2

Harriet Langley was fairly sure she’d peeped inside her mother-in-law’s bedroom only once in the eight or so years since knowing her. Seeing Margot hanging over the side of the mattress with her hair liberated from its normally perfect chignon was a definite first. Eyes wide, hand pressed against the doorjamb, Harriet dithered on the threshold. Go in? Speak to Andrew first? Damn it. If he’d not been away on business, he’d be the mug checking up on her, not Harriet. She had quite enough on her plate this morning, thank you very much. It was just then that a glint of green glass caught her eye. The bottle lay on the carpet just beyond Margot’s reach and, if it had been full when she started drinking, she’d probably downed enough Gordon’s to sink a gin palace.

No wonder she’d not been picking up the phone.

Mighty fallen, or what? Margot rarely touched a drop of alcohol, looked down her patrician nose and flared nostrils on those who did. Harriet’s sigh lifted her heavy fringe. Okay, so her mother-in-law had been going through a rough patch lately, everyone knew that, but the answer wasn’t mother’s ruin. Mentally rolling up her sleeves, Harriet flicked on the overhead light and strode into the room, clapping her hands like the primary-school teacher she used to be.

‘Come on, Margot. This isn’t doing anyone any good.’ Gazing down, she folded censorious arms. What a state to get into. The woman was absolutely blotto, out for the count. Her hair hung in lank grey curtains, exposing a slender nape and an unaccustomed vulnerability. Courtesy of one of her customary long cotton nightgowns, more intimate parts were still under wraps. Thank God for small mercies.

Harriet tutted loudly as she stooped to retrieve the bottle. Spotting a book on the floor, she picked it up at the same time. Great Expectations? She puckered her lips. Give Harriet a Dick Francis to a Dickens any day. Still, each to their own. After placing both book and bottle on top of an antique tallboy, she walked back to the bed and its out-for-the-count occupant.

‘Margot.’ Harriet raised her voice. ‘Wake up, please.’ Foot tapping, she gazed down, wrinkling her nose against the smell of old lady laced with liquor. Boy, could she live without this. She’d left her baby downstairs in the carry cot. Daisy could wake any minute. Unlike her granny.

‘Right. Let’s get you sorted.’ Harriet shuddered at how cold Margot’s flesh felt through the thin fabric. Too cold? With the first faint stirring of unease, she felt her own skin creep. Both sensations increased when she manoeuvred Margot onto the bed and laid her on her back.

‘Shit.’ Harriet slapped a hand to her mouth. Not dead drunk: dead, period.

The clues were in the floppy head and the arm dangling towards the floor; the clincher was the eyes: pale blue, wide open, sightless yet seeming to stare straight through Harriet.

She took a faltering step or two back: damn, damn, damn. She couldn’t just leave Margot like this, but dealing with the immediate fall-out of her death was the last thing Harriet wanted. She bit her lip, felt momentary shame, until she realized how red-faced Margot would be if she’d not already popped her clogs. Harriet suspected the old dear would die all over again from the ignominy if it turned out she’d drunk herself into an early grave. I mean, what would the neighbours say? And the toffs at the bridge club, not to mention the high command at the WI. Lady Muck hitting the hard stuff?

‘Well, well, well. Who’d have thought it?’ Not bothering to stifle a snort, Harriet turned to go downstairs to make a start on the inevitable round of phone calls. It was then she spied a sheet of ivory notepaper on the bedside table. Even without the personalized stationery, she recognized the writing and saw who it was for. Her hand hovered over the letter. Should see? Shouldn’t she? Better not. ‘Stuff that.’

My darling boy

I love you very much, but life without your father is hard. Indeed, latterly it’s more than I can bear. I’ve tried to cope and were it not for your unstinting love and support I’d never have made it this far. But I can go on no longer.

I’m not afraid of dying, indeed I welcome it because I’ll see David again and, as you know, being reunited with him is my dearest wish.

Goodbye in this world, darling Andrew, and forgive me.

Love to Harriet and the baby

Patronizing old bag. Harriet curled a lip, dropped an imaginary curtsey along with any pretence she’d ever had any time for the woman. The postscript relegated her and Daisy to an afterthought. Bloody cheek. She resented the thinking behind it, while at the same time realizing it was Margot down to the ground. She’d long held the idea that the sun shone from her darling boy’s rectum whereas Harriet – well, she wasn’t the brightest bulb on the Golden Mile, was she? Not that Margot would be seen dead in Blackpool. Seen dead? Harriet gave a brittle laugh. It was just the sort of remark she’d come out with and Margot would pounce on. Well, not any more, dear.

Harriet ran her gaze over Margot’s face: small features, classic bone structure, a few wrinkles but not too deep. Apart from the obvious, she wasn’t in bad nick for a woman in her seventies with diabetes and a dicky heart. Having a loving husband with a healthy bank account wouldn’t have hurt. Not that she’d outlived David long. Three months. Harriet had been too busy giving birth to go to her father-in-law’s funeral. It hadn’t stopped Andrew attending it, though. Not that she was bitter or anything.

Still holding the letter, she toyed with the idea of keeping it from him. Her husband’s head was gargantuan enough without his mother’s glowing, albeit posthumous, character reference. Tapping the paper against her lips, she strolled to the dressing table, where she had a nose at the fancy face creams and pricey perfumes. She sprayed a little Chanel behind her ears, then another spritz into the air to counter the gin fumes.

The cosmetics didn’t really interest her, or the jewellery. Well, only a strand of pearls and a ruby ring she’d had her eye on for ages. She reached for the pearls and held them against her neck, posing à la Audrey Hepburn in the looking-glass. Harriet was more buxom blonde than elfin brunette, but same diff. After a surreptitious glance round she slipped the pearls into her jeans pocket and headed towards the door. It wasn’t as if Margot would miss them – and who else would the old dear leave them to?

As for mama’s missive, Harriet was still undecided. Resisting a long-held urge to slide down the Gone With The Wind banister, she pondered whether to bin the damn thing. Best not. Andrew would be distraught enough anyway when she broke the news. Knowing how much he’d meant to Margot might lessen the pain. More important still, the letter wasn’t just a final farewell to a son – it was a suicide note. Whether she’d found one would be one of the first things Andrew would ask her, and she didn’t think it would be too long before the police posed similar questions.