My decision to spend the weekend at my mum’s had taken me by surprise. But the more I thought about it, the more sense it made to head up to London after my last client on Friday night and come back early Monday morning in time, hopefully, for the first one. Three nights of comfortable bed, cooked breakfast, as much loud TV and all the hot water I could wish for. All I had to do was not let Mum realise the real reason I had stayed behind when Alex left for Dubai.
Of course he still hadn’t called and, of course, when I had given into temptation and tried his old number, I’d had to listen to that The number you have dialled is not in service message. How did that message always manage to sound like it was saying ‘The person you have dialled does not want to speak to you’? I’d written and deleted a hundred and one emails to him, not being able to bring myself to press Send. His Facebook page still said Relationship Status – Married to Beth Dixon. And our honeymoon photo was still there. Nothing added, nothing changed, nothing taken away. I wondered again if he just couldn’t be bothered with it, or if he was so busy enjoying his new life that he didn’t have time for bothering with social media. Or was the coward in him worried what Mama Petropoulos would say when she found out?
Anyway, I had to forget about that while I was at Mum’s or she’d know something was up. I hated lying to her as it was, but at least the little white lies I’d be telling her would be told with the intention of not worrying her.
I’d left it too late to book a cheap advance train fare, and there was nowhere to park outside Mum’s, even if Davina let me borrow the car for the weekend and I could afford the petrol. So I booked a return ticket to Victoria on the coach from Southampton, as that was the only one that would get me back anywhere near in time on Monday morning, but I would be getting on at Winchester. Natalia did my last client of the day in return for my walking Wendell so Davina could drop me off by Kind Alfred’s statue in time to catch the ten to six.
It was a long time since I’d travelled by coach, probably not since I was a student with a travel card. My chief memories were of grumpy drivers, cramped seats, and no heating or air conditioning. But a cheery driver got off this one, checked my ticket, and hoisted my bag of dirty laundry – sorry, Mum – into the luggage hold, and off we went. The coach was about a quarter full, and I got a double seat to myself. It was more comfortable than some of the places I’d been sleeping recently.
The traffic when we got into London was Friday evening bad, and we arrived at Victoria at about twenty past eight instead of ten to. Glad I didn’t have to drive to North West London, I hauled my bag along to the tube station and joined the thankfully short queue to top up my old Oyster card. I was pretty sure there was no money left on it, but I was so glad I hadn’t thrown it out in the big clear-out while we were packing up for Dubai. If I was going to make a habit of coming here at the weekends it would save me a lot of money.
This part of the journey didn’t take long at all, especially as the Londoner that still lurked somewhere deep inside me ran, at Euston, to squeeze through the closing doors of the Edgware train that was just about to leave instead of waiting three whole minutes for the next one.
Coming out of Chalk Farm station still felt like coming home, except that home had moved itself about half a dozen buildings down the road from the house where it used to be and was now only part of a house, but still with the same postcode. Mum still lived just over the bridge from the station and, until I got to the house itself, I could pretend I was still going to my childhood home. But since Dad died, Mum had found it too big and had downsized to a two-bed, lower ground floor garden flat.
I opened the black wrought iron gate that wouldn’t keep out an arthritic cat and trotted down the steps – I could almost hear Mum’s bathtub calling me. She had warned me she’d be out, watching a play at the Kilburn Tricycle, so I let myself in, determined to have a cup of milky coffee and some cheese on toast, and watch something noisy on TV while the water ran for my bath. I was almost drooling, but whether for the cheese on toast or the bath, I couldn’t be sure.
There was a note in Mum’s spidery handwriting propped against the microwave door. Might be late so don’t wait up, love Mum xx PS We have a visitor but don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get on famously!
A visitor, eh? So after all this time, Mum had finally gone and got herself a boyfriend? Unless he’d been around a while and she was only introducing him to me because I’d decided to visit and that had forced her hand? Hmm. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I mean, it was good that Mum wasn’t lonely and had some male company, but how weird was it going to feel if he stayed over and slept with my mother while I was here? Eugh! Well, there was no point worrying now about watching my mother play footsie under the breakfast table with a man who wasn’t my dad.
I shoved that image out of my head while I put a mug of milk in the microwave, and while that heated, sliced cheese, put the grill on, grabbed the TV remote and switched it on, before heading for the bathroom and getting that bath running.
There was an episode of Only Fools and Horses on Gold or Dave or whatever it was, so I watched the rest of that while shovelling hot cheesy toast into my mouth in a way I probably wouldn’t be doing if Mum were home. I was probably going to give myself indigestion, lying down in the bath after eating that but at the moment, I didn’t care.
A huge sigh escaped my lips as I sank down into the scented water. Mum had always been one for fancy bath products – stocked up on them whenever they were on three for two at Boots – there was never any Radox in our house. Mmm, Champneys’ Wild Rose – I didn’t think they even made that any more. It smelt like home. And the warmth of the water was so comforting. I hadn’t had a bath since the night before the movers took everything away and that had only been a quick dip – I’d have made the most of it if I’d known what was about to happen – only, of course, enjoying a bath would have been the last thing on my mind. This was bliss though. I could stay submerged for hours, until my skin went all wrinkly like a pink prune, or at least until the water started to get cold.
I let my mind empty itself of my day and float, as I marinated my body in the old-fashioned fragrance and there I was, wafting through an English rose garden in a white dress and sunhat. There was a picnic laid out on a blanket next to an open wicker basket, a huge pork pie, finger sandwiches, Battenberg cake, scones and strawberry jam. A game of cricket was being played on the green on the other side of the hedge. Alex was lying in the grass, reading – no, not Alex, don’t spoil it. Who was my favourite actor at the moment? That cute guy who used to be in Spooks, only minus the tattoos – yes, he looked like he’d be at home with a poetry book, reading out loud to me while I settled myself down in a cosy sun chair and let my eyes close … and drift … and … What was that noise? Was someone trying to break in to the cricket pavilion?
I shot upright, eyes open and trying to refocus in the steamy bathroom. Then I froze. Someone was trying to break into Mum’s flat.
Something smashed. It sounded like it came from the kitchen. They were breaking in through the window. Or they were already in and they’d knocked something over. Why hadn’t I brought my phone in with me?
My heartbeat hammered in my ears as I heaved myself out of the water as quietly as possible and stepped out of the tub, hardly breathing as I grabbed the nearest big towel and wrapped it around myself. What was in here that I could use as a weapon? Mum’s industrial size can of hairspray caught my eye. It was almost empty but the new one behind it was full. A burst of that in the face could incapacitate someone long enough for me to hit them with something, couldn’t it? But what? The can was probably the heaviest thing in here. And what if there was a whole gang of them? Maybe I should just lock the door and climb out of the window and get help.
A small scuffling noise came from the hallway. In desperation, my shaking hand grabbed the tall, cream jug from the window ledge, yanked out the loofah and the couple of long-handled back scrubbing brush things Mum kept in it, and got ready to bash whoever was out there over the head with it.
I tiptoed to the door, held my breath, and listened. Somebody moved quickly and quietly outside the door. Then the noise stopped and there was a scrabbling sound. Oh God! This was it. I had to take whoever it was by surprise.
Putting the jug down where I hoped I could grab it quickly, hairspray open and at the ready in my right hand, I offered up a silent prayer.
Then, on the count of three, finger firmly on the nozzle, I yanked open the door and sprayed.