The Couple at No. 9(22)

I’d booked us in for Sunday lunch at the Stag and Pheasant, knowing she’d love it there as it’s won awards for its food – my mum is the biggest foodie I know. She seemed unusually on edge as we walked around the cobbled streets, and kept asking about how easy it was to access the woods at the back of the cottage. Mum is very rarely on edge. She’s a happy-go-lucky kind of person, always looking for the bright side of a situation. When I asked her what was wrong she’d shaken her head, nearly knocking herself out with her huge earrings, and linked her arm in mine. ‘Nothing, my sweet girl. I love being here with you. Now, show me where that lovely gastro pub is. I could murder some roast beef.’

‘Are you okay?’ I ask now, as we head out of the village and towards the M4.

She turns to me, flashing a dazzling smile. But beneath her expertly applied make-up she looks tired. ‘Of course. Why?’

Because you’re not chatting nineteen to the dozen as usual. ‘You’re just a bit … quieter than usual,’ I say instead, wanting to be diplomatic.

‘I’m wondering about your gran, that’s all. Is she going to be lucid enough for this interview today?’

The sun goes in suddenly and everything is gloomier. ‘I’m worried about that too. I don’t want her to feel frightened but at least they’re doing it at the care home. And it’s good that you’re not leaving until Saturday so you can see Gran again before you go.’

Mum fidgets in her seat and adjusts her top. She’s wearing a tight, bodice-style denim blouse that strains across her chest slightly, white jeans and tan-coloured heeled sandals. Her toenails are freshly painted in fuchsia. I haven’t done mine since Christmas. Not that it matters as I live in trainers, even in this heat. If I ever don sandals they’re my trusty Birkenstocks, which Mum has always deemed downright ugly. ‘I’m thinking of staying on a bit longer.’ She pauses. ‘If you don’t mind?’

I wonder what’s made her decide to lengthen her stay. I’d thought a week would be more than long enough for her. Surely by then she’ll be pining for Alberto and the beach. ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ I say, although that’s not strictly true. Mum’s personality fills the cottage somehow so that everything feels even smaller. She can’t help but take over – cooking for us, even if we’re not hungry, or, just as we’re about to unwind on the sofa, she’ll chivvy me to fetch some clothes that she can put in the machine. I feel guilty when she starts washing up and feel I have to help, even though Tom and I would usually leave it until the next day, preferring to chill out in front of the TV. Tom is great with her, but I could see the strain on his face as she talked at him last night while he was trying to watch The IT Crowd. ‘What about your job?’

‘I can take some of it as unpaid leave. Anyway, they owe me lots of holiday.’

‘Okay. You know you can stay as long as you want, but I do need to work. I’ve got a deadline,’ I say, which is true and hopefully means she’ll know I haven’t got time to sit around chatting all day.

She reaches out and pats my knee fondly, her bracelets jangling. ‘You don’t need to worry about me. Just do the things you’d normally do and pretend I’m not here.’

I want to laugh. That’s just not possible with my mother. ‘Will Alberto mind?’

She waves a ringed hand dismissively. ‘Leave that to me. It’ll be fine.’

I force down my worry. I can’t help but think Mum is running away from her life in Spain, from the problems she’s no doubt having with Alberto. It makes me feel guilty that I have Tom and a baby on the way when Mum has never really been able to settle.

She emits a sharp laugh, which makes me jump. ‘Darling, you look so serious. Stop worrying.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You’re chewing your lip again. You always do that when you’re worrying. I’m a grown woman. I’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry about me … I need to worry about you.’

I frown. ‘Why do you need to worry about me?’

‘I meant …’ She twists the ring on her index finger. My dad gave it to her. It’s a sapphire, and beautiful, and even though they split up years ago she never takes it off. ‘It’s just in general, you know. That’s a mother’s job.’

Why do I get the feeling there’s something she isn’t saying?

The sun bursts from behind a cloud, bright and blinding, and I have to pull the visor down. But Mum is right. I am anxious. I’m anxious about throwing up my decaf tea and half a piece of toast, about seeing the police, about Gran’s interview. About what she’ll say.

When we arrive, Gran is sitting in her usual chair in the corner of the day room. Sun streams through the glass and it feels too hot and airless in here. The French windows are firmly closed and Gran is wearing a pink jumper. She must be boiling.

She’s not doing a puzzle today. Instead she just gazes out of the doors, deep in thought, at the gardens beyond. I wonder what she’s thinking about.

‘Gosh,’ says Mum, putting a hand to her throat. ‘She looks so much smaller and thinner than when I last saw her.’ Her voice catches.

I swallow my nerves and check my watch. It’s just gone ten. The police said they’d arrive about ten thirty.