The Woman Who Lied(7)
She’s about to take it to the utility room when she hears a woman’s voice coming from what they call the ‘posh front room’ because they only really use it when they have guests. It has a teal blue velvet chesterfield-style sofa, floor to ceiling bookshelves and no TV. Ottilie is perched on a gold velvet armchair in the bay window, still in her white fake-fur coat and hat, her hair spilling over her shoulders. She looks like a snow queen. Elliot is on the sofa, a glass of wine in his hand. When Emilia walks in, he excuses himself to check on the dinner, looking relieved to be able to make a hasty exit. She knows Elliot finds small-talk difficult, even with Ottilie, who never lets him get a word in anyway.
‘Mils,’ Ottilie squeals, when she sees her – she’s the only one who ever calls her that, a hangover from their schooldays when everyone called her Milly. She jumps off the chair and catapults into Emilia’s arms. She smells of fresh air and expensive perfume. They haven’t seen each other for more than a month, but even if they’d met yesterday this is how Ottilie would greet her.
Emilia laughs. ‘How was Hamburg and when do I get to meet the new boyfriend?’
‘Fabulous as always, and soon. I promise. His name’s Stefan and I’m so excited about this one.’ Emilia doesn’t point out that she always is. She doesn’t really understand why Ottilie’s relationships never work out, except that her friend admits she’s fiercely independent and refuses to adjust any part of her lifestyle to accommodate someone else.
‘The spare room is all made up if you want to stay,’ she says, taking Ottilie’s coat and hat. They hang over her arm like an Arctic fox.
‘Thanks, but I’ll get an Uber home later.’ Even though her dad, Charles, lives in Germany he was savvy enough to buy a flat in South Kensington back in the late 1970s, which Ottilie now rents from him for a pittance on the proviso he stays with her when he’s back in the UK. ‘My dad’s basking in the Indonesian sunshine at the moment with his latest squeeze.’ She rolls her eyes but Emilia knows it hurts her. Her mother died when Ottilie was young and she has always looked around for a mother figure, but never found one in her father’s succession of younger women. ‘When does Trev get here?’
Ottilie is the only person allowed to call Elliot’s father ‘Trev’, probably because Trevor’s a little in love with Ottilie. Elliot’s mother died eight years ago, and even though she and Elliot suspect Trevor has had girlfriends, he’s not met anyone serious. He likes to come to dinner at least once a month, but always on his own.
Emilia checks her watch. ‘He’ll be here in about half an hour. I’d better get changed.’ Ottilie is wearing an emerald-green 1930s dress with a diamanté clasp around the waist. She looks like a film star and suddenly Emilia feels very underdressed in her boyfriend jeans and baggy jumper, even if she did put on extra make-up to go and pick up Jasmine.
Elliot returns with a glass of wine for her. ‘Hi, beauty, how’s Jas doing?’ He hands her the glass.
‘She’s rushed straight into her room to gas away with Nancy,’ she replies, taking the wine and sipping it.
‘Just like us at school,’ says Ottilie. ‘Do you remember the time Mrs Maynard sent us out of the classroom because we couldn’t shut up?’
Elliot raises an eyebrow. ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘It was a regular occurrence.’ Emilia laughs. ‘Right, I need to get changed.’ She slugs back more of her wine, then gives the glass to Elliot. Before heading upstairs she checks on Wilfie. He’s sitting on the sofa in the kitchen watching a cartoon while simultaneously leafing through a Beano.
‘Grampy will be here soon,’ she says, ruffling his hair.
Wilfie groans. ‘It’s going to be boring grown-up talk.’
‘You know Grampy used to be in the police force a long time ago when your dad was a boy. You could ask him about it.’ This week Wilfie has decided he wants to be a detective when he grows up, like Toby’s mum, Louise. Last month it was a fireman.
‘I wanted to ask Toby’s mum about it the other day but she wasn’t there.’
‘Toby’s mum isn’t around that often. You know that.’ Louise has become a good friend to Emilia since her son joined the school in year two and has been invaluable in helping her with her latest Miranda book. But Louise works long hours so it’s usually Frances, her mother-in-law, who is at school pick-ups and play dates.
He sighs heavily. ‘Fine. I’ll ask Grampy then. But he’s old now. What if he can’t remember?’
Trevor is sixty-two. Hardly old. And he’s fitter than she is, regularly running half-marathons. She laughs. ‘I think he’ll remember just fine.’ She kisses the top of his head and tells him she’s going to get dressed.
She runs upstairs to her bedroom and throws open her wardrobe, taking out a selection of clothes and tossing them onto the bed. She settles on a pair of taupe trousers that suck in her tummy, a black silk top that is flattering around her large chest, and gives her dark-blonde hair a quick comb through.
As she’s coming down the stairs she sees Trevor standing in the porch, trying not to knock into Elliot’s bike as he turns the handle on the internal glass doors. There is a dusting of frost on the shoulders of his navy blue trench coat and his nose is red. He grins at her as he hands her a parcel. ‘This was in your porch,’ he says, as she takes it from him. ‘I’ve told you before you should really keep this front door locked.’