Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (always you kirsty moseley .txt) 📗

evening too. That’s why he withdrew that fifteen hundred pounds from his bank account. He needed to settle the fine and didn’t want to pay it out of our joint account. And that’s why he made me sell the car and always makes me drive now.’ She slaps her hands on top of her head in anguish. ‘Why didn’t he share all this with me? Isn’t that what marriage is all about? Sharing good times with the bad.’

She looks at me with such sadness, a lump appears in the back of my throat. A tumour of pity I swallow before it grows any bigger. Arthur’s voice rings in my head. “Don’t get involved in their story”. ‘Only he can tell you that.’

‘God, it’s like I never knew him.’

Her tears recommence, but this time they are not of distress and sorrow. They are of justifiable resentment. I’ve seen it so many times. Another couple playing the marriage game – but not by the same rules.

Ten

DAY 5

When I drop the kids at school, a yummy mummy accosts me at the gates. The designer-clothes-and-fancy-handbag type, privileged enough to employ a full-time nanny even though they don’t have a job. Claudia Walters-Stewart represents the kind of woman I haven’t got the time for but need to be polite to for the sake of my daughter. Isabella and her daughter Amelia are bffs.

‘Eva,’ she calls out, waving her manicured nails in time to her voice which sounds as if tiny unicorns are going to dance out of her rear end. Rob’s sarcasm has undoubtedly rubbed off on me lately. ‘We need to discuss Isabella.’

Oh, do we now?

I grit my teeth. I slept badly last night. After calling in on Sasha, I stopped at the twenty-four-hour supermarket to pick up ingredients for this cake I foolishly agreed to take responsibility for. Why, oh why? Then the kids delighted me with prods and pokes at six.

Isabella cowers behind me. ‘Sure, let me see my children off, and I’ll be happy to chat.’ When did I get so good at lying? I kiss Joe and Isabella goodbye while trying to find the pseudo-smile I save for situations like this. I turn to face Claudia. ‘How’re things?’

She pounces straight in like a jaguar on its prey. ‘Amelia told me Isabella said her mummy carries a gun for her job, and she will bring it into school and shoot her if she won’t be her friend. And, as you can imagine, Amelia is dreadfully upset about this.’

Her allegation tips me off balance; I grab the railing. ‘I thought they were friends?’ I say to give myself time to think of a suitable answer.

‘It appears not. Hasn’t Isabella told you?’

‘Told me what?’

‘That she threatened my Amelia.’

‘I can assure you, Claudia. I do not carry a gun. I will have a chat with Isabella at the weekend to hear her side of the story.’

‘I want to go and discuss it with the head. Now.’

‘As I said, please let me talk to my daughter first.’ I walk away, hearing her tut as she stomps off towards her clique of cronies, all staring at me, crowded around her Range Rover.

There’s no denying it, Claudia Walters-Stewart has wound me up. I drive home faster than I should. Isabella wouldn’t say such a thing, would she?

I wasn’t going to run today, but that woman has worked me up so much, I know it’s the only thing that’s going to get me through the day. Damn her. I quickly catch up on emails regarding a couple of cases currently awaiting trial, before changing into some shorts and a T-shirt. I tie my hair into a ponytail and head out towards Tooting Common. I need to make that cake, so there’s only time for a three-miler. But it’s half-hour well spent sweating Claudia Whatever out of my system.

‘So, I guess lunch is delayed?’ Jim says when he gets in from his Friday morning session at a local charity for the homeless. He started volunteering there way before we got together. It’s coming up for his twelfth year now, and he still looks forward to it every week. He teaches people who have never even peeled an onion to cook homemade meals. Unlike me, he is a dab hand in the culinary skills department. I used to join him weekly before Joe was born and occasionally still go along to help – in the office rather than the kitchen, though.

He grins at the cake mixture daubed across the backsplash, and the entire contents of our baking collection mounting in the sink. I didn’t even know we owned this much equipment: whisks and spoons and spatulas, tins and bowls and measuring jugs. Mel must have acquired it over the years. She often leaves a receipt with a note to say what she has bought, but I never pay much attention. I trust her enough to periodically throw a couple of twenties in the money box she uses for ad hoc purchases.

‘Nice effort.’ Jim nods approval at my baking attempt, which doesn’t deserve such a liberal compliment.

‘You should have made it.’

‘You know I don’t like making cakes,’ he says.

I snort, glancing at my watch. I want to speak to him about the yummy mummy’s accusation, but it’s only two hours until school pickup, and I promised Sasha I’d pop in. ‘Can we do dinner, instead of lunch? I’ve got a few jobs to do before I need to get the kids from school.’

‘Can’t even spare ten minutes with your husband?’

I try the wide eyes, pouting look. It usually works. ‘I’ll sort a takeaway tonight.’

He rolls his eyes and says he’ll put some wine in the fridge.

After clearing up, I find a tin for the cake and search for the candles and personalised name cake topper I ordered online. If it tastes bad, at least it might look good.

When I arrive at Napier Close, Sasha opens the studio door and shouts out, ‘Be with you in a minute!’

I check my phone