Seb beams, ‘I’m not sure thecausepart worked in there, but well done on the rest.’ His warmth makes Paula feel terrible.
‘Will it be . . . long days on the . . . course?’ she fishes, hoping for more information to assuage the guilt.
Seb nods, then his face falls. ‘Look, Mum, Tilly didn’t want me to say anything about this to you, but I don’t want to blindside you when—’
He’s interrupted by his sister’s appearance behind him at the back door. She sounds intensely annoyed, ‘Oh cheers, Seb, glad I can count on you for help.’ She shoots him daggers and he looks down at his feet, red-faced.
‘Help with what?’ Paula asks fearfully. ‘What are you doing here?’ She starts, checking her watch. ‘Are we supposed to be at a counselling session?’
‘No, Mum, it’s a Monday,’ Tilly says really slowly, enunciating her words. She’s looking at her mother penetratingly, an expression of genuine concern lighting her features. She continues, speaking in the same exaggerated way. ‘And do you know where you are right now?’
Paula tuts. ‘Yes, Tills. I haven’t lost the plot entirely. Days are just a little difficult. Who keeps track of Mondays?’
Her daughter nods, then moves to sit down at the table, opposite Paula. After a moment, Seb goes to join his sister. They are both sitting across from her, and Paula suddenly feels like she is being interviewed for a job. What is this? Has Tilly come to apologise for storming off last week? She doesn’t look very sorry, watching her mother carefully now from the other side of the table.
‘We wanted to talk to you,’ Tilly begins in a fake-sounding tone. ‘Me and Seb. Together.’
Seb looks at her askance. ‘God, Tilly, is that meant to be your soothing intervention voice?’
‘Intervention?!’ Paula echoes with alarm. ‘Intervention for what? I only have the odd glass of champagne when Teddy and Audrey make me. They’re both very insistent. Ivy and I hardly really drink—’
Tilly elbows her brother, then reaches over and places a hand over her mum’s. ‘Ignore him. Look, Mum, I’m very sorry for getting so upset with you during the counselling session last week. That wasn’t fair or right. I want you to know we both love you very much and want what’s best for you.’
‘Am I dying?’ Paula asks fearfully. Surely she’d have noticed if she was?
Seb snorts. ‘Hope not.’
‘You’re not helping,’ Tilly snarls at him. ‘Look, the fact is, you’re not yourself, Mum, and we want to know why. You’ve been secretive for weeks. Months! You bought a bloody sports car. You refuse to speak up in counselling. You carry that weird little notebook around everywhere you go. You suddenly have these new friends out of nowhere that we know nothing about. I mean, whoarethose women? Why does that tall American one wear such tiny pink skirts and have such enormous earrings? You have a lot of money now, Mum, and Dad isn’t here to look after you – to protect you – and I’m worried these strangers are preying on you somehow. Have you given them any money? Have they asked?’
Paula tries not to laugh. ‘Teddy has eight hundred million dollars in the bank, Tills.’
Tilly stares at her, then nods nicely like you would at a child making up stories.
‘OK, Mum, sure she does.’ She sits back. ‘What about that twenty-something pretty one? What is she doing hanging out with a bunch of women more than twice her age? She seems totally out of place, in those band T-shirts and old jeans. What’s she after?’
‘I like the band T-shirts,’ Seb mutters as his sister continues, not waiting for a response. ‘Or the older one with the scarf? She seems completely doolally.’
‘Well, yes, she is a bit,’ Paula acknowledges, then adds in a whisper, ‘And it’s a pashmina, Tilly. They’re made from the wool of cachemire goats.’ Tilly doesn’t reply and the three of them all fall silent.
Paula’s been trying to avoid attracting attention to the Widows Club and their murder-y antics, but all she’s done is make them a bigger, stranger, more intriguing thing in Tilly’s eyes.
Her daughter leans back, a dark cloud passing over her face. ‘The stuff online . . .’ She pauses. ‘The mean comments and the . . . the theories.’
Paula swallows hard. ‘Theories?’
Tilly fixes her with a concerned stare. ‘I know you don’t want to think about it – I don’t want to think about it either – but you must have seen what people have been saying about you. About you and Dad. There’s no way that’s not getting to you. It’s horrible. Misha’s been blocking and reporting accounts left, right and centre.’
Paula inhales and stands up, bustling around the kitchen picking up expensive wooden spoons and putting them in drawers. ‘I really do appreciate the pair of you worrying about me, but there isn’t anything to be concerned about. I’ve made some new friends; Teddy likes expensive tiny skirts; I’ve bought a car. What’s so bad about all that? I did win the lottery after all.’ She wheels on Tilly. ‘And you’re the one who told me I should start spending it and having fun! You told me to start having adventures.’
Tilly stands up, too. ‘Yeah, but I guess I thought you’d maybe start slow! Like get yourself a new coat and a fancy handbag! Some new hand towels for the bathroom. Not go straight out and buy a hundred-grand car! You’ve gone from zero to a hundred in a hot minute.’
‘A bit like the new Porsche,’ Seb mutters dryly.
‘I love my new car!’ Paula cries, suddenly feeling very hard done by. ‘I don’t regret buying it – not for one second.’ Shenods decisively. ‘And I’m going to buy myself a house somewhere, too!’ She falters at Tilly’s expression, then pastes on a smile. ‘And I’ve decided I’d like to buy the two of you a home each, as well.’ She’s hoping this announcement might break the tension, distract her children from this so-called intervention rubbish.
It works with one of them.
Seb breaks out into a huge grin. ‘Woah! Are you serious, Mum? I’ve been looking at rentals lately, and blimey, I can’t believe how expensive everything is!’
