Page 23 of The Fall-Out

She’s lonely, I told myself. She’s elderly and she’s confused, and your visits mean a lot to her. Except it never seemed as if they did, not really – and I couldn’t quite understand how it had come to pass that it was me and not her son who dutifully paid them, once or twice a week.

He’s busy. He’s at work. Which was true, but I knew with the same certainty I knew Patch wouldn’t have unloaded the dishwasher before he left for work (You have one job! One!) that even once I too was gainfully employed, the visits to Bridget would remain something I did, not him, and that his own visits on high days and holidays would be greeted by her with far more enthusiasm than mine.

I got off the bus a stop early and joined the small throng of mid-morning shoppers at the local supermarket. What did she need? I’d made a list, lying next to Patch in bed the night before, but of course it was on my phone, and therefore might as well have been on the surface of the moon.

Teabags – she usually needed teabags. And washing-up liquid, and some fancy biscuits. And a few of the frozen ready-meals she always complained about, but seemed to eat and enjoy. And bread, milk and some blister-packs of cooked ham so she could have a sandwich for her lunch.

I paid for the groceries and for a heavy plastic carrier bag, because predictably I’d forgotten to bring one of the many reusable fabric ones that hung on the overloaded hooks in our hallway, and made my way down the familiar street, the wind biting through my coat.

Hurrying down the pavement, I barely glanced at the passersby: more chic young mums, heading for the gym or the hairdresser or out for coffee; elegant women my mother-in-law’s age carrying expensive handbags and browsing the windows of the local boutiques and bookshops; young men in cheap suits who could only be estate agents, their eyes on the prize of a multi-million-pound property deal.

And then, in the darkened window of a brasserie that hadn’t yet opened for lunch, I caught sight of my own reflection and stopped.

God. I looked a mess. My hair was scraped back in a ponytail, the ends showing under my woolly hat, parched and split. My face, bare of make-up, was doughy and pale. My jeans were baggy around the knees, my boots had collapsed at the heels and my navy down coat looked like the Primark purchase it was.

I barely bothered any more, that was the problem. I hadn’t the time or more importantly the inclination. There seemed no point in buying nice clothes, having my hair done or putting on make-up when no one ever saw me apart from the nursery staff, my children and my mother-in-law. Oh, and my husband. But sometimes I wondered if he did actually see me any more – or rather, look at me as anyone other than the mother of his children, keeper of his house and warmer of his bed.

Yet another thing I’d need to sort before I presented myself, faded and out of practice, to the waiting job market, I thought. Yet another thing to add to the to-do list on the phone I didn’t have on me.

I made a face at my reflection in the window and turned away from it – out of sight, but unfortunately not out of mind – and continued down the road towards Bridget’s house.

A few minutes later, I was knocking as I usually did at her front door, which had been painted dark red many years before but was now faded and peeling. The knocker itself had seen better days – rust made it sticky to lift, and I knew from experience that the only two sounds it would produce were a tentative tap and a resounding crash.

I settled for a tap, but there was no reply. I tapped again, waited a minute, then resorted to a crash: there was no way she wasn’t there; she was always in on Tuesday mornings, and besides, I’d let her know I was coming with her groceries.

I strained to hear the familiar sound of her footsteps, and just as I was about to knock again, I heard them, followed by the click of the latch. But instead of swinging open like normal, the door parted just a crack.

‘Oh, hello, Naomi, it’s you.’

I was used to Bridget not sounding exactly elated to see me, but today she seemed downright hostile. Through the narrow gap, I could see her face looked almost furtive. As usual, she was dressed as if she’d raided the costume department of a long-closed theatre, in a long paisley skirt and tapestry slippers, a shabby jade-green waterfall cardigan draped over her tie-dye T-shirt.

Not so usually, she was wearing lipstick – a bold slash of scarlet.

‘Morning,’ I said cheerily. ‘Delivery for you. I got those florentine things, but I couldn’t remember if you preferred dark or milk chocolate.’

‘Lovely’ – but she didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic – ‘thank you, Naomi. I’ll take the bag, shall I?’

I paused, startled. She always asked me in. Always, no matter how much of a rush I was in, I stayed for a cup of tea and to update her on how the children were doing. Did she have a man with her? But the idea seemed vanishingly unlikely.

‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ll bring it in.’

‘Well, I’m not sure—’ she began, then she appeared to capitulate. ‘Come on in, then. There’s tea on the go, or would you prefer coffee?’

‘Tea’s great.’

The door inched open and I stepped inside on to the shabby Turkish carpet that covered the wooden floorboards. Around me was the familiar clutter of my husband’s childhood home – the dusty seashells lined up on the windowsill, the dreamcatcher that was now mostly cobwebs suspended from the light fitting, the console table littered with handmade clay pots and metal trinket boxes containing loose change, keys, acorns and a crochet hook that had been there for as long as I could remember without ever having been used.

But there was something new – an unfamiliar smell hanging in the air, expensive and musky, not like the herbal perfume Bridget wore.

‘I’ll unpack this lot in the kitchen, shall I?’ I suggested, moving automatically through the house, feeling the carpet give way to a quarry-tiled floor beneath my feet.

‘There’s no need to bother, I can manage.’ Again, there was that evasiveness in Bridget’s voice.

Then I heard the sound of heels tapping on the floor. The unfamiliar scent intensified. And Zara appeared in the living room doorway, silhouetted against the cold winter light, her dark hair gleaming.

‘Hello!’ she said, like seeing me was the best surprise. ‘We were just playing cribbage. Shame you can’t join in, it’s a game for two really.’

TEN

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