Page 10 of The Perfect Son
Who would leave me flowers? A bouquet of tulips for my birthday, just like the ones you gave me every year.
I’d ask if they’re from you, but of course they’re not.
CHAPTER 5
Hot water fills the bath with a gushing roar, causing the pipes beneath my feet to groan under the pressure. The mirror on the wall is now misty from the steam dancing in the air and running in lines down the window.
There are no bubbles in my bath. This is not a luxury, this is a necessity. I have to rid myself of the cold.
When the water is deep I turn off the tap, throwing the bathroom into silence. I’m just about to peel off my clothes when I hear it—a knock, knock, knock, in bursts of three, too persistent to be the pipes.
It’s coming from the front door. Knock, knock, knock, pause, knock, knock, knock, pause.
I glance at the bath for a long second and consider ignoring the visitor. It will only be the vicar come to check on me like he said he would at the funeral. Or your brother again with some other tidbit of knowledge about you that I don’t know. There’s no one else it can be. In the four months we’ve lived here, I haven’t made any friends.
Knock, knock, knock, pause, knock, knock, knock.
Whoever it is, they are not going away, and by the time I make it to the bottom of the main stairs the letter box is sticking up and awoman’s voice is calling through the house. “Teresa? Mrs. Clarke? Are you there? Can you open the door, please?”
My heart hitches in my chest. Is it the police? Could something have happened to Jamie at school? I cross the hall in four strides and yank open the door.
“Yes?” The one word is shaky and breathless from the panic racing inside, but it’s not the police. It’s a woman with straight bleach-blond hair, cut above her shoulders, and bangs that sit above dark eyebrows.
She’s smiling at me and I realize she’s the first person to smile at me since you died. A real smile, one that isn’t leaking with pity. It’s the kind of smile that compels the recipient to smile back, but I can’t. My face has forgotten how.
She’s pretty. A girl-next-door type with a pale, smooth complexion. She’s not much younger than me. Midthirties, I guess, but staring at the sparkle in her green eyes, and her perfect white teeth, I feel frumpy, worn-out. I am both of these things.
“Teresa?”
“It’s Tess.” I nod as a gust of wind rushes past me, blowing the front door out of my hands. The heavy wood slams against the inside wall hard enough to leave a dent in the plaster. I grab at the door, pulling it back and wedging my foot behind it, but the woman must think I’m inviting her in, because she steps into the hall.
“I’m Shelley Lange,” she says, pulling off her coat to reveal a black V-necked jumper over a pair of skinny jeans. A gold oval-shaped locket sits below her collarbone on a delicate chain. The way she says her name, the way she’s looking at me—smiling, but expectant too—it’s as though her name should mean something to me. It doesn’t.
I try to think but my mind is a white wall of nothing. The womanis slipping out of her suede ankle boots, and I still don’t have the first clue who she is.
Her gaze scans the wall behind me, looking for a coat hook, I presume, because next she folds her coat in half and places it over her boots.
“We have an appointment,” she says.
“Do we?”
She laughs, a proper laugh, right from the throat. Like how I used to laugh with the mums in Chelmsford, regaling each other with stories of nappy explosions and tantrums in the aisles of Tesco. I drop my eyes and pick at the skin flaking around my fingernails.
The mums on the estate sent me an orchid in a pink china pot when they heard you’d died. It’s withering on the windowsill by the kitchen sink. If we’d still been living in the old house they would’ve been around all the time, bringing cakes and dinners by the trayload for Jamie and me.
They came to the funeral—Casey and Jo, Lisa and Julie. Even Debbie took the day off work. I’m sure they have a WhatsApp group about me. Messages pinging back and forth. Worried-face emojis.Whose turn is it to text Tess? Has anyone heard back?I will reply at some point. They want to know we’re coping OK and I don’t know what to tell them.
The woman in our hall opens up her handbag and pulls out a phone. Her bag is a black leather satchel with a thin strap she has looped over one shoulder. The bag is small and I find myself wondering how my bulging purse, filled with useless receipts and out-of-date membership cards, would ever squeeze into such a bag. I could fit two of her bags in the holdall I use when I go out.
She taps the screen of her mobile before reeling off my name, address, and today’s date.
I shrug. “That’s me, but I haven’t made any appointments. Who are you again?”
“I’m Shelley. I’m a grief counselor. I volunteer with Grief UK in the Ipswich branch, as well as running a private practice. I was told you’d be expecting me.”
“I’m sorry, I think there’s been a mistake. I didn’t call anyone.”
“I might be way off base here, but you have the look of someone who’s grieving. Am I wrong?”
