Lemonade and Lies (4 page)

“I’ll be right over.”

It was almost twelve o’clock at night, a time when it’s hard to drag up enthusiasm or positive thoughts. Especially after a bizarre day when you think you’ve been followed, one of your kids believes his father hates him, and a disembodied head appears at your window.

Maybe I shouldn’t have called James McDonald, just gone straight to the police. But would they even have come? And if they did, what could I tell them that didn’t make me look like some paranoid idiot.

James had been very reasonable and even-tempered. Especially for someone just woken out of bed. And he didn’t sound that sleepy which sent my confidence in him up another notch. I mean, hands-up, I can be a real cranky bitch when I’m kicked out of bed prematurely.

“Thanks.”

“See you in ten minutes, then,” he said. “Meanwhile, go round and check all the doors and windows. Make sure they’re secure.”

“What?” Not another man who thought women were pathetic, mindless cretins. Of course I’d already done that.

“Jill! Do what I say. From what you’ve told me, a guy seems to be stalking you.”

His tone struck me as someone used to giving orders. I bristled, for now I had my own little piece of independence, male-free, and didn’t much care for a man barking orders at me. I began to have second thoughts about calling him.

“You still there?” he asked.

“Okay. I’ll go round and
triple-check
the locks and you come over and play detective,” I said.

I’d pissed him off. His martyred sigh came out of the earpiece as if he were standing next to me.

“Okay, smart-arse. You want to do this on your own, I’ll happily go back to bed and
you
can play detective.”

Ah. I’d hit him in the soft, vulnerable bit. No, not that! The male ego. And I suspect it was the play thing that got him.

I wanted to put the phone down on him, but resisted. I recognised the instinct for what it was. A signal of defeat. Instead, I’d waffled on about the challenging sort of day I’d had. I would have said ‘crap’, but figured I didn’t know him well enough to swear.

After his call, I’d checked on the kids - both sleeping soundly - and gone to make yet another cup of green tea. If this kept up, I’d have the same bilious tinge that my student Arthur had before he threw up.

Then, I’d gone looking for the note.

When James McDonald arrived, I still hadn’t found it and the search had turned into an obsession.

“It would’ve been useful, sure,” he agreed. “Still, I wouldn’t get too stressed about it.”

He was the second person that day to mention me and stress in the same breath. But the other one was only 4 foot tall and slept with a Peppa Pig duvet, so I wasn’t too worried.

“I’m perfectly calm,” I said, perfectly calmly.

“Good.”

“All right, then.”

“Okay. Just give me the gist.”

“What, of the note?” I said.

“The note. The day. Anything you can remember.”

So I told him. For my brain had tucked it all away in its maze of dark alleyways. But it wasn’t easy to force it to the surface. Or comfortable.

I didn’t want to confront the chilling memory, the threat to my children. The fact that some whack-job had mistaken me for somebody else, and said he’d hurt my kids if I didn’t return what I had of his.

Crazy! I had
nothing
belonging to this madman. I didn’t even know the guy. Had never seen him before he’d followed me to the cathedral and appeared outside my daughter’s bedroom window. I assumed he was the same man who’d given the note to the waitress. The description fitted. And it seemed logical.

James McDonald’s reaction was surprising. He didn’t treat me like some paranoid fruit-loaf, about to be hauled off by men in short white coats. He believed me, took my fears seriously.

“Right,” he said, and he seemed to be making his mind up about something, “whatever the explanation, it’ll be sorted.”

“
Whatever
the explanation? There’s only one explanation,” I said angrily, “mistaken identity.”

He put his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, I’m on your side. Look, it’ll be fine. We’ll deal with it.”

I couldn’t tell if the ‘we’ was him and me. (Had I suddenly become part of a
we
?) Or him and somebody else. Or even him and a whole lot of other people. I didn’t ask. I’m not usually an airhead, but it didn’t seem important at the time, for his assurance made me feel normal again. Then the moment was gone, because he left the room and made himself at home in my kitchen.

I could hear him rifling through cupboards and the chink of glasses being moved. Maybe, like Alice, he was looking for something more exotic than my special offer wine glasses.

He came back with two tumblers (I have those as well) half-filled with some kind of amber liquid. Shimmering. Looking inviting. I figured it was booze of some sort. I relaxed. Felt relieved. Perhaps I really was turning into a piss artist.

“French cognac, aged in oak barrels,” he said and made a slow, circular motion with the glass. The sort of thing connoisseurs did with brandy snifters.

“Really?”

“Nah. Supermarket special. Cheap and cheerful. Figured you’d need something for the shock,” he said and smirked.

What did I know? I wouldn’t recognise a twenty-year-old brandy if it smacked me in the mouth. Lighter fluid would have done the trick right then. But I didn’t want him to know how close I was to the Betty Ford Clinic. So I held back a bit. Showed some reserve.

“I shouldn’t,” I said. “Have to get up for the kids in the morning.”

He just laughed and in an exaggerated movement brought his watch to within inches of my face. “News flash. It
is
the morning.”

*

Today’s a better day. I knew one would come along eventually. Maybe it was the way that James had reassured me last night. He’d also promised to get a private investigator he knew through his business to look into things. I still didn’t know exactly what his business was. But did it matter? I trusted him
and
enjoyed his company.

It might also have something to do with the arrival of half-term. And the general holiday vibe that’s invaded our house. But I guess the most important bit was that my children got up smiling this morning, both of them.

