Too Close For Comfort (18 page)

I went to reach out a hand, but there was something in his body language that told me it wouldn’t be welcome.

‘Then let’s get Woody and go inside.’

He ran to the chair where Woody sat, and brought the doll up close to his face. I slowly approached him.

‘Daddy’s very proud of you,’ he muttered, quite audible – his whispering skills left something to be desired. ‘You can always talk to me. You don’t need to
talk to anybody else. Always talk to me.’

He looked up at me, his face a pale moon. It was as if summer hadn’t touched him, which in a sense it hadn’t.

‘So Woody tells you his secrets too?’ I said. Was I asking too much? It was so hard to feign indifference in the face of his obvious distress. His free hand, muddy and warm, suddenly
reached for mine. ‘You said to me the first time I met you that you tell him your secrets?’

‘Everyone has secrets. It’s what makes you like a grown-up,’ he replied, like it was patently obvious.

‘Right,’ I said, slowly leading him across the grass. ‘So do you tell Daddy your secrets like Woody does?’

I thought of Joshua at the funeral – the way he’d ignited at the felony of Max grabbing multiple sausage rolls. He wouldn’t have been my first choice for a secret.

Max yanked his hand away, taking off at a run.

‘Biscuits!’ he yelled, careering towards the french windows. My progress was slower – I was like an amateurish puppeteer, willing my reluctant feet to do my bidding.

*

Lysette was bristling with aggressive maternity. The children were sitting at the table, white china plates in front of them, the now legendary biscuits stacked on a cake stand
I would have sworn she didn’t own. There seemed to be so many things I didn’t know about Lysette, big and small. Blackened and misshapen, the biscuits felt almost as out of place in
their surroundings as I did.

‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ I said, my voice ringing high and tinny in my ears. This was ridiculous. I hadn’t even started the funeral game – all I’d done was help
to give it parameters, made it safe – but here I was, pandering to the latest of Lysette’s savage mood swings. I pulled a couple of mugs out of the cupboard, aware of the way they
banged on the kitchen counter as I put them down.

‘Don’t worry about doing that,’ said Lysette, spinning round to face me. ‘You’re our
guest
.’

I could see a half-empty wine glass balanced on the draining board – she was turning the ’50s housewife vibe right up to the max.

‘I wasn’t sure if you wanted tea, or if you were just going to go with wine?’ I hated myself for saying it as soon as the words had left my mouth. The last thing the children
needed was to be sitting in the toxic fog of our passive-aggressive sniping. Max was oblivious, but I could see Saffron’s chocolate brown eyes tracking us – even six-year-old girls know
how to pinch without leaving a bruise. I put a hand on Lysette’s arm, forced myself to smile without baring my teeth. ‘Let me do it. Why don’t you sit down and put your feet
up?’

‘I couldn’t possibly,’ she hissed, refusing to accept the rather manky olive branch I’d held out. ‘I’m not the one who’s been working all day.’
Her eyes were narrow slits. ‘Putting in
overtime
.’

I had to turn away, my teeth grinding. I turned back, all smiles.

‘I’m going to go upstairs and get ready,’ I said. ‘Uncle Patrick’s coming later,’ I said, addressing myself to Saffron. I couldn’t even bear to make eye
contact with Lysette in that moment. ‘Lovely to see you again, Max.’

But as I left the kitchen a wail erupted.

‘Where are you going?’ sobbed Max, inconsolable. ‘Where are you
going
?’ I ran back in, dropped myself down into the chair next to him.

‘She’s only going upstairs,’ said Lysette, her eyes burning with a new level of rage. Of course – from her point of view this just confirmed my criminality. Why could no
one see – why could none of these parents see – that this child needed more support than he was getting?

‘That’s true, Max,’ I said. ‘My boyfriend’s coming to see me, and I want to make myself look extra pretty.’ My eyes flicked to Saffron, conscious of the
terrible fairy-tale-princess logic of that statement. ‘We’re going to talk about lots and lots of things together,’ I added.

‘You’re old, Auntie Mia,’ she piped up. ‘I’ve got a boyfriend who is not Max. You should have a husband. Grown-ups have husbands.’

The afternoon kept going from bad to worse: I didn’t need to look at Lysette to know how much she was enjoying this. Had Saffron sucked up the spiteful energy between us, recast herself as
Mummy’s second in command? I was about to give her a quick tutorial from Feminism For Six-Year-Olds, but unfortunately no one had written it, and my attention needed to stay focused on Max.
His glasses were moist, like a car windscreen on a drizzly Tuesday.

