A strange laugh tells me he does, almost sounding like a private joke. “We are acquainted, yes. Apparently, our accounting software confused two premises in the same row of shops and sent her a bill in arrears for both. Your mother was very vocal in cataloguing every single error.”
“Oh. I’m sorry if she—”
“I told you. No apologies.” He laughs again, this time with more enjoyment. “She stormed into my office, straight past three layers of security, slammed the invoice on my desk and went into a tirade about how landlords are the death of everything good. When I argued it’s less than one percent of my business, it really didn’t help.”
The fact he obviously enjoys the memory encourages my laughter. I can easily imagine my mother losing her cool. My overt emotions have a strong genetic component.
“That’s such a relief,” I say. “When I found that notice, Mum told me it was a mistake, but I wasn’t sure whether to believe her.” I bite the inside of my cheek, remembering how, for a few days, I thought we were about to lose everything. “But her client list exploded after that, anyway.”
The first good thing Zane gave to me. In such a short time, he’s taken away my worries. My chest warms with thoughts of him, my smile growing.
“It’s difficult with Zane being unable to leave the house, but if you ever wanted to introduce him to your mother, you’re more than welcome to invite her over one evening. I could arrange to be home for dinner.” He signals for a turn, almost at the house. “Or maybe not,” he adds with a quick glance. “My son will say it’s far too formal.”
“No, it sounds nice. I’ll ask.”
“It would be good to get more acquainted. I know how difficult it is to be widowed at our age. No one ever expects it and explaining is the absolute worst.” His attention goes back to driving, then when he’s on a straight stretch, he returns to the conversation. “Your dad was a pilot, is that right?”
“A travel agent,” I say, the correction automatic. Then I frown out the passenger side window, trying to catalogue why the mistake fills me with such deep unease. It’s one I made all the time when I was younger. “Did Mum tell you that?”
“No, Zane did. I guess he got confused.”
My frown deepens. I know I’ve made the mistake recently and not bothered to correct it but can’t place the conversation.
Not when I was with Zane because I would have explained.
Not with Clare. That talk happened months ago.
A chill settles into my bones as my memory puts me back in the counsellor’s office, the first Monday after the party.
Scared. Exhausted. Confused. Desperate for someone to confide in. For someone to help me navigate my distress.
Natalie told me the counselling session was my space to fill however I wanted. I slipped up but didn’t stop because there was so much more to get off my chest.
About the bullying.
About how badly the move had affected my mother. How her business was struggling, and it was all my fault.
My ribcage tightens.
I frown at the road ahead as Paul turns into the cul-de-sac, the mansion looming like an estate in some old gothic horror.
An ache pulls at my throat when he passes through the gate and drives into the garage. For a second, the brilliant yellow paint job of the Maserati is illuminated, then he turns off the headlights, the only glow coming from the passageway through to the lobby, the door rumbling closed behind us.
I can barely swallow. A throb pulses in my temples, my corneas flashing with every blink as the pressure inside my head increases.
“Are you okay?”
Paul stands halfway to the door while I’m still seated in the car. I force my trembling hands to work, undoing the seatbelt, getting out and catching up with him, following behind as he walks into the main part of the house.
And every terrible image from the party surfaces. Each hitting me at full speed until my defences are shot to pieces and the memories swamp me.
The suspicion ignited by Paul’s simple question surfaces ideas I’d rather not think, miring me in a feeling of increasing dread.
Zane strides into the lobby to greet us, pulling me into an embrace, asking questions that I barely answer. His expression twists into confusion, glancing at his father.
There are so many thoughts stuck in my head, so many words stuck in my throat. I don’t know how to rank them to saythe most important thing first. All I can do is mimic the pulse beating in my head. “How could you?”
Paul moves farther into the house, leaving us alone in the lobby. I want to run, to get far away from this place but I can’t get my feet to move.
