The Woman Next Door(42)

Hester’s face is a pale oval in the floodlit car park. Her eyes seem to be all pupil now and Melissa can’t see any expression in them at all.

‘Melissa,’ she says, at last, very quietly. It is as though she forgets to continue for a moment. Then she says, ‘You’re still in shock and you’re not thinking clearly. You have to get a grip on yourself. This is quite ridiculous. Have you forgotten that you are a mother?’

Melissa flinches at the hissed word and blinks fast, twice. She can feel her euphoria begin to seep away like a puncture into the still night air.

Hester speaks again.

‘You have a life, Melissa. A good life. You can go back to it but we have to deal with this unfortunate situation first.’ She pauses and then gives a small, high-pitched laugh that is entirely without mirth. ‘And my number plate will have been registered the second we drove into this service station. Do you seriously think I would be able to just go home and stay out of this?’ Her voice becomes feather-soft again. ‘Darling girl, none of us meant for this to happen. But we simply have to follow through with it now we’ve started.’

Melissa’s chin wobbles and her eyes gloss over with tears. She shakes her head vehemently and takes a wobbly, loud in-breath. Hester gives a small, stoical laugh.

‘It’s quite all right, darling Melissa,’ she says gently. ‘You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. But don’t worry about anything because you can count on me.’

Melissa nods. She is cold and her knees knock together, her teeth chattering.

‘Come on, let’s get going,’ Hester says gently.

With that she climbs into the driver’s seat again, hauling the dog onto the passenger side. Melissa slides into her own seat. Four moist adoring eyes greet her inside the van.

Hester starts the engine and pulls out of the parking space and towards the exit signs. There are no other cars around. She carefully checks her wing mirror and indicates anyway.





HESTER


Before too long we are filtering onto the A303, the main route down to the West Country. I know this journey quite well from childhood holidays in Cornwall and when Terry and I used to take the caravan this way.

I must say, I am relieved to be off the motorway.

But while the good hot tea and the rest have settled me inside, it’s a mixed blessing. The jangling of nerves was keeping me alert and now I feel more sluggish.

I glance across at Melissa and see the shine of her open eyes. I cannot believe she was seriously considering handing herself in. What a silly girl she is sometimes. Her hands are twisted together in her lap, pale in the reflected dashboard lights. She looks so hunched and lost in thought, so, well … sad, I don’t like to disturb her. I think she has always been sad. I don’t know why but I sense she is a troubled girl underneath her glamorous exterior.

My eyes are becoming gritty and I think a little conversation will help me to concentrate. I clear my throat.

‘So,’ I say. My voice seems especially loud in the stillness of the car. ‘How is Mark?’ It was the first thing that came into my mind. I don’t really care about Mark. Melissa turns to stare at me. I can feel the graze of her eyes on the side of my face.

‘Why do you ask?’ she says tightly.

I can’t help but glance away from the road to look at her. Maybe I have touched a nerve in some way. I suddenly feel overcome with how difficult life can be. Why are people so hard to read?

‘I don’t really know,’ I say wearily. ‘It seems like the sort of thing people ask in these circumstances.’ I didn’t quite intend to be so honest but, to my surprise, I hear the ripple of low laughter from my left.

‘These circumstances?’ says Melissa. ‘Do you think people do this a lot then? What we’re doing?’ There is a slight edge to her voice. I don’t want to say the wrong thing again.

‘I suppose it must be unusual,’ I say, and then, ‘Although it’s a lovely part of the country. Have you been to Dorset before?’

The silence that follows my words feels bloated and uncomfortable. When I hear a noise next to me, I think she has started to cry again. She has her hands cupped over her face and she is shaking uncontrollably. It’s only then that I realize she is actually laughing.

I glance at her in astonishment as she splutters and squeals, quite helpless now. And it’s the strangest thing; like a chain reaction, I can feel rumbles of laughter start to shake my ribcage and, before I know it, I am hooting too. Terry used to say I had a rotten sense of humour. Sometimes we would watch comedy programmes on television and he would be quite insensible with mirth. I never understood it. But now ticklish waves are breaking over me and I feel myself give into it. I don’t know what’s funny and I don’t care either. It feels wonderful: healing and cleansing me.

‘Oh Hester,’ she manages to say at last. ‘What are you like?’ And she starts to laugh again.

I’m giggling so hard, I fear for my bladder control. I’m not sure I have ever really laughed like this before. I feel as though I am quite lost.

Gusts of our mirth break over us again and again, as the rain begins to dot the windscreen.

Wiping my eyes, I manage to speak at last.

‘Goodness,’ I say, ‘I’m not sure where that came from! But it has certainly helped keep me awake. Not that I’m having problems,’ I add hurriedly. I want to keep the new, lighter atmosphere going so quickly think of more conversation. ‘So, did you ever come this way on holiday as a child?’ I ask.