‘Can you look up at the camera, Tessa? Let us get a good photo?’
I keep my head down. Keep moving, one foot in front of the other. Don’t think about the neighbours and what they must be thinking. Take deep breaths. Don’t let them see I’m scared.
‘Where did the boy come from?’
‘Did you take him?’
Their questions bring Harry’s sweet face to my mind, and an unexpected tear drips down my cheek. But I don’t want to wipe it away, to draw attention to the fact they’ve made me cry. I’m more angry than sad right now. I want to yell at them to piss off and leave me alone, but they’d probably love that, so I keep walking. Marching along the pavement, dodging other pedestrians, who must be wondering what the hell is going on – unless, of course, they recognise me from the news.
Is this circus going to follow me all the way to work?
Fine, I think. Fine. Follow me, see if I care. I square my shoulders, run a gloved hand over my tear-streaked cheek and begin to jog.
‘You can’t run from the truth, Tessa!’ a journalist calls out.
‘You wouldn’t know the truth if it punched you in the face!’ I yell back, instantly biting my lip. Bang goes my resolution to maintain a dignified silence. My response has released a torrent of new questions.
‘So give us your side of the story!’
‘Tell us what happened, Tessa.’
‘Did you take the boy?’
‘How did he get into your house?’
‘Were you acting alone?’
Shut up, shut up, shut up!
The whine of a motorbike approaching from behind. More bloody press trying to pap me. It cruises by my side, a guy on the back taking photos, calling out my name, asking the same questions as the others. I stop in my tracks, letting it coast ahead before jogging across the road to put some distance between me and the bike – not that it will make any difference, they’ll still be able to get their shots from the other side of the street with their long lenses. The rest of the media troop behind me, following me across the road, still shouting, still clicking their cameras.
I’m not used to jogging. I haven’t run like this for months and I’m in bad shape. Sweating, out of breath. My increased pace hasn’t put these guys off one bit. In fact, they look like they’re enjoying it, revelling in my added discomfort. I’m not even halfway to work. How will I keep this up? I slow to a fast walk, sweat clinging to my back, my chest tight, sharp pains shooting up my shins. I should have stayed home. How did I ever think I would have the mental and physical stamina for this?
Don’t stop. Don’t cry.
A shiny truck pulls up on the kerb ahead. Probably more of them come to harass me. The passenger door opens in my path and I hear someone yelling my name. I’ll have to alter course to avoid the door.
I stop for a second. I know that truck.
‘Tessa, get in!’
Oh, thank God. It’s Ben.
I sprint to the vehicle and throw myself into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind me and sliding down low in the seat. Ben pulls away into the traffic, and in the wing mirror I see the gaggle of press on the pavement where I left them, like stranded passengers on a runway.
‘Thank you!’ I pant, my heart pumping so furiously I’m worried it’s about to explode.
‘They’re outside Moretti’s too,’ he says, grim-faced.
‘I’m so sorry, Ben.’
‘You don’t have to apologise. I just didn’t want you to have to deal with them on your way in, but I see you’ve already been mobbed.’
‘I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t…’ I don’t trust myself to say any more without breaking down.
‘Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re safe from them in here. Bunch of bastards.’
I take a breath. ‘They can’t get into the gardens, can they?’
‘Not legally, no. I’ve told them they’re not allowed on the premises. Some of them offered to pay their way in, but I told them to keep their money.’
‘Thank you.’ I shake my head, still bewildered at how things have come to this.
‘A couple of them tried to get me to talk about you. Asked what you’re like and… well, if I thought you took the boy. Don’t worry, I didn’t say a word.’
‘Ben, I really am sorry. I hope it won’t affect your business. Look, I totally understand if you don’t want me to come to work at the moment.’
‘Are you kidding? I’m getting free advertising here.’ But his smile doesn’t look natural, and I notice tense worry lines around his eyes. He’s putting on a brave face. Having your business associated with a suspected child abductor is not the image anyone wants to portray. I don’t know how long he’ll be able to keep this up before he’s forced to let me go. And I wouldn’t blame him.
