by Jane Holland
Mum stares. ‘Bruising?’
‘She saw it when you were getting dressed this morning.’ I nod to her upper right arm. ‘I think I ought to see what she means, if that’s okay.’
Blinking, Mum makes no comment as I ease her cardigan off and push up the short sleeve of her top to reveal her pale skin.
I suck in my breath, stunned by what I find there.
Sure enough, her skin shows marks of having been manhandled, and recently too, the blotches quite distinct. I fit my fingers to the bruising, and can imagine a man’s hand closing about her narrow arm and squeezing, perhaps even shaking her.
‘Oh God, Mum…’
She’s angling her head to see what I’m looking at. ‘What is it?’ Her eyes widen. ‘Oh, now where did that come from?’
‘Can you remember?’
Slowly, Mum shakes her head, her face blank. ‘I remember my arm hurting… Ouch, yes.’ She pushes my hand away, dragging her sleeve back down and fumbling for her cardigan. ‘I… I’m cold.’
‘Of course, sorry.’
I help her cover up, and she seems happier once she’s snug again, wrapped up in her thick cardigan. But I’m far from happy.
‘Mum,’ I say with difficulty, ‘who did this to you? Who hurt your arm?’
But my mother’s already looking away. She frowns down at the tangle of knitting on her lap. ‘Where’s my pattern? Have you seen my pattern?’
I sigh.
She’s forgotten that she can’t follow a pattern anymore and just prefers to knit freestyle, for something to keep her hands occupied…
‘You don’t need one, Mum,’ I remind her, impatient to return to the subject of her bruised arm. ‘Remember?’ I tap the knitting needles. ‘Patterns only confuse you. So you don’t like using them these days.’
She shakes her head stubbornly. ‘I need a pattern.’
‘Don’t worry. You’ve forgotten that you don’t like them anymore, that’s all. Why don’t you just set a few stitches, see how that goes?’
She picks up her needles, stares at the ball of wool, and then drops them again. ‘I don’t want to do this today,’ she bursts out, and suddenly pushes the knitting off her lap, almost angry. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘Mum, you love knitting.’
‘No,’ she insists, and pulls a face. ‘Nobody cares what I want.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘I’m not stupid,’ she says vehemently. ‘I know what’s going on.’
‘I’m lost, Mum.’ I crouch at her feet, gathering together her discarded knitting. ‘What do you mean? What do you think is going on?’
But she refuses to answer, staring into the distance as though thinking about something in her past.
I put away her knitting and stand over her, unsure what to do for the best. ‘Mum, we need to talk about your arm.’ She says nothing, but I press on regardless. ‘It looks to me like somebody hurt you. These bruises on your arm… How did you get them?’
‘I don’t know,’ she mutters.
‘Then maybe I should tell someone else about them. Dr Forster, for instance.’ I hesitate. ‘Or the police.’
Finally, this gets her attention.
‘The police?’ Mum echoes in astonishment, raising her head to stare up at me. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Your arm, Mum. The bruises.’
‘Oh, that.’ She waves a dismissive hand, and I’m still not sure she understands what I’m talking about. ‘It’s nothing. Nothing.’ Her gaze falls on the cold cup of tea again, and she tuts loudly. ‘Now, look at that. All this chit-chat, and my tea’s gone cold.’
‘That’s not a problem. I’ll make a fresh pot for you.’
Yet although I pick up the offending cup, I don’t move towards the door.
I don’t want to send her into one of her rages, but it’s important to ask before she forgets this episode entirely. I’m not sure I want to escalate this to a police matter. After all, it is possible she simply banged herself and has forgotten. But I need to be sure.
‘Mum, one last question. Did Mr Adeyemi hurt you yesterday?’
‘What?’ Her eyes are wide and startled.
‘Did he grab your arm, maybe? Did he argue with you?’ I give her an encouraging smile. ‘Or was it an accident, perhaps?’
‘Mr Adeyemi?’ She blinks and looks troubled, clearly trying to think back to their meeting. ‘He… came to see me. We had a cup of tea together. And biscuits.’ She points to the table. ‘We sat over there.’
‘Yes, Mum, that’s right. I was out at the time, but Ruby told me about his visit.’
