too?
Felicia Laureau finally sits back in her big black leather armchair, and faces me properly with a strained smile. Her bobbed hair is like a silver-white curtain across and around her face, she is small, round and distinctly curvy, but dressed well in a form-flattering pale grey suit.
Like the headteacher, she’s nervous about talking to me, not only because of what she’s got to tell me, but because she doesn’t know how to talk to someone like me, the woman whose husband was murdered. I’d imagine this nursing home is filled with widows, women whose husbands died and left them alone, but how many of them were bereaved in the same way as I was? Were any of them foreversaddled with the image of a large kitchen knife entering their husband’s stomach, and him bleeding to death an hour or so later on the side of a road they’d never been down before? If any of them were like me, then this woman would be awful to be around. She’d be uncomfortable, unnerving and most of all, fake.
‘Mrs Mackleroy, it’s good to see you,’ she says brightly.
I sigh. ‘It probably isn’t, is it?’ I sigh again, a deep exasperated sigh. I’ve spent the morning stopping Zane from winding up Phoebe, sitting in the doctor’s office while Phoebe told her GP nothing and then intervening when Phoebe began freaking out at the idea of taking folic acid and going for an early scan. This was followed by driving around the M25, something I avoid wherever possible, to get here. ‘Sorry, but I can’t think of a single, realistic reason why you’d call me to come in at such short notice if it was going to involve good news.’
Mrs Laureau’s features twitch, fluttering as if out of control, especially around the mouth area. With horror, I realise she’s trying to arrange her face into a sympathetic, gentle smile – something that clearly doesn’t come easily to her. ‘You’re right, of course,’ she replies. ‘This isn’t going to be an easy meeting.’
‘Where is she, anyway?’ I ask. I had genuinely expected to find Aunty Betty sitting in a chair in the same position as Phoebe had adopted in the headteacher’s office, waiting to have someone tell me what she’d done. ‘I thought she’d be here.’
‘We thought it best we talk first without her,’ Mrs Laureau says.
‘Why, what did she do?’
‘We’ve tried to make allowances,’ she says gently, ‘since, since the events of … Since your husband … Since …’
I am meant to leap into this sea of discomfort she’s in to rescue her, stop her floundering by supplying Since my husband died , but I’m not going to. I’m going to stay where I am, nice and dry, and wait for her to wreak havoc on me as she’s about to do. People like Mrs Laureau never need to see you unless they want more money, or they’re about to screw you over, or sometimes, even, both.
7 years before That Day (March, 2004)
Aunty Betty’s face slowly became an intricate picture of disdain and horror when she had fully digested what Joel had said to her.
‘Live with you?’ she spat in disgust. ‘ Live with you ? You don’t smoke, you barely drink, I’m still not certain if you actually ever do the do, even though you have two children. Always wondered if that was turkey-baster-assisted. If I live with you, I might as well get down to the nearest cemetery and start digging my own hole.’ She frowned sternly at Joel, then cast her expression at me. ‘You don’t want me living in your house. I’m selfish, rude and messier than that pink squiggle thing in those children’s books. I wouldn’t wish me on my worst enemy.’
Joel seemed deflated, the worry of the situation rested heavily on his shoulders. He’d thought the best thing would be for Aunty Betty to live with us after her accident. A few days ago she’d slipped in the shower, fallen and knocked herself out. She’d woken up with a hairline fracture to her left hip and, because she’d always lived on her own, had
Felicia Laureau finally sits back in her big black leather armchair, and faces me properly with a strained smile. Her bobbed hair is like a silver-white curtain across and around her face, she is small, round and distinctly curvy, but dressed well in a form-flattering pale grey suit.
Like the headteacher, she’s nervous about talking to me, not only because of what she’s got to tell me, but because she doesn’t know how to talk to someone like me, the woman whose husband was murdered. I’d imagine this nursing home is filled with widows, women whose husbands died and left them alone, but how many of them were bereaved in the same way as I was? Were any of them foreversaddled with the image of a large kitchen knife entering their husband’s stomach, and him bleeding to death an hour or so later on the side of a road they’d never been down before? If any of them were like me, then this woman would be awful to be around. She’d be uncomfortable, unnerving and most of all, fake.
‘Mrs Mackleroy, it’s good to see you,’ she says brightly.
I sigh. ‘It probably isn’t, is it?’ I sigh again, a deep exasperated sigh. I’ve spent the morning stopping Zane from winding up Phoebe, sitting in the doctor’s office while Phoebe told her GP nothing and then intervening when Phoebe began freaking out at the idea of taking folic acid and going for an early scan. This was followed by driving around the M25, something I avoid wherever possible, to get here. ‘Sorry, but I can’t think of a single, realistic reason why you’d call me to come in at such short notice if it was going to involve good news.’
Mrs Laureau’s features twitch, fluttering as if out of control, especially around the mouth area. With horror, I realise she’s trying to arrange her face into a sympathetic, gentle smile – something that clearly doesn’t come easily to her. ‘You’re right, of course,’ she replies. ‘This isn’t going to be an easy meeting.’
‘Where is she, anyway?’ I ask. I had genuinely expected to find Aunty Betty sitting in a chair in the same position as Phoebe had adopted in the headteacher’s office, waiting to have someone tell me what she’d done. ‘I thought she’d be here.’
‘We thought it best we talk first without her,’ Mrs Laureau says.
‘Why, what did she do?’
‘We’ve tried to make allowances,’ she says gently, ‘since, since the events of … Since your husband … Since …’
I am meant to leap into this sea of discomfort she’s in to rescue her, stop her floundering by supplying Since my husband died , but I’m not going to. I’m going to stay where I am, nice and dry, and wait for her to wreak havoc on me as she’s about to do. People like Mrs Laureau never need to see you unless they want more money, or they’re about to screw you over, or sometimes, even, both.
7 years before That Day (March, 2004)
Aunty Betty’s face slowly became an intricate picture of disdain and horror when she had fully digested what Joel had said to her.
‘Live with you?’ she spat in disgust. ‘ Live with you ? You don’t smoke, you barely drink, I’m still not certain if you actually ever do the do, even though you have two children. Always wondered if that was turkey-baster-assisted. If I live with you, I might as well get down to the nearest cemetery and start digging my own hole.’ She frowned sternly at Joel, then cast her expression at me. ‘You don’t want me living in your house. I’m selfish, rude and messier than that pink squiggle thing in those children’s books. I wouldn’t wish me on my worst enemy.’
Joel seemed deflated, the worry of the situation rested heavily on his shoulders. He’d thought the best thing would be for Aunty Betty to live with us after her accident. A few days ago she’d slipped in the shower, fallen and knocked herself out. She’d woken up with a hairline fracture to her left hip and, because she’d always lived on her own, had
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