The Secret Mother(34)

I find myself nodding. ‘That is strange.’

‘I know, right? So, I managed to track down his old housekeeper. She lives here in London. But she wouldn’t speak to me either.’

‘What’s she got to do with anything?’

‘Well, for one thing, she worked for the Fishers for years, so she knows them. She might be able to give me the low-down. And also, Fisher sacked her after his wife died. Maybe she has a grudge against the family. Maybe she knows something interesting. It would be worth talking to her, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose.’

‘No suppose about it. I think the woman’s hiding something.’

‘But if she won’t talk to you, how are you going to find out?’ I ask.

‘We-ell…’ Carly drums her navy-painted nails on the tabletop. ‘She won’t speak to me, but maybe she’ll speak to you.’





Chapter Sixteen





‘Me?’ I say. ‘What makes you think she’ll talk to me? My face is plastered all over the papers. If Fisher’s ex-housekeeper believes half of what’s been written, she probably thinks I’m the devil.’

‘I disagree,’ Carly says.

‘Of course you do.’

‘No, I just mean she might know what’s really going on here.’

‘So you admit that your story is a complete fabrication,’ I say.

‘I didn’t say that,’ Carly replies, sitting up straighter in her seat. ‘I meant that if she knows what’s going on, she won’t be worried about what’s in the papers.’

‘You don’t know that,’ I say, crossing my arms grumpily. ‘And anyway, I thought you said she’d left her job. She’ll be out of the loop, won’t she?’

‘Well, we won’t know unless we ask,’ Carly says. ‘Nothing to lose, and all that.’

She’s got a point, but I’m reluctant to be guided by my sneaky neighbour. Not after what she’s just put me through.

‘Look, what’s the worst that can happen?’ Carly adds airily. ‘She sends you away, refuses to talk to you. You’ve wasted a couple of hours. What else have you got going on in your life?’

‘Cheers,’ I say.

To her credit, her face colours. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant—’

‘Relax, it’s fine. I know my life is a pathetic void.’

‘Now you’re just feeling sorry for yourself.’

‘You think?’

‘So, are you going to go and see her?’ Carly asks, draining her coffee and putting her cup back down with a clunk on the table.

‘Not sure. How would I get past that lot out there? They’d follow me.’

‘Leave that to me,’ she says with a half-smile.



* * *



One hour later, I’m washed, dressed and breakfasted, and feel almost like a new person. Or if not new, then at least not like the unsavoury hobo I was impersonating earlier. I have my phone, my keys and my handbag. I’m loitering in the hallway, pretty much ready to go. A quick glance at my wristwatch tells me Carly should be ready by now. I send her a text to say I’ll be walking out the front door in exactly sixty seconds.

My heart clatters against my ribcage. Why am I doing this? I tell myself not to be a wimp. Those journalists out there are just people. They won’t hurt me, will they? I check my watch – thirty seconds to go. Carly had better not let me down.

Twenty seconds.

Ten.

I turn the knob on the front door, tensing up as I ease it open a crack. I peer further up the road, but it’s empty. I’ll give it another ten seconds, just to be on the safe side. Then I spy the glint of her red car. It gives me the boost of confidence I need to yank open the door, step out into the lemony sunshine and stride down the frosty path towards the mob.

‘Tessa!’

‘Tessa, love!’

‘Are you going to work?’

‘Do you know James Fisher? Did he contact you after what happened? Is he pressing charges?’

‘Give us a couple of minutes of your time, Tessa!’

I keep my head down, open the gate and barge through them, their collective breath hovering about me like a shroud in the icy air. I listen for the sound of the car engine coming closer. But there are so many journalists surrounding me, in my face, yelling, clamouring for me to look up, to speak, to give them what they want, that I can’t see or hear anything from the road behind them.

A car horn honks, long and loud. The press turn as one for the briefest of moments, giving me time to slip between their warmly wrapped bodies, under arms and around cameras until I reach the bright red Fiat idling in the middle of the road. I dart around to the passenger side just as Carly flings open the door. I slide in, slam the door and tug down on the seat belt.

Carly presses on the accelerator and floors it down the road. We’re both panting and, to my surprise, laughing.

‘That was insane,’ she cries, throwing the car into second as we screech round the corner. ‘Check behind us. Is anyone following? Any cars or motorbikes?’

‘Nothing yet,’ I say, still out of breath.

‘Ha!’ she crows. ‘That lot will hate me now.’