The Mother-in-Law(36)

“Aarash,” Hakem says, patting the boy on his head. “Come. Let Maman talk with her friend.”

She watches them wander out toward the street, then turns to me. I smile and hold up my basket. “I brought you some maternity clothes. And some information about a doula service in case you’d like to have this baby at home with a little medical assistance this time. Shall we talk inside?”

Ghezala nods and I hold the door open to let her walk back into the house. Before I enter myself, I glance over my shoulder at Hakem. I was wrong, I realize, when I thought he was angry. He’s more than angry, he’s bitter. It worries me. Because when left to their own devices, bitter people can do bad things.





19: LUCY


THE PAST

“You’re not happy about me going into business with Eamon, are you?”

Ollie is merely a disembodied voice as he removes a load of laundry from the washing machine in the next room and tosses it into the dryer. For all of Diana’s foibles, I will never resent her for making the man learn how to do laundry. I lower my pregnant body onto the couch and, after trying and failing to remove my wedges, lift my feet and let them thunk against the coffee table.

“Why do you say that?”

We’ve just returned from dinner at the Sandringham Pub, a virtual heaven for parents due to its indoor playground that allows mums and dads to consume their beers and chicken parmigiana in relative peace while their offspring get into fights with other kids on brightly colored play-equipment behind a pane of glass. Usually I enjoy the Sandy Pub for what it is, a change of scenery, a chance to drink wine and chat with Ollie without being surrounded by children, but tonight I was simply too pregnant to enjoy anything. The saving grace, at least, was that Archie fell asleep on the way home and didn’t rouse as Ollie carried him to bed.

“Because,” Ollie says, appearing in front of me. “You’ve been quiet since I brought it up.”

The problem, of course, is that unlike my mother, who was happy to silently support my father in everything he did, I find it difficult to keep my opinions to myself. Or maybe Dad just never made any decisions as stupid as going into business with Eamon Cockram.

“I know you don’t like Eamon.” Ollie sits on the coffee table. “And I know I’ve joked about his business sense in the past. Obviously I’d never get onboard with one of his ridiculous enterprises. I mean S’meals? Come on.” He laughs. “But I know recruitment. This isn’t a bad business idea, Luce. In fact, I think Eamon and I are well suited in this venture. I have the expertise and Eamon has . . . the hustle.”

It’s hard to argue with that. The one thing Eamon is good at is hustling. And while no self-respecting recruiter would ever refer to themselves as such, we were, in essence, hustlers. Or at least salespeople. The candidates were the product, the client was the consumer. Ollie was dedicated to the candidate to a fault, and Eamon, on the other hand, was excessively interested in the client. Perhaps Ollie was right? Perhaps they were a match made in Heaven?

Ollie takes my feet in his lap and begins undoing the buckle of my left shoe. “Look, I should have had this discussion with you earlier. I’m sorry I didn’t. But if you really don’t want me to do it, I won’t.”

He takes the shoe from my foot and drops it into the carpet. I believe him. I believe that if I told him I didn’t want to do this, he wouldn’t do it. At the same time, I think it’s no coincidence that Ollie made the announcement before asking me this question.

Perhaps he’s not such a bad hustler after all?

Dad’s job is to support us, our job is to support him.

“Of course you should do it,” I say with a sigh. “I may not like him but it’s not as if Eamon is a criminal! Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?”





20: LUCY


THE PRESENT . . .

“Everything okay?” I ask.

Ollie and I sit in the reception area of the police headquarters, holding white plastic cups of water. Dad is babysitting, though the poor man was out of his mind with worry when I explained we had to go to see homicide detectives. But Dad is the least of my worries, and by the look of it, the least of Ollie’s. His eyes dart around and his leg has its nervous bounce. I am caught between a feeling of dread and a feeling that I’m in a TV set, like The Truman Show, and soon someone with a clipboard is going to call “Cut!”

“Lucy and Oliver Goodwin?”

A woman—who is neither Jones nor Ahmed—is standing by a sliding door, looking around. Ollie and I put down our water and rise in unison.

“This way,” she says.

The woman smiles, the polite kind of smile rather than the friendly kind. She is young but hard-faced, like she’s seen some stuff.

We take a lift to the third floor, then exit down a narrow corridor with doors along the left, slim enough that we fall into single file. As we pass room after room, I can’t help but wonder about the people who have walked this path before us. Guilty people and innocent, I guess. I notice Patrick in one of the rooms and am momentarily surprised, but then I remember . . . Jones mentioned on the phone that both he and Nettie were coming in.

The woman leading us stops about halfway down the corridor. “Mr. Goodwin, you’re in here.”

Ollie frowns. “Lucy and I aren’t together?”