She said nothing when she left the room and headed for the garden. Once outside, she didn’t know what to do with herself, so she unpegged the clothes from the washing line and put to good use the breathing techniques she’d learned in her Pilates classes.
He remained in the living room, thinking about Arthur. For so long, memories of his father had been attached to unhappy ones of Doreen. He’d failed to appreciate the man behind the mother, the man who’d loved him as his own.
Neither of his parents had gone to their graves knowing what had happened to their son. Only Kenneth had had matters resolved, and he’d been the one who least deserved it.
‘Sorry, Dad,’ he whispered, and wiped the corners of his eyes with his hand.
6.00 p.m.
‘If it’s any consolation, I didn’t plan to fall in love again,’ came his voice from behind, startling her.
She stood in the kitchen with a red tea towel in her hands, like a matador in a bullring. The more she’d asked herself how a whore could give him a better life than she had, the more she wound herself up.
‘How much did she charge you?’ she snapped. ‘Fifty pounds? A hundred? Or did you get a discount for being a regular customer?’
He didn’t respond because it was clear that anger was bringing out a petty side to her. He weighed up whether it was worth trying to explain it to her again, or if she was only going to hear what she wanted to hear.
‘Well, you sound like a perfect match,’ she continued. ‘I mean, you’re both able to murder at the drop of a hat. At least you buried that body and didn’t just leave it in the middle of the street like you did with Paula. Actually, is that why you’re here? Is the tart back on the game, so now you’ve come home?’
‘No, Catherine,’ he replied wearily. ‘I promised Luciana I’d put things right with you before it was too late.’
‘You can never put right what you did to me. And I don’t need a prostitute’s pity.’
A wall next to the pantry, covered with ornately carved wooden picture frames she’d bought in Bali, distracted him. He got distracted a lot these days.
They contained photographs of their children. The snapshots of life without him spanned two decades, and he couldn’t help but wonder what might have been.
‘Is this Robbie?’ he asked, pointing to a boy standing by a blue Ford Fiesta. She nodded. ‘He looks so much like Luca.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘My son,’ he replied. ‘I have a daughter too.’
Her jaw dropped. But before she had the chance to fly off the handle again, they were stopped in their tracks by the sound of the front door opening. Time froze until Emily breezed into the kitchen.
‘Mum, did I leave my purse in—’ she began, before noticing her mother had company. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, oblivious to the panic spreading across her mother’s face. Her parents glared at each other like a clandestine affair had been interrupted.
Mum, he silently repeated to himself. He recognised her as the girl who’d passed him when he arrived at the cottage that morning and he lost himself in the daughter he’d last seen as a toddler. How much have I missed out on? he thought. Just how much?
Catherine’s brain went into slow motion, unable to muster a word of explanation to her daughter as to the identity of the stranger before them. She was petrified when he opened his mouth to speak.
‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I’m Darren.’ He smiled politely and held his hand out towards Emily. It was the first name that sprang to mind. Old habits die hard.
‘Hi,’ she replied, shaking it but still unsure who the dapper gentleman with such warm hands was.
‘I’m an old schoolfriend of your mother’s,’ he said.
‘Really?’ asked Emily, enthusiastically. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’
‘Yes, and you. I’ve not seen Catherine for many years and I was passing through, so I thought I’d drop in on the off-chance she still lived here.’
He was a convincing liar, Catherine conceded, but then he’d had so much practice. She felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights as father and daughter conversed, not knowing how to bring herself out of their glare.
‘I’m her daughter, Emily,’ she offered. ‘So what was my mum like at school then? I bet she was a real goody two shoes.’
He laughed. ‘You could say that. She was a bright thing, always destined to do well.’
‘Has she told you about her shops?’ Emily asked, clearly proud of her mother’s achievements. ‘She’s got eight now . . . even one on the King’s Road in London.’
He smiled. ‘Yes, she’s done very well for herself.’
‘Anyway, Mum, did I leave my purse here?’
‘I’m . . . I’m not sure,’ she stuttered.
‘I’ll have a look,’ replied Emily as she headed towards the living room. In her absence, Emily’s mother and father stared at each other – he delighted to have met Emily, and her grateful he’d not revealed his identity. They remained silent until she returned with her purse.
‘Found it. Do you still want to come round for dinner tonight, Mum? Olivia’s been asking to see her granny, but if you’re busy with your friend, we can do it another night?’
She saw him react when Emily said the word ‘granny’, and became irritated he was learning things about her family he had no right to know. ‘Can I come tomorrow instead?’ she asked, her voice close to breaking. She willed her daughter to leave.
‘Of course,’ Emily replied, and reached the door, then turned around. ‘Darren, if you went to school with my mum, you must have known my dad, Simon?’
He dug his fingernails into his palm. ‘I recall him, but didn’t know him very well, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh,’ said Emily, clearly disappointed. ‘Well, it was nice to meet you. See you tomorrow, Mum.’
The door closed and they gradually made their descent back to earth, remaining in a relieved but awkward silence.
‘She looks like you . . .’ he began eventually, but she wasn’t interested.
‘Don’t,’ she replied. ‘Just don’t.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CATHERINE
Northampton, ten years earlier
14 August
We sat huddled together staring at a television hanging on the wall of the Fox & Hounds’ function room. I switched between tapping my nails on a tabletop with nervous excitement, and fiddling with a damp beer mat, waiting.
Ten minutes felt like an eternity before the chirpy young presenter announced what we’d gathered to see. The landlord turned the volume up and an instant hush fell across the packed room.
‘Next up, it’s a band making their debut Top of The Pops performance. In at this week’s number four, it’s Driver, with “Find Your Way Home”.’
A jubilant pub clapped and cheered as the camera cut to a close-up of the guitarist strumming the opening bars of the song.
‘That’s him! That’s him!’ I yelled, unable to stop myself. There for all to see was my son James, on the TV, playing with his band.