Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(49)

‘You have to try .?.?.’

‘No, listen, hear me out, I’m getting to a more positive bit, honest.’ He doesn’t look convinced so I plough on quickly. ‘Do you know, the only thing I can be, not proud of, just not ashamed of, is that I acted on my gut that day checking on Dafina – that’s the mum – ahead of the court case. I mean, if I hadn’t, God knows how long Alana-Jane would have been stuck there and the body would have been in a much worse state. Don’t get me wrong, she looked horrific – there was so much blood and she’d started to go a bit greenish. But if it’d been a few more days, when the bloating started, and the smell .?.?.’

Parnell nods. He understands. ‘Focus on that then. Your natural copper’s instinct made an absolutely horrendous situation a bit less horrendous.’

I pinch my thumb and forefinger together. ‘A tiny bit, maybe. I don’t think me vomiting through my nose did though.’

‘I hear the little girl’s quite taken with you.’

I blink away a tear. ‘She drew me a picture. Wanna see it?’

‘Of course.’

I pull it out of my wallet where it’s lived for two months, wedged between a photo of me and Mum in a bumper car and a ticket for a live gig I completely forgot about. It’s a drawing of me in bright orange outline wearing a spotty pink dress and high heels – one clumpy shoe twice the size of the other. I’ve only got one ear and my nose is a messy green splodge but I’ve got a lovely big smile. It bursts out the side of my cheeks and fills the whole width of the page.

It’s the smile that gives me comfort that I must have done something right.

‘It’s uncanny,’ says Parnell. ‘She definitely got the nose right.’

A quick slap to the head and we stand side by side for a few minutes, silently pressing buttons on the quiz machine, answering questions about everything from country music to past Nobel prize winners. Eventually Parnell’s appetite for trivia runs out and talk turns back to the inevitable.

‘So what about Thomas Lapaine?’ Parnell looks frustrated, although it could be the four-pound jackpot we just gambled – and lost. ‘I haven’t got anything personal against the guy but eliminating him puts us one step closer to the “random stranger” nightmare which is the last thing we all need.’

I sip my wine, realise I’ve sunk two thirds without noticing. ‘I’ve got something personal against him. Bloke’s a tosser.’

‘We’ve met worse.’

He’s right but I’m riled. ‘It’s just all that “not getting any warmth at home” crap really winds me up.’

‘Alice didn’t have many friends. Could suggest a cold fish?’

‘Nor does he!’ I reply, a bit too loud. There’s a TV playing in the corner but the sound’s turned down. ‘Tech reckon his social media circle’s pretty minuscule.’

‘Maybe he has real friends. Do they even exist anymore?’

I ignore the question, stay stranded on my own soapbox. ‘I mean, what even is “warmth”? Wasn’t she putting out regularly enough? He kind of implied that. Or didn’t she mollycoddle him enough like Mother?’

Parnell shrugs. His position on the fence annoys me, even though it’s got no right to, and when you’re annoyed and five drinks down, you occasionally say things you regret.

‘My dad had affairs.’

It comes out as a loaded declaration. A defining statement of sorts. And it is to me, I suppose. It’s certainly shaped the person I am and many a counsellor has argued that it’s the reason behind every neurosis, disorder and general vague oddity that I’ve been daft enough to admit to. However, to Parnell, I’m just a melodramatic colleague. An emotional drunk admitting her dad did something that a lot of dads do. Mums too.

I try to explain, put my outburst into context.

‘And he used to sound just like Thomas Lapaine, that’s why I brought it up. Mum didn’t love him enough, apparently. She didn’t give him enough attention. She was always too busy with us. He was just a cash machine .?.?.’

‘And he said all this to you?’ Parnell lands a size nine on my side of the fence. ‘Not good.’

‘Yeah well, he wasn’t a good husband.’

‘Clearly. Bad husbands can still be good fathers though.’

Bless Parnell, he loves to play the curmudgeon but essentially he’s an optimist.

‘I dare say some can, he can’t.’

Parnell takes a long slug of ale. I’m sure he’s buying time so he can think of how to change the subject and frankly, who could blame him.

‘OK, define a “good father”?’ he says eventually, staying on the same rocky course.

‘Someone who puts his kids first. Someone dependable, consistent. You,’ I add, cringing a bit. ‘At least from what I know anyway.’

‘Me?’ He takes out his phone again, offers it to me. ‘Do you think you could call Mags and repeat that. I haven’t been home for the twins’ bedtime in nearly a fortnight and look at me now, out drinking with you.’

‘I thought Maggie OK’d it?’

‘She did. She’s a good woman. The best.’

I feel bad now. I have this fantasy that me and Maggie become friends at some point. She tells me stories about a younger and slimmer Parnell while I get her wasted on Glitter Bombs.