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  ‘Ha,’ she said, rather awkwardly. ‘Not really.’ Not at all, in fact. Becca seemed to have ground to a halt on the romance front, unfortunately. There was a time when she’d considered herself a passionate sort of person, reckless and impulsive, falling in and out of love as the weather changed. But more recently it was as if she’d forgotten how to do it, as if that impetuous spark of hers had been doused. My heart has frozen over, she thought to herself sometimes, wondering how one went about thawing out.

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ Michael teased. ‘With that hair and those dimples? No way. Well, the blokes you know must be crackers, is all I can say. Crackers, I tell you!’

  ‘That must be it,’ she said, laughing.

  Once the stew had gone into the oven, she asked him to play her a tune, and he went to get another trombone immediately and put on a bit of a concert for her, right there in the kitchen. Becca had always considered the trombone something of a comedy instrument, but Michael’s playing was by turns so soulful and then brassily upbeat that the music gave her goosebumps.

  ‘That was gorgeous,’ she said shyly at the end.

  He smiled at her and gave the trombone an affectionate pat. ‘It’s what keeps me going,’ he told her. ‘Can’t beat a good old tune to lift the spirits.’

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly lifted mine,’ she replied. It was true as well. After the bruising start to the day with Adam, the afternoon had restored her faith in humanity a little, made her feel much better about the world. There was something about Michael that reminded her of her dad too, which was comforting. ‘I’d better head off now, but I hope the stew tastes good tonight. It smells amazing.’

  ‘I’m going to really enjoy it,’ he assured her. ‘You’re a great teacher.’ He showed her to the front door then pulled a twenty-pound note from an old brown wallet and pressed it into her hand. ‘Here. Maybe you could come again another time? Show me how to make a treacle tart. That’s my other favourite, see.’

  ‘Ahh,’ Becca said. ‘The thing is, I live in Birmingham. I’m just here to look after my sister’s children for a few nights while she’s away.’ She hesitated, on the verge of saying that Rachel would be in touch about another cookery lesson, but held back. Better not. ‘Sorry,’ she added, feeling bad about the look of disappointment on Michael’s face.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ he said. He held his hand out solemnly, and they shook. ‘But it was lovely to meet you, Becca. Thank you for teaching an old dog a new trick, as they say. I’m going to enjoy my stew, I’m sure. I might even ask the band round one night, and make it for all of them.’

  ‘Good for you,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘Thanks very much for the money, and the concert. I enjoyed meeting you too. Take care, Michael. Goodbye.’ And she walked away along the street, feeling as if she might just have done something good for a change.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘So what brings you to Manchester, then?’ The blonde nurse was back today and changing one of the dressings on Rachel’s face. Rachel could smell her perfume as she leaned close.

  What had brought her to Manchester? Ahh, the big question. ‘I was looking for someone who knew my mum,’ Rachel replied after a moment. The wiring made her voice sound so strangled and indistinct it brought her up short every time. Is that really me?

  ‘Your mum? Oh. Right.’ The nurse was busily peeling away the sticking plaster keeping the dressing in place but Rachel caught the note of surprise in her voice. No doubt she’d been expecting a more light-hearted answer – here to meet a friend; doing a bit of shopping; day out in the big city!

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Rachel mumbled, in the hope of avoiding any more questions. There was no way she was about to go into the whole thing now, put it like that. Where would she even start? Violet Pewsey was where the story began, she supposed. Violet Pewsey at her dad’s funeral, all knobbly collarbone and elbows in her sage-green dress and matching floppy felt hat, making a beeline for Rachel, past the piled-up egg sandwiches and bowls of crisps on the buffet table. ‘I knew your parents. Did your dad ever . . . mention me?’

  Thirteen months on, Rachel could still remember the cloying scent of perfume and mothballs; the feel of those crepey, almost translucent fingers as the woman clutched at her arm. And oh, how Rachel’s heart had leapt with foolish joy at her words. I knew your parents – plural. Not just her dad. Her mum, too. Terry’s family had always been gruff and taciturn when it came to talking about Emily. Death was an embarrassment; emotions were best left hidden away. By the time Rachel was a teenager, bursting with questions, all of the Durant relatives were unhelpfully dead and buried themselves, unable to share their memories of her mother. Nobody had really ever told her anything.

