ‘The next chapter,’ she’d declared, topping up our glasses with celebratory fizz and ticking off the excitements. The home to do up exactly as I wanted, the cool new friends waiting to be made, the space I’d now have in which to take stock and plan the rest of my life. It was only because I was tired, I told myself now. Wrung out by moving and work and scrubbing and hauling furniture about – more drawn to a long lie-down than adventure. That’s why I found myself looking around at my unnaturally tidy sitting room, unsullied by a single lager tin or take-away container, thinking wistfully of that other perpetually messy, noisy abode where there was always a starving teenager sprawling, a manic cat killing something and washing piling up. All the things I used to complain about, really, I mused wryly, as I went back for the other bin, making a mental note to write in my diary it was bottles next time, and then jumping when a piercing voice cut through my thoughts. ‘Hey! OY!’ I looked around for a wayward dog, very possibly chewing on a small child, only to find that strident tone was directed at me. ‘Tess! How you doing in there?’ My opposite neighbour was standing by her gates, dressed in a quilted jacket and wellington boots with flowers on. ‘SURVIVING?’ she yelled. I’d met the striking-looking Jinni before – she’d hollered at me when I first moved in – and I had her down as an interesting mixture of bohemian creative and woman of formidable capability. She was renovating the big old rectory over the road, and I’d seen her both floating around in a kaftan, apparently reciting poetry to herself, and up on the roof with a hammer. ‘All straight, then?’ she demanded, crossing the street and surveying me. ‘I hate bloody Sundays, don’t you?’ she continued, clearly not caring whether I was ‘straight’ or not. ‘Can’t get on with anything till the bloody plumbers turn back up tomorrow. If they do …’ ‘How’s it going?’ I nodded towards the beautiful grey-stone house with its mullioned windows and creeper. ‘Want to see?’ Jinni jerked her head towards her front door. ‘Fancy a drink?’ I looked at my watch. ‘I’d love one,’ I said, thinking that a spot of lunchtime alcohol was exactly what I could do with. ‘But I’ve got to drive to Margate. To see my mother,’ I added, as Jinni raised her brows. ‘I’m an orphan now,’ – she gave a loud and not entirely appropriate-sounding laugh – ‘so I don’t have to do all that Mother’s Day crap.’ I rather wished I didn’t have to either, but Alice had spoken. My sister does not believe in ‘me’ time – especially if it’s mine. Jinni pointed down the road. ‘Seen all the kids scuttling to the church to get their free flowers? Never go any other time. Little buggers …’ ‘Do you have children?’ I asked. Jinni nodded. ‘Dan’s in Australia, working for a surf school, and Emma’s teaching up in Nottingham.’ She did not look at all sad about this. In fact she was smiling widely. ‘Haven’t seen either of them since Christmas,’ she said cheerfully. ‘But Dan’s back in the summer and Emma will roll up at some point. What are yours doing?’ I tried to sound as pleased as she did. ‘They’re all in London. Oliver is a trainee surveyor, Tilly’s finished drama school and is working in a diner while she tries to get auditions and Ben’s at uni doing computer science with music.’ ‘Off your hands, then,’ Jinny said. ‘Yes.’ I thought about telling Jinni that, as odd as it sounded, it was the first time in my 47 years I’d ever lived alone. That since Friday when Ben had abandoned his sensible plan of saving money by living with his mum while studying in the capital, for the much better one of taking up a box room near the Holloway Road and disposing of his student loan in a variety of bars – I was not finding it very easy. I’d been lucky to have him here at all. How could a small market town, known for its pottery and teashops, with four pubs, a tiny theatre and a KFC – deemed such a potential den of iniquity, it had by all accounts had the locals up in arms – compare with life in the city? But I didn’t know Jinni well enough to start bleating. Instead I forced my face into bright smile. ‘And what about you? What do you do – or did you do? I can see this must be a full-time job …’ ‘Bloody nightmare,’ said Jinni merrily. ‘I was an actress too, if your Tilly needs warning onto a better path. Did you ever see Maddison and Cutler?’ ‘Er, I may have seen the odd episode, I remember it being on …’ Jinni laughed. ‘It’s my only claim to fame – unless you count playing a prostitute in Casualty. I was Maddy!’ I stared at her dark eyes, defined cheekbones and red lipstick and had a sudden flash of recognition. Remembered Rob watching appreciatively as the hot young TV detective – always dressed in tight black leather and invariably waving a gun about – strutted her stuff. ‘Oh my God,’ I said. ‘My ex-husband fancied you rotten!’ Jinni laughed again. ‘It made me a fortune, well, enough to eventually buy this place, anyway. And I married well.’ She laughed again. ‘And divorced even better. He was the producer’, she added. ‘Egocentric bastard …’ She talked on, telling me her plans to open a boutique B&B, dropping in details of her past, her hands waving about expressively, her glossy dark hair tossed back over a shoulder, kohled eyes fixed on mine. She had an energy and passion about her that made me feel dull and mousy. She’d just finished a diatribe about how men were all largely useless but she did miss it if she didn’t have one to go to bed with occasionally and had moved onto the sort of bathrooms she was planning. ‘They are going to be really sleek and classy,’ she was saying, ‘with rain showers and power baths, but I want to give each bedroom a totally different style with a mix of contemporary and vintage.’ She stopped and gave another of her strange honks of laughter. ‘In other words, I’ll be round the junk shops and … Oh Lord, here we go!’ A small thin woman in her sixties with cropped grey hair and sharp, pretty features was coming along the pavement in jeans, dark donkey jacket and a red patterned scarf. Her dark eyes looked us both up and down. ‘Hello, Jinni,’ she said coolly, before holding her hand out to me. ‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ she added, her voice low, but with an edge. ‘How remiss of you!’ Jinni’s tone was dry. ‘Not harangued Tess with one of your many petitions yet? Not even the one about me?’ Jinni turned back to me, unsmiling. ‘Ingrid is against what I am doing here. She thinks if I am allowed to open a B&B it will bring ruin and devastation on the town and all who live here …’ Ingrid released her grip on my fingers and gave a chilly smile. ‘I am concerned,’ she said in her cultured tones, ‘about extra traffic and congestion in this narrow road.’ She held out a flyer. ‘We are already seeing a greater influx of Londoners using this as a weekend base and contributing nothing to the local economy Monday to Friday. And now, with the high-speed rail link bringing in new residents who can comfortably commute from here,’ she paused and raised her eyebrows at me, ‘the housing stock is shrinking and local people are being priced out of the market.’ She gave an extraordinarily sweet smile that was framed in steel. ‘Tess is my newest neighbour,’ Jinni told her. ‘Ingrid is Northstone’s foremost agitator, she said to me. ‘No issue too small! The local council adore her.’ ‘I prefer the term “campaigner”’ said Ingrid, with another sugary-tight beam. ‘It’s nothing personal,’ she finished. Jinni made a small snorting noise. ‘Well, nice to meet you,’ I said uncertainly. ‘I must get going. Jinni, I’ll um–’ ‘Come over soon,’ Jinni finished for me shortly. ‘And shout if you need anything.’ She turned abruptly and strode back over the road towards her house. As I moved back towards my car, Ingrid fell into step beside me. ‘Do you have a view on this … development?’ she asked, enunciating the final word as if it could do with a dose of antibiotics. ‘Well, the plans sound lovely,’ I said, trying to sound friendly and reasonable. ‘And Jinni seems very nice to me.’ I shivered. It had got cold while I was standing there. Ingrid looked at me with a pitying expression and then gave an odd little laugh. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Things aren’t always what they seem.’ Chapter 2 (#u97f4e9c5-778f-59a3-be7a-3b07732c001a) It seemed like a stroke. That’s what her best friend Mo said when she phoned to say my mother had been taken to A&E. The patient, discharging herself in a matter of hours, insisted it was a fuss over nothing much. ‘Gerald’s taking me away for a few days,’ she’d announced, moments after I’d cancelled work to rush to her bedside. ‘We’re going to see Sonia in Dorset. Well he is. I’m going to the pottery if it’s still there. Not been to Poole for donkey’s years.’ ‘Shouldn’t you be resting?’ I enquired, knowing I’d have more luck suggesting a little light pole-dancing or a ride on a camel. ‘What for? They can’t find a thing wrong with me. It was likely migraines with what do you call it?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Yes you do – migraines where you can’t speak.’ ‘I really don’t know anything about them.’ My mother had sounded impatient. ‘I wish you wouldn’t be deliberately obtuse.’ While I was spluttering she swept on. ‘I’ve just looked it up and already it’s gone. So annoying. That word to do with light – they take pictures of it.’ I felt a frisson of unease. ‘Mum, what are you talking about?’ ‘Migraines! It’s not that I mind Sonia, you know I don’t, but I don’t want to sit there all afternoon, when there’s the harbour to see.’ ‘Well you don’t have to, do you?’ I said, struggling to keep up with my mother’s conversational switchback technique. Was she usually as scattered as this? ‘Sonia won’t mind if you go for a walk. She can catch up with her dad.’ ‘We’re not staying there. Gerald’s got us a hotel.’ ‘That’s nice. Can I speak to him?’ ‘He’s gone home to pack.’ I listened while she talked on, covering a myriad subjects ranging from the problems of deciding what to take when March was cold one minute and sunny the next, Mo’s dog’s possible gallstones and the squirrel in her garden who’d eaten all the bulbs. She did sound okay – her voice was strong enough and she appeared to be wandering about the house as she told me about the nice staff at the hospital, who were forced to work such long hours with little thanks from this government, and how the doctor had been impressed with her blood pressure. Keeping her to the point was no easy task, but then again, as I wrote to my sister, that was nothing new. Mother’s made of stern stuff, I typed, as much to reassure myself as Alice. And it was true. She was rarely ill, still gardened and her gleamingly clean house put mine to shame. She travelled, went to galleries and the theatre, was a sterling member of Margate Operatics and had more friends than I did. Seventy-four was no age these days. Even if she has had a TIA and is keeping it quiet, I concluded, knowing that Alice would immediately Google the full implications of a Transient Ischaemic Attack and be an expert on it by the next time she wrote. It will take more than a few microscopic clots to finish her off. I pushed away the memory of Tilly saying that when she’d last phoned, Granny sounded even more bonkers than usual and the way my mother had suddenly sounded vague and distracted and appeared to temporarily struggle to recall Ben’s name. Was she feeling unwell more often than she was letting on? I’d been phoning daily, I told my sister instead, as I tried to still the anxious fluttering in my stomach as I imagined my seemingly indestructible parent suddenly helpless and frail. Her dear old friend Mo was there a lot; Gerald as often as he was allowed to be. Alice was having none of it. No amount of explaining that our mother herself had actively discouraged me from going down this weekend, saying the traffic would be bad with all those other mothers being towed out to lunch, that I had a long list of household tasks to complete and a presentation to finish before Tuesday, would sway my elder sister. You need to see for yourself, she instructed. While actually numbering my duties: 1) get a proper list from Mother of all symptoms. NB What exactly was said by medics? (suggest you take notes). 2) double-check with Mo for accuracy. Have noticed Mother can be woolly of late. 3) Speak to Gerald (do not be fobbed off by Mother. I do not have a number for him. Make sure you obtain. 4) I think it would be best to phone her GP on Monday and you’ll need to be fully armed with the facts … I growled and sighed. Years of experience have taught me that when a diktat arrives from the US, it is quicker in the long run to follow it. Alice may be three thousand miles away in Boston. But her sheer will can still fill a room. Thus on an afternoon when I would rather be perusing my sample pots and deciding which shade of foodie yellow – I am hovering between autumn honey, golden sugar and lemon delight – to use on the dining-room walls, drinking wine with Jinni or even wielding the Shake n’ Vac in Ben’s bedroom – Tilly has complained it smells of hamsters – I am crawling around the M25, with a potted azalea and the gnawing suspicion that by the time I actually have the opportunity to start this brave new life of mine, I’ll be on a mobility scooter. Then I hear Alice’s voice reminding me it’s the least I can do on Mother’s Day when I haven’t seen our mother since before I moved – even if she was away with Gerald on an art appreciation cruise and then spending every spare minute rehearsing H.M.S. Pinafore – when she, Alice, is sitting on the other side of the world, worrying. ‘Get on a bloody plane, then!’ I say out loud, looking at the line of traffic snaking ahead and braking sharply as the van in front abruptly stops. ‘Arse!’ I shout, as I inch forward again, shot through with guilt and resentment. My mother’s not overly thrilled, either. ‘He’s a very clever man,’ she says, as I step across the threshold of her neat chalet bungalow. ‘But I do wish he wouldn’t go around in that dress.’ She has been to an exhibition by Grayson Perry at the Turner Contemporary, where she has admired the pots and ‘those wooden ones’ but still isn’t convinced the artist needs the frock and wig. ‘It’s the children I think about,’ she says. ‘They’ll get teased at school.’ ‘I don’t think so, Mum.’ I say, handing her the plant and throwing my coat over the bannister. ‘As far as I know, he’s only got one daughter and she’s grown up now.’ ‘Hmmm,’ my mother looks as though she doubts this. ‘Sonia hasn’t got any better either.’ My mother has always believed in the non sequitur to keep conversation zipping along. While I am still making the mental leap from the famous artist to Gerald’s rather dour daughter, she has moved on to her geranium cuttings having died in the frost. ‘You don’t expect it in March,’ she says. ‘Though Mo will say that May thing about casting the clout.’ ‘How is Mo?’ I enquire, trying to analyse what is even odder about my mother than usual. ‘Still likes her tea.’ It is then that it hits me. My mother hasn’t moved. Usually by now I’d have been offered three different sorts of hot beverage and very probably a sandwich. But I’ve been in the house a good five minutes and she is still in the hallway in front of me. ‘Shall we go and make some?’ I suggest. ‘Some what?’ Everything in the kitchen looks as always. The surfaces shine, the sink is scrubbed, the storage jars arranged in formation. The floor is speck-free, the tea towels folded with regimental precision and the mugs lined up along the shelf have their handles pointing in the same direction. But as I watch my mother, watching me filling the teapot, the low-level dread that started when I hit the Thanet Way, deepens further. ‘Are you okay, Mum?’ I ask, disturbed by her stillness. She looks back at me, her face troubled, the skin on her cheeks seeming to sag. I see how old she looks and how tired. ‘Not really,’ she says. I carry the tray to the sitting room and wait while she settles herself in her usual chair. The book on the table is the same crime thriller she told me she was reading weeks ago. A bookmark pokes out of it, barely a quarter of the way through. The air in here feels slightly stale and the irises on the pine cupboard are curled and faded. My mother flings open windows in deepest February, will sense a dead petal at ten paces. ‘What’s happened?’ I ask. ‘You’re not well, are you?’ She shakes her head slowly. I am clutched by fear. ‘It wasn’t a migraine, was it? When they took you to hospital?’ She sits up straighter. ‘Oh yes, they think it was,’ she says, sounding stronger. ‘A migraine with auras,’ she adds firmly. She smiles at me now. ‘I thought it was a stroke too …’ She lifts up her tea and takes a small sip. ‘I didn’t want to say it on the phone’. My heart is thumping as she tells me. She’d been in the garden, trying to pull out the dandelions from among her sprouting forget-me-nots, when she’d started to feel a bit sick. So she’d come indoors to get some water and then her vision had started to go hazy and she was seeing wavy lines. Recognising this as classic migraine, after having them for years, and feeling her head start to ache, she’d called Mo to put her off coming round for supper. But when she tried to speak to Mo, her words came out backwards. Mo called an ambulance and came straight round. They both now thought my mother was having a stroke, and the paramedics clearly agreed as she was whisked off to A&E – ‘such nice young people, couldn’t have been kinder’ – where she had various tests and a CT scan, which showed that in fact she hadn’t had a stroke, and they concluded, according to my mother, that it probably was just a migraine after all. By now she could talk normally again and they told her migraines could affect speech and that if she hadn’t tried to make the phone call she might never have known. The relief made my mother feel better immediately and she went home, took painkillers and had a better night’s sleep than she usually did, feeling fine by the next day, although the hospital wanted her to have a second, different, sort of scan, just to make sure, so she had gone for that when she got back from Poole, and seen a neurologist. ‘And?’ I prompt as she is silent again. ‘What did he say?’ The room is getting darker and my mother rises from her chair and walks slowly across the carpet and turns on the standard lamp she’s had all my life. Then she sits down again and I see the distress in her eyes. ‘I had wondered,’ she says. ‘But it was still a terrible shock.’ ‘What?’ I ask softly, my mind racing through the possibilities. A stroke the first scan had missed? Cancer? A brain tumour? ‘Tell me.’ ‘Oh Tess,’ my mother says, with tears in her eyes. ‘I’ve got some sort of dementia.’ Chapter 3 (#u97f4e9c5-778f-59a3-be7a-3b07732c001a) ‘My uncle had Alzheimer’s.’ Jinni opened a cupboard with one hand and reached into the tall fridge with the other. ‘It’s an absolute bastard.’ I sat at the enormous table in her vast stone kitchen, looking in awe at the battered range, deep butler’s sink and numerous drawers, as she deftly uncorked a bottle and put a generous white wine in front of me. I swallowed. ‘It’s not necessarily that – the damage is frontal-temporal only but I’ve been Googling and it doesn’t sound good. I don’t know how quickly …’ I stopped. ‘We’re waiting for an appointment with the consultant.’ Jinni looked back at me. ‘And she’s okay at home on her own?’ ‘Her friend Mo is going in and out. And her partner, Gerald. Not that we’re allowed to call him that!’ I didn’t add that Mo had said she thought the days of my mother being left alone were numbered. I was still getting my head around it. Mo, sworn to silence until my mother had told me herself, had been on the phone for over an hour. She’d been worried about my mother’s forgetfulness, peculiar statements and occasional lack of coherent speech for some time. But Gerald had appeared unbothered (‘typical man! They don’t notice anything unless it’s in a mini skirt’) and my mother had dismissed her concerns, while insisting I was due to visit any day, so Mo had hoped I’d turn up soon and pick up on it myself. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I’d said guiltily. ‘Nothing to be sorry for, Pet,’ Mo interrupted me. ‘Wouldn’t have made a ha’pence worth of difference.’ It seemed nothing would. I was hanging onto the word ‘slow’ I’d found on the internet. A slow, degenerative neurological condition. Perhaps it would take a long time and my mother would stay at this stage, where she lost her train of thought and stood staring. Maybe all the other horrors I couldn’t bear to imagine, listed under symptoms and outlook, happened to other people’s mothers and not mine. I hadn’t told the kids yet. I told myself it was best to wait till we’d had the full prognosis, but really I couldn’t bear to say the words out loud. I wouldn’t have told Jinni if she hadn’t looked at me so directly and said I seemed upset. ‘She looks normal,’ I said. ‘She sounds the same, but there’s this …’ I stopped, struggling to put my finger on it. ‘Lack of interest …’ I’d shown her photos of the house, suggested dates for her to come and stay. Usually she’d have been on her diary like a tramp on a kipper. Now she nodded with distance in her eyes. ‘She’s afraid too,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what will happen. Alice is already talking about carers but Mum says she just wants to keep everything normal for as long as she can …’ I’d read about people with mothers who’d simply gone a bit doo-lally and couldn’t be trusted with a gas supply, but who were happy enough in their own little world. I’d tried to picture my mother like this and failed. Then I’d found horror stories of aggression and incontinence and smashed furniture, and switched off the computer, unable to bear the tales of rage and tears and family breakdown. ‘But I don’t know how long that will be …’ I said. Jinni shook the plaster dust from her hair. ‘Come and see a fireplace.’ I followed her obediently up a wide staircase to a bare back bedroom overlooking her tangled garden. A large chunk of ceiling was missing. ‘Look!’ She waved an arm at a pretty iron grate surrounded by flowered tiles. ‘Victorian! Been boarded up.’ She kicked at the sheet of painted hardboard she’d hacked away from the chimney breast. ‘Philistines!’ She threw open one of the cupboards either side of the chimney breast. ‘It’s the third one I’ve uncovered. Don’t you just love all this storage?’ ‘It’s going to be gorgeous,’ I said, looking around at the long windows and cornice work, grateful to be distracted. ‘Yeah,’ Jinni pulled a face. ‘If I don’t drop dead of exhaustion first. I’m knocking through here to make an en suite.’ She slapped a palm against the wall. ‘If you ever want a stress-buster, grab the sledge hammer.’ Back downstairs, my fingers curled around the leaflet in my pocket. The reason I’d plucked up the courage to bang on Jinni’s door. ‘Did you get one of these?’ I held out the flyer for a Wine and Wisdom evening for the local theatre group. Individuals welcome! ‘Do you fancy going?’ Jinni stiffened. ‘Eurgh. Those am-dram types get on my wick – all emoting and “getting in the zone” as if they’re Dench or Olivier – and if I see Ingrid once more this week, I might swing for her.’ She took a large mouthful of wine. ‘She’s the bane of my bloody life. Still objecting to my change-of-use application on all sorts of insane grounds and she’s been up and down the street trying to get everyone else to protest as well.’ ‘She put a note through my door about it,’ I told Jinni uncomfortably. ‘Said she was worried about extra vehicles and you chopping down trees.’ Jinni scowled. ‘Don’t listen to that environmental crap,’ she said. ‘It’s sour grapes. Her creepy son tried to buy it before I managed to. I outbid him. That’s the real reason the old witch is so bitter and twisted.’ ‘Oh!’ I waited while Jinni took another swig from her glass. ‘What was he going to do with it?’ ‘Turn it into flats probably. Or demolish it – one of his mates owns the place behind me so I expect the plan was to flatten the lot and build a whole new cul-de-sac. Even more cars, even more of the dreaded DFLs tempted here. Not that they need much tempting now we’ve got the fast train. And a whacking great profit for him. Wanker.’ She poured some more into her glass and pushed the bottle towards me. ‘I wouldn’t mind if she was honest about it. But it’s so damn hypocritical. I’m making this place beautiful again, bringing out all the original features. I’ve been advised to take out one tree because it’s diseased and it might bloody fall on me. I’ve got huge plans for the garden. It’s going to be stunning. And if I had his money, yes, I’d keep the whole place just for me but I’m going to have to do B&B to afford the upkeep.’ She stopped and took a deep breath. ‘Sorry to rant on.’ ‘He’s a builder, is he?’ ‘David?’ she said, with a comical sneer. ‘He’s an architect. Got some flash practice in town. But fingers in all the local pies. Ingrid’s always storming the council offices talking about all the new commuters ruining the area and there not being enough affordable housing, while her precious boy is the first one to mop up any bargains and make a fast buck. They both make me sick.’ I looked at her, startled by the real venom in her voice. I made myself smile. ‘So that’s a no, then?’ Jinni grinned back. ‘Sorry hun – you’ll have to be brave and go on your own.’ ‘Bravery’s not my strong point.’ The Wine and Wisdom Evening was in a function room at the back of a pub called the Six Pears. I walked the half mile there, looking in the old-fashioned shop fronts, as I crossed the cobbled market square onto the High Street, still finding it hard to believe this was now home. The town had changed and spread over the years since I’d first come here to visit my friend Fran. There were rows of houses where once there were fields, more traffic and speed bumps and the lovely old ironmongers had closed down now. But Northstone always kept its charm. Even in the years when Fran was in Italy, we’d got into the habit of stopping off on the way back from the coast for coffees or ice-creams, to poke about among the antiques or simply find a loo, and I’d often imagined living here. The fantasy had grown legs the moment I’d read about the new high-speed link to the city. House prices were rising sharply and already the bookshop had become an emporium of scented candles and high-end bath oils and our favourite pub, with the bar billiards table, a raw-food restaurant. When we got a buyer for Finchley, I moved fast. I loved the idea of a small community and a proper local, quiet streets and the river nearby. With London now under an hour away, it seemed meant to be. I’d thought about Ben getting to uni and me getting to the office, and having somewhere to park and a garden. But somehow I’d overlooked the day-to-day reality of making new friends and who I’d talk to … The wind was cold and I could feel the make-up running from my streaming eyes as I reached the door, suddenly wishing I’d stayed at home with some biscuits and the box set of Downton Abbey. But, I reminded myself as I shoved my body across the threshold, I needed a social life. Visions of painting the place red with Fran had faded fast – the last time I’d dropped in, it was all baby yoga, organic dishcloths and making sure her four children got their ten-a-day. Apart from Jinni, the only person I’d spoken to at any length since I got here was the chap in the corner shop and that was only a thrilling exchange about my newspaper delivery and why he was fresh out of washing-up liquid. A woman with grey-blonde hair and some rather nice silver jewellery was sat at a table next to a cash box. ‘Wicked Wits?’ she enquired, consulting a list. ‘Sorry?’ She repeated it, mouthing the words carefully as if I were in need of learning support. ‘Are you on a TEAM?’ ‘No, I’m on my own …’ She rustled the paper. ‘The Wits said they were waiting for one more.’ She beamed. ‘But if you’re a one-off I’ll give you to Brigitte …’ Brigitte, a dramatically made-up lady with highly defined eyebrows, was, as she immediately introduced herself, chair of the Northstone Players –for which the evening was raising much-needed funds – and currently rehearsing Madame Francine for their forthcoming production of A Frenchman in Disguise. ‘Do you know the play?’ I shook my head. ‘Ever done any acting?’ I shook my head again. She patted my arm. ‘We’re always looking for help with the scenery …’ She led me across a room filled with round tables adorned with paper, pens and bowls of peanuts, through small groups of people holding glasses, to the far corner. A broad-shouldered, grey-haired man in his late fifties sat with a younger, bearded chap and a blonde girl of about twenty. ‘One for you, Malcolm,’ Brigitte said. ‘This is Tess – she’s new to Northstone and could be your secret weapon.’ ‘I don’t know about that …’ I squeaked, embarrassed. Malcolm looked me up and down. ‘Neither do I,’ he said gruffly. Malcolm was the editor of the local paper, the Northstone & District News, as well as other regional publications; the young girl, Emily, was one of his junior reporters and the man, Adrian, another of the town’s thesps, who, he told me, had written a play he was hoping they would perform for their autumn production. ‘We’ll call ourselves the Odds and Sods, shall we?’ said Malcolm. When we’d got to the third round and I still hadn’t known the answer to anything except who’d played Deirdre in Coronation Street, I could feel myself sinking in my chair. My only consolation came from the fact that Emily didn’t seem to know much either and Adrian had only contributed the names of three Olympic gold medallists and the symbols from the periodic table for lead, tin and pewter. Malcolm, on the other hand, was grunting out answers like a one-man Wikipedia and was only seen to be flummoxed when a question came up about boy bands. ‘You must know that,’ he instructed Emily, who didn’t. By half-time we were sitting in third place. ‘And we haven’t done current affairs yet,’ said Malcolm, satisfied. ‘What do you do? And why did you move here?’ I was halfway through regaling him with the highlights of my enthralling career as an office space planner, when I saw Ingrid bearing down on us with a beer mug full of money and two books of raffle tickets. ‘Hello again!’ she said briskly to me before putting the tankard in front of Malcolm. ‘How’s that paper of yours? Going to be any decent news in it for a change?’ ‘You’ll have to fork out and find out,’ he countered. ‘For a change.’ ‘I always do,’ said Ingrid. ‘Though why it doesn’t have a bit more online, I don’t know.’ ‘Because then nobody would buy it,’ he said. ‘As it is they all stand there reading it in the shop.’ ‘You want to cut out all the smut, then, and put in something worth paying for.’ ‘The smut is why the few do pay for it.’ Ingrid gave him a withering smile. I got the feeling this was a well-worn exchange. ‘Are you going to buy some tickets?’ ‘No,’ Malcolm said. ‘I’ve already paid to do the quiz.’ ‘This is to raise more funds. Lovely prizes.’ ‘They won’t be.’ ‘Go on. Another couple of pounds won’t hurt you.’ ‘I like quizzes. I don’t like raffles.’ Ingrid thrust the books towards me. ‘A pound a strip’, she said, surmising correctly that I wouldn’t dare refuse her too. ‘Settling in?’ she asked, while I fumbled for coins. ‘Despite the neighbours?’ I felt Malcolm’s eyes on me. There was a small silence. ‘Jinni’s been very kind to me,’ I said eventually, keeping my voice even and smiling at Ingrid. Ingrid looked cynical. ‘I’m sure she has,’ she said shortly. ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ she added to Malcolm. ‘But it’s off the record.’ ‘Then don’t tell me,’ said Malcolm. ‘Come back when you’ve got something I can actually publish.’ Ingrid grimaced. ‘It’s about the council. If I have my way, I’ll blow the lid off the whole lot of them.’ Malcolm’s tone was dry: ‘I’m surprised they can sleep.’ ‘Annoying woman,’ he said, when she’d moved off. ‘Do you want a drink?’ I asked him, disconcerted. Emily and Adrian had disappeared. ‘Not allowed to. Doctor’s a miserable bugger who said I’d got to give it up. Orange juice only.’ He looked woebegone. I laughed. ‘Shall I get you one of those?’ Malcolm peered into his empty glass as if searching for an answer. ‘Why not.’ ‘Ingrid seems to be quite a character,’ I said, when I got back. Malcolm looked at his juice with ill-concealed disgust. ‘Ingrid disapproves of me and the paper.’ This seemed to please him. ‘Calls it a filthy little rag.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘That’s a bit strong.’ ‘She objects to page five and our Busty Barmaids. Though actually last week it was a busty librarian. Very fetching she looked too, glasses, hair up in a bun, pile of books in her hands and a stunning cleavage. Ingrid thinks it is degrading and demeaning to women. They’re queuing up to be in it. And some of them are quite disappointed when I tell them they’re keeping their tops on.’ I looked at him as I sipped my wine. I could imagine he’d been very good-looking when younger and he was handsome now in a craggy, lived-in sort of way. His shrewd eyes were still a piercing blue and he had a sharpness and vigour about him when he talked that was appealing. He was looking back, intently. ‘Do you disapprove too?’ I shrugged. ‘Seems a bit last-century. But if the women are choosing to–’ ‘Sells newspapers.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Nothing much else does – it’s all about “digital content” these days and apps for your iPhone.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m the only regional newspaper that’s still got the nerve. The media has been taken over by the fervent young all wanting to make a difference. Give ‘em a story about a bishop and an actress and all they’re interested in is historical sex abuse in the church and whether the actress is getting the minimum wage.’ I laughed. He shot a look across to where Ingrid was handing out tickets at another table. ‘And it’s a treat for our Pete. Makes up for all the time photographing fetes and sports days.’ ‘So how long have you been the editor, then?’ ‘Too damn long. Before that I was a sports writer on the Sun.’ ‘Ah.’ Whatever his background, his knowledge was staggering. By the time he’d sliced through the questions in current affairs we’d moved into the lead. ‘Haven’t we done well?’ said Emily. ‘You haven’t,’ growled Malcolm. But she wasn’t listening. I saw her flush and look simultaneously delighted and self-conscious. Across the room a rather beautiful young man – all blonde surfer curls and bright eyes – in a very white t-shirt and denim jacket was making his way towards us. His smile was wide and friendly as he reached the table. ‘Did you win?’ ‘Did you get me a story?’ asked Malcolm. The young man shook his head. ‘Very dull – no in-fighting.’ ‘Hmm. In my first newsroom we had a notice. If you don’t come back with a story, don’t come back.’ Malcolm waved a hand at me. ‘This is one of my reporters, Gabriel.’ He said it as if the name were a foreign word he was pronouncing carefully. ‘And this is Tess. Tess has just moved here from Finchley.’ ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Gabriel stuck out a hand. Emily was still gazing at him with adoration. ‘And?’ prompted Malcolm. Gabriel grinned. ‘And I do hope you are well?’ Malcolm rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t try to be clever – it doesn’t suit you.’ Gabriel looked unabashed. ‘I was going to make a bit of polite small talk first.’ He took his jacket off and sat down next to me. ‘I gather my editor thinks I should interview you.’ By end of the quiz, when I’d finally covered myself in glory in the food and drink round as the only one who knew what went into a velout? sauce – even Malcolm looked impressed – I’d learned Gabriel was new to Northstone too. His dream of being a top investigative journalist on the Sunday Times or Panorama was being delayed by the need to get some on-the-ground experience and he’d been told he was lucky to be working for Malcolm, who was old-school, one of a dying breed, who’d been properly trained and knew what was what. So far it had involved a lot of council meetings – which was where he’d been tonight – and a great deal of turning up at charity events or the bedsides of mothers with the same birth plan as Kate Middleton. But now, finally, Malcolm had given him a feature to do. ‘It’s about the relationships between the locals and the DFLs’ he’d told me. ‘You don’t have to be named, but it would help me if you were …’ A woman on the outside of town had had her tyres slashed and was blaming it on the fact that she was Down from London, and her neighbours didn’t like her buying up run-down cottages to rent out. ‘Find out if it’s fact or paranoia!’ Malcolm had apparently barked and Gabriel was keen to impress him by doing just that. I didn’t see how I could help and said so, but as Gabriel reminded me, with his big smile, of my lovely Ben, and I’ve always been useless at saying no, I’d agreed to him coming round in the week to question me on my experiences of living in the town to date. ‘There is some bad feeling,’ he explained apologetically. ‘House prices have risen so fast that young people here could never buy anywhere here these days unless they had a fantastic job in London and even rentals … He nodded at Emily, who gave him another adoring smile. ‘Emily still lives with her parents because she can’t afford anything else and I have a really tiny studio flat here. You can see how the locals could get fed up, with all the decent houses being snapped up by outsiders …’ As I hurried along the dark High Street, head bent against the sharp wind, clutching the bottle of cherry brandy that Malcolm had thrust at me as my share of the first prize, I thought about Ingrid and her campaign against Jinni’s project. But slashing tyres? Surely nobody would get that worked up. I shivered, hoping I’d left enough lights on to make the house feel safe. As I came round the bend, a crowd of youngsters spilled out of the pub, laughing and jostling. ‘You are such a loser, Connor!’ one shouted with glee, pushing another boy along the pavement. The first boy, Connor presumably, responded by taking his friend’s head in an arm lock and attempting to trip him up. There was more laughter, shouts of encouragement from the group and general shoving before one of them stepped back suddenly, nearly knocking me over. As I gasped and steadied myself against the wall, another figure appeared amongst them. ‘Oi!’ said a loud and familiar voice, ‘watch what you’re doing, can’t you!’ ‘Sorry,’ mumbled the boy nearest to me, as I turned in surprise to the owner of the stentorian tones. ‘Where’ve you come from?’ ‘The station,’ said my daughter. ‘Where do you think?’ ‘Danni is being a total nightmare!’ Tilly spooned chocolate powder into hot milk and balanced a biscuit between her teeth. ‘I couldn’t stand her anymore.’ She stirred the contents of her mug vigorously, put the half-bitten digestive down and opened the fridge. ‘You haven’t got much in here, have you?’ She sighed at the largely empty shelves and picked up a packet of cheese. ‘Not that I can eat anyway! I’ve got to lose half a stone before the next audition comes up’ ‘You’re fine,’ I said, as I always did, smiling at my beautiful, sturdy daughter, who was always going to lose half a stone but never quite did. ‘Do you know some catwalk models live on balls of tissue paper soaked in orange juice before a big show?’ Tilly got a knife out of the drawer and began slicing through cheddar. ‘Well, make sure you don’t,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you have to work this evening?’ ‘I did lunchtime and I’m not on till six on Sunday so I thought I’d stay here tonight and tomorrow. That’s okay, isn’t it?’ She began to spread butter on crackers. ‘Of course, darling. This is your home too.’ Tilly nodded. ‘I’ve brought some washing …’ I smiled indulgently, just glad to have her there. ‘Get it, then.’ I walked through to the cramped little utility room at the end of the kitchen. ‘This economy cycle is quite quick. If you–’ I stopped as the doorbell rang. I raised my eyebrows at Tilly, feeling a frisson of alarm at someone calling so late. Tilly shrugged, unconcerned. ‘I’ll go.’ I followed her through to the sitting room as she swung back the front door, letting in a gale of cold air. Jinni’s eyes were wide and angry. ‘Did you see anything?’ she demanded, her gaze swinging from Tilly to me. We shook our heads stupidly as Jinni stepped inside and gestured back at the darkness behind her. ‘It’s all I bloody need, right now,’ she said furiously. ‘Some bastard’s just smashed my window.’ Chapter 4 (#u97f4e9c5-778f-59a3-be7a-3b07732c001a) ‘Some bastard’s also eaten all the Marmite.’ Tilly waved the offending jar under my nose to indicate its cleanly scraped innards. ‘That’s Ben – he always puts it back when it’s empty. He’s done it to the jam too.’ She gave me a stern look. ‘That’s what you should be investigating, Miss Marple. How he still gets away with it.’ ‘I think we’ll need more coffee as well, after last night.’ Jinni had stayed through at least three pots’ worth – liberally laced with the cherry brandy which I’d offered her for the shock! – and it was nearly two when Tilly and I had finally stumbled upstairs. I was still sitting up in bed in my dressing gown, yawning. Tilly flopped down next to me. ‘Is someone really out to get her? I still think it was those losers outside the pub – getting lairy on the way home.’ My daughter rolled her eyes. ‘You know what boys like Ben are like – can’t take their drink and get all pathetic.’ I frowned at her. ‘Your brother would never break windows.’ ‘No Ben wouldn’t,’ said Tilly with laboured patience. ‘Because he’s a lazy twat, for a start, but boys like him – of that age … She shook her head with the superiority of one four years their senior and wriggled her legs under the duvet. ‘We need bread too. There was only one slice left.’ ‘You could see if Jinni needs anything as she’ll be waiting in for the glass people,’ I said as Tilly stretched out. ‘I can’t believe someone like Ingrid would do anything like that. But there has been trouble between locals and those moving in.’ I lifted my empty tea mug as if it might have magically refilled itself. ‘Put the kettle on, darling,’ I said hopefully, as Tilly settled herself more deeply into my pillows. I watched her eyes droop. ‘Okay, I’ll do it then.’ As I stood in the kitchen, curling my toes on the cold tiles, I hoped Tilly was right. Jinni’s theories had grown increasingly wild with each brandy she’d chased down, and had concluded eventually that Ingrid or ‘that wanky son’ had been behind the smashed windowpane. She had regaled us with a number of run-ins she’d had with both of them and admitted she had herself put in an objection when his friend had wanted to build an extension David had designed behind her, so I supposed it was feasible they were annoyed with her … The young men up the road, on the other hand, had seemed full of good-natured high spirits, more likely bent on getting a kebab than embarking on vandalism. But surely, Ingrid and this wealthy architect son of hers were too well-educated, too … I searched for the right word as the water reached boiling point. By the time I’d carried two mugs back upstairs, my daughter was asleep. ‘Civilised,’ I said, two days later to Gabriel, who jotted it in his notebook. ‘Would you like another biscuit?’ He gave me a flash of his beautiful white teeth, ‘I’m good thanks.’ ‘So where do you come from originally?’ I asked. ‘Are you American? I can hear a slight accent. Does your mother miss you?’ Gabriel smiled. ‘My father’s a New Yorker. He met my mother here and she moved to the States. But we came back ten years ago. I left home ages ago – I did some travelling after uni.’ ‘You should still call her,’ I said. ‘Were you the last one to leave?’ ‘No, I’ve got two sisters. So, you think Northstone is generally genteel’, he continued, trying to get me back on track. ‘But what do you think about these outbreaks of violence?’ Gabriel sat back in one of my saggy armchairs and stretched out his jeaned legs. He was wearing another sparkling-white t-shirt and had obviously been brought up to iron. Ben’s clothes all had that faded-out, crumpled air. Even Gabriel’s boots were gleaming … I frowned. ‘Well, it’s not really violence is it? I mean a smashed window – could have been kids.’ Gabriel raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you think of Jinni’s theory that it’s part of an orchestrated campaign to drive her out of town?’ ‘Well, I don’t really think … I mean it’s easy to be paranoid, would anyone really …’ ‘Has anyone been unpleasant to you, at all?’ ‘No, I said, shaking off an image of Ingrid’s chilly smile. ‘I don’t really know anybody …’ Gabriel shone a smile on me. ‘You do now. Did you enjoy the quiz?’ ‘I was hopeless, but it was fun …’ ‘Do you think the protesters’ concerns are valid ones? Do people like you, moving here from the city and able to afford higher prices, push up the cost of housing?’ ‘I don’t know enough about it to say,’ I said guiltily. ‘Well, do you feel you’re contributing to the local economy? Are you using the local shops, for example?’ ‘Oh yes.’ ‘Would you say you have as much right to make your home here as anyone and nobody will frighten YOU off?’ Gabriel looked hopeful. I shook my head and looked what I imagined was motherly. ‘I know you need your story,’ I said kindly. ‘But I just want to get on with life here and be friends with everyone, if I can–’ I cringed as Gabriel jotted this down. I’d sound like Pollyanna’s grandmother. ‘I use the shops, certainly,’ I added, wondering how far a packet of ham and four loo rolls from the corner was going to boost the Northstone finances, ‘and I only go to London once or twice a week. So although I’m a DFL, technically, I’m very far from being a weekender. This is my new home.’ As Gabriel’s pen moved faster, I had a sudden pang for the house in Finchley. The jumble of coats in the hall. The kitchen with its crowded work surfaces and discarded coffee mugs. The radio playing over the sound of the television in the breakfast room and music coming down the stairs. Always someone there … ‘Which son is this?’ Gabriel picked up the photograph of my youngest leaning back on the old sofa, guitar in his hands. ‘That’s Ben. He’s really good.’ I laughed self-consciously. ‘But then I’m his mother–’ Gabriel nodded. ‘He should come down to the Fox next time he’s here – they have an open mic night. Tell him there’s a Facebook page.’ ‘Do you play?’ ‘A bit – nothing special. I like to listen, though. So, what do you think of your neighbour Jinni, then?’ ‘I admire her. She’s a bit barmy but …’ I clapped my hand to my mouth. ‘Don’t write that down! I mean she’s eccentric in a good way – creative … No, don’t say that either …’ Gabriel put his notebook down. ‘No, of course I won’t. We’re just chatting now. I know she’s crazy.’ Gabriel laughed. ‘I’ve spent quite a lot of time over there. I can’t print most of what she says. Malcolm’s always shouting at me to look up the laws of libel. Are you happy to have your photo taken?’ I pulled a face. ‘Oh no – I don’t think so. And I don’t really want my full name …’ Gabriel nodded. ‘Okay, we’ll just put Tess, and do you mind very much if I ask your age? Malcolm always wants to include it – you know, Tess, 38, said …’ I laughed. ‘I wish. My eldest is 24 – I didn’t get started that early! I was 23.’ ‘Early enough!’ Gabriel said. ‘I’m 24 this year too. And I can’t imagine having children right now …’ At 24, I had two of them. And was married with a mortgage. I struggled to picture my offspring in the same position. Oliver was the most grown-up – he and Sam were looking for a flat together right now – but Tilly lived hand to mouth and Ben … ‘I’ll email you the details,’ Gabriel was saying, ‘or come down to the office and I’ll give you a leaflet. It would be great to see some new guys there …’ ‘Sorry?’ ‘The open mic night. The next one’s the Tuesday after Easter. You said Ben would be home then?’ Gabriel was still smiling despite it being evident I hadn’t been listening. ‘Come into the office anyway. Have a coffee. I’m sure Malcolm would be pleased to see you again.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you can tell him what a great interview we had. He isn’t hugely impressed with my abilities right now,’ he added ruefully. ‘Told me I was useless this morning.’ ‘Really? Why?’ Gabriel pulled a face. ‘I should have been here earlier. In his day there were proper journalists not – I quote – kids with their useless media studies degrees his dyslexic granny could have earned!’ He shrugged. ‘I did go to see Jinni on Saturday.’ ‘She said you were being very helpful about getting the glass fixed,’ I said. ‘She was ever so grateful.’ I smiled and patted his arm. Gabriel looked embarrassed. ‘Oh, it was nothing.’ ‘It was bloody marvellous!’ yelled Jinni, who had bolted over the road as soon as she’d spotted Gabriel coming out of my front door. She threw an arm around his shoulders. ‘Your friend Sean has been and the window’s all done. And guess who was passing as I said goodbye. I swear she stopped and smirked. Soon scuttled off when I gave her the finger, though.’ Jinni wagged one at Gabriel now. ‘You should put that in your article – the fact that she walks past my house all hours of the bloody day.’ Jinni threw her hair back over her shoulder and snorted. ‘I think my editor would say it’s a free country and it doesn’t prove anything,’ said Gabriel apologetically. ‘Bollocks,’ said Jinni. ‘Ingrid is obsessed with me, isn’t she, Tess? You said yourself she’s always going on about me – putting leaflets through your door.’ ‘She did put one through, yes,’ I said awkwardly, feeling Gabriel’s eyes on me. ‘See! It’s her or some loser she’s whipped up into a frenzy!’ Jinni was triumphant. ‘Or the wanker son. He can’t stand me either. And the feeling is mutual, let me tell you.’ She threw her hair even more vigorously over the opposite shoulder and gave a dramatic sweep of her arm. ‘Still, what do I care? I’ve got a new window for nothing and when she sees her name in the paper she’ll think twice about doing that again. You know how she likes to think of herself as a leading figure in the community for all her bloody agitating–’ ‘We won’t be able to name her,’ Gabriel interrupted. ‘That would be defamatory.’ ‘Be bloody hysterical!’ Jinni gave one of her great honks of laughter. ‘Anyway, my darling boy,’ she boomed, flinging an arm around his shoulders once more. ‘I can’t WAIT to see what you HAVE written …’ The clock showed 4.07 a.m. when I decided I really could. I woke from a disturbing dream that involved Ingrid and a stunted, maniacally-faced son, who were both living in a tent in my garden. Gabriel and Jinni had sauntered in, arm in arm, and told me Tilly had been arrested for libel and had given the police my address … As I hastily pushed on the bedside light, anxiety gripped at my solar plexus. My mother had phoned at 1 a.m. convinced there was something wrong with her Sky box and asking me to talk her through which buttons to press to re-set it. I’d eventually persuaded her that we could deal with this much better by daylight and had fallen back into a fitful sleep dogged by fresh worries about my parent’s strange little preoccupations and what they might herald for the future. Last time it had been the tuner on her kitchen radio she said had packed up, although Mo had reported nothing wrong with it when I’d called back to try to help. I was reminded of the mother I’d read about on one of the online forums, who had to go into a home when she kept turning the gas hob on and failing to ignite it. All my usual middle-of-the-night agitations – and a few new ones – pressed in on me, squeezing my chest till it thumped. My mother, work, the unanswered emails, the half-painted walls and running repairs and – Oh God – what had Gabriel written? I remembered my use of the word ‘paranoid’, my simpering about wanting everyone to be my friend, my protestations about using the shops … Jinni – only my second friend here – would be furious I hadn’t backed her to the hilt. Everyone else in the town would give me a wide berth because I was clearly so needy and the owner of the corner shop would testify I only ever spent a tenner at a time and he’d seen me driving to Waitrose. Gabriel might have written that I was complaining about Ingrid too, so then I’d get my windows smashed as well. In any event, I’d look like a complete prune and when my children came for Easter they’d be ashamed I’d given birth to them. I lay listening to the Shipping Forecast, regretting the weak moment in which I’d agreed to forward Gabriel a small head-and-shoulders photo Ben had taken last Christmas. And trying to comfort myself with the fact that Tilly said it looked nothing like me, and ignoring that she’d added I looked as if I’d been admitted to Broadmoor. (I was carrying a tray of roast potatoes at the time and there was a hole in the oven glove.) Barely anybody knew me here anyway, I reasoned, and they’d hardly recognise me with that manic expression. (Would they?) By six I’d come out in a light sweat. The paper wasn’t out until tomorrow, so if I emailed Gabriel now he could probably make some minor adjustments. He was a nice boy – he wouldn’t want me to worry. I got out of bed, put on my dressing gown and fetched my laptop and the card Gabriel had left me, made a cup of peppermint tea and headed back beneath the duvet. With the screen against my knees, I tried to keep my tone light as I explained I was ever so slightly concerned about being misconstrued. If I could just see what he’d written, I suggested, I was sure I’d be completely put at ease, but if he had by any chance quoted me as mentioning paranoia or I’d sounded anything less than totally loyal to, and outraged by, the treatment of Jinni, then could he please amend accordingly, along perhaps with the fact that I found everyone in Northstone very friendly, rather than I wished everyone would be my friend, and if there were possibly room to mention it, that while I did go to the supermarket for major stockings-up, how totally appreciative and admiring I was of the local independent shops and how I intended to make sure I went to my own newsagent-cum-corner shop several times a week … I hope you are well, I finished. And I will certainly tell Ben about the music night. As a PS I added: It was lovely to be interviewed by you and Ihope to see you soon, so he, Gabriel, could show Malcolm, if he wanted to, and he wouldn’t feel that, despite my cold feet, he wasn’t welcome to visit again. As I pressed send, I felt as if a weight had lifted and I was simultaneously overcome with fatigue. I closed the lid of the computer, put it on the floor beside me and immediately fell asleep. The next time I woke, it was half-past eight. In theory, I was supposed to be ‘at my desk’ by 9 a.m. in case the office needed me. And Paul – who insisted on landline contact with anyone working from home for this very reason – was not above calling at 9.01 just to see if I was. I stumbled into the en suite and turned on the shower, taking a mouthful of cold tea on my way. It wasn’t till an hour later that I was finally checking my mail. There were two messages from @northstone?districtnews. The first was an auto reply from Gabriel, informing contacts he was out of the office but if the message were urgent it should be forwarded to newsdesk@northstone?districtnews or editor@northstone?districtnews, who would be able to assist in his absence. It seemed, however, that the message had already made this journey without me. The second email was from Malcolm Priceman, Editor. And consisted of just two words: TOO LATE. Chapter 5 (#u97f4e9c5-778f-59a3-be7a-3b07732c001a) The newspaper offices were halfway down the High Street. I pushed open the door and crossed the floor to where a middle-aged woman sat behind a counter, looking at her screen. She looked up wearily as I came towards her and raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m here to see Gabriel,’ I said. Her eyes swept over me, as if deciding. Then she jerked her head towards the stairs to the side of her desk. ‘Go on up …’ At the top I found myself in a large room with various desks and computers and people tapping at keyboards. A woman of about my age looked up and smiled. ‘Do you want Malcolm?’ ‘Er, no Gabriel, please.’ ‘He’s in with Malcolm.’ She pointed to the back of the room, where double doors were open to another office beyond. I walked towards it feeling conscious of several pairs of eyes on me and rather wishing I’d ignored Gabriel’s message. He’d emailed at 8.30 a.m. apologising for not replying sooner and saying I had nothing to worry about. If I came into the office at lunchtime he would give me both a copy of the newspaper and the info on the open mic night for Ben. I’d replied saying I would, then hot-footed it to the newsagent’s to see the story right away. It was not too bad. The manic photo was small and the feature quoted Jinni at length and me not too much – and didn’t mention anything about anyone being paranoid or otherwise, but focused on how upset and shocked I was that anyone could display such mindless aggression. I didn’t actually remember using this phrase, but it was better than sounding like a lonely hearts advert. The main picture was of Jinni pointing at a broken pane of glass beneath the headline ‘Actress Fears Campaign to Drive Her Out’, and above a report on how Northstone’s top glazier had given his services free to replace the window. I was Tess, 46 (either Gabriel couldn’t do the maths or he was being kind), mother of three and a newcomer to the town and the only quote that sounded slightly cringy was the one about my finding it so handy to have a corner shop on the corner (where else might it be?). The online version was identical, except the photo of me was bigger, with a pop-up ad for greenhouses mostly obscuring it. I heard Malcolm before I saw him. ‘You don’t make things up!’ he was saying loudly, ‘and you don’t sneak rubbish about your mates into my newspaper AFTER I’ve seen it. Get it to the subs, I said. I didn’t tell you to write a bloody fairy story first!’ ‘I didn’t know it was …’ Gabriel was protesting. ‘It’s your job to know. You check the facts. Then you check ‘em again, You don’t put a load of bullshit in just because your crony in the pub gave it to you.’ I stopped outside the door, unsure what to do. The girl at the desk nearest to me was typing on, apparently unconcerned by the shouting. Gabriel was saying something about helping Jinni, which seemed to infuriate Malcolm further. ‘WE’RE NOT RUNNING A BLOODY CHARITY,’ he roared. His voice then dropped. ‘And two tyres and one broken window is hardly “an orchestrated campaign”,’ he said sarcastically. ‘By whom exactly?’ I thought you said you wanted to be an investigative journalist. I’m surprised you can find your way out of bed …’ Gabriel was still valiantly defending himself. ‘You said I couldn’t name names – I told you Jinni said Ingrid …’ Malcolm gave a loud, disparaging snort, which seemed to echo around the office. ‘Ingrid is a damn nuisance. She’s not a complete imbecile.’ I stepped back as he strode through the doors. He saw me and stopped. ‘If you’re here to see me, I’m going for lunch,’ he barked. ‘I’ve come to see Gabriel,’ I said. ‘To say thank you,’ I added, as I saw the crushed expression on the young man’s face. Malcolm looked sceptical. ‘I can’t imagine what for.’ ‘A great article,’ I said boldly. ‘I thought he did it very well.’ ‘Everyone’s an expert today,’ said Malcolm. ‘Don’t keep him talking too long – he’s got work to do …’ He marched on through the outer office. ‘I’m going to Rosie’s’ he bellowed to the room in general. The girl nearest us rolled her eyes. ‘He goes there every day and has done for about twenty years. It would only be worth shouting about if he wasn’t going to Rosie’s.’ She pushed her keyboard away from her and opened a drawer, pulling out a foil package. ‘It’s your turn to make coffee, Gabe,’ she said, unwrapping sandwiches. Gabriel, who was still standing in the doorway shell-shocked, looked at me. ‘Would you like a coffee, Tess?’ he asked politely. ‘I’ve got those things for you.’ He led me to a desk in the corner of the room and offered me the chair. ‘Thanks for what you said.’ He gave a small smile as he handed me a mug and fetched a second chair to sit next to me on. ‘Sorry about the mess.’ He pushed a pile of paper aside so I could put my coffee down. I smiled back. ‘No worries. It was a good article.’ Gabriel went slightly pink – looking touchingly pleased and grateful. Then he pulled a face. ‘Not according to the big boss. I was only trying to help …’ It seemed Gabriel had offered this bloke he knew, Sean, who had a replacement windows and conservatories company, a good mention in the paper if he replaced Jinni’s broken glass and sorted out another rotten frame or two for her, to cheer her up after what had happened. But Gabriel had taken Sean’s word for it that Sean was the longest-established windows firm in Northstone, and one of Malcolm’s friends had phoned him up this morning to complain, that in fact HE owned the oldest glazing company in the area and so Malcolm was furious because this friend was the chairman of the Rotary Club Malcolm belonged to, none too pleased at one of his competitors getting all those column inches. ‘He says I should have checked,’ Gabriel said ruefully. ‘Well, has he?’ I asked indignantly. ‘He’s taking the word of this Rotary Club chap, isn’t he?’ Gabriel looked at me in admiration. ‘I didn’t think of that.’ As I got up to leave, I recognised Emily, the pretty young blonde girl who’d been at the quiz, coming towards us with a carrier bag. She stopped at Gabriel’s desk and pulled out a baguette and a diet coke. ‘I got you these,’ she said, looking even more adoring than she had in the pub. Gabriel smiled at her. ‘That is really kind of you,’ he said. Emily flushed and looked at her nails, clearly not sure whether to stay or leave us. I helped her out. ‘I’m off, then,’ I said, putting my handbag over my shoulder and picking up the flyer for Ben and a booklet of Things-to-do-in-Northstone, which Gabriel very sweetly thought would help me make friends. He kissed me on the cheek and I saw Emily look longingly at him. ‘Thank you,’ he said, with feeling – his slightly lost and emotionally battered look bringing out in me a surge of motherly concern. It must have been the thought of how I’d feel if it was one of my boys being so unfairly judged because I am not usually given to bursts of assertiveness – not unless really roused – but the sight of Malcolm through the window of Rosie’s Bistro opposite, tucking in without a care in the world, filled me with a flush of outrage on poor Gabriel’s behalf. The young man had helped Jinni out and brightened her up again and so what if he’d given a bit of a plug to the chap who’d done the work for free. It was a simple bartering system and what was wrong with that? It was really quite inventive and creative of Gabriel and weren’t we, as a society, always complaining that the youth of today weren’t sufficiently resourceful or self-motivated? The reporter’s heart had been In the Right Place and it was completely unreasonable of Malcolm to shout like that. Where the whole office could hear too! Malcolm looked up and saw me looking at him through the glass and waved. I might have left it if he’d seemed embarrassed at his earlier bad temper but he appeared quite pleased with himself. Before I knew it, I had pushed open the door and was standing in front of him, trembling with indignation, but preparing to make a calm, carefully thought-out speech about working practices, ethics and man management. ‘I think you are bang out of order!’ I said. Malcolm finished the last mouthful of whatever it had been – clearly something with gravy – and put his knife and fork together. Then carefully dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Would you like a pudding?’ ‘The boy’s an idiot,’ Malcolm handed me a menu. ‘The treacle tart is rather good or are you one of those annoying females who fusses about her food?’ ‘No, I’m not,’ I said primly, wanting to refuse him but suddenly realising I was absolutely starving. ‘Or the blackberry and apple crumble,’ Malcolm added. ‘I’m not supposed to, but I do.’ He looked up as the waitress appeared. ‘I’ll have that. With custard.’ ‘It’s not a case of “one of my friends”,’ said Malcolm when the waitress had gone again. ‘He’s one of our biggest advertisers. Whether I like him or not is irrelevant. I don’t let friendships affect my newspaper. This other Johnnie-come-lately has apparently only been trading half the time Roger has, and as for being “award-winning”, that’s absolute balls. Never won a thing. He’s a known bodger and Roger says half his business is putting right what this other cowboys got wrong. Of course, he’s disgruntled to see him getting free coverage in an article full of inaccuracies.’ ‘How do you know that’s all true, though?’ I asked feebly, already knowing the answer. Malcolm looked scathing. ‘Because I Googled Companies House, read reviews online and asked Grace on reception what the general opinion was. She knows everything about everyone.’ He leant back and scrutinised me. ‘Why do you care?’ ‘I felt sorry for Gabriel – I’d hate it if someone shouted at one of my kids like that. He was only trying to use his initiative. And it was kind of him to help Jinni.’ ‘Kind?’ Malcolm’s tone was pitying. ‘He’s a journalist – it’s not his job to be kind. He was just trying to pad the story out because he didn’t really have one.’ Malcolm sat up straighter as the waitress reappeared bearing two bowls. ‘But he’s not as clever as he thinks he is.’ He dipped a spoon into the steaming fruit and custard that had been placed in front of him, put it his mouth and sighed with satisfaction. ‘I’m trying to educate him,’ he said when he’d swallowed. ‘My trainees do things properly and go on to better things. I’m not going to let some silly American boy be any different.’ He plunged his spoon in again. As I took my first bite of strawberry cheesecake, I remembered what Gabriel had told me about Malcolm being very well thought of in the industry and how his last intern had landed a job on the sports desk of the Daily Mail, and decided Malcolm probably took a fatherly interest in Gabriel and was simply trying to teach him the ropes. ‘Do you have children?’ I asked after a moment’s silence during which Malcolm munched. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t like them.’ I smiled. ‘Are you married?’ ‘Not anymore.’ ‘I’m divorced,’ I offered, immediately feeling hot with embarrassment in case he thought I was making some sort of offer. ‘I wouldn’t get married again,’ I added hastily, to show I wasn’t in search of a husband. ‘Neither would I,’ he said with feeling. ‘They were all mad.’ By the time we were on coffee, I’d learned he’d had two wives and a fianc?e – the latter had left him because of his drinking and the fact that he was exceptionally rude to her mother. ‘Dreadful woman,’ he explained. ‘Always “popping in” for something. I was relieved when that one packed her bags.’ ‘What happened to the other two?’ ‘One died and one went off with a woman she played badminton with.’ Before I could express sympathy at his bereavement, he leant forward with a sudden wolfish grin. ‘I always knew there was something not quite right about her.’ I shook my head, knowing there was little point in protesting. And there was something quite refreshing about someone who didn’t care what he said or how politically correct it was. I could see why he and Ingrid clashed. He startled me by mentioning her name as I was thinking it. ‘So what do you really think about this so-called hate campaign?’ he asked, suddenly serious again. ‘Coincidence or someone really so upset with incomers they’ll resort to vandalism?’ ‘I like to think it’s coincidence,’ I said. There were some boys about that night – could have been them messing around and they broke it by accident.’ ‘Like you do,’ said Malcolm dryly. ‘Accidentally throw a stone …’ ‘They might have been throwing something at each other,’ I said, ‘and one of them ducked and whatever it was sailed past the intended victim and straight through the window.’ Malcolm looked amused. ‘Sailed past the intended victim, eh? Want a job?’ I laughed, feeling more comfortable with him now. ‘You know what I mean. And the slashed tyres, well they were the other side of town, weren’t they, and a couple of weeks ago? These things happen.’ I shrugged. ‘My next-door neighbour in Finchley got paint stripper poured all over his car.’ ‘And who did it?’ ‘Word was he owed money to some builders.’ ‘Never a wise move’ ‘But Ingrid seems to be the sort to make her feelings known with petitions, not physical damage.’ Even as I said it, I had a picture of her steely gaze. Malcolm nodded his agreement, his eyes still intent on mine. ‘Oh! There she is.’ I felt startled again as I spotted Ingrid on the pavement outside talking to a tall man. Malcolm did not turn round. ‘She gets everywhere,’ he said. ‘Thank you,’ I said, when Malcolm had paid the bill and we were standing in the street again. ‘That was very nice – and unexpected.’ He nodded and strode off across the road. I looked at my watch and followed. My plan to go to the butcher’s – I was not only going to use the shops but was considering going the whole Easter hog and ordering a turkey – would have to wait. Ahead of me Malcolm lifted an arm as if to silence someone and I saw Ingrid was now right outside his office. I grinned to myself as Malcolm disappeared through the door and out of view – clearly having no truck with whatever Ingrid had to say – but it was too late to pretend I hadn’t seen her. ‘Hello, how are you?’ Ingrid appeared to straighten herself. ‘Oh Tess –’ She indicated the man next to her. ‘This is my son, David.’ Ah The Wanky One. Telling myself I must keep an open mind, I stood up straight as well and held out my hand, looking directly at him, in the manner Caroline had instructed me to look at all males in her increasingly frequent collection of lectures with the umbrella title: ‘Why you still haven’t got a man’. Even though this one would not be my type at all, being, according to Jinni, self-seeking and hypocritical with no moral scruples, but I was still momentarily shocked by how good-looking he was, with his dark hair and eyes, tall frame and defined features. ‘How do you do?’ I smiled. He gave me a cursory glance. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said shortly, looking anything but. There was a tense pause. I was still extending my hand. I dropped it to my side, embarrassed. Ingrid threw me an odd look, which I couldn’t quite fathom and then David grasped her arm and propelled her away from me. ‘Just leave it, will you!’ I heard him say. I stood for some moments watching their backs go ahead of me up the street, stunned by his rudeness. Feeling horribly, almost tear-jerkingly, alone. Chapter 6 (#u97f4e9c5-778f-59a3-be7a-3b07732c001a) ‘And you’re complaining?’ Fran swept a layer of colouring books, pens, iPads and beakers from one end of the table, so I could put my coffee down. ‘The only time I ever get to be on my own is in the loo. And then one of them usually bangs on the door!’ She began to sift through sheets of paper. ‘Freya brought home a list of all the stuff they need for their wild woodland project and now I can’t find it.’ She ran an exasperated hand through her short fair hair. ‘It was right here.’ ‘Is the school good?’ I asked, pulling some of the lists and envelopes towards me and beginning to flick through them too. There was an order form for home delivery of paraben-free cleaning products, the guarantee card for a new washing machine, a programme of events put on by the Northstone Primary PTA and a letter home about head lice. ‘Brilliant,’ said Fran, distractedly. ‘Northstone is great for kids. Jonathan was going on about moving nearer to London when he got his promotion but I said, no way.’ ‘Well, now there’s the new train …’ ‘Precisely! And so what if the drive takes forever anyway, he should try being here. At least he could listen to the radio in peace – oh shit, the twins!’ There was a wail from above and Fran rushed from the room. Her three-year-old, Theo, appeared in the doorway and looked at me solemnly. ‘Mummy is knackered,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Tired,’ I corrected. I drew him towards me to give him a hug. He was wriggling away, wiping his cheek, as Fran returned with a toddler on each hip. She did look exhausted. I remembered her in her cottage near the High Street when my kids were young and she was working as a buyer for Harvey Nichols. And her expression if a sticky hand reached for any of the bright pots or crystal candle-holders she’d collected on her frequent trips abroad. Now this stylish family house a couple of miles outside the town was adorned with fingerprints, childcare paraphernalia filled the hall and the tiles beneath the table were littered with crumbs. ‘I’ve got Bella and Silas this weekend too!’ she groaned, depositing eleven-month-old Jac on my lap and shifting his sister Georgia to her other side as she filled a red tumbler with water for Theo. He scowled. ‘I wanted juice,’ he said. ‘Too much sugar,’ said Fran, briskly. ‘You can have some chopped mango and a carrot.’ Theo scowled a bit more. I looked at the three children and thought how gorgeous they were, with their big brown eyes and Fran’s blonde curls. Of course she was worn out, with four kids and Jonathan’s two teenagers from his first marriage staying every other weekend making six. ‘I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving those embryos in a deep freeze …’ she’d said when she’d told me she was going to have ‘just one more’ after Theo. Knowing the years of despair she’d gone through before IVF treatment and baby Freya, all the while having to be the yummy step-mummy to Jonathan’s then-small children, I got that. But I was glad I’d done it early and mine were all grown up. So I could have, according to Caroline, the time of my life. I jiggled Jac, who was grizzling and straining away from me towards his mother, still warm and fretful from his afternoon nap. ‘Can you manage Georgia too?’ Fran plonked the little girl on my other leg and began to chop vegetables. ‘And I want a biscuit,’ said Theo darkly. Fran ignored this and pulled out a kitchen chair. ‘Sit.’ Theo clambered on. ‘Hands.’ The small boy held them up obediently while Fran wiped them. Fastened to a blackboard behind her head was a page pulled from a magazine containing a list of the ‘best brain food for the under-fives’. One of the photographs beneath the headline looked suspiciously like a plate of liver. Good luck with that one, I thought silently, as Theo poked suspiciously at his carrot – a bunch of which were also illustrated. ‘Have you got a nutri-bullet yet?’ Fran asked me. ‘So much better for you than juicing because you get the fibre from the flesh and skin too. Slows down the fructose hit. I mix berries with frozen spinach, a pear and cherry tomatoes …’ As she rattled on about the benefits of a daily avocado, beetroot and papaya paste, I glanced around at the granite work surfaces and the various stainless-steel lumps of gadgetry and thought about my own tired-looking kitchen with its wonky cupboard doors and chipped tiles. It was going to be my first project and I’d spent hours creating beautiful designs while I was waiting to exchange. But since I’d moved in, my budget for home improvements was dwindling rapidly. I needed to ask Jinni’s advice on where I might get a decent trade deal and find a fitter. She’d been over, in high dudgeon, when she’d discovered Ingrid had been on Twitter protesting against Jinni’s planning application, keeping up a diatribe against the whole anti-DFL thinking, for which she held Ingrid entirely responsible, while I nodded and gave the dining room its second coat of Morning Gold. Until Jinni eventually drew breath and popped home for a tiny brush – with which she expertly touched in around the light switches – and a bottle of Rioja. I filled Fran in on this excitement – I couldn’t bring myself to talk about my mother – and enquired whether she knew either Jinny or Malcolm or Ingrid, but she didn’t. Jonathan had met Malcolm once or twice and she knew Ingrid by sight after seeing her in the paper. ‘She led all the fuss when they cut the bus service,’ Fran said dismissively. ‘And she runs some blog called Fight from Within about how we should all lobby the local MP for change.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m a bit busy for all that, frankly.’ I looked at my old friend, tidying up the paperwork on the table as she searched for the elusive list, while her children shifted restlessly in my now-aching arms, remembering a time when she cared deeply about many issues. She’d banged the table and waved her wine glass at a bloke in a bar in Fulham, while rowing over international trading agreements, and then emptied the contents in his lap to illustrate her views on the falling pound. ‘So you don’t care about rising house prices and the DFLs taking over the town and pushing the youth off the property ladder?’ I enquired. Fran looked surprised. ‘Not given it much thought,’ she said, screwing up an envelope and making a pile of a few more. ‘I know it’s getting a lot more expensive to live here. Jonathan said house prices near the station have risen twenty-five per cent in the last year, but …’ she shrugged. ‘That’s happening all over the place. Who can afford London these days?’ ‘But you haven’t seen any bad feeling – you know like that woman in the paper who had her tyres slashed?’ ‘The people here are great,’ said Fran firmly. ‘You get a few moaning of course – and that Ingrid likes a demonstration. She was at the school handing out placards when the swimming pool closed – but nobody cares that much.’ She got a carton of almond milk out of the fridge and began pouring it into two lidded cups. ‘Theo – don’t mash it like that.’ The small boy scrunched his hand into a fist. Mango pulp oozed out between his fingers. ‘Mainly we talk about our kids. When the twins are a bit older, I’ll help more with the PTA–’ ‘So what have you been up to apart from the children?’ I asked. My opening gambit that I’d been feeling a tad isolated had been met with neither empathy nor any suggestion of a night out. ‘Lucky you,’ Fran had said dryly. Now she looked at me blankly. ‘Do you go to a book group or anything?’ I tried. ‘I did in the old house,’ I continued, recalling the complacent way I sometimes gave it a miss if it was cold out or there was something good on TV. ‘I was wondering if there was one here …’ ‘Have you Googled?’ Fran said vaguely. Then as Georgia gave a piercing scream in my left ear, she held a piece of paper up in triumph. ‘Found the damn thing!’ ‘Well no,’ I said. ‘I was wondering if we might–’ ‘Wellingtons, that was it. I knew there was something major I had to buy. You wouldn’t believe how quickly her feet grow.’ Fran shook her head. ‘Small children cost a fortune.’ I thought about the credit card bill I’d opened that morning. ‘So do big ones.’ ‘And I haven’t got empty jars, they all go in the recycling. They ought to be taking plastic anyway – suppose they fall over and cut themselves. I’ll suggest freezer bags.’ ‘Perhaps they’re going to collect insects,’ I offered. ‘You can’t put grasshoppers or earwigs in a bag. They’ll get squashed.’ Fran looked alarmed. ‘I was imagining wild flowers … They’re only year one.’ She shuddered. I looked at the clock. ‘What time does Freya finish?’ Fran swung round. ‘Oh God. Now! And then she’s got her modern dance. I’ve got to go!’ She grasped Georgia, who screamed again. Jac burst into noisy tears. ‘Theo! Shoes!’ ‘Shall I fetch her? Or stay here with the others while you go?’ Fran was now darting about the kitchen scooping up children and changing bags, plastic cups and keys, looking wild-eyed. ‘We’ve got tumble-tots while Frey’s in her class,’ she said breathlessly as she pushed Georgia’s arms into a padded jacket and I tried to do the same to Jac, who went rigid and cried even harder. ‘Sorry it’s been rushed, Tess,’ she said, when we were eventually strapping children into car seats. She came round to my side of the car and gave me a brief, hard hug. ‘I miss you, I really do – I want to talk to you and catch up.’ She looked at her watch and shot back towards the driver’s door. ‘Oh Christ, Frey’s teacher will give me that look again!’ I blew the children a kiss. Theo, banging a shiny green alien figure hard against the rear glass, returned it straight-faced. ‘We’ll get together soon …’ Fran was calling through the open window, as she reversed out of their drive. ‘When we’ve got more time …’ She stopped the car for a moment, stuck her head out and gave me a crooked smile. ‘When I have, anyway … Chapter 7 (#ulink_2f292059-1440-549b-b321-c0eeb3b6efd6) I was beginning to need a few more hours myself. I’d been up since six and so far had achieved nothing but a lot of cleaning – there was still a fine layer of dust over the whole house from experimenting with Jinni’s electric sander –the posting of a new office interior in Bromley that had only got three likes, and a chat with Meg and Jim next door I couldn’t quite follow, about their problems with the water board. I’d finally settled down to the latest job, when the bell rang. Jinni strode into my front room, a sheet of paper in one hand and her phone in the other. ‘That FUCKING woman,’ she yelled, by way of greeting. ‘I shall wring her scrawny neck.’ I walked through to the kitchen and shut the lid of my laptop. Workstations for twenty in an office block in Cardiff would clearly have to wait. ‘Coffee?’ ‘What’s she done now?’ I asked as the kettle boiled, pushing the latest missive from Ingrid – urging us to protest on the steps of the town hall about the state of the footpath through the allotments – out of sight before it inflamed Jinni further. Her hair was twisted up on top of her head and fixed with a turquoise scarf that matched her bright boiler suit. She undid it, shook her tresses about a bit, screwed them back up into a knot and retied it all. ‘Well HE will have done it, of course – it’s just the sort of sneaky, smarmy, underhand thing he would do. Anything to make life difficult for me.’ She thrust the piece of paper at me, opened the back door, stepped out and lit a cigarette. A gust of cold air came in. ‘Sorry!’ she shouted, shutting the door after her and standing the other side of the glass, puffing furiously. ‘I didn’t know you smoked!’ I called back, trying to make sense of the document I was looking at. ‘I don’t. Only when under duress.’ She abruptly dropped the cigarette and ground it out under her foot, before carrying the squashed end back in with her. ‘One of the plumbers left them behind. Bin?’ ‘Under the sink. So someone has put a tree preservation order on your horse chestnut.’ ‘Exactly! Now I’ve got to have this bloody “Mr Turner” looking at it. He’s bound to be a wanker too and if I can’t cut it down it’s going to block out half the light in the back bedrooms, fuck up my plans for the garden, not to mention probably crash through the roof in the next big storm and kill me in my bed!!’ Jinni glared. ‘All because that bitter old bag and her weedy son can’t stand to lose out to anyone else.’ ‘Weedy?’ I asked, surprised, a fleeting image of the tall, masculine David popping into my mind. I cringed as I remembered my floppy hand extended into nothingness. ‘Tosser, then’, said Jinni, dismissively. ‘Smug bastard.’ She picked up her phone, tapped at it and presented it to me with a flourish. ‘And guess what I found on my doorstep at the same time?’ I looked at the screen. ‘Is that what I think it is?’ ‘A turd!’ Jinni confirmed. I peered at the photo again. A small brown, sausagey-looking object lay on the stone slab. ‘Could it be an animal?’ I asked cautiously. ‘Well, yes, obviously. Fox shit, I think,’ said Jinni impatiently. ‘Or a very small dog. But look at the position. Dead symmetrical.’ ‘I really don’t think …’ ‘I wouldn’t put it past these zealots. God knows who Ingrid’s wound up on social media. I emailed it to Gabriel – he thought it was suspicious too. He wanted to run something, but that miserable git of an editor–’ I stifled a smile at the thought of Malcolm faced with a picture of a fox poo and a conspiracy theory. ‘We had foxes in the garden at my old house,’ I said, reasonably, my face as straight as I could manage. ‘Sometimes they’d leave mess right in the middle of the path up to the front door. Probably just how it came out.’ The ludicrousness of this sentence made me giggle despite my best intentions. Jinni gave me a sharp look. ‘Well, I think someone’s been sniffing around my garden,’ she said. ‘I thought I saw someone the other night.’ At this, I felt a frisson of alarm. I had only just started to sleep better, without imagining an axe murderer lurking in every shadow. ‘It might have been his tricky mate,’ said Jinny. ‘He doesn’t like me either, since I got the size of his extension knocked back. But, bloody hell, it was bigger than the bloody house – and looked right over my garden …’ ‘It might also have been a trick of the light,’ I said, grasping the coffee pot and pouring the contents into two mugs. ‘Have you got sugar,’ asked Jinni. ‘Or brandy?’ Visitors are like buses. No sooner had I packed a slightly glazed Jinni off across the road, suggesting that she left the knocking down of the next partition wall till she’d had an afternoon nap, than Gabriel appeared. ‘I was just passing,’ he said, ‘and thought I’d say hi. Am I disturbing you?’ ‘Not at all.’ I shut my laptop lid for the second time and put the kettle on again. ‘How’s it all going?’ Slowly, was the short answer. Gabriel reported a dull week in which he’d been scratching about for a decent lead story for Malcolm, who’d been more than usually grouchy. The revelation about the strategically placed poo had gone down particularly badly, with Malcolm bellowing that if it was the best Gabriel could come up with, he’d better go for a job in the chippy. Gabriel did not look traumatised about this – he grinned widely as he took off Malcolm’s voice with impressive accuracy. ‘And you’d probably mess that up too!’ he finished loudly. We both laughed. ‘A fox had done it,’ I said. Gabriel nodded. ‘I know. But there is some backlash going on. You know the woman with the holiday cottages who had her tyres slashed?’ He looked serious again. ‘She’s had quite an unpleasant anonymous letter.’ ‘Oh?’ ‘Yes, I only found out when we were right up against deadline so I’m holding on to it till next week – in case anything else happens. I haven’t even told Malcolm yet.’ He lowered his voice. ‘So if you can keep it to yourself …’ ‘Of course.’ I looked into his solemn face and once again suppressed the urge to snort. The whole thing had a bizarre village who-dunnit feel to it, and I couldn’t believe Gabriel and Jinni were taking it so seriously. ‘What are you doing for Easter?’ I asked. ‘Going home to see your parents?’ Gabriel shook his head. ‘I’ve only got Good Friday off. He imitated the editor’s gruff tones once more. ‘News doesn’t stop because it’s a bank holiday!’ Gabriel pulled a face. ‘I’ve got to go to the Easter Fair on Monday – my punishment for the window company thing.’ I smiled. ‘Well, my boys will be home for the whole weekend if you want to pop in and have a drink.’ I was filled with a warm glow. All my children would be home … ‘I’d like that,’ said Gabriel. He gave me another kiss on the cheek as he left. I wondered if he had any friends to invite round to the tiny studio flat he’d mentioned. I guessed he was homesick and a bit lonely and I reminded him of his mum. As I waved him off, I saw Ingrid walking slowly past the Rectory. Jinni was right – she did come along this road a lot. I hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to scuttle indoors or take the lead and call out hello. But Ingrid was staring straight ahead. She didn’t look over at me at all. Chapter 8 (#ulink_77ecc2b4-4103-509a-9299-2c72cfcdf7d8) Shopping - done House – cleaned Downstairs loo - painted Beds - made Fridge - full Washing – up to date (Ben and Tilly were bound to descend with bags of their own) Ironing board – held together with tape. (See above) NB must get new one but do not let Ben use. Turkey – collect Saturday Work – shit! I grabbed my office bag, throwing the last of my tea down the sink. There was a key hidden under a brick in case Tilly arrived early or Ben had forgotten his again. My train to London left in twenty-two minutes and it took at least fifteen to walk to the station. I’d asked for the meeting to be brought forward so I could leave early. And I was seeing Caroline at lunchtime. I really couldn’t be late. It was cold for April but by the time I turned the final corner into the drab road that approached the station, I’d broken into a sweat. I pulled off my scarf and flexed my toes. The heels of my new ankle boots weren’t that high but already the balls of my feet hurt. As I walked through the double doors, I caught sight of my reflection in the booking office window. My face was red and what little style my hair possessed had disappeared in the wind. Moving past the figures waiting, I started to make my way along the platform. ‘Excuse me. Isn’t it Tess?’ I turned round to see Ingrid’s son David standing behind me. Last time he’d been in casual clothes. Now he was every inch the sophisticated gent, dressed in a clearly expensive suit and tie and carrying a brief case. He was holding out his hand. Even as my brain was telling me to ignore it and be as rude to him as he’d been to me, I was aware of my hot palm against his cool one. He shook my hand firmly and kept holding it. ‘I am SO sorry,’ he was saying. ‘My mother told me I was most terribly rude the last time we met. You were holding out your hand and I didn’t even notice. I really do apologise. I’m not usually so discourteous.’ He gave a huge and charming smile. ‘I’m afraid you happened along at rather a fraught moment. My mother and I were having a slight contretemps. Not that that is any excuse for ignoring you.’ He smiled again. He looked as though he were in an advert for the cloud of aftershave that drifted around me. All super-smooth shiny dark hair and crinkly eyes. I imagined he knew he looked like that. I had to look upwards to hold his gaze. I could feel a crick in my neck but I wasn’t going to be embarrassed this time. ‘That’s quite all right,’ I said stiffly. ‘I shouldn’t have interrupted.’ ‘You weren’t to know.’ He bestowed another gracious smile on me. He really was very attractive. No I wasn’t, you dick. ‘In the usual way, I’d have been delighted to meet you,’ he said. ‘I am delighted to meet you. I hope you will forgive me for the way we got off to a bad start. I promise I’ll make it up to you …’ Those sexy eyes were still fixed on mine. ‘It’s fine really.’ He was going over the top now and I felt awkward. I clumsily retrieved my fingers and looked at my watch. ‘Are you going up to town too?’ he asked, his tone solicitous. I felt a twinge of alarm. Was he going to sit next to me? I thought wildly of pretending I was only going to the next station, getting off and getting on again at the other end. Except that was the plan that had gone so horribly wrong with Ben’s geography teacher, who’d seen me again when she changed carriages herself – presumably to get away from somebody else. ‘Yes – I have a meeting. I’ve got my laptop with me,’ I gabbled. ‘I have to prepare for it. I’m always so behind on everything. Lucky I’ve got the journey to catch up …’ ‘Oh, I’m the same,’ he said. And then he laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I loathe being stuck having to make conversation too …’ I stared at him. He raised an amused eyebrow. I felt myself flush. ‘I didn’t mean that.’ I began, even though it was bloody obvious I had. ‘I’m sure you didn’t.’ He was still grinning. ‘It’s been very nice to talk to you. I look forward to next time.’ With that he turned and strode away to the far end of the platform. I felt annoyed all over again. That was where I liked to sit too. As he reached the spot where I would have waited, he turned and gave me a wave. Then abruptly turned his back again. But not before I saw the pleased-with-himself smile plastered across his face. Jinni was right. For all his apologies and hand-grasping, David was one smug bastard. ‘Okay,’ says Caroline. ‘So, aside from Fran, who’s knee deep in babygros, we’ve got the suave poser known as Smug Bastard, the mad actress, the even madder campaigner, a grumpy editor, the owner of the newsagent’s and the butcher. And that’s the sum total of your social circle in the entire town, is it?’ She crosses her elegant legs, takes a sip of her white wine and looks at me with reproach. ‘Oh and a sort of extra surrogate son.’ I tell her about Gabriel. And as an afterthought and to bulk the numbers out a bit – the young girl Emily. ‘You don’t want any more bloody sons, darling,’ says Caroline. ‘You want lovers. One would do, to start with.’ ‘I’m not sure I do,’ I say nervously. ‘You’ve wrapped yourself up with those kids for so long, you’ve forgotten.’ Caroline sweeps on. ‘Of course I adore them too – you know I do – but you’ve got to let go now. Shall we try the internet dating again?’ ‘Don’t you dare.’ I have never fully forgiven Caroline for the night in Finchley when she filled in an unsolicited and completely fictitious profile on my behalf while I was cooking the spaghetti, then chatted up likely suitors and agreed, as if she were me, to meet someone called Quentin, who looked amazing but who turned out to be passionate about military aircraft and visiting battlefields and who I couldn’t shake off for months. She tried to make it my fault for getting dinner together so late, saying her judgement was impaired after too much Soave on an empty stomach, and that we should do it properly, but I have told her in no uncertain terms: Never Again. ‘I’ll come down for the weekend and we’ll find him together,’ she declares now. ‘I’ve got to see your gorgeous new house, anyway. I’ve found this sublime cushion shop in Kensington. I’ll get you something stunning for a house-warming present when you’ve told me the colour schemes.’ ‘There’s nothing gorgeous about any of it at the moment. You’ll have a fit.’ Caroline’s own flat is immaculately tasteful – all fresh gloss, with a throw here, a perfectly placed pot there and designer floorboards. I look at her now, in her beautifully cut shift dress and glass beads, highlighted hair smooth against her flawless skin, lipstick the exact shade of wine red to bring out the green of her eyes, and was lost in admiration. I could wear that exact combination of clothes and make-up and would still look as if I’d thrown it together while running for a bus. If Caroline put on anything in my wardrobe, she’d be straight off the catwalk. But she’s funny and kind and generous and hugely supportive – sometimes too much so, a la Quentin. We have nothing in common, really, except I was once married to her brother – but she’s become just about my best friend ever. ‘Lucky I love you,’ I say. ‘Love you too, darling. That’s why I want you to have a wonderful man.’ ‘I can’t play the games. I’ve forgotten what to say. It’s difficult to get up the confidence when you’re my age …’ Caroline flicks a manicured finger in the air and a stylish young man appears at her elbow. ‘Could you please bring my friend another glass of wine – and one for me too – she’s delirious and making no sense.’ ‘I’ve got to go back to work …’ Caroline narrows her eyes. ‘May I remind you I am a year older than you and have no intention of ever giving up my sex life, however many times I need a fresh start!’ ‘Ah yes – how are they all?’ Caroline sighs. ‘I had to end it with James – he started getting maudlin and talking about leaving his wife – Rick flies in and services me when he has a long enough stopover and Laurence is still Laurence.’ Caroline gives a small secretive smile, as if she can’t decide whether this is a good or a bad thing. ‘You are incorrigible,’ I tell her as I always do. ‘And you look amazing.’ ‘It’s all the endorphins, darling. And lots of botox. You, on the other hand, are naturally gorgeous but not making enough of your assets.’ She looks at me critically. ‘You have the most wonderful eyes, beautiful skin and great breasts. Really darling – men should be falling at your feet. Come to stay and we’ll give you a revamp!’ I shake my head. ‘I’m too busy. I’m behind with work, the kids are coming down and my mother hasn’t been well. I need to see her more.’ I can’t face saying anything else. ‘Rob okay?’ I ask, wanting to change the subject. ‘Tilly saw him last week but she hasn’t said much.’ I have a sudden image of my ex-husband stalking about switching off lights and think fondly of my new home, where I can have two radios on at once without anyone turning purple. ‘Still a boring old sod,’ says Caroline cheerfully. ‘We’ll find you someone more exciting next time.’ She presses a lipstick on me as we leave. And a new mascara that will give me an instant false-lash look without clogging. ‘Kiss my nephews and niece,’ she instructs, ‘and keep your eyes peeled for opportunity. You can have fun now – unfettered by offspring! I’ll visit soon,’ she adds, ‘and assess the situation.’ She kisses me on both cheeks and then hugs me. ‘In the meantime darling, at least do your roots …’ Chapter 9 (#ulink_373cb3d2-55f5-52fc-b822-a25a2d87da47) Tilly was at full volume. Standing in the doorway of what had until now been Ben’s bedroom, she tried once more to prise her brother out. ‘You’ll only turn it into a total slob den again and I’ve got more stuff than you!’ She swung around and addressed me. ‘Tell him, Mum. If he sleeps in the small room it will be easier to air.’ ‘Ben’s still got stuff in here,’ I said mildly. ‘Those drawers are full of sweatshirts’ ‘Well, he can take them all back with him,’ Tilly rustled a black bin bag. ‘He’s already said he’s going back on Thursday for this gig thing. I’m staying much longer.’ ‘Are you?’ I asked her in surprise. ‘Danni really is mad. Even her mum says she’s got to see someone. It’s intolerable,’ Tilly added dramatically. ‘I can’t live there.’ ‘What about your job?’ Tilly waved a hand as if the latter was a minor detail. ‘She’s only saying that,’ Ben looked at me, ‘so she can have this room. She’ll go back for the hot social life she’s always on about.’ He lay back and stretched out his limbs. ‘Mmmm a lovely double bed …’ Ben grinned. Tilly threw a trainer at his head. ‘You can sleep in Oliver and Sam’s till they get here.’ ‘No, he can’t,’ I said at once. ‘That’s ready for them. Don’t mess it up.’ ‘How come Golden Boy gets all the special treatment?’ said Tilly. ‘Flowers, candles …’ ‘I was trying to make it nice for Sam,’ I told her. ‘Since they haven’t got a proper bedroom.’ I’d bought a sofa bed and new blinds for the funny old conservatory-type sunroom that led off the dining room, determined there would be room for all my offspring to stay. I even had a blow-up double mattress stowed away in a cupboard in case they brought strays. I had been moved to tears by the tale of one of Ben’s friends whose mother and new boyfriend had turned his bedroom into a home gym the moment the poor lad went to university and who now had to camp out with friends during the holidays. ‘My children will have a home with me for as long as they need one,’ I had declared to Caroline, who had not been as traumatised by this story as I was. ‘My friend Liz actually pays her teenagers to go away with their father,’ she told me. ‘Just so she can have an empty house. The minute they get pads of their own, she’ll be changing the locks!’ This had made me cry more – and Ben hadn’t even left yet. Caroline had bought me another cocktail and insisted I went to have my eyebrows threaded. ‘Your lot will still be hanging around you in their thirties,’ she’d said. ‘And see? It takes five years off you!’ But how wrong she was. All three of them now had bedrooms elsewhere. ‘On future visits, you could take turns to be down there,’ I told Ben and Tilly now. ‘Don’t mind. I really don’t care where I sleep,’ said Ben. Tilly pounced. ‘Get your arse in that spare room, then!’ ‘But it’s more convenient to stay where I am now …’ I left them bickering and went downstairs, just happy to have them back. I poured a small glass of red and put two onions on the chopping board. I would make Tilly’s favourite pasta tonight and do shepherd’s pie tomorrow for Ben. I’d make a vegetarian lasagne for Sam at the same time. Or perhaps we could all have fish? Sam ate a lot of that – it was just meat she didn’t like. On the other hand, Oliver wasn’t over-keen on seafood – he preferred chicken … As I crushed garlic and tore basil leaves, I heard Ben come downstairs. Soon the sound of his guitar floated through from the sitting room. I stood in the doorway watching him leaning back, eyes closed, fingers moving over the strings. ‘Want a beer?’ ‘Yeah, great,’ ‘Have you given in?’ ‘I rubbed my feet on the pillows. She doesn’t want to sleep there now.’ ‘Ugh! Ben! How old are you?’ ‘I’m joking, Mum’ ‘He’s not – he really did. He’s such an animal.’ Tilly flounced past me into the kitchen and cut off a piece of Parmesan. ‘Can I have some wine, Mum?’ I leaned up and kissed her. ‘Of course.’ I poured a can of cold lager into a tall glass. ‘Give this to Ben and then you can tell me about Danni.’ I kept my face serious as my daughter gave me the full lowdown on her flatmate’s bursts of hysteria, but as I sliced and stirred I wanted to beam. I’d forgotten how good this made me feel. Tomorrow Sam and Oliver would make it complete. I could hear Ben singing a James Blunt song in the background, as Tilly wagged her empty glass at me. ‘I mean, I did use the last of the hair gel but you’d think I’d stolen money from her handbag the way she carried on.’ ‘Why don’t you buy her some more?’ I suggested. ‘Make her an Easter basket of nice products and say sorry?’ Tilly got off the stool, refilled both our glasses and picked at the cooked pasta. ‘Because she uses my stuff all the time and I don’t go mental and I haven’t got any money.’ I took a sip of the Valpolicella she’d put in my hand. ‘Sometimes it’s worth being the first to climb down.’ I tried to remember what my balance had been at the cash point earlier. ‘I expect I can help you.’ ‘I’m broke too, Mum,’ Ben stuck his head over Tilly’s shoulder and gave me a wide grin. ‘I need money for Easter baskets and shampoo too or all the guys in my flat will cry as well.’ ‘Fuck off, Ben,’ said Tilly. ‘Loser.’ I didn’t go to the pub with them. I cleared up and made coffee and lay on the sofa, full of rigatoni and contentment. Caroline was off to a glittering awards ceremony tonight, one of the many invites she got in her job as PR director for a cosmetics company. She’d be drinking champagne, in a fabulous frock and killer heels, looking a million dollars. She’d despair of me sitting here in my pyjama bottoms, waiting for my grown-up kids to come in and raid the fridge again. Instead of putting my energies into getting a man. But I couldn’t imagine a partner sitting here. It might be nice to share things. But relationships were fraught with complications. Was the sex worth it? I couldn’t really remember … Caroline, on her regime of organic, botanical, libido-boosting synthetic hormone injections – ‘like having a shot of testosterone, darling, without the facial hair’ – boasted an insatiable appetite and Jinni had said she kept a list of willing participants because she needed it at least once every couple of months or she got cranky. I hadn’t had any for years. My mother shared a bed with Gerald if they went away but had implied it was for warmth and to save a single supplement, and that even with my father ‘that side of things’ had dwindled quite early on. What, she had enquired, while vigorously scrubbing an already-pristine milk pan, was wrong with a nice cup of tea and a biscuit? I suddenly had a bleak feeling in the pit of my stomach. Suppose this was as good as it was going to get? The kids would come home less and less – Ben would finish university and live permanently elsewhere – there would just be me stuck in small market town, a slightly batty old lady with not many friends … ‘You’re 47, not 80!’ I heard Caroline’s voice as clearly as if she were in the room. I gave myself a shake and took a swallow of coffee. If it didn’t work out I could move back to London. I frowned. It would have to be somewhere bloody small. These cheering thoughts – I was now visualising a bedsit in a dodgy tower block miles from the tube, having been made redundant because I couldn’t think up gripping Facebook posts – were brought to an abrupt halt by my mobile ringing. Fran sounded furious and close to tears. ‘I have had ENOUGH. Jonathan isn’t supporting me AT ALL. The kids are a nightmare. Bella is so indulged and he lets her speak to me however she likes …’ I shifted into a more comfortable position with another cushion under my knees and made soothing grunts. Jonathan had done nothing since coming home except sit and watch TV with his two older children, leaving Fran to deal entirely with the other four AND cook dinner. He had eventually bathed the twins but only because Fran had told him to, and Silas only grunted and Bella was far too used to getting her own way. Fran was phoning because she damn well was going to have an evening out with me next week and Jonathan could bloody well get back early and babysit. ‘That would be really great,’ I said. ‘But I’m sorry you’re having a hard time.’ ‘I suppose he feels he has to make the most of his time with Bella and Silas,’ I went on cautiously. ‘Could Bella help you with the twins?’ I added, inspired. ‘Teenage girls sometimes like looking after little children. You could ask her to–’ Fran let out a long, exasperated sigh. ‘Oh she’ll jig them about for five minutes, then she gets bored. More interested in getting back on her phone. Oh bloody hell now Freya’s calling. Jonathan!’ her voice resounded shrilly against my head, making my eardrum vibrate. ‘Could you please attend to your OTHER daughter …’ I winced as I said goodbye. Fran took no prisoners once she’d wound herself up. I lit the white jasmine candle my neighbour Paula had given me when I Ieft Finchley and lay back again, suddenly relishing my own peace and waiting for the perfume to drift towards me. There was someone on Radio Four talking about keeping a gratitude diary to promote inner peace and enhance happiness. Each night you had to write down three good things that had happened that day. I ticked them off. I didn’t miss the train and nobody near me was eating burgers. I had a nice time with Caroline. Two of my children were home and the room smelled lovely … The programme rumbled on. I realised I’d been dozing when I heard them talking outside the door and fumbling with the key. They came in on a waft of beer and a scent I’d not had clinging to the carpets since Ben departed. Tilly was rolling her eyes while looking enviously at the white paper bundle in his arms. ‘He’s got chips,’ she told me unnecessarily, ‘AND a kebab!’ Within an hour of being in the house, Oliver was rolling his eyes too. ‘You two,’ he told his younger siblings, ‘regress to 12-year-olds when you’re back with Mum. Make him do it,’ he told me, as I pulled Ben’s jeans out of the machine. ‘She runs round you too.’ Tilly, sitting at the small table in the now- crowded kitchen, did not look up from her make-up mirror. ‘So don’t get all bloody superior.’ Ben, standing by the kettle, his mouth bulging with toast, threw open his hands in a gesture of helplessness. Oliver, leaning his tall frame against the doorway, met my eyes and shook his head. ‘Sam and I are going down the town. Do we need anything?’ ‘You can collect the turkey for me,’ I said, reaching for my purse. ‘I’ve got everything else.’ I glanced at Ben, who was refilling the toaster. ‘Though, possibly another loaf of bread. Or two.’ I watched my eldest son and his girlfriend as they went down the path. Oliver did seem so adult compared to the other two and yet he was only eighteen months older than Tilly. Maybe it was Sam, who always seemed so grounded, who had made him grow up. I liked Sam. She was calm and smiley, much quieter than my daughter, and far more sensible. I sometimes worried that she couldn’t get a word in edgeways with Tilly carrying on, but she didn’t seem to mind. She was very girl-next-door with her pale skin and shiny brown hair and though she didn’t always say much, had an infectious giggle once she’d relaxed. Even Tilly, who was usually disparaging about any woman who, as she put it, was ‘stupid enough to fancy one of my brothers’ was fond of her. Sam took Oliver’s hand as they turned out of the gate and he leant down and kissed the side of her forehead. I watched, touched, but felt a sudden pang – half longing, half loss – that I couldn’t quite explain. Ben came up behind me as I closed the door and put a hand on my shoulder. ‘So, Mumsie,’ he said in a comic child’s voice, and giving me a squeeze. ‘Where are the Easter eggs?’ Chapter 10 (#ulink_5cb1f96a-8631-579f-b003-327f2325a827) I’d eat two, Tilly at least three, Ben six, Oliver five, maybe, Sam probably wouldn’t really need any as there was topping on her fish pie, but perhaps she’d have one … Twenty well-roasted potato chunks should be enough but somehow didn’t look it. Ben, clearly depleted from the endless re-runs of Top Gear, and Tilly, in need of sustenance after an exhausting morning using all the hot water, were already ‘starving’. And I could never shake off the notion that someone else might turn up. And, indeed, I’d just grabbed two more Maris Pipers and started chopping when the prophetic ringing of the doorbell brought forth another potential spud-muncher. Gabriel, ushered through to the kitchen by my daughter and proffering a rather manic-looking chocolate rabbit, gave me an apologetic smile. ‘You said to pop in and meet Ben but … but I can see you’re busy …’ ‘It’s fine,’ said Tilly decisively. She jerked her head towards the tray of uncooked chipolatas. ‘We won’t be eating for hours yet.’ She sighed and looked at Gabriel curiously. ‘What would you want to meet Ben for?’ ‘Shall we invite him to eat with us?’ I asked Tilly, when she reappeared to get beers. ‘I feel sorry for him on his own.’ ‘I’d feel sorry for him being with us lot!’ She swung open the fridge door. ‘Have you got any crisps?’ I listened to them laughing in the other room as I stirred flour into meat juices a couple of hours later. I could hear Gabriel doing his Malcolm impression, Oliver’s deep chuckle, Sam giggling. I heard Jinni’s name mentioned and had a twinge of conscience about her too. I put an extra plate in the bottom of the oven, announced the plan to the assortment of bodies sprawled across sofas and issued instructions. ‘Ben – get the vegetables on the table will you? Oliver can you open another bottle of wine, darling. And get another chair out of the conservatory. Tilly, lay another place?’ My daughter began to gather up empties nudging her brother into action with her foot as she did so. ‘She might say no.’ ‘She might say yes and then she won’t feel welcome if we’re scrabbling about looking for cutlery …’ ‘I’ll do it!’ Gabriel sprang to his feet. ‘Show me where it is …’ I left Tilly solicitously leading Gabriel in the direction of the dining room and ran over the road. Jinni opened the door wearing a paint-splattered man’s striped shirt over a long orange skirt, looking surprised. ‘I thought you’d be up to your armpits in kids.’ ‘I am – and I wondered if you’d like to be too. I’ve roasted a turkey and thought you might like to join us …’ ‘Oh!’ Jinni looked simultaneously pleased and disappointed. ‘I’ve just eaten cheese on toast.’ ‘Come over anyway? Glass of wine and pudding?’ ‘But I could probably manage a little bit …’ Jinni grinned. ‘I need a quick shower. Start without me.’ ‘I’ll leave the door on the latch.’ ‘This is wonderful,’ Gabriel gave me a beaming smile. ‘Haven’t had turkey since last Thanksgiving and then it wasn’t anything like this.’ He waved a hand at the now decimated bird, and the array of half-empty dishes and tureens. I smiled back, flattered. ‘You’d better not say that in front of your mother,’ I said, attempting modesty, although I had to admit it had all come out rather well. ‘I’m sure hers was wonderful.’ ‘It was my grandmother who cooked it,’ said Gabriel. ‘She was over from the States. She said later it was the jetlag, but really it was the gins … she makes a dry Martini that takes your head off. It’s all gin. She brought her own cocktail onions.’ ‘Ah a Gibson! Good woman!’ Jinni appeared in the doorway with a bottle of Rioja in one hand and a port in the other. She put them on the pine chest and headed for the empty chair, gazing at the table with relish. ‘Look at those potatoes! Haven’t had a roastie for months …’ For someone who wasn’t sure if she was hungry, Jinni tucked in with gusto. ‘Marvellous,’ she said, spooning cauliflower cheese onto her plate. ‘Love this stuff and can never be arsed to make it …’ ‘Mum’s is the best,’ said Tilly. ‘Grab some sausages before Ben eats them all.’ ‘And what’s this?’ Jinni was peering at the earthenware oven dish next to Sam. ‘Fish pie.’ Sam held it out, smiling. ‘Do have some. I can’t possibly eat it all. It is delicious, though,’ she said, looking at me. ‘It’s got all sorts of things in it.’ Jinni ladled a small helping on to the side of her plate and took a forkful. ‘Mmm. I love fish pie too. Especially with mussels. You kept that quiet, girlfriend – didn’t know you were one mean cook.’ ‘Oh, not really.’ I murmured, suddenly embarrassed by all this praise. ‘It’s very easy …’ ‘Mum says you’re doing wonderful things to your place …’ said Oliver, helpfully jumping in. ‘It looks huge.’ ‘Yeah, there’s lots to do.’ Jinni turned back to me. ‘That reminds me. Guess who I saw driving past as I came over the road? Had the fucking cheek to wave!’ ‘Who?’ said Tilly. ‘Local wanker.’ ‘I saw him at the station,’ I said. ‘He was all friendly.’ ‘Huh!’ For a moment Jinni looked poised to launch into another Ingrid-fuelled diatribe, but then she picked up her glass and smiled. ‘You must come over before you go back.’ Jinni took a large swig of wine. ‘I’ll make you all gins.’ She grinned at Gabriel. ‘I can give your gran a run for her money …’ By the time I’d got the chocolate tart on the table, Jinni and Gabriel were almost family. ‘I think I might come,’ Jinni was saying, as Gabriel was extolling the virtues of the open mic night to Oliver and Ben. ‘I like a bit of live music – especially when it’s a free-for-all.’ She’d opened the bottle of port and was pouring generous measures. ‘There’s always someone convinced they’re the next Susan Boyle, bringing out the neighbourhood cats.’ ‘It’s usually Tilly,’ said Ben, as Tilly stuck a finger up at him. He threw back his head and let out a high-pitched falsetto. ‘I know him so well …’ He nudged me. ‘Do you remember, Mum? Longest night of my life.’ ‘It wasn’t that bad, you saddo.’ Tilly turned to Jinni. ‘It was a charity show when I was at drama school – we had to do songs from the musicals and I was with this ghastly girl who could only sing in one key.’ ‘But at least she could sing in one …’ said Ben. Tilly made another rude gesture. ‘When I was at Guildford, we had to choose a song at the beginning of term and then that was what we worked on every week for ever,’ Jinni told her. ‘I ended up with ‘Bright Eyes’. I didn’t like it, never could sing it and the singing teacher hated me. Put me off for years.’ ‘Sadly that didn’t happen to Tilly …’ Ben got up and waved his empty pint pot at Oliver. ‘Want another beer?’ ‘Hey, we could do a duet on Tuesday,’ said Jinni, clearly enthused now by several glasses of red. ‘Let’s get some words. Got an iPad or something?’ Ben shuddered. ‘Noooooo.’ When Oliver and Sam started yawning and announced they were going to bed early, I shooed the others into the front room. They got very little privacy, both sharing with others in small flats, where there always seemed to be extra bodies staying. ‘Shall I make coffee?’ I said, standing up as the couple disappeared into the adjoining conservatory, closing the blinds behind them. Tilly began gathering dishes. ‘You’d better,’ she said. ‘Ben’s got that simple look on his face.’ She was looking a bit flushed herself. ‘Leave the rest,’ I said, as she dumped a pile of plates perilously close to the edge of the kitchen work surface. ‘Look after our guests …’ But Jinni and Gabriel appeared completely at home as I handed round mugs and Jinni poured more port into our glasses and returned to perch cross-legged in my largest chair. Ben was sprawled back on the sofa, guitar across his chest. Tess sat on the floor, legs out in front of her. Gabriel jumped up from his seat and took the last mug from me. ‘Let me help you with the washing up.’ I smiled at him. ‘The dishwasher can do that.’ Jinni grinned round at my own offspring. ‘Or isn’t that what kids are for?’ ‘In theory,’ I smiled back. I did seem to have fallen back into my role of chief cook and bottle-washer with indecent speed, but they were only here briefly … I sat down next to Ben and poked him. ‘Come on then – give us a song …’ Ben sang a selection he knew I liked – from David Gray, Snow Patrol and Ben Howard – and strummed along as Jinni and Tilly did songs from Evita – Jinni had a good voice, strong and clear, and Tilly stayed in tune pretty well behind her. Gabriel shyly demurred from singing – ‘I’m not that good, not compared with Ben’ – but promised to give us a tune on Tuesday in the pub. He looked at me. ‘You’re coming, aren’t you, Tess?’ ‘I’ve got a long day at work, some important meetings.’ I felt a twinge of angst as I said it. I had some plans to finish before then. Gabriel made a show of looking disappointed and I thought how polite he was to include me. Ben and Tilly wouldn’t give a stuff if I pitched up or not. I stood up. ‘More coffee?’ But Jinni was yawning and Gabriel immediately got to his feet too. ‘It’s been a really great evening,’ he said, kissing my cheek and looking at me with real appreciation in his eyes before turning to Tilly too. ‘Such a pleasure,’ I said, as she hugged him. Jinni threw her arms around me. ‘Fabulous,’ she said. ‘My turn soon.’ They walked down the path together. ‘They’re nice,’ said Tilly, as I closed the door. ‘Jinni’s not that mad after all.’ ‘Apart from wanting to sing with you,’ put in Ben behind us. ‘Gabe’s a good guy.’ I beamed at them both. ‘It felt like we’d known them for years …’ ‘I’m going to bed,’ Tilly picked up her magazine. She prodded her brother as she went past. ‘Don’t make any disgusting noises.’ Ben made a face at her. ‘Like you don’t!’ As I put the chain on across the front door, I looked down at the wall that ran towards the start of the stairs, where the footwear had now multiplied. Oliver’s loafers lay next to Ben’s trainers, alongside a pair of boots belonging to Tilly, accompanied by some heels, socks, flip-flops and a neatly aligned pair of slippers that were probably Sam’s. Smiling, I remembered the permanent mass of shoes that used to form an unruly mound in the hallway in Finchley. I recalled Rob coming in one night and tripping over a stray sneaker in the middle of the rug. Pictured him glaring at the heap beneath the hall mirror which had spilled off the shoe rack and spread halfway to the stairs, and the way he had flown into an unexpected rage, turning on me in fury, blaming my slap-dash attitude, poor parenting, lack of disciplinarianism and general hopelessness, for the lack of order in the house. ‘They leave them there, because YOU let them,’ he had shrieked, and I’d been so startled by his red face and shaking lips I’d choked on a strange bubble of hysterical laughter. ‘They’re only shoes,’ I’d managed to say, while Ben and Tilly scuttled from hall to coat cupboard and Oliver, aged 16, had stood tall and looked Rob in the eye, and said: ‘it’s not Mum’s fault, it’s ours’.’ ‘Sorry’, Rob had said grudgingly later. ‘Bad day.’ ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I’d replied. Because it didn’t by then. A decade earlier I’d have been anxious, tearful, mortified by his anger and my failings. Now, I was gloriously unbothered, probably trying to remember what was still in the tumble dryer and whether the cat had been wormed. This evening, divorced and independent, in my own home, with no one to answer to, I kicked off the battered old mules I used for forays into the garden and added them to the pile. Then I switched off the rest of the lights and went upstairs in the dark. There would be no nightmares tonight. There was a row of footwear down there that wasn’t mine. Chapter 11 (#ulink_ab7362e5-2487-552b-8d5a-7837aae8bfb9) I woke abruptly and sat bolt upright, heart banging. The illuminated numbers on my radio alarm showed 5.32. I remembered my children were all here and everything was lovely and slumped back against the pillows in relief. Then I heard it again. Someone was throwing up. I got out of bed, wrapped my robe around me and followed the sound of retching to the downstairs loo off the utility room, expecting to see Ben suffering the consequences of more beers than I’d realised or the 2 a.m. munchies and a dodgy take-away. But it was Oliver standing anxiously in the doorway. Beyond him I could see Sam kneeling on the tiles, head over the bowl. Beside her on the floor was a towel and a bottle of Dettox. ‘She’s really ill,’ said Oliver. ‘Both ends,’ he mouthed. ‘Oh, sweetie.’ Sam gave another gut-wrenching retch, although she clearly had nothing left to bring up. ‘She’s freezing.’ I said, feeling the cold skin on her arms. ‘Get something to put round her. ‘Sorry,’ Sam gasped. And heaved again. ‘She said she was hot,’ said Oliver behind me. ‘She was sweating earlier.’ I felt her clammy forehead. ‘There’s a cardigan on the chair in my bedroom.’ I wrapped the garment around Sam’s heaving shoulders and stroked her hair. ‘Get her some water,’ I told Oliver as Sam suddenly stiffened and scrambled to her feet. ‘I need to go to the loo,’ she said urgently, pushing me out. ‘Not again …’ I went back into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Oliver looked worried. ‘Have you got anything we can give her?’ ‘I don’t think so. I had a massive clear-out when I moved. There’s only pain-killers.’ I looked out of the front window. There were lights on in the rectory. ‘I’ll go and ask Jinni.’ She opened the door immediately, wearing a long towelling dressing gown and looking pale without her usual dramatic eye make-up. ‘You’re early!’ she said. ‘Did you get one too?’ ‘What?’ Jinni picked up a folded piece of paper from the small table in her hall and handed it to me. It was the article from the newspaper – with the large photo of her and the small unfortunate one of me. Someone had drawn a thick circle around her face and written in black marker pen: FUCK OFF BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM THEN. ‘Christ,’ I said. ‘No, I didn’t.’ ‘I thought I heard something just after I’d gone upstairs last night,’ Jinni said. ‘Found it on the mat this morning.’ ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve come over because–’ ‘But it could have been there all evening, cos I usually come in round the side. I expect he did it after he’d seen me going over to you …’ ‘You don’t really think–’ ‘Him or his mad mother. I’ll give them fuck off …’ I looked at her set face and decided this was not a time to debate it. I told her about Sam. ‘Ah!’ Jinni looked rueful. ‘I had the squits earlier too.’ ‘Oh my God,’ I said, as the suspicion I’d been trying to banish took root. ‘It must have been my food. But you had turkey, and Sam had her own pie and the only stuff we all ate was the veg and surely that wouldn’t give you food poisoning. I’m okay and so is Oliver, and Tilly and Ben are all quiet. Cauliflower cheese?’ I said, worried. ‘Can that make you ill?’ Jinni shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t think so, but …’ she pulled another face. ‘I’m sorry to say it, but remember I had some of the fish pie too …’ ‘Oh bloody hell.’ I clapped a hand to my mouth. ‘Suppose I’ve given you both salmonella or E. coli. Oh Christ, Jinni, I’m so sorry.’ My own gut had gone into an anxious spasm. Jinni led the way into her kitchen. ‘Don’t worry about me. I feel fine now. I’ve got a stomach of iron.’ She looked at me as she filled the kettle. ‘But I only had a little bit.’ ‘Did it taste funny? Sam was probably too polite to say.’ ‘No, it was fantastic. How bad is she?’ ‘She seems to have stopped throwing up, but she’s still got diarrhoea and looks terrible. Perhaps I should get a doctor.’ ‘I wouldn’t panic just yet. I’ve got some marvellous stuff somewhere …’ Jinni was rooting in a cupboard next to the range. ‘Was given it in Mexico when I made the mistake of having the double-chilli devil burger and had to go on a bus for three hours.’ She produced a small brown bottle and thrust it at me. ‘Do you want tea?’ ‘I’d better not stay.’ I peered at the faded label. ‘This is a bit out of date,’ I said dubiously. ‘Do you think it’s okay?’ Jinni snorted. ‘Course it is. They put use-by dates on bloody washing-up liquid these days. Get a couple of spoonfuls down her neck and she’ll be sorted in no time.’ But Oliver shared my misgivings. ‘I think we should get some proper medicine,’ he said, when I got back with Jinni’s potion. ‘We don’t know what this is. It might make her worse.’ Sam had progressed to lying on the sofa bed, under a mound of duvet, but was still a horrible shade of grey and looked as though she could be ill again any moment. ‘I’ll go down to the chemist and speak to the pharmacist,’ I told him. ‘Keep giving her water, if she can manage it.’ As I hurried along the road, head down against a biting wind, I ran through my ingredients. The white fish for the pie had been frozen cod – there’d be nothing wrong with that. The same with the prawns. I’d got the seafood cocktail – full of mussels and squid – from a small deli I loved in Soho. Maybe it was that. But the shop was spotless – I’d been using it for years. And I’d put it in the office fridge, together with the ham and cheese, as soon as I got back from lunch with Caroline. But then it had been in my hessian bag on the tube and all the way home on the train. Perhaps it had got too warm. Guiltily, I remembered how thrilled I’d been to see Ben already there when I got back. I’d made tea – we’d sat talking. Now I thought about it, I hadn’t put the shopping away for ages. It had sat there in the bag, in the warm house, bacteria multiplying away merrily. Oh bloody hell, how long had it been? Sam chucking up for England was all my fault … Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/jane-wenham-jones/mum-in-the-middle-feel-good-funny-and-unforgettable/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.