The Secret Mother(23)

‘You calling me a liar?’

I feel my face heat up. ‘No, of course not.’

‘Hey, don’t I know you?’ A middle-aged woman standing behind Mr Aggressive tilts her head and narrows her eyes at me.

‘I… I don’t think so.’

‘Yes. Yes, I do. You’re that woman on the news, the one who took the kid.’

A ripple of recognition weaves its way back along the queue.

‘What about my change?’ the man barks at me.

‘I… I’m not sure…’

‘I gave you a twenty, so you need to give me another tenner.’

I snatch up a ten-pound note from the till, convinced the man is pulling a fast one. I know I’ve been distracted today, but I could’ve sworn he gave me a ten-pound note. I don’t have the energy to argue with him, though, and decide that if the till is short at the end of the day, I’ll put my own money in to make up the difference. ‘Here you go,’ I say sharply, thrusting the note at him.

‘Should think so too,’ he snaps. ‘Trying to rip me off.’

But I don’t respond – I can’t think what to say. Everyone in the queue is staring at me like I’ve got two heads. The man stuffs the note in his pocket and is about to walk away when the woman pipes up once more:

‘Those journalists outside,’ she says. ‘They’re waiting for you, aren’t they?’ Then she turns around and says in a voice so loud that practically everyone north of the river could hear. ‘It’s her! She’s that child abductor off the news. Took that little kiddy, she did.’

I stare at her, mute with horror, my insides turning to slush. What can I do? Anything I say will only make me sound guilty. I shouldn’t have come to work, I’m not prepared for any of this. I don’t know what to do.

How did my life come to this?





Chapter Ten





‘Everything okay here?’ Ben strides through the shop towards me. I’m so pleased to see him. ‘Tessa? You all right?’

‘Tessa Markham, that’s her name,’ the woman cries. She holds out her phone and takes my picture.

I gasp at her cheek.

‘Excuse me, I’d like you to leave,’ Ben says to her.

‘What!’ The woman’s face turns scarlet with outrage.

‘Right now, please,’ he adds firmly, pointing to the exit.

‘Suppose you’re in on it too,’ she snarls at him. ‘I was about to buy two fig trees,’ she adds, pointing to her trolley. ‘But you can effin’ well forget it now.’

‘With you looking after them, Madam, they’d probably wither and die.’

‘I… What did you just say?’

‘Actually,’ Ben continues, ‘before you go…’ He takes the phone off her and presses a couple of buttons. ‘There, I’ve deleted the photo of my colleague. I’m sure we can all do without another social-media vulture sharing someone else’s misery.’

To my surprise, a few customers in the queue clap and nod. I want to applaud him too.

‘Goodbye,’ he says calmly, handing the woman’s phone back. ‘Don’t let the door hit your arse on the way out.’

Her mouth drops open and she turns to leave. ‘I can tell you now,’ she says, ‘I won’t be coming back here again.’

‘Pleased to hear it,’ Ben replies.

I’m rooted to the spot, trembling. Everyone is staring at me like I’m some kind of rare zoo exhibit. A few stares soften into genuine smiles as I catch their eyes.

‘Tess,’ Ben takes my hand, ‘come with me.’

‘What about your customers?’

‘They can wait,’ he says gently. ‘I’m going to get Carolyn to come back and man the shop, but first…’ He leads me past the gawping customers, out of the shop and round the back of the building, through a gate and into a private walled garden.

My mind is racing with everything that’s just happened, but I can’t help staring around at these fragrant surroundings. I’ve never been in here before. Even in winter, with everything dormant, it’s perfect. An arched stone pergola sits in front of the house with a weathered wooden table and chairs beneath it. Ornate terracotta pots gush with evergreens and winter berries. Low walls and hedges border gravel and stone pathways that take the eye away into the hidden distance.

‘Is this your garden?’ I ask, everything else forgotten for a brief moment.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s still a work in progress. I’m doing it gradually.’

‘It looks pretty finished to me.’ An image flashes into my mind of my own neglected front garden. I make a mental note never to invite Ben over. Well, at least not until I’ve attempted to get it back into some kind of order.

I realise he’s still holding my hand, his fingers cool against my skin. As he leads me towards the house, we pass a plucky robin perched on a stone bird table, pecking at some scattered seed. Ben opens a glazed arched door and we enter a warm, rustic, farmhouse-style kitchen, messy in a homely way. He directs me to a knotty oak table, where I sit, dazed, on a long, low bench.

‘Stay there,’ he says, opening an old-fashioned cream refrigerator, pulling out a pan and setting it on a dark-green range cooker. Then he takes a ciabatta loaf from a bread bin, slicing off two chunks. ‘The soup will take about five minutes to heat,’ he continues. ‘Finish it all off. There’s butter in the fridge if you want some with your bread. I’ll go back to the shop for a while.’