When You Are Mine(21)

‘How did you know they were driving?’

‘One of them has her car keys hanging from her purse.’

I marvel at how quickly Tempe had picked up on a detail like that. ‘You’re very good. What else have you noticed?’

‘That you’re engaged.’ She points to my left hand. ‘Where? When?’

‘September. Maybe.’

‘What do you mean, maybe?’

‘We don’t have a venue. The best places are booked out years in advance. Who plans that far ahead?’

‘Most people,’ says Tempe. ‘Maybe I can help.’

‘How?’

‘Weddings are my speciality.’

‘I can’t afford a wedding planner.’

‘I’ll do it for nothing. It’s my gift to you for saving my life.’

‘I hardly did that.’

Tempe begins listing what she can do, giving examples of how to save money on catering and flowers.

‘How about this?’ she says finally. ‘You give me your dates and what you’re looking for and I’ll make some calls. If I can’t find you the perfect venue in a fortnight, I’ll give up. You can get married in a shoebox in the middle o’ road.’

‘Cardboard box?’

‘Aye.’

We begin riffing on the famous Monty Python sketch, putting on Yorkshire accents and talking about eating crusts of stale bread, and being thrashed asleep with broken bottles.

‘My dad is a huge Python fan,’ I say.

‘Mine, too,’ says Tempe. ‘He had all the DVDs.’

‘Where are your parents now?’

‘Still in Belfast.’

I remember the letter addressed to Tempe that was put in the wrong mailbox.

‘I have something for you – a letter.’

‘Burn it.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t talk to my parents. It’s a long boring story.’

I want to hear it, because it might give us something else in common. My parents aren’t boring, of course. I wish they were. I wish my father sold insurance or plumbing supplies or worked as a civil engineer. Instead, he’s spent his career outwitting the police and fooling the Inland Revenue.

‘How about another drink?’ asks Tempe.

‘This time I definitely have to go.’

Her disappointment is palpable.

‘I have a new phone number.’ She waits for me to unlock my handset and takes it from me, typing her details into my contacts.

‘About this wedding. Can I give you a call tomorrow? I need numbers and budgets.’

‘OK.’

I’m almost at the door when I spy her suitcase against the bar. A part of me wants to keep walking, but a different voice urges me to turn back.

‘Where are you staying tonight?’

‘I’ll find somewhere.’

‘Do you have money?’

‘I’m fine, really.’

I watch her for a moment, wishing I could read her mind.

‘Don’t go anywhere,’ I say. ‘I have to make a call.’

Stepping outside the pub, I press speed-dial. My mother answers before her phone even rings. How does she do that? She must sit at home, staring at her mobile, waiting for me to call.

‘What a pleasant surprise?’ she says brightly. Considering that I call her twice a day, it can hardly be that surprising, but I let it go.

She fumbles with her TV remote, muting the volume. For some inexplicable reason she loves reality TV shows where people get voted out of the jungle, or off islands, or out of the house.

‘You’re at home,’ I say.

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘I thought you might be out on a hot date.’

‘Very funny.’

My mother didn’t remarry after divorcing my father, which could be down to her Catholicism, or her bloody-mindedness.

Five minutes later, I return to Tempe.

‘I’ve found you somewhere to stay. My mother has a spare room. She’ll know your entire family history by tomorrow morning, but the room is lovely.’

Tempe’s eyes are glistening.

‘You don’t have to do this.’

‘Come on.’





9


It’s after ten o’clock when I get back to the house. Henry is working tonight and won’t be home until morning. As I’m crossing the road to the house, I notice a pewter-coloured Jaguar XJ parked beneath a streetlight. The man behind the wheel has a hat tilted over his eyes and a newspaper is folded on the dashboard, showing a half-finished crossword.

As I reach the pavement, the rear door opens and a woman emerges, one long leg at a time, each foot clad in an expensive designer shoe. My stepmother Constance is wearing a lightweight coat with an upturned collar, and oversized sunglasses, channelling her Jackie Kennedy vibe, although she looks more bug-eyed than beautiful.

‘Philomena,’ she says awkwardly. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

I keep walking.

‘You haven’t answered my calls. I thought maybe I had the wrong number.’

‘With my voice on the recorded message?’

‘It’s been so long,’ she explains. ‘I also sent you a letter and texts.’