The Wrong Mother (11 page)

I try to focus on despising Owen but all I can think about, suddenly, is the red Alfa Romeo. Writing to the police was a way of pushing it aside. Now that my letter’s disappeared, I can’t avoid it any more.

I first noticed it on the way to nursery. It was behind me almost constantly, and all I could do was stare at it helplessly, worrying. Normally, car time is grooming and breakfast time for me, the only chance I get to brush my hair, put on my perfume, eat a banana. Today, I felt watched, and couldn’t bring myself to do any of those things.

I couldn’t see the driver of the Alfa Romeo because of the sun reflecting off his windscreen.
Or hers.
I thought of Pam but I knew this wasn’t her car. She drives a black Renault Clio. When I turned left into Bloxham Road, where the children’s nursery is, the Alfa Romeo went straight on. I was relieved, and even laughed at myself as I lifted Jake out of his car seat, while Zoe waited patiently on the pavement beside me holding her shiny pink handbag with pink and blue butterflies on it. My daughter is obsessed with handbags; she won’t leave the house without one. Inside today’s choice she’s got fifty-pence in ten- and twenty-pence pieces, a pink plastic car key and fob and a multicoloured plastic bead bracelet.

‘Nobody’s following us. Silly Mummy,’ I said.

‘Why, who did you think it was?’ Zoe asked, surveying the empty road, then scrunching up her face to examine me more closely.

‘No one,’ I said firmly. ‘There’s no one following us.’

‘But you thought there was, so who did you think it might have been?’ she persisted. I smiled at her, proud of her advanced reasoning skills, but said nothing.

I dropped the children off and, on my way out of the building, bumped into Anthea, the manager, who is in her mid-fifties but dresses like a teenager, in crop-tops and visible thongs. She gave me another dressing-down, twirling her long streaked hair round her index finger as she spoke. I’d been late to collect Zoe and Jake four days in the past fortnight, and I’d forgotten to bring in a new packet of nappies for Jake so the girls had had to use nursery spares when they changed him. Heinous crimes, both. I apologised, mentally added ‘Buy new nappies, try harder not to be late’ to my list, and ran back to the car, swearing under my breath. I had a lot to do at work today and didn’t have time for Anthea’s lectures. Why didn’t she just charge me for any spare nappies Jake used? Why didn’t she charge me extra if the staff had to stay longer on the days when I was late? I would happily have paid them double, or even quadruple, for that extra hour. I’d still only have had to write one cheque at the end of the month. I don’t care about spending money, but I get twitchy at the thought of losing even a second of valuable time.

On the way to the post office to post my anonymous letter to the police, I kept checking my rear-view mirror. Nothing. I’d got halfway to Silsford before I saw the red Alfa Romeo again. Same number plate. Sunlight bounced off the windscreen and I still couldn’t see the driver; a dark shape was all I could make out. I tasted bitter coffee in the back of my throat, mixed with bile.

I pulled over by the side of the road and watched the Alfa Romeo speed ahead of me and out of sight. It could be a coincidence, I told myself: I’m not the only person who lives in Spilling and works in Silsford.

I forced myself to calm down and started my car again. All the way to work I checked my mirrors every few seconds like a learner driver under the beady eye of her instructor. There was no sign of the Alfa Romeo, and by the time I got to Silsford I’d decided it was gone for good. Then, as I turned the corner to get to HS Silsford’s car park, I saw a red Alfa Romeo parked at the far end of the road, on the right. I gasped, my heartbeat racing to keep up with my brain. This could not be happening. I accelerated, but the Alfa started to move as I approached and was round the corner and away before I could catch a glimpse of the driver.

I braked hard, slamming my fist down on the steering wheel. The registration. I’d been so shaken up by the sight of the red car that I hadn’t checked the number plate. I sat perfectly still in the driver’s seat, unable to believe my own stupidity.
It has to be the same one
, I thought.
How many people drive Alfas?
A horn beeped loudly behind me. I realised I was in the middle of the road, blocking the traffic in both directions. I waved an apology to whoever was behind me—sodding Owen Mellish, as it turns out—and swerved left into HS Silsford’s underground car park.

The ‘HS’ in the company’s name stands for hydraulics solutions. We’re spread over the top five floors of a rectangular tower block that nevertheless manages to look short and fat. It’s all dark metal and mirrors on the outside, and beige and white on the inside, with square brown suede sofas, potted plants and little water sculptures in the plush reception area.

