I pulled myself together enough to call a cab. A couple of curtains twitched in the surrounding houses. Let them stare. It would be the most excitement any of my neighbours had had in a long time if their carefully curated lives were anything to go by.
The cab arrived, and the driver helped me load my suitcases into the back. For once, the universe was on my side and my driver had both limited English and no desire to use the little he had. We wove through city centre traffic, my phone clamped to my ear as I alternated between calling Rob, his office and his parents’ landline. Instead of frustration at the lack of response, my reaction was full-blown fear. Not to mention confusion. Wouldn’t I have noticed if things had got so bad? I thought back to my declined credit card and the testy conversation about investments over lunch with Hugo and Marion. Perhaps the signs had been there, I’d just been too stupid to see them.
Cass must have been watching out for me, for no sooner had the driver pulled the cab to a halt than she was running from her front door, clutching her purse. After paying the driver, shehelped me lift my bags from the car and carry them to her front door. Not once did she demand answers. She knew me well enough to know I’d tell her in my own sweet time.
It wasn’t until I was curled on her sofa, cup of tea in hand, that the floodgates opened. Between sobs, I spilled my story out, to Cass’s wide-eyed horror.
‘How is that even possible? Over two million quid? What about the house, fancy cars and private school fees? He must have had access to cash to be paying for those.’
‘I have a nasty feeling he’s been paying with other people’s cash. His dad’s for starters.’
‘Horrible Hugo gave him money?’
I nodded. ‘A lot, I’m guessing. God knows what position his parents have been left in.’
‘Do you care?’
I managed a small smile. ‘Not really. I’m far more worried about Bertie. Aside from the fact I’ve no idea how long his school fees have been paid for, there’s also the small matter of how to get him to and from school in the first place.’
‘I can’t believe they took your car.’
‘It was in Rob’s name.’
‘You didn’t even own a car? Liv, what do you have that’s yours?’
I racked my brain but came up blank. ‘Nothing. I have nothing. Zilch, nada, diddly-squat. Christ knows what I’m going to do.’
‘Well, you can stay with us as long as you need. And as for the school run, borrow my car. I usually get the bus into work.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Certain. You’re not going through this alone. Not if I can help it.’
Later that day, I pulled up outside my son’s posh school to curious glances from other parents. It could have been my tear-stained face, smart dress discarded in favour of jeans and T-shirt, or the fact I’d stepped out of a twenty-year-old Ford Escort. Either way, rather than keep my head down, I returned their stares, plastering a smile on my face and pushing back my shoulders. I’d done nothing wrong. None of this was my fault.
On my way to Bertie’s classroom, a prim young woman in dark-rimmed spectacles poked her head around a door and called my name.
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Simmons, the headteacher would like a quick word with you.’
‘OK.’ Was another teacher going to label my son a devil-child?
I followed the prim secretary through to a wood-panelled office, its enormous windows offering uninterrupted views of the extensive playing fields. Mr Kieling looked far too young to be a headteacher. He was trying to grow a beard, probably in an attempt at authority, but it had the effect of making him look like a pubescent boy.
‘Mrs Simmons, thank you for meeting with me. Do sit down.’
I pulled a chair out and tried to wear an air of confidence. In contrast to the po-faced Mrs Bright, Mr Kieling’s smile was warm and genuine, and I wondered if he struggled with his more abrupt staff members. I liked him and hoped whatever he was about to say wouldn’t change that opinion.
‘Has Bertie got into trouble again?’
‘Oh no, your son is a wonderful little boy. Very bright, sporty, an asset to the school.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’
‘No, I’m afraid the matter I wish to discuss is of a delicate nature.’
I leaned forward in my seat, my hands twisting in my lap. ‘Delicate?’