Within minutes, we reach Moretti’s, and my heart starts pounding once more when I see the crowd outside the gates. Journalists and onlookers stare in our direction, hungry for yet more juicy titbits to add to their fabrications.
‘I’d get down if I were you, Tess,’ Ben says. ‘Don’t give them the opportunity for any more photos.’
I don’t wait to be asked twice, unclipping my seat belt and sliding into the footwell.
I hold my breath as we cruise through the gates, my skin prickling as they rap on the glass and call out my name, sensing their eyes peering down at the top of my head.
‘Cheeky gits,’ Ben mutters. ‘It’s okay, Tessa, we’re in. I’ll park round the corner so they can’t see you getting out.’
* * *
Ten minutes later, as I’m opening up the storage shed, Jez comes over.
‘Morning,’ he says, his ruddy face inscrutable.
‘Morning,’ I reply, wondering what he makes of the rabble outside the gates. Whether he’s seen the news. If he’s going to mention it.
‘The beans, caulis and tomato seeds arrived yesterday,’ he says with a sniff, ‘so if you could start sowing them into pots this morning…’
‘Yes, sure. Are they in here?’ I ask, tilting my head towards the interior of the shed.
‘In the far greenhouse. You’ll find everything you need over there.’
‘Great,’ I reply, eager to get to work.
He clears his throat. ‘Hope you’re okay,’ he adds, looking down at his boots.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, nodding. ‘Thanks.’
‘Good.’ He nods too, and heads into the recesses of the shed.
I breathe a little easier and head over to the greenhouse area, keen to get involved in the task ahead. But as I walk, a leaden lump begins to form in my stomach, a growing sense of dread. I’m here now, safe at work. But what happens when I leave this evening? Maybe I should go out there and speak to the press, give them my side of the story. But the thought of facing them… and what if they twist my words?
Since I left home this morning, the sky has lightened a few shades from charcoal to gunmetal. I slouch along the rows of plants, wondering if I shouldn’t just sell the house and move abroad. Start again. There’s nothing to keep me here. Scott has moved on, I have no real friends any more, no family. I could go somewhere warm, reinvent myself. And then I think about Sam and Lily, their graves becoming neglected and overgrown. How could I ever leave them? How could I enjoy a new life knowing that they were lying abandoned with no one to tend to them?
I pass by the greenhouses, their infant plants lined up in uniform rows, protected from the sharp British frosts and any number of greedy bugs. Finally, I reach the one at the end, open the door and step inside, inhaling the moist, loamy air. I spy the crate Jez has left out for me and get to work.
Hours pass as I press the tiny seeds into rich, dark compost, stick labels on the pots and line them up neatly, a sense of satisfaction growing as one row becomes two, and then three. As I work, I make out the bumbling shapes of customers browsing the plants at the other end of the garden centre. Back here, I’m invisible.
I’m not sure what time it is when
Carolyn rushes into the greenhouse, her eyes bright, her cheeks pink. I instantly think something terrible has happened. That the police have come for me, or the media are here inside the garden centre. ‘Can you come and help out in the shop?’ she pants, disrupting the fleetingly calm environment. ‘I’ve got to give Janet a hand in the café. Ben’s covering for me at the moment, but it’s manic out there. Everyone’s decided to do their Christmas shopping today for some reason.’
‘Sure,’ I reply, slipping off my gloves and wiping my hands on my jeans. ‘Why is it so busy?’
‘No idea, but we need to hurry back. There’s a queue out the door and Janet’s run off her feet.’
I follow Carolyn back past the greenhouses, her wiry body radiating panic at the sudden influx of customers. I think back to what Ben said about why he wasn’t offering her the management of Moretti’s and I can see why. If she flies into a tizzy at the appearance of a few customers, he probably wouldn’t feel comfortable handing over the running of the place. But am I really any better qualified?