‘Ruby,’ she repeats slowly, as though the name is unfamiliar to her. Which I suppose it is. It often takes her a while to put names to faces these days.
‘Do you remember what you talked about?’ I take a deep breath and decide to be frank, afraid that her attention may already be wandering again. ‘Was Mr Adeyemi unkind to you, Mum?’
‘Unkind to me? Mr Adeyemi? What on earth makes you say that? Don’t be so silly,’ she says emphatically, looking almost offended by the suggestion. ‘You do say some stupid things.’
‘Sorry, but I had to ask.’
‘Mr Adeyemi is a lovely man. I like him ever so much.’
‘I know you do, Mum. But your arm—’
‘In fact,’ she says, interrupting me a little aggressively, ‘you might as well know, I’m leaving him something in my will. It’s what your father would have wanted.’
Surprise leaves me momentarily speechless.
Putting the cup down, I manage to ask, ‘Wait, you’re going to leave something to Mr Adeyemi? Are you sure about that? We’re talking about your solicitor, right?’
‘I know who he is,’ she says testily.
‘Okay.’ I’m bemused. ‘Sorry if I’m being stupid again. But I don’t understand. Are you saying you’ve changed your will?’
‘Not changed it, precisely. Mr Adeyemi is one of my beneficiaries, and he always has been. Well, since your father’s death. They were good friends, you know.’ She smiles. ‘They played golf together all the time. And we had dinner parties here, just the four of us, though I suppose you would have been too young at the time to remember. Me, your father, Mr Adeyemi… and his wife, of course. I forget her name. But such a lovely woman. Your father liked her tremendously.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
I had no idea Mr Adeyemi would benefit from Mum’s will. I’m not even sure if that’s legal, for a solicitor to benefit from their own client’s will. It doesn’t seem like it could be. But maybe she means a small specific gift. Maybe something that belonged to Dad, for instance, that might have some sentimental value to Mr Adeyemi. His golf clubs, perhaps, which are still stored in the attic.
‘Just to clarify, do you mean you’re giving him money? Or have you left him something personal?’ I press her, though I can see my curiosity is upsetting her. ‘Something to remind him of Dad.’
‘Of course I mean money,’ she snaps, and waves me away. ‘What a stupid question. You’re always wasting my time with nonsense.’ She shakes her head. ‘Go and get me some more tea; I’m thirsty.’
Dumbfounded by this sudden change of mood, I move automatically towards the door on her command, and then stop.
This is insane.
‘Mum,’ I say more gently, hoping to catch her out with an unexpected question, ‘when Mr Adeyemi was here, did you try to change your mind about leaving that money to him? Is that why he hurt you?’
But my mother’s not listening to me anymore. Instead, she’s humming an old dance tune as she stares at the framed wedding photograph of her and Dad that sits on the mantelpiece. They’re dancing together at their wedding, many decades ago, Mum twirling under Dad’s arm, both smiling for the camera. And in the shadowy background, a familiar face swims out from among the crowd of wedding guests watching them.
Mr Adeyemi, smart in a pinstriped suit and tie, with his arm about his own smili
ng, beautiful wife…
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
My mood descends into gloom on Monday when I receive a brief note from Irina through the post, giving in her notice, effective immediately.
I’m not entirely surprised, of course. Our cleaner barely spoke to me last week, hurrying around the house with the Dyson and doing more of a rushed job than usual in the kitchen and bathroom. Now, I realise she must have been planning her departure for some time…
I ring Irina at once, frantic to get her to change her mind. It’s so hard to find trustworthy cleaners in our area, and there’s also Mum to consider. She was destabilised enough by losing Giorgios, so God knows how she would react to another unfamiliar face around the house.
‘Look, whatever the problem is,’ I promise Irina, ‘we can sort it out. Just come back on Thursday and we’ll talk about it. A proper sit-down chat.’
‘I don’t want to come back,’ she says stiffly. ‘Anyway, I’ve already agreed to clean for someone else in your slot. I’m very sorry, Miss Kinley.’
She cuts the call abruptly and I sit there with the phone in my hand, staring at nothing. Now we have no cleaner. What on earth am I going to do?
