Parallel Life by Ruth Hamilton Page B

Renault, I think. Yes, I’ll have a change. Alec says the Renaults are good. A blue Renault, a false smile, borrowed jewels, man-made boobs. But the whole is greater than the parts. Before I leave for Europe, I’ll find myself. And Harriet. For some reason, it is suddenly important that she understands.
    It was ten minutes after one by the time Lisa arrived at the restaurant. Sadie Fisher, already toying with a second glass of wine, hailed her friend enthusiastically. ‘I’m booked in,’ she whispered excitedly. ‘Liposuction and a couple of tucks; soon be back to normal. Only a few weeks to wait.’
    Lisa smiled and sat down. At the rate Sadie consumed carbs, she would never be anything approaching normal. ‘Sorry I’m late – got a bit tied up at the shop. Have you ordered?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜I’ll just have a green salad and a bit of chicken –’ Lisa patted her flat stomach – ‘or I could well be joining you in the liposuction stakes.’ She smiled to herself while Sadie placed the order. Roast beef and all the trimmings? At lunchtime? No wonder the woman needed surgery. ‘Did you have a good morning?’
    Sadie shook her head. ‘The boss is down with irritable bowel syndrome again, so guess who had to run the department? Yours truly. It’s all very well, but she’ll turn purple if I order the wrong accessories. Some nice handbags in today. You must come and look.’
    The food arrived. Lisa picked absently at lettuce and chicken, tried not to watch while Sadie stuffed herself. Still, near-starvation did pay off. Sadie was two years younger than Lisa, though she looked at least five older. That was the high price of indulging an over-healthy appetite.
    Sadie was staring longingly at the pudding trolley when hell broke loose. Lisa, with a forkful of chicken halfway to her mouth, forced herself to clamp her lips closed when the whirlwind descended on her. A short, rounded woman, with dark curls and a toddler clutched to her chest, appeared at the side of their table. With her free hand, she grabbed a lock of Lisa’s hair and pulled so hard that several strands were loosened. ‘It’s you,’ she screamed.
    Cutlery clattered on to plates, and a heavy silence hung over the small room. A waitress who had been pouring coffee gasped when she saw overspill gushing across a pristine cloth. That gasp sounded like the advent of an easterly gale, so quiet were the diners. A chef appeared in the kitchen doorway, cleaver held high in preparation for whatever he might find.
    Lisa stood up. ‘I beg your pardon?’
    â€˜It’s you,’ repeated the newcomer. ‘You and my Jimmy.’
    â€˜I know no one named Jimmy,’ Lisa said coldly. Her hair had cost a fortune only yesterday. Oh God, the shame of it. The whole town was going to be buzzing with gossip within minutes.
    â€˜I saw you. So did the detective who works for me. You’re meeting in Jimmy’s mother’s bungalow while she’s in Eastbourne. Before that, you used the Pack Horse Hotel. You can’t fool me, bitch.’
    Lisa dropped back into her seat. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’
    â€˜Oh, really? Well, this is Daisy, mine and Jimmy’s youngest. We have three of them. You are having an affair with Daisy’s dad, my husband.’
    Sadie Fisher forgot all about the puddings. She sat back and watched while Lisa Compton-Milne got dragged off her double-barrelled pedestal. The girls were going to love this one! As soon as it was over, she’d be on her Nokia mobile to Sandy, Mavis, Helen and . . . Wonderful. It seemed that the tiny intruder had more strength than most wrestlers.
    â€˜I know of no one named Jimmy,’ Lisa repeated. ‘Take your hand from my arm, please.’
    â€˜But you know the Pack Horse, eh? And that little bungalow halfway up Blackburn Road: roses in the garden,