Page 52 of The Engagement

‘Financial advisor?’ Grant says now in the café. ‘Could sure use some of that,’ he adds with a laugh, looking at me as he puts a houmous-smeared falafel ball into his mouth whole. The way his eyes narrow tells me he doesn’t like it. That he just grabbed anything from the refrigerator while he was queueing. ‘Actually, I’ve got this inheritance. Not huge, but I’d appreciate some expertise.’

‘I…I see, right,’ I reply. It’s harder than you think not to look at someone when they’re trying to engage you in conversation. ‘Sorry,’ I say, peering under the table as my foot accidentally knocks into his. I cross my ankles and hook them under my chair. ‘He’s pretty busy at the moment. I’m not sure he’s taking on new clients.’ Mainly, I don’t want to have to explain to Rob why I met a man in a pub where he gave me his number, and then saw him in a café, where he joined me for lunch. On top of him finding the photographs, it might not sit right.

‘Would I be able to take his details? Make an appointment, perhaps?’

‘I don’t know who she is,’ I’d told Rob as we stood by the kitchen island, the pictures spread out in front of us. He shook his head slowly, not knowing which of the photos to be more concerned about – the ones of our naked daughter, or the one of the dead girl. So I swept them all back into the folder. ‘I’ll burn them. Get rid of them. Then it’s sorted.’

Rob’s mouth twisted into a shape I didn’t recognise. He grabbed my wrist. ‘Tell me what the hell’s going on, Hannah, or I swear I’m going to the police. Our daughter announces she’s marrying a man old enough to be her father, then I find out from him that you know him, that you lied to me about living in London, that you may have worked for him but you’re not sure—’

‘I didn’t lie about it. You just didn’t ask.’

‘Shut up,’ he snapped. ‘Then I find you’ve hidden naked pictures of Belle and adeadgirl.’

‘Yes,’ I’d said. I so wanted the noose around my neck to loosen, to be able to breathe, but it didn’t. Until a few moments ago, I hadn’t realised how tight it had become. And now it felt tighter than ever. ‘I told you, I’ll talk to Belle.’

‘Itwashim, wasn’t it, who took these pictures? Jack. He’s groomed her and is going to put them online. What is it – blackmail now? Is he going to wring us out for money?What?’ He’d yelled in my face. I’ve never seen Rob look truly scared before, but he did last night. Then he’d thumped his fist down on the folder.

I look up from my duck wrap and my coffee and the emails on my phone and see Grant peering at me expectantly, frameless glasses perched on his nose as he holds his phone, poised to make an entry. ‘Rob’s number?’

And for some unknown reason, I find myself reciting it. And then I repeat it, so he can double-check he’s taken it down right. Perhaps I’m thinking that if I’ve found a new client for Rob, it might get me in his good books. Or maybe I’m not thinking at all.

‘Thanks,’ Grant says, getting on with his sandwich as if he’s achieved whatever it is he set out to do. ‘Tell him I’ll be in touch.’ For some reason, he taps the side of his nose, as if we’re co-conspirators in a plan to trap Rob.

‘Sure. Sure, I’ll tell him.’ Suddenly, my duck wrap doesn’t taste so good, so I snap the lid back on my steaming coffee and grab my bag and my jacket and my umbrella, fumbling with everything, and I stand up. ‘Better get back to the office,’ I say. ‘Busy day.’ And I leave my wrap and walk out of the café not knowing where the hell I’m going.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

HANNAH – NOW

When Belle was little, I did everything for her. I’m not talking about the usual things like feeding her or bathing her, or making sure she had clean clothes to wear, or her hair was brushed and her teeth clean. That all goes without saying, and even then, I’d gone above and beyond the basics. What I mean is going the extra mile as a mother – wringing every last drop out of myself for her benefit. Pushing myself to the limits of motherhood so it stretched my instincts to care for her, but without quite snapping. I was terrified I’d lose her.

So if Belle said she wanted Coco Pops for breakfast but I only had Cheerios, then however late for work it made me, whatever the weather was doing, I’d bundle her up in her buggy and we’d walk to the corner shop to buy some. Plus a few extra treats for good measure. And if Belle didn’t want to wear blue shoes to school, then I’d make damned sure she had the type of shoes she wanted, even if they were red and shiny and had sparkles stuck all over them.

One time, when she was about six, Belle wanted ballet lessons. I scoured and vetted every dance studio within a ten-mile radius, booking my daughter in for trial lessons, running her around to the classes, rehearsals, shows, sewing costumes until my fingers were raw and my vision blurry at two in the morning. When she decided she hated ballet, I got her into music lessons and bought her a violin, a piano, a clarinet. She had themed sleepovers every weekend with friends – the princess ones were her favourite. And I was a regular at the school, making appointments with her class teacher, the head of her year, the head of school, following up on every single grievance that Belle reported. Unhealthy school meals, not getting a main part in the school play, being demoted to the second hockey team, too much homework.

And Belle was not spoilt. She was not a brat.

I was the one at fault, I knew that. But I didn’t know what else to do to make up for everything I’d already done.

Later the same day, before I drive home, I make an impromptu visit to C-Tech, knowing that Leanne and a couple of my other employees will be there. It’s just after 6p.m., and my head is still swimming from bumping into Grant earlier at the café. In the C-Tech building, I find Leanne filling up a spray canister in the staff kitchen.

‘How’s it all going?’ I ask.

She spins round and gives me a nod. ‘Fine.’

‘Is your sister OK?’

She shrugs.

‘Your mum’s partner still at home?’

Another nod. She heads off to the reception area with me following and mists the collection of orchids dotted around the space, checking them off on the Greene & Clean app on her phone.

‘Are you OK for money?’ I ask, knowing that’s why she stole in the first place, to help her sister. ‘I can give you an advance if you need it.’

They said that to me once, backthen, though it was another false promise. And we saw little of the money we earnt – relying solely on odd tips from the punters, an occasional handout to keep us quiet. No, to keep ushopeful. We all saved up as much as we could, relying on our secret stashes of cash to buy us a way out. If we dug deep enough into our drug- and alcohol-addled brains, we knew that none of us wanted to be there, though no one dared admit it. Pretending that we were living our best lives was pure denial, but it kept us going. Then the glimmer of something normal – a vision of how life might one day be – sowed the seed. It might have been buying a new top, a lipstick, a scarf or a book, or perhaps a gluttonous splurge on cakes, after which we’d come back to the Cloisters, our arms laden with bags of stuff we didn’t need. It put paid to any near-future escape and we’d have to start saving all over again. Deep down, we all knew we’d never get out. Not until we were too old, or ill, or dead.

‘I’ll survive,’ Leanne says. ‘I’m not nicking, if you’ve come to check up on me.’

---