I work here two days a week, and for the Save Venice Foundation three days a week. Save Venice wanted someone from HS Silsford on secondment part-time for three years. Almost everybody in the office applied, tempted by the prospect of the all-expenses-paid trips to Venice. I can’t prove it but I’m sure Owen went for it and has never forgiven me for being chosen over him. Every day, I vow not to allow him to wind me up.

Not bothering with the deep breaths this time, I steel myself and march back to my desk. ‘Madam Snoot just phoned for you,’ Owen calls out when he sees me. ‘She wasn’t very happy when I told her you were off skiving somewhere, not at your desk.’

‘On Tuesdays and Wednesdays I don’t work for her,’ I snap.

‘Ooh, touchy.’ He grins. ‘I’d listen to your voicemail if I were you. I know you’re scared of her really.’

There are two messages from Natasha Prentice-Nash, or Madam Snoot as Owen calls her. She’s the chairman of the Save Venice Foundation and insists on that title rather than ‘chairperson’ because she claims that isn’t a word. Esther has also left two messages for me—at 7.40 and 7.55 this morning—which I delete and resolve to ignore. I listen to the rest: one from nursery, left at 8.10, one from Monk Barn Primary School at 8.15, one from Nick at 8.30, who says, ‘Oh, hi, it’s me. Nick. Um . . . Bye.’ He doesn’t tell me what he wants, or say that he will phone back. He doesn’t ask me to phone him.

After Nick’s comes a man’s deep, plummy voice that I don’t recognise. I picture plump cheeks, white teeth and a thick pink tongue above some sort of cravat. Not that I even know what a cravat is. ‘Hello, this is a message for, um, Sally. Sally Thorning.’ Whoever this man is, he doesn’t know me well enough to ring me at 8.35 on a Tuesday morning. ‘Hello, Sally, it’s, um, it’s Fergus here. Fergus Land.’ I frown, puzzled. Fergus Land? Who’s he? Then I remember: my next-door neighbour, the male half of open-topped-sports-car Fergus and Nancy. I smile to myself. His cheeks
are
plump. Good guess.

‘This is a bit odd,’ says Fergus’s recorded voice. ‘You may well have difficulty believing it, but I assure you it’s true.’

My mind freezes. I can’t cope with another odd thing, not today.

‘I’ve just this minute sat down with a library book, one I took out of Spilling Library last week. About the Tour de France. I’ve just bought a new mountain bike, you see.’

What does it have to do with me? I wonder.

‘Anyway, far-fetched as it sounds, I found Nick’s driver’s licence inside the book. You know, the little pink photocard one. He obviously borrowed it too, at some point—I know he’s a cycling aficionado—and perhaps he used the licence as a bookmark or something, but anyway . . . I’ve got it. I don’t want to drop it through your letterbox, since I know other people live in your building, but if you want to pop round later to collect it . . .’

I feel weak with relief, and decide to overlook Fergus’s dig about the inadequate size and situation of my home in comparison with his. Nick left his driver’s licence in a library book. It’s typical, but not sinister. I try not to be irritated by the image of Fergus at home with his feet up, reading.

I haven’t got the energy to speak to Natasha Prentice-Nash, so I phone Nick’s mobile. ‘Fergus next door has found your driving licence,’ I tell him.

‘Have I lost it?’

‘Yes. It was in a library book about the Tour de France.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ He sounds pleased. ‘I was using it as a bookmark. ’

‘You left a message,’ I say. ‘What did you want?’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, right, yeah. Nursery rang. They said you weren’t answering your phone.’

‘I might have missed one or two calls,’ I say vaguely. ‘Things have been a bit hectic today.’ I stopped answering my mobile after Esther’s four attempts to ring me on it between six and half past seven this morning. She knows something is up and is determined to find out what it is. ‘What did nursery want?’

‘Jake’s hurt his ear.’

‘What? I’ve only just dropped him off. Is it serious?’

My husband ponders this. ‘They didn’t say it was.’

‘Did they say it wasn’t?’

‘Well . . . no, but . . .’

‘What exactly happened?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘They must have said something!’

‘Nothing apart from what I’ve told you,’ says Nick. ‘They just said Jake hurt his ear, but he’s fine now.’

‘Well, if he’s fine, why did they bother ringing? He can’t be fine. I’d better call them.’

