The Secret Mother(15)

That’s it, I’m calling Max.

Three hours later, I’m sitting in a comfy swivel chair, cringing before a huge, crystal-clear mirror, spotlights highlighting every crease, splotch and dark circle, every grey root and split end. The image is not pretty.

‘Don’t mean to be rude, honey,’ Max says, his hands on his bony hips, ‘but that hair of yours looks like it’s been in a fight with a Brillo pad. We need to lop at least two inches off, preferably more. What would you think about a bob?’

‘I’m a gardener, Max. A bob’s no good, I need to be able to tie my hair back.’

‘God!’ He grabs my left hand and stares at it in horror.

I glance down to where he’s looking, at the red, chapped skin, the split nails.

‘What have you been doing?’ he cries.

‘Told you, I’m a gardener,’ I reply. ‘The hands are beyond repair. Concentrate on the hair, if you please. I’ve missed you, Maxie,’ I add. I haven’t bantered with anyone like this in months.

‘I should think so. You need me in your life, Tess. This is a disaster area. If you’d left it any later, we’d have needed emergency aid flown in.’ He turns to one of the juniors. ‘Bring Ms Markham a glass of Prosecco.’

‘What?’ I say, my eyes widening. ‘No. Max, it’s only ten thirty, far too early for me.’

‘Pfft. Normally, I would agree. But in your case, a small pick-me-up is just what you need.’

‘Go on then, but at least put some orange juice in it.’

‘Vitamin C, good idea.’

Several hours later, I leave the salon with gleaming honey-blonde waves that just skim my shoulders. I feel admiring eyes on me as I step out onto the pavement, and it’s not an entirely awful feeling. A woman with dark brown hair catches my eye and I give her a small smile. She instantly lowers her head and scuttles away. I shrug and head towards the Tube station. I’m going into town to buy a new outfit for tonight – none of my old clothes fit me any more.

In Monsoon, I grab a size twelve skirt. I’ve lost a bit of weight over the past year; all my existing clothes are hanging off me. It’s a black pencil skirt with jade-green embroidered flowers. I figure it will look great with black boots and a polo neck. But when I slide it up and over my hips, it’s massive. I check the label. Yes, definitely a size twelve. I ask the assistant to grab me a size ten. She looks me up and down and suggests the eight. I haven’t been a size eight since my twenties. Sure enough, it fits perfectly, which means I’m about three sizes smaller than I used to be. I guess what with my anxiety, lack of appetite, and skipped meals, I’ve shed a few pounds without realising.

While I’m queuing to pay, my back tingles with a strange sensation. I turn around to see a woman staring at me. I return the stare and realise it’s the same dark-haired woman from outside the hairdresser’s earlier. She looks my age, maybe a little older. Did she follow me here?

‘Excuse me, are you next?’ I turn to see that the shop assistant is speaking to me.

‘Sorry, can you hang on a second?’ I ask, dumping the skirt on the counter. I turn around again, but the woman has vanished. My eyes roam the shop. She must have left. ‘I’ll be back in five minutes,’ I call to the assistant, and make my way through the clothes racks, staring left and right. The woman was quite small, and could easily be concealing herself behind one of the rails. I reach the exit and glance up and down the crowded street, my heart pounding. It’s no use – I’ll never spot her among all these people.

But who is she? I’m certain she’s something to do with Harry. She could even be the same person who hung up on me this morning. I pray she gets back in touch. And if she shows up again, I’ll make sure I don’t let her get away until she explains exactly who she is and why on earth she’s so interested in me.





Chapter Seven





Right on time, I smooth down my new skirt and open the door to the tapas bar where I’m meeting Scott. A wave of warmth, lights and chatter hits me as I walk inside. This is the second night in a row I’ve been out after work. Not like me at all.

I scan the busy tables, but I don’t see him.

A twenty-something waiter in a black T-shirt and dark jeans comes over to where I’m standing. ‘Would you like a table? There’s a one-hour wait at the moment. Or you can sit at the bar…’

‘I’m meeting someone,’ I say. ‘I think he’s booked a table under the name Markham.’

He glances down at the clipboard in his hand. ‘For 7 p.m.?’

‘Yep.’

‘This way.’ He leads me over to a booth near the back. I catch my breath. Scott is already there, his back to me, a bottle of beer on the table in front of him.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ the waiter asks.

‘Lime and soda, please.’ I’d love a proper drink, but I want to keep a clear head. This evening is too important for me to screw up. I blow out a breath and then inhale. I can do this, I can win back my husband, I know I can. Images of the two of us holding hands. Him leading us back to our house, his floozy forgotten. Us tumbling onto the bed. Laughing. Crying. So happy to be together again, back where we belong.

‘Tess.’ Scott stands up and does a double-take. ‘Wow, you look incredible.’