After checking with the office that it’s okay to work from home today, wanting to get properly stuck into Calum’s manuscript, I lose myself in work for the rest of the day. With Logan coming round for dinner this evening, at seven o’clock I push aside my laptop with a sigh of relief and head downstairs into the kitchen to start tidying up the place and preparing a romantic dinner for two. I ought to have started earlier but Calum’s book is a mess of errors and tricky issues that need to be resolved, and picking through that minefield without offending the author is driving me crackers…
Ruby, having helped Mum shower and get ready for an early night, has decided to go out for her evening off. She’s already in the hall, buttoning up her black winter coat and checking her phone, when I emerge from the kitchen, dish cloth in hand.
‘Ruby, did Mum eat okay tonight?’ I ask, my guilty conscience nagging at me. Mum and Ruby had eaten together at six o’clock in the dining room while I was working. ‘She’s started nibbling at her food lately. I’m worried she’s not eating enough. Did you manage to get her to eat something substantial?’
‘Chicken salad,’ Ruby tells me cheerfully, and pulls on a chunky bobble hat before checking her reflection in the hall mirror. ‘She didn’t do too badly. More salad than chicken, it’s true. But that’s probably a good thing if you don’t want her to get indigestion and spoil your big date.’
I feel embarrassed. ‘It’s hardly a big date. I’m making a lasagne, that’s all. Then we’re going to watch a film together.’
‘Sounds lovely.’
‘Listen,’ I say as she turns away, ‘I’m sorry about all the mess lately. I did mean to have a proper tidy-up yesterday but I’ve been snowed under with work.’
‘That’s all right. I like a lived-in house. Much more comfortable than one of these immaculate show homes.’ Ruby looks back at me curiously. ‘So Irina’s not coming back, I take it?’
‘I’m afraid not. I seem to have offended her, somehow.’
‘Well, never mind. I didn’t much like Irina anyway. Several times I caught her snooping about upstairs, looking in drawers and so on.’
I’m shocked. ‘Seriously?’
‘I wasn’t going to tell tales while she was working for you, but now…’ She shrugs. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish, eh?’ She hesitates. ‘Is it a romantic film, this one you’re watching tonight?’
I laugh awkwardly. ‘I haven’t decided yet. Besides, maybe he’s not into that kind of thing. Men tend to prefer car chases and exploding helicopters, don’t they?’ I’m genuinely uncertain what kind of film Logan would prefer to watch; I’d been planning to wait until he arrived before making that decision. ‘My father always did, anyway.’
‘Even action films usually have a few smoochy moments, though.’ Ruby winks at me. ‘Might as well make the most of it, eh? He looks like a good kisser, your Logan.’
On that note, leaving me hot-cheeked and speechless, she slips out of the front door with a wave, adding quickly, ‘I’ll let myself back in. No need to wait up.’
It’s only after she’s gone that I realise I didn’t ask Ruby what she had planned for her evening off. I don’t even know if she has a boyfriend. But it’s none of my business, and she probably would have told me if she was in the mood for sharing such private information.
We’re not friends, after all. She’s my mother’s live-in carer. Though it’s becoming hard not to think of Ruby as one of the family, now that she’s installed in the house and almost constantly around. And Mum seems to adore her.
In fact, the only person unhappy about the new arrangement has been Irina. And she’s gone now, so maybe I can look forward to some peace and quiet at last.
All the same, while cooking the lasagne, I find myself fretting over what Ruby said about Irina, that she’d seen her looking through our bedroom drawers. It worries me. Why on earth would Irina be rummaging through our private things? But in the end, I push the thought aside. It’s more likely Irina was putting something away, not stealing or snooping, and that Ruby merely misinterpreted what she saw.
Logan arrives on time, almost uncannily so, ringing the doorbell just as I’ve checked on Mum – who’s already asleep, bless her – and taken the lasagne out of the oven before it over-browns.
Logan gives me a kiss on the lips, and then hands me a bunch of magnificent, tall white lilies and a bottle of expensive Burgundy, already chilled.
‘Thank you, these are lovely.’ Pleasantly surprised, I find a vase for the flowers and hurriedly put them in water while he’s opening the wine for me. ‘Mum’s asleep, so we’ll be eating on our own in the dining room. I’ve laid the table if you want to take the wine glasses through.’
