Page 10 of The Woman Who Said Yes

He does another Google search, this time with Dom’s surname added. His mild curiosity has intensified and he craves reassurance that Dom is a decent person and worthy of Eva. He is also conscious of how very patronising this is, because of course she is fully capable of making her own decisions, and taking care of herself! And Sam knows precisely how she’d react, if she knew he was doing this. All right, Dad! I don’t need you to snoop about on my behalf, thank you very much!

Irritably, Sam raps on the bathroom door as the shower is turned off. ‘Nearly done?’ he calls out.

‘Just getting dry.’

Well, yes. Sam understands that this is a vital step. While his son seemingly blots his entire body with a tiny scrap of loo roll (it takes that long, he can only imagine that this is Theo’s preferred method), Sam tries to ignore the tight ball of unease forming in the pit of his stomach. There doesn’t seem to be a LinkedIn profile for a Dominic Alcock, and he doesn’t appear to be on any other platforms. Apart from having a Facebook account with a handful of friends, a confidently smiling profile picture and the line ‘Living the life’, it seems that this clearly metropolitan man with an extensive property portfolio has no online presence at all.

Why is that? Isn’t it a bit weird? Finally, as Sam shoves his phone in the pocket of his joggers, the door flies open. Wrapped in a bath towel, the cleanest young man in north London gawps at his dad as if he’s the postman who’s happened to burst right in, and marches off to his room.

In the shower, Sam tries to wrestle his mind back towards shop matters and what he needs to prioritise today. But his thoughts keep being tugged back to last night at Niko’s, and how weird the atmosphere was – like when the air is heavy with a gathering storm. And Sam doesn’t like it one bit.

6

ANDIE

Once upon a time there were decent biscuits at the office. Sometimes delicious home-baking was brought in. But People on High have put a stop to all that. Section 62 of the Workplace Snackery Act: Only joyless discs formed from compressed sawdust and wallpaper paste may be consumed on the premises.

‘So,’ I say, refreshments largely ignored by the assembled group, ‘imagine you’re visiting your family for the first time. The children have just come home from school and as their volunteer, you’re there to play games and help with homework while Mum or Dad make dinner…’ Monday is back-to-back training sessions for our would-be volunteers, and I’m poised at the whiteboard with my marker pen. We could clump everyone together into one big group – there’s no shortage of scruffy stackable chairs – but People on High have also decreed that four is the maximum, and as our training person is off sick, I’ve stepped in in his place.

In these sessions, everyone sits around a huge table with a chipped laminated top that could easily accommodate twenty-five, and drink weak tea and instant coffee. I look around at the three women and one man, knowing already who’ll be great for us as a volunteer. Humour, kindness and empathy are the qualities we need.

‘But the two children, who are six and seven years old, don’t want to do any of that,’ I continue. ‘Instead – and you’re in their shared bedroom with them – they’re throwing toys and pulling clothes out of the wardrobe and it’s all getting pretty lively. What do you do?’

Dayna, bright and athletic with her blonde hair scraped back, raises a hand. ‘I’d try to get to know the kids and engage them in a game or a story. Then I’d ask them to help me put the clothes back, and try to make a game out of that too.’

‘Great!’ I enthuse, writing ‘distraction’, ‘gently guiding’ and ‘working together’ on the whiteboard. ‘Remember,’ I add, ‘the first time you meet a new family, you’re not aiming for things to be perfect.’

‘Oh, I think you need to start as you mean to go on,’ announces Carol, an older woman with decades of head-teacher stress etched on her face. She reaches for a biscuit and snaps it sharply in two.

‘Can you explain that a bit more?’ I ask.

‘Well, it’s about showing children what’s not acceptable.’ She frowns. ‘There have to be rules and boundaries, right from the outset.’

‘But remember this is your first visit,’ I remind her. ‘The family doesn’t know you and you don’t know them either. And you’re in their home⁠—’

‘Yes, to help,’ she interrupts. ‘How can we do that if it’s chaos?’

Already, I suspect that Carol’s primary school pupils were more than a little relieved when she retired. ‘Our families are often dealing with a lot of challenges,’ I explain, ‘and that’s exactly why they’ve been referred to us.’ I look around the table. ‘Anyone else?’

‘I think the main thing is to establish a rapport,’ chips in Ian, the lone man: kindly face, gentle demeanour. Looks as if he cycles everywhere and buys those gnarly Scandinavian loaves.

‘Exactly,’ I say, and ‘establish rapport’ goes on the board.

‘We’re not there to judge, are we?’ offers quiet Laura with the perfectly shaped oval nails.

‘But children need rules,’ insists Carol. ‘They’re throwing toys and destroying the room!’

‘Yes, but what I’d suggest—’ I interject.

‘—How am I supposed to deal with that?’ Ruddy patches have mottled her cheeks as if these are real kids, intent on blinding her with a Lego brick, and not made-up children in a hypothetical situation from our training manual.

‘Let’s move on, shall we?’ I say, aware that I have three more sessions to get through before I can leave to meet Eva. I started here as a volunteer myself, when I’d been made redundant from the ad sales team at a local newspaper. My daughter Marnie had left for uni and Jake wasn’t far behind her. I missed being around young children and I wanted to feel needed and useful again. As an inspector in the police force, Phil was utterly wrapped up in his job. (And obviously, from a certain point, in other things too. I never got to the bottom of when the affair started.) I was lost, I suppose: flailing in my forties, searching for a purpose. Eva had always loved fashion, and Sam had his graphic design work and then his framing shop. They both had their thing, and I guess I’d never really found mine. But I was thrilled to get this job, even though Phil liked to joke that he didn’t really understand what I did.

On my journey home, a phrase from that first session today floats to my mind’s surface. The main thing is to establish a rapport. And also: in the early days, focus on building trust. And I think of Pip, the loveable but madly disobedient terrier Sam and Bibi had adopted when Theo was little. How his tendency to either bark at or chew virtually anything he came across had caused untold stress, and at times Sam had wondered if they’d picked the right dog. But once he’d settled, he turned out to be the best, most adorable hound – loved even more, if that were possible, after Bibi had left them.

Dom is like a rescue dog, I decide – with an unknown past. We just need to get to know him, that’s all. And in time, he’ll settle down and relax with us. I call Sam as I approach my flat, to put this theory to him. ‘Maybe,’ he says, ‘but you know what? I still don’t think it’ll happen.’

‘Really?’ I ask.