Ben lifts his hand as I weave my way towards him, past the queue of customers. Carolyn has already flitted over to the café.
‘That’s five pounds twenty change,’ he says to an elderly lady clutching a pair of gardening gloves and a packet of Christmas cards. ‘Would you like a bag?’
‘No thanks, I’ll pop them in my handbag.’
Ben turns to me. ‘You okay here if I go and get some more change? We’re running a bit low.’
‘Course, you go.’
He lowers his voice and turns away from the queue of people. ‘Just thought I’d let you know that the press are still out there, I’m afraid. So it’s probably not a good idea to go out for your lunch.’
I feel the blood drain from my face, ashamed to have brought this awful mess to work with me. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whisper.
‘Hey, you don’t need to apologise,’ he murmurs. ‘I’m just giving you a heads-up.’
The next woman in the queue clears her throat pointedly.
Ben leaves me to it and I get to work, ringing the cash register, thoughts of journalists turning me into a slow, fumbling idiot.
‘I gave you a twenty-pound note,’ my latest customer says, folding his arms across his chest.
‘Um.’ I look at the till display, which is showing an amount of change corresponding to ten pounds. ‘I’m sure it was a ten-pound note you gave me,’ I say.
‘You calling me a liar?’
I feel my face heat up. ‘No, of course not.’
‘Hey, don’t I know you?’ A middle-aged woman standing behind Mr Aggressive tilts her head and narrows her eyes at me.
‘I… I don’t think so.’
‘Yes. Yes, I do. You’re that woman on the news, the one who took the kid.’
A ripple of recognition weaves its way back along the queue.
‘What about my change?’ the man barks at me.
‘I… I’m not sure…’
‘I gave you a twenty, so you need to give me another tenner.’
I snatch up a ten-pound note from the till, convinced the man is pulling a fast one. I know I’ve been distracted today, but I could’ve sworn he gave me a ten-pound note. I don’t have the energy to argue with him, though, and decide that if the till is short at the end of the day, I’ll put my own money in to make up the difference. ‘Here you go,’ I say sharply, thrusting the note at him.
‘Should think so too,’ he snaps. ‘Trying to rip me off.’
But I don’t respond – I can’t think what to say. Everyone in the queue is staring at me like I’ve got two heads. The man stuffs the note in his pocket and is about to walk away when the woman pipes up once more:
‘Those journalists outside,’ she says. ‘They’re waiting for you, aren’t they?’ Then she turns around and says in a voice so loud that practically everyone north of the river could hear. ‘It’s her! She’s that child abductor off the news. Took that little kiddy, she did.’
I stare at her, mute with horror, my insides turning to slush. What can I do? Anything I say will only make me sound guilty. I shouldn’t have come to work, I’m not prepared for any of this. I don’t know what to do.
How did my life come to this?
Chapter Ten
‘Everything okay here?’ Ben strides through the shop towards me. I’m so pleased to see him. ‘Tessa? You all right?’
‘Tessa Markham, that’s her name,’ the woman cries. She holds out her phone and takes my picture.
I gasp at her cheek.
‘Excuse me, I’d like you to leave,’ Ben says to her.
‘What!’ The woman’s face turns scarlet with outrage.
‘Right now, please,’ he adds firmly, pointing to the exit.
‘Suppose you’re in on it too,’ she snarls at him. ‘I was about to buy two fig trees,’ she adds, pointing to her trolley. ‘But you can effin’ well forget it now.’
‘With you looking after them, Madam, they’d probably wither and die.’
‘I… What did you just say?’
‘Actually,’ Ben continues, ‘before you go…’ He takes the phone off her and presses a couple of buttons. ‘There, I’ve deleted the photo of my colleague. I’m sure we can all do without another social-media vulture sharing someone else’s misery.’