‘I promise I’ll come down and say goodbye to you when your daddy comes to collect you.’

He gave a nod, tears suddenly a thing of the past, and reached a mechanical hand out for another biscuit.

‘Thank you,’ he said, not even bothering to make contact.

I stood up, brushing blackened biscuit crumbs off my knees. ‘OK then!’ I said, all fake cheer, backing out of the room. I was going to text Patrick as soon as I was out of this
cinnamon-scented hell and tell him that speed limits had no place in his life right now.

*

I lay on the stupid inflatable mattress waiting for my heart rate to slow. I tried to push my fury with Lysette aside – to tell myself it was nothing more than my bruised
ego taking everything too personally – but sainthood wasn’t one of my strengths.

Thinking about Max was at least a useful distraction. Could I try to engage Joshua when he arrived, tell him that I thought Max would benefit from more support? What was this constant talk about
secrets – was it simply a way of articulating how much he missed that deep, snuggly closeness with his mum or was it something more troubling? I rehearsed it in my head, terrified I’d
come over as some chilly, childless professional, too proud of the letters after my name, pronouncing on other people’s parenting styles. I felt another spurt of rage towards Lysette: I hated
thinking she was using her earth mother status to keep me down, but the thought wouldn’t die. The truth was, I didn’t have tons of female friends – perhaps because I feared the
kind of silent, deadly warfare that we’d always scorned as a cliché we’d never resort to. I’d relied too much on her to be my everything – it was humiliating to
realise I might have been the only one holding on to a torn and faded photograph.

When the doorbell rang, I sprang up. I hadn’t wanted to go to the bathroom in case it forced me into any more contact with Lysette, so I’d applied my make-up in the reflection of a
tiny compact. My lipstick looked garishly red, my mascara smudgy. I watched Lysette open the door from my vantage point on the top landing. Of course it wasn’t Patrick – it was utter
insanity to expect that he’d have proved his love by defying the land-speed record – but nor was it Joshua.

‘So where’s the little man?’ asked Lisa. Everything about her seemed so efficient. Her cleverly highlighted hair was cut in a sleek cap that fell precisely around her sharp
features, her car keys were held at the ready in her left hand. She was wearing the kind of jeans that were neither fashionable nor unfashionable, simply there.

‘He’s been busy baking biscuits,’ replied Lysette.
And playing funerals
, I silently added, forcing myself down the stairs. Why was everyone dealing in
half-truths? Half-truths are so much worse than lies: they’re like ruthless assassins, deadly in their invisibility.

‘Hi, Lisa,’ I said. For some reason I put out my hand, just as she leaned in for a brisk kiss. We laughed awkwardly. I couldn’t quite bring myself to look at Lysette.

‘So you’re still here, working your magic?’ she said. As she was speaking, Max slunk through the kitchen door and wedged himself against me.

‘I’m doing my best,’ I said, looking down at him. His hands looped around my leg.

‘Well, it looks like you’ve got yourself a fan!’ she said, and I braced myself for a splash of vitriol from Lysette. This was the moment to say something, but it was also the
absolute opposite.

‘Are you staying for a cup of tea?’ I said, aware of how presumptuous it was for me to be the one to ask.

‘Yeah, stay for a cup of tea,’ added Lysette, although I didn’t sense much enthusiasm in her tone.

Lisa pulled a disappointed face that didn’t quite convince. ‘I’d have loved that – I’ve got so many questions bubbling away about what it is you actually do –
but we have to get back and get some supper into this one.’ She looked down at him. ‘Don’t we?’

How must it feel for Max, this new normal that was being imposed with such brutal determination? I might’ve been imagining it, but his grip on my leg felt like a creeping vine that
didn’t want to let go.

‘That’s a pity,’ I said. ‘But I would love the chance to talk to you – to you and to Joshua – about what it is I’m doing here. Perhaps I could give him
a call? I don’t want to impose, but if I can be any support before I go . . .’

Lysette shot me a dark look which I ignored, keeping my fixed smile in place and reaching a hand down to squeeze Max’s shoulder. I couldn’t abandon him: if there was the slightest
chance I could help him to be heard, I had to take it.

‘How kind! I’ll make sure to tell him that when he manages to fight his way out of the office. It’s awful . . .’ she added in an undertone, ‘all he wants to do is
spend time with this little one, but he’s got a massive deal going through which he has to be there for. It’s all hands to the pump for me and the kids.’