  ‘You knew my mum?’ The room had shrunk away, the black-clad mourners seeming to recede, even the pong of egg sandwiches becoming a distant memory. Hope swelled within Rachel; she felt light-headed at this unexpected gift on such a sad day.

  ‘Only through your dad. I was with him, you see. Terry. When it all happened. We were together until . . .’ She sighed, and Rachel could see several decades of wistfulness in the single exhalation. There was something rather defeated about Violet Pewsey, despite the cheerful slick of pink lipstick on her thin lips. ‘Well, you know, the trial,’ she said, rather awkwardly, her eyes flicking away as she sipped her sherry. Then she asked, with barely disguised hope, ‘Did he ever talk about me, your dad?’

  ‘Er . . .’ Rachel stared blankly at the woman, her mind still stuck on that unexpected word. The trial? There was a bead of sweat above Violet’s upper lip, glinting in the light like a sequin. ‘I don’t remember,’ she managed to reply, before blurting out, ‘What do you mean, the trial?’

  Violet’s eyes flickered in surprise. Her pouchy little mouth fell open and she twisted the sherry glass between her fingers. Rachel’s blood seemed to pound around her head. A trial. What was the woman talking about?

  ‘I . . . I’m sorry, dear,’ Violet said, after an agonizing pause. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned that. Not on a day like today. Forgive me, will you? I only wanted to pay my respects. It’s just . . . I always wondered what happened to your father. He was such a lovely man. And things might have been so different, if . . . Well, anyway. What’s done is done.’ She smiled at Rachel, but it was a nervous smile, a Did-I-just-get-away-with-that? kind of smile that did not ring with conviction. ‘I’d better go, anyway,’ she added hastily, knocking back the rest of her drink with an audible gulp. ‘Lovely to meet you.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Rachel. She couldn’t let this woman leave just like that, having opened a door so tantalizingly to secrets from the past. ‘Could you . . . Could you please tell me what you remember about my mum?’ she begged. ‘Anything. Anything at all. I was so little when she died, you see, and nobody would ever talk about her.’

  But Violet became quite agitated at this request. She took a step back, no longer looking directly at Rachel, and began fussing about the time, oh dear, she really needed to get going, she didn’t want to miss her coach. An apologetic pat of the arm – I’m sorry about your dad – and then she was threading her way back through the busy room, the silk flowers on her hat wobbling in her haste.

  Rachel watched her go, feeling thoroughly disconcerted. What was all that about? Why couldn’t Violet look her in the eye? And what the hell did she mean by this trial? She was just about to bolt after her and plead with her to explain, when a couple of silver-haired men with moist eyes came and introduced themselves as former colleagues of Terry, back from the Longbridge days. ‘He was a good fella, your dad,’ they said, clasping her hands. ‘A smashing bloke. They don’t make ’em like that any more, more’s the pity.’

  The rest of the funeral had passed in a blur: Lawrence suavely solicitous, Wendy tearful, Becca blotchy-faced and drunk by the end of it, sniffling on random people’s shoulders. But Rachel felt buttoned up inside, unable to think straight after Violet Pewsey had left so many unanswered questions fermenting in her
head. The biggest question of all was: dare she find out more?

  Well, she had, of course. Eventually. And here she was now as a result, with a bump on her head, and all sorts of broken bits in her body, having a nurse apologize for the stinging antiseptic wipe she was using to clean her stitched face. That was what curiosity did for you.

  ‘There,’ the nurse said at the end. ‘All finished.’ She washed her hands and gave an awkward smile. ‘I hope things work out for you and your mum.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Rachel, not bothering to correct her. My mum’s dead. Or at least that’s what I always thought . . .

  Chapter Nineteen

  The phone was ringing as Becca got in with the children after school, and the answerphone started up before she could reach it. ‘Hello . . . Er, this is Adam Holland,’ came a voice, and Becca stopped dead in the kitchen, pulling a face at the sound. Well, there was no way she was going to pick up now. ‘Um . . . Look, about earlier. I shouldn’t have . . .’ Clearly this was a man who found apologies difficult, Becca thought, curling her lip. He could hardly string a sentence together. ‘I was telling my brother about what happened, and –’

  He was telling his brother? Laughing about it, probably. Cringe.