Their mood was infectious. So I made pancakes, like one of those perfect American TV ‘moms’ who knock the things out as if it’s child’s play. Mine came out misshapen, but I smothered one lot in chocolate-and-hazelnut-spread and wrapped banana inside. Tom likes those. The rest I covered with syrup and flung some blueberries on top, Millie’s favourite. I had both kinds – cook’s perks.

“Yummy, mummy.”

My daughter pointed to the mess on her plate, like slaughter at a blueberry farm, and grinned again. “And you’re a yummy mummy.”

I bathed in the glory, the unusual appreciation. And accepted Millie’s praise with a smile.

It was an expression she’d heard. I don’t think she knew what it meant. For anyone less like a yummy mummy than me would be hard to find. My kids didn’t take violin lessons. Weren’t in the chess club. And I rarely had time to sit down with them to encourage finger painting or creative flair. As for my faded black joggers with the fraying bottoms, well they’re definitely not trendy like real yummy mummies. But a compliment’s a compliment, especially from your offspring.

Tom wolfed down his breakfast in record time. I’d been warned by my parents to masticate (they never said chew) my food until it was tiny pieces that wouldn’t harm my digestive system. They refused to put a number on this that a child might understand. But at any given time, depending on my stepfather’s mood, it could vary between twenty and fifty times. This was a gem of wisdom I’d refused to pass on to my kids and at times I regretted it (like now with Tom’s mouth looking like something from a horror movie) but not often.

*

“You won’t regret it. They’re beautiful, elegant animals but rugged as well, if you know what I mean.”

I’d no idea what the man meant. And the thing was massive, an English Setter that had seen better days and whose owners couldn’t afford to keep it anymore. I wasn’t surprised, for it must get through a small mountain of food. But I could see that Tom was really taken with it.

We were on Operation Dog, visiting an RSPCA animal sanctuary, looking for a rescue dog that would make a good family pet.

The RSPCA officer mistook my silence for agreement - when I’d just been confused. Was this huge thing really a dog? And what kind of mess would it make of our compact townhouse? Our back garden was small, something I’d always seen as a plus (until now) for its easy maintenance. But surely this brute would need a field, at the very least. And didn’t these RSPCA people have to come out and vet you? In which case we were sure to fail. I mean, no one in their right mind would allow us to adopt this animal.

“You’ll need to fill out the usual questionnaire, of course. And then there’ll be the follow-up home visit. The assessment.”

I must still have looked confused because the man felt the need for some sort of further explanation.

“That’s in the best interest of the dog,” he said “
and
the family. We need to know that our rescue animals have gone to the right environments.”

“’Course,” I mumbled, and tried to picture this thing in the
environment
of my kitchen.

“Oh Mum, please say yes.”

Tom’s eyes were pleading. The boy-and-dog bonding had already begun and I didn’t want to disappoint him, but I’d imagined an altogether smaller beast.

“Sweetheart, I really don’t think it’s up to us.”

“This is just the beginning of the process,” the guy explained to Tom, trying to make him feel better. But ‘process’ wasn’t one of the words Tom had brought home in his weekly spelling list, so it was hard to judge how helpful this information actually was.

Rupert was licking Tom’s hand now, as if he sensed that this was his moment in the sun. And I knew it would be a tough one to get around. Tom was after instant dog-gratification, and a long selection process needed patience. Not a quality a six-year-old was known for. There might even be an ultimate rejection to face, and my son had already been rejected once.

“They’re friendly animals, affectionate with kids too.” The man pushed home his advantage. He was a great salesman, but that would probably change once he saw the size of our garden and read the finished questionnaire that said I was a single-parent who worked full time.

When would I be able to exercise such a large dog
? I pictured myself getting up at five-thirty instead of six and this thing hauling me around the park opposite us.

And it wouldn’t be fair, would it
? The dog had already been let down once by humankind, surely he wasn’t prepared to give it another go? Though the way he was playing around with Tom, it looked like Rupert was the forgiving type. Ready to start off with a blank sheet and a new, excited owner.

“Awe, Mum. Look at him. He’s already one of us,” yelled Tom.

Whether that was a good or bad thing for the dog would be too early to judge.

“I’ll get the questionnaire, if you like . . .”

I made one more half-hearted attempt to distract Tom. After all, it didn’t have to be a dog. If he was after an animal, a smaller, more manageable one might reasonably fit into our hit and miss lifestyle.

“Wouldn’t you rather have a rabbit? That little white one was cute and you could call him Snowy.”

My son eyed me like I was a mass murderer. “You promised!”

“I know, but that rabbit’s had a tough time. Don’t you think he deserves a second chance in life with a family who’d love him?”

The officer came back with the paperwork, and I filled it in without looking at my son again. I’d promised a dog in a weak moment and a dog it would have to be. Shot in the foot by my own bullet, for I’d always told the kids that once you’d given your word it was important to keep it.

“Excellent. Well, Rupert’s had all his health checks,” the man said. “And he’s passed his behavioural assessment with flying colours.”

I eyed the dog. He cocked his head to one side as if he knew we were talking about him, and the expression on his face was the doggy-equivalent of smug. I figured that was due to the ‘flying colours’ endorsement. He licked Tom’s hand once more, marking out his territory, sealing the deal.

“Okay. So, we wait to hear from you then?”

“I’ll let you know about the home visit.” The man smiled and was that a ripple of relief that passed across his face?

“Can we go to the pet shop now and start buying stuff for him? He’ll need a really big dog bed, won’t he,” said Tom.

“We’ll see,” I said, as we walked out into the lane where a bus was supposed to turn up in five minutes. I’d given in and printed off a timetable. I was learning new stuff every day about public transport - like bus timetables were more often prediction rather than fact.