Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(115)

Near to where Maryanne was found, a few bouquets sit under a plane tree. Small, modest bouquets, laid mainly by the kind residents of Leamington Square.



Goodnight and Godbless, The Okonjos (number six)

We didn’t know you but we are very sad you have died, lotz of luv, Lily and Freya Markham (number fourteen) xxx



When the moment feels right I crouch down and to anyone watching – not that anyone is watching as far as I can tell – I probably look like I’m just reading all the messages, soaking up the grief.

What I’m actually doing is ploughing hard into the rain-softened dirt with my fingers. It takes a bit longer than I expected but I just keep on digging. And when I’ve finally made a hiding place a few centimetres deep and then the same measure wide, I take it out of my pocket and place it in the ground, patting the mud back in tightly and covering the area in mulch.

The small shiny Tinkerbell I’d meant Maryanne to keep.

*

Aiden Doyle and I mosey along nicely – going on dates, staying in bed, delighting each other with every dull fact about ourselves. And yes, I know it’s wrong. I know that secrets always kill relationships in the long run but I can’t even fathom what ‘long run’ means at the moment, and in any case, according to every self-help book I own, we should be worrying less and living more in the here and now.

So here I am now, sitting on his lumpy settee, waiting for my cheese and bean toastie to be served.

‘I’m thinking of going to Canada,’ he shouts from the kitchen, or at least I think that’s what he shouts over the pounding thump of the doof-doof music that I’ve learned he worships.

I stand up, turn the volume down – this gets me a side-eye. ‘But you’ve only been here a few months. Christ, you don’t let the grass grow.’

He leans in the doorway, a cheese grater in one hand, a spatula in the other. God, he’s gorgeous.

‘Not to live, yer big eejit, although it is supposed to be great there. Aren’t Canadians supposed to be the happiest people on earth or something?’

‘I think it’s the Danes actually.’

‘The Danes?’ he says, unconvinced. ‘What’ve they got to be so happy about?’

‘Oh I don’t know, social democracy, work-life balance, damn sexy women .?.?.’

‘Last one’ll do me.’ He thwacks me on the arse with the spatula. ‘Anyway, smart arse, I’m not on about emigrating, I mean for a holiday. See my brother and his kids, you know? We never really got on, me and Kevin. He’s a good bit older than me and he’s a bit of a square .?.?.’

‘Says the man who wears an “I Heart Sums” T-shirt?’

I dodge another thwack, take refuge back on the settee.

He grins and carries on. ‘But after what happened to Maryanne, it’s makes you think about things, you know?’

I do. It makes you think about family. About the unbreakable bonds that withstand almost everything. Every foible and idiosyncrasy. Every failing and poor life-choice.

‘So do you fancy it then?’ he asks, looking nervous. ‘A holiday to Canada?’

‘I’m not sure. You’ll have loads of catching up to do .?.?. and it .?.?. it seems a bit full on.’ The hurt registers on his face. ‘For now, anyway,’ I add quickly. ‘It’s just I’m a hell of a slow mover, Aiden, and it’s only been a month. Hey, listen, my last boyfriend didn’t get under my top until we were three months in so you should count yourself lucky, sunshine – you’d practically seen my uterus in the time it took him to get near my bra.’

Humour. The last line of defence in any awkward situation.

‘Just think about it, OK?’ he says, not letting up. ‘I’m not talking tomorrow, maybe over the summer? There’s loads of good festivals around then. Escapade’s in July, gets all the best DJs.’

Maryanne loved dance music too by all accounts, sneaking off to Turnmills whenever she and Saskia felt brave enough. Aiden and his sister could have been sibling ravers.

Coulda. Woulda. Shoulda. The sadness is too much.

‘I promise I’ll think about,’ I say and I honestly mean it. Who knows, I might have won the lottery by the summer, if I actually start playing the lottery, and then I won’t need to worry about careers and possible disciplinary panels, charges of gross misconduct and professional suicide.

‘“I’ll think about it” will do for now,’ he says, handing me a beer. Beer with cheese toasties? ‘Me mam always used to say she’d “think about it” right before handing over whatever it was you wanted, so I’m feeling positive, I gotta tell you.’ He walks over to a sideboard and takes out a small photo album, returning with it with a cheeky smirk on his face. ‘Here, you should get yourself acquainted with who we’ll be visiting, and the rest of me family if you’re interested.’

I am.

The first few photos are in black and white. A grimacing old man, leaning on a stick in front of a tin bath, and then a similarly morose old woman scowling against the same backdrop.

‘Me great nan and grandad,’ he says, standing behind me. ‘Kills me how fecked-off they look in front of the camera, suspicious of it, like. Bit different now, eh? Don’t know what they’d make of the selfie?’ I laugh and flick forward, encounter a slightly younger-looking man holding up a fork of hay like an umbrella, then a tiny woman with a perm and a red buttoned coat, as grim-faced and rigid as one of the Queen’s Royal Guards. There’s none of Jonjo Doyle, unsurprisingly. Plenty of his mam – a plump pretty woman in an assortment of summer dresses. I feel anxious as I move towards the more recent photos but there’s actually only one of Maryanne. Carefree and laughing and sticking her Vs up to the camera.