Every Time We Say Goodbye (7 page)

That sour old woman had been the bane of her life, always criticizing her and looking around in disgust whenever she visited, which was far too often for Jo’s liking. Once she’d caught the old battleaxe running her finger along the kitchen shelf, checking for dust, which, of course, she’d found. There was dust on the mantelpiece, Jo noticed now, as she replaced the invitation; her housekeeping skills had not improved with time.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror above it. Her hair was a disgrace and she looked old and drab though she was only thirty-seven. Helen had just turned forty but looked years younger. Then again, she went for facials and manicures and had her hair done at an expensive salon in town every six weeks; it was easier to look good when you put that much time and money into it.

Marianne was different. She was a natural beauty who had changed little over the years. Her hair hung halfway down her back; she’d worn it that way since she’d left St Anne’s. Long hair had been vetoed in the home as it made hunting head lice too onerous a task. Marianne had always hated the short, boyish cut. She had never bothered that much with make-up and still didn’t. In her skinny jeans and simple T-shirts she looked more like one of Kate’s friends than her mother. Jo always felt big and clumsy next to her. She didn’t even own a pair of jeans, preferring the comfort and simplicity of tracksuits or leggings; they hid a multitude of sins.

Jo studied her reflection more critically. She really would have to do something with her hair for the party. The last short hairstyle that the girl in the salon had talked her into had looked okay but Jo hadn’t been able to recreate ‘the look’ since. She was basically a mess. Was it any wonder that Greg had seemed to lose interest in her?

She had never really enjoyed sex in the way that other women seemed to but the fact that her husband wanted her had always made her feel good. And he had wanted her all the time in the early days. Di’s arrival and those first difficult months had put paid to the honeymoon period but then sex had resumed once things had settled down and it had been much the same with Rachel. But in the last couple of years Greg seemed to have lost interest and only ever got frisky after a couple of drinks.

She turned away from the mirror and went into the kitchen to start on the laundry, her thoughts returning to Helen’s anniversary and what would be a suitable present. Buying something for the couple who literally had everything was, frankly, impossible and usually expensive. She would have to squirrel away some of the housekeeping and keep her eye out for a bargain. She sorted out the dirty washing, put on the first load and then went to make a coffee. The jar of chocolate cookies that Di adored stared down at her from the shelf and her mouth watered. One wouldn’t hurt; then she’d walk to the shops rather than drive to compensate for the indulgence. Feeling better, she settled down with a creamy cup of cappuccino, two cookies – well, she was going to work them off – and a magazine. She was halfway through an article about a soap star in meltdown when the washing machine buzzer went. Startled, she realized that over an hour had passed and she’d now had two coffees and five – or was it six? – cookies. It was too late to walk to the shop now or she’d be late picking up Rachel; she’d screwed up again. Full of self-disgust, she dragged herself slowly up to the bathroom and got rid of the food in the easiest possible way. There was an initial feeling of elation when she flushed the toilet but it was quickly replaced by a sense of shame.

She would get into a proper exercise regime, she promised herself. She knew that making herself vomit was bad for her health and she felt disgusted with herself for doing it; she had to stop. She would check the noticeboard in the supermarket and see if there was a local exercise class she could join. With a little self-control and hard work she would be a few pounds lighter before Helen’s party. Feeling pleased with her newly formed plan, Jo ran downstairs, fetched her shopping list and handbag, and grabbed her car keys.

When she got to the supermarket, the car park was packed; was all of Dublin doing their shopping here just to annoy her? She drove around several times before she found a spot. When she went inside it was to discover there were no trolleys and she had to go back out to the car park in search of one. It had started to drizzle and immediately her hair began to frizz. By the time she reached the checkout she was irritable, tired and running late. She only remembered her plan to check the noticeboard when she was loading up the car and the rain was pelting down; there was no way she was going back now. She would ask Di to go online and check slimming classes later. Some of her good humour recovered, Jo drove to the school, but by the time she arrived, the normally sweet-tempered Rachel was scowling and hopping from foot to foot impatiently.

‘Mum, the party is in an hour and I have to change,’ she complained, flinging her bag into the back and climbing in.

Jo looked at her. ‘Party?’

‘Tracy’s party!’ The child exclaimed. ‘Did you get her birthday present?’