He does so, sniffing the air appreciatively. ‘Dinner ready, is it? Smells delicious.’
‘Yes, your timing is perfect.’ I put the flowers on the dining table and then carry in the lasagne, and serve us both at the table. ‘There’s a bowl of green salad and some sliced baguette too. Just help yourself.’
‘It all looks very impressive.’ He smiles, watching me. ‘And I love the pinny. I didn’t realise you were such a domestic goddess.’
A little flushed, I swiftly undo my apron and shove it under the table before taking my seat. I lift my glass, enjoying the heady aroma of the wine, and say breathlessly, ‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers!’
I take an exploratory bite; to my intense relief, the lasagne is near perfect. I’ve never been a great cook, but I have a few signature dishes I can pull off tolerably well, and lasagne is one of them.
While we eat, Logan tells me about his day at work, and then politely asks about mine. It’s clear he’s still curious about Calum Morgan, as he listens without interrupting while I describe the famous author in detail – his appearance and mannerisms, which Logan seems to find fascinating – and then outline a few of the issues with his manuscript, being careful not to be too indiscreet. It would be disastrous if news got out that Calum’s latest book wasn’t as good as his previous bestsellers. Unless his books are always that bad, and Cheryl has been in the unenviable position of fixing them for years…
‘Sounds like you’ve got a lot of work on your hands there,’ Logan says, pushing away his plate. ‘That was so good, by the way. You’re a great cook.’
‘Thank you.’ I finish my own meal, ridiculously pleased by this small compliment. ‘Well, the book is a challenge, it’s true. But I’m sure I can get it ready in time for publication.’ I feel like crossing my fingers as I say this, hoping my optimism is not misplaced.
‘You said earlier that Calum Morgan has a bit of a reputation.’ Logan refills my wine glass. ‘What did you mean by that?’
‘Only that he’s always been difficult with editors. Especially women.’
Logan frowns. ‘Difficult in what way?�
��
‘Oh, he tries it on sometimes. And then likes to get his revenge when they slap him down.’
‘Seriously? And they still publish him?’
I hesitate, worried that I shouldn’t have said that. ‘Well, you know… Some authors are like that. It’s all part of the job.’
‘Putting up with sexual harassment is part of your job?’ He sounds incredulous, and I can’t blame him.
‘When you put it like that…’ I laugh awkwardly. ‘He’s never laid a finger on me. Well, not in that sense.’
Logan leans forward, staring at me. ‘So he has laid a finger on you?’
‘He grabbed my wrist.’ I rub my wrist unconsciously, even though it no longer hurts, and then realise he’s now focused on that movement. ‘Look, it’s not what it seems. He didn’t mean to hurt me. He was trying to emphasise a point, and…’
‘And he manhandled you,’ Logan says flatly. ‘You need to tell someone. Your boss.’
‘Mark?’ I gulp down some wine, and then laugh, a high-pitched note in my voice that wasn’t there before. ‘You’re kidding, right? Run to Mark with tales of Calum Morgan’s hands-on abuse? That would be just the excuse Mark is looking for to sack me.’
‘It would be unfair dismissal if he did.’ Logan seems angry. ‘Good God, you can’t just shrug your shoulders and let him get away with that. The man’s clearly a menace.’
‘Frankly,’ I admit with rather too much candour, and mentally blame the wine I’ve been knocking back for not being more guarded, ‘I’ve got bigger issues to worry about than Calum Morgan’s bullying ways.’
‘Your mother?’ Logan smiles wryly when I look surprised. ‘No, I’m not a mind reader. You get a certain look on your face when you’re upset about your mother.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I bend my head, wishing my hair was longer and I could hide from his clever stare from under it. ‘I didn’t mean to burden you with all my troubles. This is meant to be a date.’
He laughs, and I look up, surprised.
‘That was a delicious dinner, and I’m really enjoying being with you,’ he says, his gaze locked on my face. ‘That sounds to me like a perfect date. And if you have “troubles”, then I want to hear about them and to help you solve them, if that’s possible. I’m not a fair-weather boyfriend. That’s not my style.’
