‘Shit. What the hell are we going to do about this lot?’ He gestures at the guests.
Behind us, above the houses in the next street, the clouds are tinged with pink and orange. The sun is setting. On the other side of the glass doors, Amber tilts her head, a question in her eyes. I stretch my mouth into a smile.
‘We have to go back in,’ I hiss. ‘People are looking.’
In the kitchen I clap my hands and the room falls silent. There is an air of confused expectation, as if they think I’m about to suggest a toast, but I am the only one not holding a glass or a mug. Before people can reprise their conversations I speak, instinctively modulating my tone as if I’m talking to a class of children, getting them to line up at the door.
‘I’m so sorry, everyone, but I’m going to have to call time. Thank you all so much for coming. We’ve had a lovely afternoon.’ There is a chorus of disappointed cries, but I ignore it and keep smiling even though my facial muscles ache from the effort. ‘I’ve had some bad news that I have to deal with.’
I catch Amber’s eye. Is there a touch of pleasure in the smile that greets me or am I imagining it? I drag my gaze away.
‘It’s my mother. She’s been rushed into hospital,’ I improvise. ‘I am so sorry, but I do need you to go. Thank you.’
Once I’ve done the hard bit, Tom throws himself into finding coats and shoes and children misplaced in the upper reaches of the house. I hear his voice bellowing and the sound of squeals as he chases them down. I answer questions politely, and try to accept the sympathy and goodwill without betraying myself. For someone who’s had to lie a lot recently, I’m remarkably bad at it.
‘Let me help,’ Jenny says, appearing at my side. Her expression is uncertain but I’m only grateful that someone cares.
I’m trembling but I tell myself to keep it together for appearances’ sake. For the children. ‘Would you mind handing out party bags? They’re over by the television.’
Amber is being wonderful. She’s talking to the parents as she sorts out shoes and hands over coats, even remembering to return the plastic tub of revolting health food – barely touched, I notice.
Sophie is at the table picking Smarties off the half-eaten cake. She assumes the dismissal doesn’t apply to her and in the past that would have been the case. Her face has been painted to look like a water nymph, a line of ice-blue sequins tracing a swooping pattern from the bridge of her nose to her temples. It is exquisitely done.
I get a cloth and wipe her fingers and then lead her over to her mother.
‘Why can’t I stay?’ she asks.
‘Because Vicky needs us to go,’ Amber says. ‘Sorry about your mum,’ she adds, raising her voice and winking at me. ‘I hope she improves.’
Slowly everyone departs. Children are urged to thank Emily’s mummy and I smile at all of them and tell them how gorgeous they look. Emily stands still at the bottom of the stairs. I recognize the look on her face. She’s storing this up for later.
Nothing I can do about that now.
Tom touches my shoulder. ‘Everyone’s gone,’ he says.
Together, we walk to the sitting room. Every step I take feels as though it’s bringing me closer to exposure.
20
EVENING HAS ARRIVED while we were running around and either Miriam or Ian has switched on the light without closing the curtains so the room is like a theatre. Anyone walking up to the house could have seen them. I yank them shut angrily as they rise to their feet.
‘This is my husband Tom.’
He shakes their hands, towering above both of them. Only I can tell he’s been drinking, he conceals it so well, but the knowledge still makes me nervous. He tends to talk too much when he’s had a few beers.
I sit deep in the corner of the sofa so that Josh can fall asleep on my lap. Tom sits next to me and takes my hand. His black trouser legs ride up to reveal kingfisher-blue socks.
‘So,’ he asks, leaning towards Miriam and smiling at her. ‘What’s this all about?’
Miriam sits up straighter and touches her hair. ‘We’ve had a call from a neighbour concerned about your children’s well-being.’
Tom doesn’t lose his rag. He speaks calmly and the only clue to how he’s feeling is the tension in his jaw. ‘May I ask who contacted you?’
There’s only one person I can think of who might wish me ill, and that’s Hellie North. But I can’t believe she knows anything. David won’t have told her, he isn’t the type to have a crisis of conscience. All the same, maybe I should have a conversation with him. But that’s something to think about later. Not now.
‘I’m afraid we can’t tell you that, Mr Seagrave. Now please don’t worry too much, often neighbours’ fears turn out to be unfounded. They’ve heard a child crying in the night, or screaming at their parents, that kind of thing. But in view of Josh’s accident, we need to make sure we’ve ticked all the boxes.’
Tom maintains an interested but not convinced expression. ‘Right. Well, I appreciate that you need to do your job, but frankly, your timing couldn’t be worse. Ask your questions so we can all go back to normal. It’s the weekend. I’m sure you both have better things to do. I know I have.’
‘There is nothing more important than a child’s well-being,’ Ian says. ‘I can assure you. We’d like to take a look round now and we’ll need to ask the children a few questions.’
‘You’re not dragging them into this, surely?’
‘Tom.’ I shoot him a quelling glance. ‘That’s fine. Why don’t I show you round the house. Tom can have a chat with the girls.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Seagrave, but we can’t allow that. We wouldn’t want any suspicion that the children have been schooled in what to say.’
‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘I understand. Why don’t you follow me?’
Tom takes Josh and I lead Miriam and Ian up to the master bedroom. We station ourselves to one side while they sniff around. They push their noses and fingers between the clothes in the wardrobe, open the drawers in the bedside tables, check the titles of the books we are reading and slide their hands under the mattress.
In the ensuite Miriam opens the mirrored cupboards above our basins and checks them for poisonous substances left within reach. Ian tests the locks on the windows while I stand with my arms folded, my shaking hands stuffed under my armpits.
‘Any potential deathtraps?’ Tom asks drily.
Ian doesn’t respond. He makes notes and we move on. Tom points things out and makes conversation. Ian Banner remains poker-faced; immune to my husband’s slightly desperate charm.