His words confirmation of another lie, another topic over which they would put their heads in the sand. He slunk down beside her and wrapped his arms around her and there they lay, with him breathing into her hair, crying, begging for forgiveness, and rocking her like she was a child ... a child who was supposed to absorb this latest subterfuge. A scheme of a different kind, but this time not one with money at its heart, but sex.
It was pathetic, so clichéd and easy, she was repulsed. She pictured Daisy, the gangly girl, only a year older than Domino, whose mother had had sex with Lawrence. Daisy, a girl who looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights, as if life was a bit more than she could handle, and this Julie Kelleway more than understood.
Lawrence’s phone pinged in his pocket. Letting go of her, he reached for it and sat up, before reading the text out loud.
‘Cleo’s had a little boy. Mother and baby doing well.’ His lip trembled as if more tears were imminent.
She stared at him, thinking about the child who had been born into the Kelleway clan. She was pleased for Cleo and Georgie but felt already that this news might be nothing to do with her and it therefore might be preferable to keep a certain distance.
‘How lovely.’ She stood, wanting to shower, to wash away his touch, his scent and to clear her thoughts. Because she might be fuddle-brained with shock, but one thing was for sure: when it came to Lawrence and his fucking parents, their golden veneer was most definitely dulled to reveal the true colour, and it was dark. Very dark.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WINNIEKELLEWAY
Winnie stood at the kitchen counter, still tingling with euphoria from the previous day’s celebrations and pleased she had bothered to get everything cleaned up and shipshape last night before bed. It had been a faff, but there was nothing worse than coming down to a messy kitchen. To see the shiny surfaces and clean sink gave her a feeling of wellbeing. Bernie was still snoring, the little love, so she’d let him be and take him up a decent coffee with a frothy top and a biscuit when she heard him stir. He’d had more than a skinful last night, and why not? It wasn’t every day they were going to hit a milestone like forty years! Not that her sister had chosen to acknowledge it. Jealousy was, she reminded herself, a terrible thing.
Winnie’s requirements for sleep seemed to lessen as she aged. Not that she minded. It was in those early hours when the rest of the house slumbered and the world seemed quiet that she achieved the most: dusting in awkward places, polishing her ornaments, sweeping the patio free of leaves. The quiet hours she called them; just her, birdsong, the purr of the coffee machine and her phone to scroll through while she stood at the French doors and looked out over the garden. Bliss.
Wondering if anything was happening with Cleo, she checked her messages. But there was nothing from either her or Georgie. No harm, she figured, in firing off a quick text – nothing too pushy or invasive, just a quick reminder that she was on standby.
ANYTHING TO REPORT? X
She guessed not. Georgie might be hapless, but at least he was a good communicator. An over-communicator, if anything; he was always texting, emailing, calling, dropping in. Jeez, didn’t he have his own family to irritate? She knew that was mean, but it made her laugh a little anyway.
Tightening her cotton kimono dressing gown around her waist, she checked her hair in the hallway mirror. Her blow dry was holding strong, and this too made her happy. It was important to her, her appearance. Opening the front door, she stood on the step and breathed in the fresh morning air. Glancing along the street towards the four oaks that stood in all their magnificence, she decided to call MrPortland. He’d have a better idea of what to do about the whole fiasco, because presumably it was in his interest to make sure areas like this retained their value, their prestige ... Plus it would be a good excuse to engage with him, even introduce him to Cleo ... This thought seemed to ignite the sparks of excitement that lingered in her gut, as memories of the previous night danced in her thoughts.
How beautiful had Cass and Dom looked? Such stunning kids...
Lawrence was so funny! What was it he said? ‘You get less for murder!’ How they’d laughed! He was so witty!
And the cake! Everyone had loved it.
Bernie’s speech – Bernie’s very public speech – there’d not been a dry eye in the house ... it had been perfect. Absolutely perfect. It wasimportant that everyone present see and hear how happy, how lucky, she and Bernie were, and they had.
Sidling down by the old garage between the wall and the fence where spiders lurked, she found it hard to lift the recycling bin. Huffing and puffing she dragged it along the passageway by the side of the house, hating the scraping noise of its plastic corners on the path. It was three parts full and heavy. There was no denying this was a rigmarole, but it was worth the effort to have the bins stashed out of sight. How she hated to see them abandoned and grubby, lids flapping, food leaching from the sides – and all right there on the pavement for the world to see – or worse, shoved in front of a house, spoiling the view. It didn’t take much effort to pop them away. She couldn’t understand why other people didn’t take as much pride in their homes as she did. It wasn’t hard, was it? Mow grass, pick up litter, grab a paintbrush ... she was thankful her thoughts were not words when a voice called over the driveway, alerting her to his presence.
‘Do you need a hand there, MrsKelleway?’
He was, as usual, in heavy work boots, grey slacks and a red polo shirt, either off out to work early or else he’d slept in his clothes. She watched as he ground the butt of a cigarette under his heel into the path and exhaled the bluish smoke to taint the glorious morning air.
Smoking, eugh!It made her shudder.
‘Oh, bless you, Marty. No, I’m fine, I’m fine. I’m stronger than I look!’ She flexed her slender muscles inside her dressing gown and smiled at the man who lived next door.
He nodded, his expression one of relief.
‘Did you hear about the tree?’ She pointed in their general direction.
‘Yes, I read the letter. Not sure what we’re supposed to do about it though? A dead tree is a dead tree, right? If it’s a danger, I’d rather they took it down than let it fall.’
‘Well, I’m not going to admit defeat. I’ll be speaking to MrPortland – do you know him? Drives a blue Porsche?’
Marty shook his head as if he didn’t have the first clue what she was talking about. She decided to change the subject.
‘Lisa all right?’ she asked as she positioned the bin in front of their garden office, ready to receive the bottles and cans from last night’s celebrations, which lay in a bucket in the back garden.
‘She’s great.’