Was her husband part of the war effort? Her actual, current husband, not her ex?

‘You can bring him to us any time,’ said Lysette. ‘You know, Sarah was here the whole time, so it’s pretty much his second home.’

Was it barbed? It felt barbed. But why would it be, when their divorce was such a civilised affair?

‘You’re so kind,’ said Lisa, ‘thank you. I don’t know what we’d do without you.’

Everyone was saying ‘kind’ a bit more than was strictly necessary. She pecked both of our cheeks, chivvying Max to follow her to the car – she felt like a kitchen appliance
which had only one setting.

‘Bye, Max,’ I said, dropping down to my knees: as they hit the carpet a flash of Peter Grieve came floating up, unbidden. ‘See you again soon. Look after Woody.’

Lisa looked down on us, her smile never wavering. Max nodded earnestly, clutching hold of Woody, then set off down the path without saying a word. Lisa looked back at me as she left.

‘I don’t know how you do it!’ she said. ‘I mean, bless them, but I enjoyed mine far more once we could have a sensible exchange about what was on the radio.’

‘She’s the kiddie whisperer, don’t forget,’ said Lysette, but I was too distracted to take the bait.

There in the car, examining her lovely face in the passenger side mirror, sat Kimberley.

Patrick still wasn’t putting his seat belt on. I’d whipped mine across my chest, thrust in the clip, so when he tried to turn me towards him for a kiss my body
twisted unnaturally like an undercooked pretzel.

‘Let’s just go,’ I said.

Patrick leaned back in the driver’s seat, looked at me, amused.

‘And breathe,’ he said, floating his hands upwards like a Zen master. ‘Or are you just so desperate to rip my clothes off that you can’t waste valuable time on
pleasantries?’

He was wearing one of those flammable-looking suits that only belonged in Help the Aged. I’d sneakily push them to the back of the wardrobe, hope he’d get the hint, but they were
obviously enjoying a renaissance since I’d abandoned ship. I did want to rip it off, it was true, but not for the reason he imagined. Hopefully I’d reframe my reasoning once I’d
had a couple of glasses of wine. It was hard to imagine right now, my whole body fizzing with an acid frustration I couldn’t expel.

‘I’ve just had the worst day. Lysette’s being a TOTAL bitch to me, and I had another meeting with Lawrence Krall, with his – his weird sugar cravings. Honestly, he sounds
more like a country and western singer than a murder detective . . .’

Patrick’s warm smile lost a bit of its light, but I was too wound up to register it. He turned the key in the ignition.

‘It’s a police investigation. Stress is gonna be part of the deal . . .’

‘No, I know,’ I said, trying not to sound defensive. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you a proper run-down when we get there. Where
are
we going
anyway?’

I’d asked him to surprise me.

‘I booked the pub.’

‘The pub?’

Page one error – it’s something I warn couples about all the time. Of course he hadn’t read my mind, but I’d imagined being whisked off to some charming hotel in
Cambridge, wined and dined in style before he seduced me like we’d only just met, giving vent to all his pent-up passion. Instead we were going half a mile for a steak and ale pie and the
very real danger that one of the endless list of people I didn’t want to see would have the exact same idea.

‘Yeah. You’re always getting all wistful when we come down here. Going on about how quaint it is and sniffing the clean air with your dainty little nose. I thought we could have a
night of rural bliss in a country inn.’

‘Yeah. No, good idea.’

I knew I was being impossible but somehow I couldn’t stop myself. Patrick looked over at me, and I gave him a quick, unconvincing smile. The fact he let it go, pretended he was fooled,
made my loneliness – the loneliness I’d banked on him sweeping aside – rear up all over again.

Max flashed up in my mind. I was going mad, aligning myself with a six-year-old boy.

*

The pub was ancient – low and white, with black beams, a thatched roof and a door so low that Patrick had to duck his long body to get inside. I took his hand and squeezed
it, ashamed of my ingratitude. We were here, together.

As we walked in I couldn’t help feeling curious eyes were tracking us, even though I didn’t recognise anyone except the newsagent and his wife (I’d clearly spent too much time
in there pretending to myself I wasn’t reading the hysterical headlines). Patrick was already at the bar, giving the landlady the booking details, all Irish charm and bonhomie. She was
sixty-ish, with lots of oversized gilt jewellery and the kind of coal-black hair that never quite convinces. Her small, dark eyes were bright and watchful, roving the pub as if she was anticipating
trouble. After Patrick produced a credit card she disappeared off to get our room key.