  ‘– and he pointed out that maybe I’d been a bit unfair. A person doesn’t have to be, er, well, skin and bone to be fit. Obviously. You could be, like, an Olympic shot putter for all I know.’

  Cringe and double cringe. Shut up, will you. They both knew she was not an Olympic shot putter. So he was basically ringing her to point out that she was fat, again. Thanks for that.

  ‘And then I looked through the exercises that you had, er, thrown at me –’ Okay, so she probably shouldn’t have thrown them at him. ‘– and . . . well, I have to say, it all looked pretty good. I wasn’t sure what the “Davina Super Pump” was, but –’

  ‘Oh,’ said Scarlet, coming into the room at that moment and misunderstanding why Becca was standing there staring at the telephone. ‘You can just pick it up, you know. Like this.’ And pick it up she did, before Becca could lunge to stop her. ‘Hello?’ she said into the receiver. ‘Do you want Aunty Bee? She’s here.’ She passed it to Becca. ‘It’s for you.’

  Brilliant. So now she had to actually talk to the chump. ‘Hi,’ she said grudgingly.

  ‘Hi.’ He sounded awkward too. ‘I’ve just left you a really rambling message. Er . . .’

  ‘It’s all right, I think I got the gist of it,’ she said, before he could start banging on about Olympic shot putters again.

  ‘Well . . . Sorry, anyway. For being rude. For upsetting you.’

  Ugh. She didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to talk to him full stop. ‘I wasn’t upset,’ she said witheringly. Ready to punch you, maybe, she thought, rolling her eyes at Scarlet, who was eavesdropping shamelessly nearby.

  ‘Oh, okay. Well, no hard feelings, anyway. Yeah? I think my next appointment is for Thursday, so . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I guess I’ll see you then.’

  He guessed he’d see her again? Not in this lifetime, he wouldn’t. Was he mad? ‘Right,’ she said non-committally. She’d be long gone by Thursday, she figured; Rachel wouldn’t want her hanging around. No doubt her sister would sort the whole thing out when she was back. ‘Bye.’

  ‘Was that your boyfriend?’ Scarlet said with interest as Becca hung up. The child would make an excellent spy when she was older, although she probably needed to hone her observation skills in terms of subtlety.

  ‘No! God. No way,’ Becca replied. ‘He’s a complete and utter . . . Anyway. Let’s find you a snack. Piece of toast?’ she suggested, wondering what kind of snack Rachel usually fed her children after school. Definitely not a Snickers bar, she’d established that much. ‘Apple? Carrot sticks?’

  ‘Did you know,’ Scarlet said, without answering the question, ‘that it takes the same amount of force to bite off the top of your thumb as it does to bite off the top of a carrot? My friend Lois told me.’

  ‘Gross,’ Becca said. ‘But let’s not try that one out now, yeah?’ Visions of missing digits and blood-soaked dashes to A&E spun horribly round her head. If she had to return there two days on the trot . . . No. Unthinkable. She glanced at her watch – four o’clock. ‘I wonder what’s happened to your sister?’ she said uneasily, remembering the boyfriend and yesterday’s love bite. Damn it, she’d forgotten to expressly forbid any clandestine trysts, in the midst of the pre-school melee that morning. Leaving Scarlet and Luke to forage through the kitchen for food – ‘Something healthy, all right?’ – she went to find her phone. Lawrence was due to arrive in two hours, and she was already dreading him noticing what had happened to his daughter’s tender neck during Becca’s watch. If his daughter had gone AWOL and wasn’t even home, he’d have far more to say, none of it nice.

  Hi, she texted her niece. Are you on way back? Dad coming to pick you up at 6, don’t forget. xx

  A crash came from the kitchen and she ran back in to see that the other two were standing guiltily around a jar of strawberry jam – or rather, an ex-jar of strawberry jam, which was now decorating the stone floor, glittering shards of glass having sprayed out in all directions. ‘Whoops,’ said Scarlet.