To my surprise, a few customers in the queue clap and nod. I want to applaud him too.
‘Goodbye,’ he says calmly, handing the woman’s phone back. ‘Don’t let the door hit your arse on the way out.’
Her mouth drops open and she turns to leave. ‘I can tell you now,’ she says, ‘I won’t be coming back here again.’
‘Pleased to hear it,’ Ben replies.
I’m rooted to the spot, trembling. Everyone is staring at me like I’m some kind of rare zoo exhibit. A few stares soften into genuine smiles as I catch their eyes.
‘Tess,’ Ben takes my hand, ‘come with me.’
‘What about your customers?’
‘They can wait,’ he says gently. ‘I’m going to get Carolyn to come back and man the shop, but first…’ He leads me past the gawping customers, out of the shop and round the back of the building, through a gate and into a private walled garden.
My mind is racing with everything that’s just happened, but I can’t help staring around at these fragrant surroundings. I’ve never been in here before. Even in winter, with everything dormant, it’s perfect. An arched stone pergola sits in front of the house with a weathered wooden table and chairs beneath it. Ornate terracotta pots gush with evergreens and winter berries. Low walls and hedges border gravel and stone pathways that take the eye away into the hidden distance.
‘Is this your garden?’ I ask, everything else forgotten for a brief moment.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s still a work in progress. I’m doing it gradually.’
‘It looks pretty finished to me.’ An image flashes into my mind of my own neglected front garden. I make a mental note never to invite Ben over. Well, at least not until I’ve attempted to get it back into some kind of order.
I realise he’s still holding my hand, his fingers cool against my skin. As he leads me towards the house, we pass a plucky robin perched on a stone bird table, pecking at some scattered seed. Ben opens a glazed arched door and we enter a warm, rustic, farmhouse-style kitchen, messy in a homely way. He directs me to a knotty oak table, where I sit, dazed, on a long, low bench.
‘Stay there,’ he says, opening an old-fashioned cream refrigerator, pulling out a pan and setting it on a dark-green range cooker. Then he takes a ciabatta loaf from a bread bin, slicing off two chunks. ‘The soup will take about five minutes to heat,’ he continues. ‘Finish it all off. There’s butter in the fridge if you want some with your bread. I’ll go back to the shop for a while.’
‘But I can’t let you—’
‘It’s one thirty now,’ he interrupts. ‘I don’t want you coming back to work until at least half two.’ And with that, he leaves.
* * *
That afternoon, the garden centre is quieter and I’m able to go back to my seeds and the blissful silence of the greenhouse. When Jez comes in to see how I’m getting on, he confirms that there are still a few journalists hanging around outside the gates. I wish I could stay in this peaceful place forever. At 4 p.m., dusk sweeps across the gardens and I have to switch on the halogen lamp to see what I’m doing. All too soon, it’s time for Moretti’s to close and for me to go home.
My pulse begins to race in anticipation of the walk home. Maybe I should call a cab, but I can’t afford to shell out for any more taxis – it defeats the object of going to work in the first place. I can’t ask Ben for a lift; he’s already done so much for me that I feel I’m becoming a burden. But I needn’t have worried. He’s leaning against his truck, and when he sees me, he waves me over.
‘Hop in, I’m taking you home.’
The polite part of me wants to decline, but the terrified part heaves a sigh of relief and gets in.
‘Thank you, Ben.’ I pull down my seat belt and clip it in place.
‘As if I’d let you walk out on your own and face that lot.’
‘They’re all still there, then? I haven’t dared look.’
‘I’m afraid so.’ He starts up the engine, turns on the headlamps and cruises towards the gates.
‘Which means they’ll probably be outside my house, too.’
‘I can come in with you,’ he offers.
‘No, no, I’ll be fine. If you could just drop me outside, that would be amazing.’
‘Let’s see when we get there. Just a thought, but you might want to undo your belt and scooch down again.’
The Secret Mother Page 7
