The Silent Wife(37)

So, with a quick glance around, I poked the bag between an old sofa and broken rocking horse, hearing a last gasp of flutes and violins as it slid, then crashed, into a space at the bottom. As soon as I’d done it, worry and guilt engulfed me, leading me into a thousand what ifs. Plus Beryl-like thoughts of what I could have spent the money on if I’d flogged it on eBay.

But Lara greeted me with such a level of nuttiness on the pavement outside my house that I barely had time to dwell on whether I’d made a great decision or a fatal one. I was capable of weird and wonderful behaviour myself – Nico was always teasing me about how he could hear me talking to myself as I sewed: ‘Perhaps a silver sequin next to the red one’ ‘What that needs is a nice bit of black lace’ – but Lara took it to another level.

Apart from the weirdo ‘we’re really rich but I’ve never bothered learning to drive’ bullshit, she seemed so dithery about getting to her dad, drivelling on about Sandro’s bloody swimming, which he didn’t seem to give the slightest hoot about missing. Christ, Mum’s rage if I put Sam perfecting his crawl above making sure she wouldn’t be in a wheelchair for the rest of her life would be enough to keep the whole of Scotland warm in winter.

When I finally persuaded Lara to let me take her to her dad via Mum’s, her reaction to seeing the estate reminded me of Nico the first time he’d come with me. Their middle-classness stood out like a vegan sausage in a greasy spoon café. Lara’s navy scarf, draped round her neck in a decorative rather than keep-the-cold-out loop, her light green cardigan with heart-shaped buttons, her hair shiny with expensive shampoo – she was missing that sharp edge of on-guard that defined the majority of the people who lived here.

But I had to love her for the way she was struggling not to look horrified at the puddles of piss, the remains of bicycles chained to the railings, the doors with their peeling paint. Such a contrast to the Victorian terraces we lived in now, painted pale pastel colours, with their dawn-to-dusk sensor lights creating a welcoming glow.

‘Did you live here for very long?’ Lara said as we ran up the stairs to Mum’s flat.

‘All my life until I had Sam. I was back here for three years before I met Nico because I just couldn’t afford to rent my own place any more.’

As I spoke, I realised I sounded as though I’d married Nico for his money. I hoped Lara knew me well enough by now to know it wasn’t true. Though she probably wouldn’t blame me for wanting to get Sam off the estate – her grip tightened on Sandro’s hand as we passed a couple of teenagers on the stairwell, the unmistakable smell of cannabis surrounding them.

Lara couldn’t have looked more twinset and pearls if she’d been carrying Margaret Thatcher’s handbag. She had the air of someone setting off on an adventure from which she wasn’t certain to return.

I propelled her towards Mum’s door before the threshold of her adventurous spirit was exceeded. On the other hand, the promise of a chocolate biscuit seemed to work wonders for Sandro’s courage, or maybe it was just the euphoria of his unexpected escape from armbands.

Mum threw open the door with her hair in a towel turban, even though I’d texted her to say we were on our way.

Lara looked as though she wanted to snatch up Sandro and hightail it back to the Boden areas of Brighton, where guest-greeting was more likely to involve a tray of homemade beetroot brownies or a gluten-free flapjack.

Mum swept Sandro in, not giving Lara a chance to whittle or worry or issue any instructions. If Mum had her way, Sandro would be bouncing on the settee and eating chips out of newspaper by the time we got back. ‘Poor little bugger. So many rules I wonder his head don’t blow off. And all that talk of when he goes to university and how many pages he’s got to read every day. Lord, it’s enough to make him turn into a druggy dropout.’

I hurried Lara out of there before she could change her mind. But by the time we were halfway to the nursing home, Lara was so tense, she looked as though she was suspended on a coat hanger. She kept checking for messages on her mobile. I wasn’t sure what was worrying her more: Sandro left with Mum in a den of inequity or her dad confused and in pain. I tried to reassure her. ‘Not too long to go. Your dad will probably have settled down a bit now.’

‘God, I hope so. The nurse that was dealing with him said he was getting a bit aggressive. He’s always been such a gentle person. Maybe he’s just in a lot of pain.’ She lapsed back into silence.

I never noticed the creaks, rattles and squeaks that were all part of my Fiesta’s ancient appeal, but with no conversation to distract us, they were impossible to ignore. Lara hadn’t ever shown any signs of wanting to discuss anything more personal than what she had for breakfast, so I didn’t feel I could blunder in with loads of questions but a desire to talk over the squeaking outweighed my tact.

‘How long has your dad been ill for?’

‘I’m not really sure.’ She looked out of the window. ‘He was forty-three when I was born so he was much older than other dads. My mum was twelve years younger. After she was killed in the car accident, he was always terrified of something happening to me. So he always had lots of funny little quirks, double-checking tyre pressure before we went anywhere, a fire extinguisher in every room, carbon monoxide monitors everywhere, ridiculously big locks on the doors. Sort of health and safety gone mad.’