  By two minutes to six, Becca was feeling extremely frazzled. Mabel had eventually slunk home at nearly five – ‘Sorry, Drama Club! I only just saw your text,’ she had said breezily, unpopping one earphone to explain, then immediately replacing it and heading upstairs. Too many dramas in this place, Becca had thought, lacking the energy to argue. The jam and glass had been cleared up, the floor mopped, some suitable snacks eventually found and provided for all. Then the three of them had packed things for the weekend – and repacked them under Becca’s supervision, so that the younger two now had toothbrushes and Mabel her homework books. (Nice try, love, she thought.) To top it off, Scarlet had whipped herself up into a state of total hysteria at the prospect of being reunited with her dog for the weekend, and kept jumping off the sofa screaming ‘Harvey Time!’ at the top of her voice. Never had a cold beer seemed so appealing, never. Becca would have been glugging down a bottle this minute, were it not for the small fact of having to drive back to Birmingham later on. How did Rachel cope with this day in, day out? How did any parent?

  ‘He’s here!’ shrieked Scarlet as a car pulled up outside. ‘DADDY!’ At last.

  Becca opened the front door in time to see Lawrence unfold himself from the car. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had always reminded her of a menswear catalogue model, good-looking in a classic way with that slightly rumpled hair and chiselled jaw. Shame he was such a tosser. Today he was wearing jeans, but they were smart jeans, designer probably, and a grey Ralph Lauren polo shirt that he’d probably paid seventy quid for. Seventy quid for a small embroidered logo. That was how much of a tosser he was.

  As Scarlet and Luke rushed out to greet him, Mabel following a cool two paces behind, Becca found herself hurtling back to that awful night in the Copthorne – how he’d grabbed her hand and scrawled his room number on the back of it. 312, as if he was branding her, claiming her. Yuck.

  ‘Lawrence, hi,’ she said now, as he looked up and saw her there in the doorway. He’d been in a tux that night, smirking down at her, his hands big and warm through her black cotton waitress dress. Pig.

  ‘Hello, Becca,’ he replied, his gaze locking with hers. Despite her best intentions, she felt herself turn red. Please for the love of God, she thought, let’s not go there now. ‘It’s good to see you again,’ he went on. No, it wasn’t. ‘So I’ll have these rascals back to you on Sunday evening then, shall I? You’re still all right to pick up Rachel on Monday?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘Great. Let’s say six on Sunday, then. Okay, rabble, let’s go.’ He turned back to her. ‘Have a good weekend. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  She smiled thinly. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ she said. ‘Bye, then, kids.’

  Mabel and Luke were alrea
dy in the car and shouted goodbye, but Scarlet ran back over and flung her arms around Becca, taking her by surprise. ‘Love you, Aunty Bee,’ she said. ‘I’ll give Harvey a bloody big cuddle from you.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks. Yes, do that,’ Becca said. ‘And I love you too, gorgeous nieceling. Have fun in Wales.’

  Love you, Aunty Bee. And just like that, her frazzled feeling from earlier had melted away, replaced with a soft, lovely warmth spreading through her body and the feeling that it was somehow all worthwhile: the mistakes, the bodges, the spills. Love you. Okay. She took it back. All of a sudden, she felt quite glad to be returning on Sunday to spend another evening with her nieces and nephew. Who wouldn’t?

  She waved them off and went back inside, automatically reaching down to pick up the scattered school shoes and tidy them into the large wicker basket. They were good kids. In the past she’d never spent more than a few hours at a time in their company, generally at her parents’ place, for Christmas or a birthday or anniversary. You couldn’t really get to know a child properly on a mere handful of conversations per year, especially at big family gatherings when they were supposedly on best behaviour. Having entire days with them – having sole responsibility for them! – was a whole new thing. And while she wouldn’t say she was any kind of expert in the field, and felt as if she’d been winging it most of the time, it had been fun, too. Different. Now she knew that Mabel hated noodles and loved blue nail varnish. Now she knew that Scarlet and Luke played this weird game where they tried to punch each other whenever they saw a Mini out and about. She knew what they looked like when they were asleep, or laughing, or worried. It felt . . . kind of lovely, actually.

  In the meantime, though: the delicious prospect of a weekend to herself. And just ten minutes later, she was on the road too, rolling down her windows to let in the warm June air. It smelled pleasingly of hay and earth and sunshine, even on the A-road out towards Worcester; the roadside verges frothed with great drifts of cow parsley and red campion, and there were long grasses and buttercups in the meadows beyond. The forecasters had promised a barbecue weekend, and even though Becca was in possession of neither a barbecue nor an actual garden, after two days of stress and childcare she felt free as a bird – as if she had the world at her disposal.