I cut Nick off and ring Anthea, who tells me that Jake is as jolly as ever. He scratched his ear, that’s all, cried a bit and cheered up soon afterwards.

‘We did notice that his fingernails need cutting,’ Anthea says in an apologetic tone, as if reluctant to interfere.

‘Whenever we cut them, he shrieks as if we’re putting his neck on the block for the guillotine,’ I tell her, knowing I sound defensive. ‘I hate doing that to him.’
Neck on the block for the guillotine?
Did I really say that? Has Anthea even heard of a guillotine? Her idea of history is probably last year’s
Big Brother
.

‘Poor little thing,’ she says, and I feel guilty for being such a snob. When I was a teenager, any form of snobbery elicited from me a torrent of fierce indignation. When my mother dared to suggest that I ought not to go out with Wayne Moscrop, whose father was in prison, I followed her round the house for weeks, shouting, ‘Oh, right! So I suppose I can only date people whose dads aren’t in prison, is that it? Is that what you’re saying? So obviously if Nelson Mandela had a son, even if he was helping to lead the struggle against apartheid, you wouldn’t want me to go out with him either!’

If Zoe ever acquires a boyfriend who has any connection with a correctional facility, I will have to pay him to forget all about her and tactfully disappear. I wonder how much that might cost. If he’s noble and principled, like Nelson Mandela’s imaginary son, he might stand his ground however much money I offer him.

‘So . . . I don’t get it,’ I say to Anthea. ‘If Jake’s okay, why did you ring Nick? And leave a message for me?’

‘We have to notify parents of any physical injury, however small. That’s the policy.’

‘So you don’t need me to come and get Jake?’

‘No, no, he’s absolutely fine.’

‘Good.’ I tell Anthea about my October half-term dilemma and hint that I would be willing to buy her any number of diamond-studded thongs if she could possibly bend the rules and create a place for Zoe just for that week. She says she’ll see what she can do. ‘Thank you,’ I gush. ‘And . . . you’re really sure Jake’s okay?’

‘Honestly, it was just a small scratch. He hardly even cried. There’s a tiny pink mark on his ear, but you probably wouldn’t even notice it.’

Wearily, I thank her, end the call and ring Pam Senior. She’s not in, so I leave a message—a grovelling apology. I ask her to ring me back, hoping that as soon as I hear her voice I will know instantly that she didn’t try to kill me yesterday. Muttering, ‘She ought to be the one apologising to me,’ under my breath, I ring Monk Barn Primary. The secretary wants to know why I haven’t filled in a new pupil registration form and an emergency contact form for Zoe. I tell her I haven’t received any forms.

‘I gave them to your husband,’ she says. ‘When he brought Zoe in for the open evening.’

In June. Two months ago. I tell her to put new ones in the post and make sure the envelope is addressed to me. ‘I’ll get them back to you by the end of the week.’

Spend the week with me.
That’s what he said, Mark Bretherick or whoever he was, after I told him how long I was staying, that first night in the bar. He was also staying for a week.
This time it’s a week
, he said. Business. But I didn’t hear him cancelling any meetings, and he certainly didn’t go to any. I assumed he’d decided to abandon work in favour of me, but surely there would have been the odd phone call . . . I saw his mobile phone in his room, but I didn’t see him use it, not once.

Oh, my God.
I grip the edge of my desk with both hands. He changed rooms. From eleven to fifteen. He told me there was no hot water in his bathroom, but how likely is that in a three-hundred-pound-a-night hotel? I didn’t hear him talking to any of the hotel staff about it. One morning he just told me he’d changed. Upgraded. ‘I was in a “Classic” suite before,’ he said. ‘Now I’m in a “Romantic” one.’

What if he had only ended up at Seddon Hall because he’d followed me? Because I looked so much like Geraldine. And then, because it was short notice, he couldn’t get the same room for a whole week . . .

I can’t stand this any longer: not knowing anything, not doing anything. I turn off my computer, grab my bag and run out of the office.

As soon as I’m in my car with the doors locked, I ring Esther. ‘About time,’ she says. ‘I was just deciding not to be your friend any more. The only thing that might change my mind is if you tell me what’s going on. You know how nosey I am—’

‘Esther, shut up.’

‘What?’

‘Listen, this is important, okay? I will tell you, but not now. I’m about to go to a place called Corn Mill House, to speak to somebody called Mark Bretherick.’