‘I’ll come to England,’ Lorna says suddenly. ‘Can I stay with you at the cottage? I’d love to see it.’
‘Coming over? But … you don’t have to. There’s no need.’
Lorna swallows her disappointment. ‘I want to see you. I miss you. And I haven’t seen Mum for a while either. And I can help you sort things out.’
‘Mum … I don’t think it’s as easy as that.’
‘I know. But I’d like to be there. Especially if the police are sniffing around, asking questions and disrupting you. I’m happy to stay in a hotel …’
‘No, it’s not that. Of course you can stay here. We have a futon.’ A pause. ‘Will you be bringing Alberto?’
Lorna thinks about the two wine glasses in the sink and leans back against the chair’s soft cushions. ‘No. We could do with some time apart, to be honest.’
‘Oh, Mum.’
‘It’s okay. Things are fine. We’re off out tonight. But he’s busy, with the bar …’ She lets her words hang in the air. Her daughter is smart and more sensible than she ever was at that age. She won’t be fooled. When had their roles reversed? It should be Saffy ringing her about boyfriend troubles. Instead she’s been with Tom for four years when Lorna can barely keep a relationship with a man for four minutes.
‘What are you up to tonight?’
Her daughter laughs totally unselfconsciously. ‘The usual. Staying in with a takeaway and watching Netflix.’
Lorna smiles into the phone. She suddenly longs to be there. With her daughter, eating fish and chips off plates on their laps and watching a box set. ‘I’ll fly home Saturday morning. Is that okay?’
‘I’ll pick you up at Bristol airport. Just text me when you know times.’
They say goodbye and Lorna climbs the wooden stairs to her bedroom to change into a slinky red dress that she knows is Alberto’s favourite. He calls it her Jessica Rabbit dress because it accentuates her bust. As she tries to fix the damage to her hair she mulls over the conversation with her daughter. Two bodies buried in the garden. A man and a woman. A memory, hazy and warped, flits through her mind – a flash of a garden, darkness punctuated by fireworks exploding into the night sky – but before she can grasp hold of it, it floats away, like the seeds of a dandelion on the breeze, out of reach.
7
Saffy
I spot Mum straight away. She’s striding through Arrivals at Bristol airport in an unnecessarily large floppy straw hat and pink cropped jeans that show off all her curves. She has a wristful of bangles and huge dangly earrings that catch the light when she moves. She looks like a chandelier. Men stare at my mother. It used to embarrass me when I was younger: Mum’s exuberance, her naturally flirty nature and cleavage that was always on display. Plus she was so much younger than the other mums at the school gates. But not now. The two of us living in different countries has made me realize how much I miss her. I wonder if it’s because I’m about to become a mother myself. I’m not sure how Mum will feel about being a gran at forty-one. Will it make her feel old? I swallow my worries. I can’t be thinking about that now. I’ve got too much else on my mind.
Like the phone call yesterday evening from the detective.
When Mum spots me, a wide smile lights up her whole face and she click-clacks towards me in her heeled sandals, pulling a leopard-print suitcase behind her.
‘Honey,’ she cries, wrapping me into a hug. She smells familiar, of Tom Ford perfume and coconut sun cream. ‘It’s so lovely to see you.’
‘You too. Looking well, Mum.’
Mum holds me at arms’ length to assess me. ‘So do you,’ she says, and I have to laugh to myself at the surprise in her voice. ‘You look like you’ve filled out a bit. It suits you. You know I think you’re too skinny.’ And then she looks around. ‘Where’s Tom?’