‘No, love, sorry, I forgot.’

‘Oh, Mum!’

‘Don’t worry about it, we’ll stop off at the newsagent and get a card and give her the money.’

‘But why can’t we get the DVD she wanted? I told her I would.’

‘There’s no time, Rachel,’ Jo snapped, feeling increasingly frazzled. ‘She can get it herself with the money.’

Rachel said nothing but sighed dramatically to ensure her mother knew that she was not impressed. ‘Are my pink jeans ironed?’ she asked after a moment.

Jo thought of the pile of dirty laundry still sitting by the washing machine. ‘No, I didn’t get a chance.’

‘Oh, Mum, what am I going to wear?’

‘You have plenty of nice clothes. Why on earth is she having a party on a school day, anyway? Don’t you have homework?’

‘Not much and the party will be over by six, I’ll have plenty of time.’

‘Well, don’t expect to watch any TV this evening.’

‘But, Mum—’

‘Not another word,’ Jo warned, ‘or you won’t be going to the party at all.’

She let Rachel go to Tracy’s house alone. She didn’t have time to change and put on make-up and she wouldn’t dream of facing the girl’s perfectly coiffed mother looking like this. Rachel skipped off down the road with her card and, looking at her watch, Jo realized that it was time to pick up Di; she hadn’t even had a chance to grab lunch yet. She’d buy a coffee at the petrol station and have it in the car on the way. The Crunchie she bought to go with it was a necessity, she reasoned, and quite probably less calories than a sandwich.

Di was also in a strop and barely opened her mouth all the way home. When Jo asked her for help checking out keep-fit websites, she muttered something about a project and disappeared up to her room. Some project, Jo thought, as moments later the ceiling began to vibrate with her daughter’s music. She hung the clothes out on the line, reloaded the washing machine and carried the basket of ironing into the living room. After she’d set up the board, plugged in the iron and switched on the TV, she put on the kettle, spooned coffee into a mug, her eyes drifting to the jar of cookies. She was standing watching
Come Dine With Me
, salivating at the creamy dessert they were all tucking into and absently ironing one of Greg’s shirts when Di reappeared.

‘What’s for dinner, Mum?’

It was going to be a nice roast chicken but Jo had forgotten to put it in the oven what with all the running around. ‘Fish fingers and chips.’

Di scrunched up her face. ‘Again? I really want to cut down on chips, Mum, I’m getting fat.’

Jo watched in disbelief as her daughter pinched her tiny waist. ‘You are not remotely fat!’

‘I will be if I keep stuffing my face with chips. Here, Mum, you look tired, let me do that.’

Jo’s eyes widened in delighted surprise. ‘Are you sure? Have you finished your homework?’

‘Yeah, all done.’

‘Ah, thanks, darling; you do your daddy’s shirts so much better than me, he always says so. I’ll see if I can rustle up something a bit healthier although we’ll have to wait for Rachel to get back. She’s at Tracy’s birthday party and I doubt she’ll get fed much over there; everything is white in that house.’

‘Mad, isn’t it?’ Di grinned and swapped places with her mother. ‘I’m starving; maybe I’ll have a couple of cookies to keep me going.’

‘Oh, I think Rachel finished them before she went out,’ Jo lied guiltily. ‘Anyway, I thought you didn’t want to get fat?’

Di pulled a face. ‘Very funny.’

‘Sorry. How about I get you a couple of custard creams and make you a nice cup of tea?’

‘Yes please, and if you want to, we can check out those slimming clubs after dinner.’

‘That would be great, thanks.’ Di was such a good kid when she wasn’t in a sulk, Jo thought, smiling as she hurried back upstairs to the bathroom to make room for dinner.

When Greg arrived home, the bolognese sauce was ready and a pot of water was bubbling in preparation for the pasta when Rachel returned.

‘Where is she?’ he asked irritably, when Jo told him why dinner wasn’t ready.

‘At Tracy’s birthday party; she should be home in ten minutes.’

‘Oh.’ His whole attitude changed immediately and he nodded in approval. ‘I’ll go down and collect her.’

