Haven't They Grown(36)

I try to look unflustered. Zan’s probably right: better not to lie. Besides, if the receptionist hands Jeanette Cater a random sports bag later and tells her it was brought in by a person whose name she doesn’t recognise and who claims to be her friend, it’s going to be pretty obvious who’s behind it – especially when Jeanette asks for a physical description of this mysterious woman. My hair is half brown and half blonde at the moment; for months I’ve been too busy with clients and their problems – both physical and emotional – to get it sorted out.

Zan must have worked this out long before I did: I’ve been lied to, and I’m taking steps to find out why, and what’s really going on. I’m not ashamed of any of my actions and, by doing this, I’m letting Jeanette Cater know that I’m not.

It’s funny how quickly my thinking patterns have adjusted to all the unknowns. When I think about ‘Jeanette’, there’s a shadowy person in my mind who might be either Flora or the woman with the foreign accent. When I think about ‘Thomas and Emily’, sometimes they’re the two photogenic teenagers on Lewis’s Instagram and other times they’re the two small children I saw getting out of the silver Range Rover last Saturday.

The receptionist writes down ‘Beth Leeson’. ‘Phone number?’ she asks me.

‘Jeanette has my number.’

‘Oh – ha, yes. Sorry! I’m so used to taking full details from people. Tell you what, though … if you could just let me have your number, just in case?’

Zannah recites our home number, and the receptionist writes it on the pad. When she looks up, I see uncertainty in her eyes. ‘And you’re Jeanette’s … friend?’ she says, as if this is an outlandish concept.

‘Yes.’

Two spots of red have appeared on her otherwise white cheeks. She holds out her hand awkwardly to take the sports bag from me. She’s gone from friendly and confident to nervous in the space of seconds. Why? ‘What’s your name?’ I ask her.

‘Lou Munday,’ she says quickly. ‘Rhymes with the famous song, “Blue Monday”! Haha. My husband says that’s one of the reasons he married me.’ She’s still on edge, but trying to hide it.

I pass her the bag.

We say our goodbyes, and Zannah and I are halfway to the door when she calls after us, ‘Thanks again! I’ll give this to Jeanette later when she comes to collect Thomas.’

I freeze. Zannah and I exchange a look.

Thomas. Not Toby.

Kevin Cater lied. I now have proof, and it came from someone impartial, with no skin in the game. I should make a motivational sign like the one Lewis made for me, with ‘I trust myself’ emblazoned across it, and stick it on the wall in my treatment room. My clients would love it. Lots of them are keen on positive psychology and mindfulness and things like that.

Zan is ahead of me, walking back to reception. ‘Did you say Toby, Mrs Munday?’ she asks in her fake-sweet voice, the one she only uses on me when she wants me to spend serious money on her. ‘Jeanette’s son isn’t called Toby. He’s called Thomas.’

‘I know. I said Thomas.’ She looks confused.

‘And his sister’s not called Emma,’ I say.

‘No, she’s called Emily. I didn’t say anything about an Emma.’ The red spots on her cheeks are growing.

‘I know you didn’t. Can I tell you something that’s going to sound—’

‘Mum,’ says Zan curtly. She’s trying to warn me off.

‘No, I’m doing this,’ I say. ‘Mrs Munday—’

‘Please, call me Lou.’

‘I don’t know how well you know the Cater family … for example, do you know that Thomas and Emily have a younger sister called Georgina? A baby?’

‘We don’t know that’s true,’ says Zannah.

Lou Munday looks mystified. She says, ‘The Caters don’t have a baby called Georgina, or any baby at all. They just have Thomas and Emily.’

‘Just to check: we’re talking about Kevin and Jeanette Cater, who live at 16 Wyddial Lane, Hemingford Abbots?’

Lou has started to pluck at the skin of her neck with the fingers of her right hand. ‘I probably shouldn’t … I mean, I can’t. I can’t tell you where they live.’

‘I’ve just told you where they live: 16 Wyddial Lane, Hemingford Abbots. Is that right?’

She starts to mumble about safeguarding issues. It’s been a while since she looked me in the eye.

‘Does Jeanette Cater have a foreign accent?’ Zannah asks her.

‘A foreign … No, she … I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t—’

‘No? No foreign accent?’

‘Zan, wait. Lou, I’m really sorry about this. I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, and obviously you don’t have to tell us anything else. We’ll leave in a minute, I promise. Before we go, though, I’d like to tell you something. Tell, not ask.’

Am I really going to do this? Is this a strategy, or a burst of recklessness I’ll regret?

‘I lied to you. I am Beth Leeson – that’s true – but the bag I gave you belongs to my son. It’s nothing to do with the Caters. I lied because … well, it’s a long story, but … I think there might be something wrong – I mean really, horribly wrong – in the Cater household. It would take too long to tell you everything so I’ll just say this: three days ago, Jeanette Cater, or, rather, a woman who introduced herself to me as Jeanette Cater, with a foreign accent, told me that her children were called Toby and Emma. Not Thomas and Emily. And … a few days before that, I saw a woman who is not Jeanette Cater, because she’s my old friend Flora Braid, getting out of a silver Range Rover and …’ I should probably stop there. The rest would sound too implausible.