Parallel Life by Ruth Hamilton Page A

emotional friends. Friends? Ha-bloody-ha. I am close to none of them. Alec is all I have and all I want. He is a closely-guarded secret, and he knows me better than anyone else in the world.
    Park the car, enter my shop by the rear door, disable the alarm before it brings the house down. It’s Alec’s alarm. I met him when he fitted it. He’s the last – I hope – in a line of lovers who have kept me sane throughout a lifeless, soulless marriage. Must make sure no one sees the latest packages – without Alec’s constant flow of second-hand items that never touch the books, our bolting money would be a great deal less than I am going to need. I don’t ask where he gets the stuff, almost don’t care. I am out of here as soon as the shop gets its final condemnation from the powers that shouldn’t be.
    Coffee maker on, coat on a hanger, use the hand cream. What shall I wear today? Ah, yes, the sapphire and diamond earrings with the matching ring, a whopper almost as big as Princess Diana’s was. I have been told more than once that I look like the princess, though I hope people notice that I have the better nose. She was unhappy, poor soul. God, how well I understand that!
    My other shop is better placed and may survive. Well, let Harriet have it, because I shall be in Portugal with the love of my life. I’ll put those pearls in the window, I think. Nice, fat, juicy pearls suitable for a nice, slender, firm throat. No, I mustn’t wear them. The lily will be sufficiently gilded by the Diana furniture. Wedding season. I’ll shove a few silver lockets in the display – they seem favourites as gifts for bridesmaids.
    Half an hour till the shop opens. Check the main safe, make sure that all questionable items are in the floor safe. Only Alec and I know of the second safe’s existence. We are well on the way to the quarter million mark. The books are clean and Alec’s stuff is sold to people he chooses carefully. He swears it’s not stolen, tells me he gets it from his second job – clearing houses. I have to believe . . . It won’t be long now. We’ll be gone, and no one will miss me. Not true. I believe Hermione will notice my absence.
    Set up the earring stand. Creoles are so ugly, yet I sell more of these hideous items than of studs and sleepers. To Gus, sleepers are bits of wood beneath railway lines. Ha-bloody-ha again. When Harriet was born, Gus failed to hide his disappointment. He carried on “loving” me until I had produced a son, then buggered off faster than sugar off a shiny shovel into the world of research. Model trains filled his leisure hours. Occasionally, he would check on Ben’s progress at school, though he seldom communicated with either of his offspring. That was supposed to be my job, I think. I don’t like that jade, think I’ll take it off display.
    I know now that it was post-natal depression. Eileen and Hermione took over the rearing of Harriet and, by the time Benjamin was born, I was set in my pattern, because the first symptoms of Hermione’s MS had begun to show shortly after the birth of my daughter. She is my daughter. Sometimes, I have to remind myself. However, Hermione stayed at home to help Eileen mind the children, while I ran the shops.
    The Austrian crystal sells well. Glad I had those lights set into the display cabinet – see how the cute little hedgehog sparkles? From the age of three, Harriet has run to her grandmother, has known that Gran was ill, that Gran and Ben needed her. Am I jealous? I should pick up that phone, cancel Sadie and take Harriet out to lunch. No, it would be awkward. Ah, I’ll turn on the little fountain. When a customer sits next to that, they are soothed by water lapping over smooth stone. That, I worked out for myself. So I am not as daft as some might believe.
    Right. Jewellery on, smile on, shoes shining, suit a miracle of understatement. A