‘There’s no need,’ Jo said, but he was already walking into the hall and she watched as he paused in front of the mirror, smoothed his hair and straightened his tie before he left. She imagined Jools and Jim Donovan’s amusement at his obvious attempt to break into their circle and felt a bit sorry for him. Why was he such a social climber? Why did he feel the need to keep up with the Joneses, or, in this case, the Donovans? He was clever and successful too; she couldn’t begin to understand why he felt the need to crawl to the likes of them. Still, she couldn’t understand Greg much at all these days.

Chapter Six

Marianne swung her legs out of her car, smoothed the skirt of her suit over her hips before collecting her bag, locking the car and crossing the tree-lined avenue to the imposing premises of Matthews and Baldwin. There was something about this office that had always intimidated her. Whether it was the location in the exclusive south-city neighbourhood, the plush reception area with its floor-to-ceiling oak panelling or the haughty receptionists, she didn’t know, but Marianne never felt welcome here and she was quite happy that her ties with the company would soon be cut.

Adrian Matthews kept her waiting for over twenty minutes and by the time she was shown into his office, her smile was strained.

‘Thank you for coming in to see me,’ he said from the other side of his vast oak desk.

Marianne looked at her husband’s boss with his solemn gaze, his iron-grey hair and impeccable grey suit; grey seemed to sum the man up. His expression was forbidding and his tone clipped and formal.

‘I was on the point of contacting you myself,’ she told him. ‘There seems to be a lot of Dominic’s personal papers missing; I’m assuming that he kept them here.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t believe that we have anything here of that nature, but I’m afraid, even if we did, I couldn’t let you have them.’

‘Excuse me?’ Marianne said, not sure she could believe her ears.

‘Mrs Thomson—’

‘Marianne, please,’ she said, surprised at the formal address.

‘Since Dominic’s death, we have uncovered a number of . . .’ he paused, ‘
discrepancies
in his client accounts.’

Marianne looked at him in confusion. Whatever his personal troubles, Dominic was good at his job; he’d achieved the junior partner position at an early age and been entrusted with some of the company’s largest accounts, a fact that he’d been very proud of.

‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ she said, making her tone as grave as his, ‘and obviously I can’t comment; he never really discussed his work with me. It is purely papers relating to our own private financial affairs that I want; I’m afraid he left his affairs in somewhat of a mess, but then I suppose he wasn’t expecting to die so young.’

Matthews’ eyes widened. ‘I don’t mean to pry, my dear, but are you facing financial problems?’

Marianne felt herself flush. ‘Money is tighter than I expected but I’m assuming that Dominic has a bank account or two that I don’t know about. I’m embarrassed at how little I actually know about our financial affairs,’ she confessed, smiling.

Matthews didn’t return the smile, instead he simply stared at her from under his heavy grey brows. ‘I’m afraid, my dear, these discrepancies are quite serious. It seems that Dominic was stealing from the company.’

‘No.’ Marianne’s voice was barely a whisper.

‘Sorry to put it so bluntly.’ He gave a small, resigned shrug. ‘If we could have his laptop—’

‘What?’ she said immediately. ‘Why?’

‘There may be invaluable information on it that would help with our investigation.’

‘Are you quite sure there isn’t some mistake?’

‘I’m afraid not. I can see this has come as quite a shock; it was to me too. I must say I never expected to be having this conversation; I had high hopes for Dominic. I find it hard to understand what made him jeopardize his future.’

Marianne remained silent for a moment as she considered his words. ‘Perhaps I can explain it,’ she said finally. ‘Dominic loved his job and he worked very hard; becoming a junior partner was his dream.’

‘He was a hard worker,’ Matthews acknowledged.

‘After his promotion he became very anxious,’ she continued. ‘It was important to him that he prove himself and live up to the faith you’d shown in him. When he came home he would stay up until the small hours, working. As a result, by the time he came to bed he couldn’t switch off, couldn’t sleep. I finally persuaded him to go to the GP who prescribed sleeping tablets, but after a while they didn’t work either and he started taking two at a time. When he went back for a new prescription the doctor refused to give it to him; she was worried Dominic was getting too reliant, which of course he was. Instead she suggested exercise and relaxation techniques and told Dominic to cut down on alcohol and caffeine.’ Marianne smiled sadly. ‘There was no chance of that happening. Dominic drank coffee all day long and without the sleeping tablets, he drank more alcohol than ever, hoping it would help him sleep.’