Bending down, Bess picked up a small blue piece of confetti in the shape of a heart, which had been hiding around the leg of the kitchen table despite her best efforts with the vacuum cleaner and feather duster. That darned wedding confetti hid in the folds of cushions, nestled on top of the laundry basket and even clung to the lounge curtains. It taunted her as it fell from the creases of clothes and dropped from light fittings. It wasn’t only the irritating littering of her home that bothered her, but also what it represented. Not that she would tell a soul – how could she? Jake, twenty-eight, was now married to the love of his life – what was not to like? But the truth was, there was much she didn’t like: the feeling that she had been supplanted in her son’s affections, the way it aged her, having a son old enough to marry, despite this being the case for many a year, and the finality of it. Are you jealous, Bess? She silently asked herself the unpalatable question.

It wasn’t that she disliked Daniel, exactly, but there were certain things about him that . . . he just . . . It was as if . . . he was a bit . . . It seemed like Mario wasn’t the only one having trouble finding the right word this morning. Her son’s hastily planned wedding and absolute joy at setting off on his new life adventure had made her realise that her adventure had ceased to be joyous some time ago now, and the lurking confetti, the untouched tier of wedding cake now taking up a disproportionate amount of space on the kitchen worktop and the stack of beribboned gifts piled high on the floor of Jake’s old bedroom stoked something close to rage inside her. She couldn’t help it.

Where Jake and his husband were concerned, she walked a delicate, winding path where rocks tumbled from a great height, the way ahead was obscure and all she could do was keep her head down and keep moving forward. Her son-in-law was a gatekeeper and it bothered her how every plan, every celebration, every thought had to be run past Daniel. She hated the way Jake deferred to him and privately had to admit that yes, this feeling was rooted in jealousy. She used to be the person he came to. She had secretly christened Daniel ‘The Jake Whisperer’, not that she would ever tell them, as that would be mean. And one thing she hated was mean.

She heard Mario whistling upstairs and looked at the orchid sitting in all its vibrant glory on the draining board.

‘I hate orchids,’ she whispered to the dog, who gazed up at her. ‘Best not tell him, Chuts.’

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE

August 20th 1984