Haven't They Grown(24)

‘Anyway, enough about the past! As my favourite life coach always says: memories of the past are not the past. They’re thoughts you have in the present, about the past.’

I shiver. Dominic mouths ‘What?’ I turn away from him so that I’m not distracted. Lewis talking about the present and the past makes me feel …

What? That he’s more likely to have frozen his children in time to prevent them from ageing? Ridiculous.

‘Your favourite life coach?’ I say, forcing out a laugh. ‘How many do you have?’

‘I don’t see them, I just listen to their podcasts. But enough about my perfect life in sunny Florida – tell me what you’ve been up to. Are you working again, or still a slacker?’

I’d forgotten this: that Lewis described it as ‘slacking’ when Flora and I gave up our jobs to look after our babies. He loved that joke; it became one of his regulars. I never minded it. It was like his boasting: so outrageous, we all assumed he didn’t mean it.

Except Flora.

I didn’t think of it at the time, but now I wonder: was that why she always looked worried and said, ‘Lew-is,’ while Dom and I were busy saying, ‘It’s fine – we don’t take him seriously’? Was Flora scared he was revealing too much of his true character?

‘No, I’m working,’ I say.

‘Aha! Hunting heads again!’

‘I’m not in recruitment any more. I retrained as a massage therapist.’

Lewis laughs loudly. ‘A masseur! You mean a hooker, right? Is that what this call’s about? Are you a hooker hoping for a hand-out from an old friend? Or, should I say, a hand-job? No, wait – that’s the wrong way round. If you’re a hooker, you’d be offering me a hand-job. I’m mixing up my hooker metaphors.’

I do some fake-laughing and try to move the conversation on, but Lewis insists on knowing what I actually do, if not hookering. I explain to him about trigger-point massage, what led me to it, the principles involved. ‘Hmm,’ he says when I’ve finished. ‘Reckon you could sort out my tennis arm?’

‘Definitely,’ I say. ‘What about Flora? Is she working now, or—’

‘Hardly. She’s committed to slacking for life.’

‘You know, I … I drove past your old house.’

‘The Newnham flat? How’s it looking these days?’

‘No, the house you moved to afterwards. In Hemingford Abbots.’

‘Wyddial Lane?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What the hell were you doing there?’

My heart thuds. Is he suspicious? No. He’s just being Lewis.

‘Ben’s football team was playing nearby, in St Ives, and I took a wrong turn on the way. I recognised the street name from the change-of-address card you sent when you moved.’ Shit. That sounded so obviously like a lie. I hold my breath, waiting for Lewis to question it.

Instead, he says cheerfully, ‘So, you really think you could un-fuck my arm? I’ve tried sports massage. Didn’t work.’

‘Because the trigger points in your shoulder and neck need releasing, probably. Your arm is where the effects are manifesting, but not where the problem’s located.’ It’s hugely frustrating that so many people charging for massages all over the world don’t know this basic fact.

‘What the fuck?’ Dominic murmurs behind me. I wave my arm frantically: sign language for ‘Be quiet or leave’.

‘Inneresting. Hey, Flora!’ Lewis yells. ‘Guess who’s on the phone? Beth Leeson! She reckons she can sort out my tennis arm!’

‘Can I speak to Flora too?’ I ask, my throat suddenly dry.

‘You trying to get rid of me, Beth?’

‘Haha. No, not at all. I mean after.’

‘She’s in the bath. Hang on, she’s getting out. Seriously, though, you should all come over and stay with us. We’ve got a three-bedroom guesthouse in our garden, a swimming pool, a tennis court. You’d have fun! Oh, wait, here’s Flora.’

I hear a woman’s voice in the background. I can’t hear what exactly she’s saying – something about being lucky, I think – but … it sounds like Flora.

How can it be her?

‘What, hon?’ Lewis calls out. ‘Can’t you do that later? Oh, okay. Beth, she’ll ring you back in five, ten minutes. Is that okay?’

‘Sure,’ I say.

Lucky. Where have I heard that word recently?

‘Sit tight. And get your diary ready. Let’s schedule a visit for y’all to the good old US of A!’ The line goes dead.

I put my phone down on Ruth and Robin’s kitchen table.

‘That’s it?’ says Dom.

‘No. Flora’s ringing me back.’

‘When? Can we go home, and you talk to her there?’

‘No, she’s ringing in five minutes, Lewis said. Dom, I heard her. In the background. Well, I heard a woman. It sounded like Flora.’

‘You didn’t ask him why there’s no Flora or Georgina on his Instagram, or who Chimpy is.’

‘I haven’t spoken to him for twelve years. I didn’t want to sound like I was interrogating him.’

‘So how long are we going to sit here? I mean—’