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

voice. ‘You’ve kept this from the kids?’

Sasha holds up her hand. ‘I know. I know. Don’t go there.’

Annie’s cheeks pale beneath her carefully applied blusher. She goes to speak but stops herself.

‘What is it?’ Sasha asks.

‘I don’t know if I should say.’

‘Say what?’

Annie looks from me to Sasha and then to the floor.

‘Come on, tell me,’ Sasha says.

‘I don’t know if it’s of any significance, or if I should even mention it, but I saw Marc one morning last week, in that coffee shop, near the boutique. What’s it called?’ She clicks her fingers in the air several times. ‘The Wild Café.’

‘I know the one. I didn’t know he went in there. Was he alone?’

Annie shakes her head.

‘Was he with a woman?’

Annie nods.

‘Who? Who? You have to tell me.’

‘Well, I thought it strange they hadn’t met here or at her house.’

Sasha frowns. ‘Who?’

‘Alisha.’

‘As in Alisha and Tom?’

Annie nods.

‘Neighbours Alisha and Tom?’ Sasha asks, her forehead furrowed.

‘That’s right. It surprised me too. I didn’t know they knew each other that well.’

‘Nor did I. How well?’

‘I went in there to buy a quick coffee. And there they were engrossed in some pretty heavy conversation.’

Twelve

Sasha stares incredulously at Annie, her voice barely a whisper. ‘Did you hear what they were talking about?’

Annie shakes her head. ‘I was only in there briefly, and I didn’t notice them until I was paying.’

‘Did they see you?’

‘I don’t think so. They were too absorbed in whatever they were discussing.’ Annie glances up at the clock and grabs her handbag. ‘I’m sorry if this is news you didn’t want to hear, but I felt I should share it with you in the circumstances.’

‘Of course, of course.’

‘Must dash. I’ll see myself out.’

She’s in such a hurry to leave, we hear her bump into the table along the hallway.

Sasha glares at me. Her mouth is open so wide you could fit a golf ball in there without it touching her teeth. She waits for the thud of the front door. ‘What was that all about?’

‘Who is this Alisha?’ I ask.

‘I told you about her the other day. She’s married to Tom, the graphic designer. The guy we met coming out of Pen’s Parlour on Tuesday.’

Yep, I know who Tom is. The man without a dog.

‘She’s a lawyer. Works up in the City. She’s also a client of mine who I see on an ad hoc basis. She suffers from recurring back pain. Workaholic. It’s the way she sits at her desk for too many hours. She’s quite a nice lady and very attractive. She’s got these amazing blue eyes.’ She pauses, wincing, then adds. ‘Do you think she and Marc are having an affair?’

I take her hand, squeezing it tightly. ‘I keep telling you – stop jumping to conclusions.’

‘Then what were they doing together?’

‘I could give you many reasons, but I have to go. I can’t be late picking up the kids.’

‘Will you come over there with me later?’

‘Where?’

‘Alisha’s. She’s working from home today. She called me this morning to ask if I could fit her in for an appointment today, but I was fully booked. ’

How am I going to fit that in?

‘Please? Eva, please.’

‘What’re you going to say to her?’

‘I’m going to ask her what she was doing with Marc in that café last week. My head’s all over the place. I know I’m not thinking straight. I need you with me to gauge her reaction.’

‘I promised the kids the park and ice creams after school. I can’t let them down.’

‘That’ll work. Hannah will be home by then. You know how much she loves them. They’ll be fine with her while we chat to Alisha.’

The kids are hanging off the headteacher’s arm when I arrive out of breath to an empty playground. ‘You’re never on time, Mummy,’ Joe says, which is a tad unfair. I’ve only been late picking them up on a couple of occasions. Isabella’s downturned mouth boosts the guilt her brother hurls my way. ‘You’re always late.’

‘Pickup is three-twenty, Mrs Barnes. We try to teach the children good timekeeping here,’ Mrs Miller says with the air of superiority only a headteacher can get away with.

‘Sorry, you two. I couldn’t find a parking space, so I had to leave the car a few streets away.’

‘I’ve sent you an email, Mrs Barnes. Perhaps you could send me a reply when you get home?’

‘Sure. Anything we need to discuss now?’ I ask.

‘No, no. Have a wonderful weekend.’

I grab the kids’ hands. ‘Come on. It’s ice cream time.’ I wish Mrs Miller a happy weekend before she has the chance to lecture me any more.

I take them to the common and watch them run to the café. It’s their favourite place. A large wooden cabin, surrounded by trees, famous for its homemade ice cream served in fancy waffle cones half coated with rich Belgian chocolate. Joe sprinkles on the guilt. ‘Can we have extra toppings today?’

I can’t endure an argument. ‘Go on. Just this once.’ He smiles for the first time since pickup.

After our sugar overload, we wander over to the adjacent playground, the kids chatting without pause. I park myself at the end of a bench, relishing the smiles now gracing their innocent faces. They scamper off to play, holding hands and squealing. They have taught me that, for them, happiness is simple. I savour the time watching them climb and swing, see-saw and slide their way around the equipment.

Why can’t life always be this simple?

I’m replying to Mrs Miller’s email on my phone, agreeing to go and see her first thing on Monday morning, when Isabella comes running towards me, her arms held wide. I spring up and catch her, holding her close against me. ‘I love you so much, Mummy,’ she says, and I tell her not as much as I love her.

I lead her away from the bench and the ears of other mothers, scanning the playground for Joe. There he is, safely occupied with other similar-aged children on a wooden pirate ship. I