Chapter Eighteen

RHYS

Through overworked windscreen wipers, I see Mum’s face peering through the nets. I wonder how much of her neighbours’ lives she’s spotted, logged and noted for future sharing, all under the guise of waiting for me to arrive. People arriving home from work, kids back late from school, drenched from the unseasonal weather. I tease her by throwing an elaborate wave and she instantly slinks away from the kitchen window. By the time I’ve wrenched the handbrake up, she’s at the front door, waiting.

‘Finally,’ she says, ushering me in. She checks up the road, then moves past me as I kick my shoes off then tidily rearrange them. Following her, I just catch her moving the pouffe away from David’s chair. It’s not like her to leave it out. Something’s up.

‘I made you a sandwich for lunch. You might as well eat it now, unless it’ll spoil your tea? You out tonight?’ I shake my head. ‘Well, it’ll put you on for a bit then.’ She points for me to sit down, then passes me a lap tray complete with a cheese sandwich and can of Coke, all served with a smile. Something’s definitely up.

‘You’re chirpy, considering I’m late!’

‘Oh, it’s no bother. It’s fine,’ she coughs. ‘What crisps do you want? Ready salted, prawn cocktail or I’ve probably got some beef at the bottom of the bag.’ She roots around, her head getting progressively closer to entering the supermarket own-brand multi bag.

‘Ready salted, please.’

She throws me a pack. ‘So, thanks for popping round, love. You okay? You look tired. Are you tired? Is it work? Maybe you should have a holiday. When did you last go away?’

‘I’m alright,’ I say, hands up to stop her fussing. ‘It’s nothing a good pint and a sleep won’t sort.’ I take a large bite of the sandwich and mumble, ‘Open them patio doors, will you? It’s boiling in here.’

‘What, and let all the neighbours hear our business? No, thank you. Besides, it’s raining. My carpet’ll get soaked. Go on, spill it.’ She looks at her watch, perched on the edge of her chair, and I’m reminded she summoned me this time.

‘Spill what?’

‘Whatever’s driving you to drink! Is it woman trouble?’

I think about Michelle, and for the first time in days I don’t immediately push her back out of my mind. All this Susan stuff has given me a handy distraction from that particular shitstorm. ‘Yeah,’ I agree, for ease. ‘I’m beating ’em off with the shittiest of sticks.’ I lick salad cream from the side of my hand. ‘If you must know, it’s woman singular, actually.’

‘Ooh, who? Have you finally got a girlfriend and you haven’t told me? It’s about bloody time!’

‘No, Mum! No… not that. No, it’s Susan.’

‘Susan who?’

‘Smith,’ I say, as if that should clear up the confusion. The look on Mum’s face suggests otherwise. ‘The woman at the hospital.’

‘The one you thought was me? Whatever for!’