'We, all the neighbours, we felt terrible that it took so many weeks before we, before we realised ...' Tiffany stopped.
'I understand you found his body,' said Steve. 'Must have been upsetting.'
'Yes,' said Tiffany. 'It was.' She remembered throwing up into the sandstone pot. What had happened to that pot? Would this poor man be responsible for it? 'I feel bad that we didn't keep more of an eye on him.'
'I doubt he would have welcomed anyone keeping an eye on him,' said Steve. 'It if makes you feel better, he apparently told my mother you were nice.'
'He said we were nice?' Tiffany was astounded.
Steve smiled. 'I think the exact words he used were "nice enough". Anyhow, I just wanted to let you know that we'll be doing a bit of work on the place before we put it on the market. Hopefully there won't be too much noise or disruption.'
'Thanks,' said Tiffany. She did a rough calculation on the value of Harry's place. Maybe she should make an offer? 'I'm sure it will be fine. We're early risers.'
'Right. Well. Good to meet you. Better get back to it.'
Tiffany closed the door and thought of Harry's vulnerable bent back as he'd shuffled across the lawn to his own place. She remembered the fury in his eyes when he'd shouted at her, 'Are you stupid?'
It was interesting that fury and fear could look so much the same.
chapter sixty-eight
'So it looks like Mum is not going to cancel,' said Erika. She'd been waiting all day for a phone call from her mother saying that she had a headache or she 'didn't feel up to it' or it was too rainy, or, outrageously, that she 'was catching up on a bit of housework' so she wouldn't be able to join them at Clementine's parents' house for dinner after all.
But the phone call hadn't come. In a minute they'd be picking Sylvia up and discovering what personality she'd selected for the evening.
Sylvia often went for a dreamy, bohemian persona when she was seeing Clementine's parents, as if she were an artist of some sort and they were the stuffy, suburban couple who had stepped in to help take care of her daughter when she was distracted doing her art. Ano
ther popular option was jaded, alcoholic sex kitten (channelling Elizabeth Taylor), except Sylvia didn't drink, she'd just hold her glass of water with careless elegance, as if it were a martini, and speak in a low, husky voice. Whichever personality she chose, the point was to make it clear that she was somehow special and different, and there was therefore no need to feel guilty or especially grateful for how much time Erika had spent at Clementine's home as a child.
'Oh well,' said Oliver. He was in a great mood. Clementine had filled in all the interim paperwork, she'd been for a blood test and she'd made an appointment to see the counsellor at the IVF clinic. Things were progressing. Each time Clementine passed him something across the table tonight he'd probably be checking out her bone structure and imagining his super-efficient sperm (tests indicated perfect motility) zipping about the petri dish with her eggs. 'Clementine's parents can handle her.'
Erika's phone beeped just as Oliver turned into her mother's street and her heart lifted. 'Eleventh-hour reprieve!' she crowed. But it was her mother saying to let her know when they were close so that she could be waiting out the front.
Erika texted back: On approach right now.
Her mother texted back: Great!! xx
Good God. Double exclamation marks and kisses. What could that mean?
'Looks like the neighbours have got their For Sale sign up already,' said Oliver as he parked the car. 'Wow,' he said. 'She's outdone herself.'
'Told you so,' said Erika. Erika's mother's front yard looked as it had on her previous visit. Maybe worse? She couldn't remember.
'I think we need to call in the professionals,' said Oliver, his eyes on the yard. 'Take her out somewhere, do it while she's gone.'
'She won't fall for that again,' said Erika. She'd taken her mother away for the weekend once, and sent in cleaners, returning her mother to an unrecognisable, beautiful home. When they'd got back her mother had slapped Erika across the face and refused to speak to her for six months because of her 'betrayal'. Erika had known she was betraying her. She'd felt like Judas that whole weekend.
'We'll work it out. Here she comes. She looks ... gosh, she looks great.' Oliver jumped out of the car in the rain to open the back door for Sylvia, who carried a large, white, wooden-handled umbrella and wore a beautiful, tailored cream suit, like something Jane Fonda would wear to accept a lifetime achievement award. Her hair was bouncy and shiny, she must have been to the hairdresser, and as she got in the car, all Erika could smell was perfume - nothing damp or mouldy or rotting.
It was a trick. The ultimate trick. Tonight they weren't going to pretend that there was a reason why Clementine's parents had virtually adopted Erika. Tonight they were going to pretend it had never happened at all, and of course they would all go along with it and let her get away with it. They'd all behave as if Sylvia lived in a home that matched that beautiful brand new outfit.
'Hello, darling,' said her mother in a breathless, feminine, I'm-a-lovely-mother voice.
'You look nice,' said Erika.
'Do I? Thank you,' said her mother. 'I called Pam earlier to ask if I could bring anything and she absolutely insisted I come empty-handed. She said something very mysterious about how the evening was in honour of you and Oliver, although she knows you both don't like to talk about it, but obviously she was forever in your debt. I thought, goodness, is dear old Pam finally losing her marbles?'
Oliver cleared his throat and shot Erika a rueful half-smile.