The Mother-in-Law(34)

Guilt.

Ollie’s mobile starts to vibrate and we both spring to life as though we’re are expecting it.

“Who is it?” I ask.

“Don’t recognize the number . . .” he says.

“Why don’t I get it?” I say. “It could be the funeral home or . . . I don’t know . . . something important. Maybe the police?”

He shakes his head. “I’ll get it,” he says, pressing the phone to his ear. “Oliver Goodwin speaking.”

He frowns, cocks his head. Then he meets my eye. It’s Jones, he mouths after a second or two.

“Put it on speakerphone,” I mouth back, and he does. Jones’s cool, efficient tones fills the room.

“We’ve received your mother’s autopsy report. We’d like to talk to you about it down at the station.”

“The station?” Ollie blinks. “Can’t you tell me over the phone?”

“It’s easier if you come here. Your sister and her husband are coming down too.”

Ollie looks at me. I shrug, baffled. “I mean . . . if that’s what we need to do. I’ll be right there—”

“Actually, we’d appreciate it if both you and Lucy came down. We’d like to talk to both of you.”

“Both of us? Together?”

“Yes.”

“It’s eight-thirty at night. Our children are in bed.”

“Then I suggest you find a babysitter,” Jones says. “Because this is important. And we’d like to see you both tonight.”





18: DIANA


THE PAST . . .

“Have you heard the news?” Tom says, his face a shiny beacon of cheer.

I glance around in surprise. The entire family is gathered in the “good” room—Tom, Nettie, Patrick, Ollie, Lucy, even Archie. Though I’ve seen everyone individually over the past year, we haven’t all been together as a family for nearly a year, not since the baby monitor fiasco at Sorrento when Lucy and Ollie and Archie scurried back to Melbourne after one day (a dreadful overreaction, in my opinion, even if I did overstep with the monitor). In any case, I’m pleased to see everyone together again.

“What is it?” I say, stealing a glance at Nettie. I can’t help it. Lucy is eight months pregnant with baby number two; it has to be Nettie’s turn. But she just shrugs as if to say: Don’t look at me.

“Ollie is going into business for himself!” Tom can barely contain his joy. “A boutique recruitment agency!”

“Oh!”

My voice registers my surprise. Ollie has never showed any interest in starting his own business, in fact he’s always been resistant to the idea. As his mother, I’d never known him to be particularly ambitious and despite Tom’s desperation to see his son “make a name for himself” I’d thought it made him happy, working for someone else, having less pressure, even if it meant less money. “Well . . . congratulations, darling.”

“You should congratulate Dad,” Ollie says, but he looks pink-cheeked and pleased with himself. “He’s been angling for this for years. And I’m not exactly doing it myself. I’ve got a business partner.”

“Who is your business partner?” I ask.

“Eamon.”

A whisper of dread crawls up my back. “Eamon Cockram?”

“Yes.”

I try for a smile but it feels more like a grimace. Eamon Cockram. I’d never liked that smarmy boy. He is that insufferable type who thinks he is charming the mothers by telling us the years have been kind (sadly the years had not been quite as kind to him—the last time I’d seen him he’d grown tubby and quite bald). I heard through the grapevine recently that his wife Julia had left him recently, and I couldn’t say anyone blamed her.

Tom is grinning from ear to ear. “We’ll have to have Frank and Lydia over for a drink, won’t we, Di?”

I make a non-committal noise. Frank and Lydia are Eamon’s parents, and I will be going to the utmost lengths to avoid having this drink. Still, there is no point telling this to Tom who is practically floating around the front room, buoyed by the close proximity of his family and his son’s business venture.

Nettie, on the other hand, looks particularly melancholy. She’s gained some weight and has a sheen of sweat across her face. As she reaches up to pull her sweater over her head, her shirt rides up and, even though she said she’s not pregnant, I find myself looking hopefully for a bump. I don’t see one. Instead to the left of her belly-button, I see a faint, oval-shaped bruise. She balls up her sweater and rests it in her lap.

“So tell me about this recruiting firm,” she says to Ollie. “Will you specialize in a certain industry?”

“We’ll focus on I.T. roles to begin with because that’s our background.”

“Well . . . that’s your background. What about Eamon?”

If Nettie’s tone is anything to go by, she shares my opinion of Eamon. I feel a swell of solidarity with my daughter.

“Eamon has done a lot of things,” Ollie admits.

“Anything relevant to recruiting?”

Ollie raises an eyebrow. “With due respect, Nettie, do you think I’d be going into business with him if I didn’t think he had anything to add?”