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

the village gossip. I’m itching to ask her what she was arguing with Marc about on the day he left, but I know it will be safer coming from Sasha.

She closes the door and leaves me to it. My patience dwindles as I rush through trying on the other outfits. This was a mistake. I should’ve caught the Tube into town. They are all too uncomfortable – both in size and style. I look at the price tag of a maxi dress and don’t even bother to take it off the hanger. Annie knocks on the door again; a buzzing fly that refuses to leave you in peace.

‘How about this one?’ she suggests, handing me a midi dress with lace cap sleeves. ‘This is the black. It comes in red too – a lovely ruby red. I’ll get it for you. The tie belt cinches around the waist – a definite flattering number. And I’ve got a classy metallic bag which will suit either colour. Let me take away what you’re not interested in.’ She runs off to fetch the red dress, then grabs the unwanted clothes and leaves me to it.

Her latest offering is the only one that achieves a smile as I twirl and turn to look at myself from all angles in the mirror. The stilettos have to go, though. I’ve got a pair of black kitten heels somewhere at home that will polish up well enough. Slipping back into my jeans and T-shirt, I take the dress to the till where she is prinking her hair in a compact mirror. She stops to whip the dress from my hands. ‘You’ve gone for the ruby red. I thought you might.’

The kids are sitting like little stars, colouring in pictures of the sky. I stand, staring at them for a few minutes while Annie finishes replacing all the items I found unsuitable.

‘What about shoes and bag?’

I tell her my plans, and she asks me about jewellery, but I tell her it’s not my thing.

‘Aren’t they little angels?’ she says, nodding over to the kids while she parcels the dress in tissue. ‘Such a credit to you.’

The kids wander over, and I slip a packet of jelly babies out of my bag and hand it to Isabella. ‘Make sure you share.’

‘I like it when you don’t work on Saturdays, Mummy,’ Isabella says, ‘it’s so much more fun.’ She offers Annie one of her sweets. ‘My mummy’s a policewoman, but don’t worry, she doesn’t carry a gun.’ She returns to her colouring.

Annie shuffles back a step. ‘Are you really? A policewoman?’

‘I am indeed, but don’t worry, she’s telling the truth. I honestly don’t carry a weapon of any description.’ I laugh, but she doesn’t.

Flustered, she applies her promised discounts and processes my payment. ‘So, what made you want to become a policewoman?’ she asks while she is waiting for the transaction to process.

I tell her the truth. That my childhood was riddled with deceitful bastards and ever since, I’ve wanted to contribute towards ridding the world of them, which clearly flusters her some more. Her cheeks redden, and she removes the silk scarf she wears around her neck like an air hostess. She quickly slips my purchase into an Annie’s-embossed glossy bag, and tells the kids it’s time to go. Isabella protests that she wants to stay and finish her picture. Annie whips the book from under Isabella’s crayon. ‘Take it with you – a present from me. Be sure to finish colouring all the pictures and bring it to show me next time.’

Her voice rises in vocal pitch as she swings the bag’s ribbon handles towards the door. ‘Have a good day.’

‘I don’t like that lady, Mummy,’ Joe says as we walk to the car. ‘She talks too much.’

Cutely intuitive, it’s not only in his physical appearance that my son takes after his father. This Annie warrants further investigation.

Fifteen

Harry’s looking suave in black tie when he greets us. He is standing with a broad-shouldered man with a close-cropped, grey beard who is dressed in a tuxedo too. ‘You must be Jim and Eva. Sasha has told me all about you.’ He holds out a large hand. ‘I’m Art,’ he says, ‘the designated security officer for the night.’ His tone suggests he’s happy with this arrangement. ‘I’ll be on guard to prevent any crashers who might decide to rock up.’ Two cars are parked in the entrance of the close to stop any unwanted visitors.

More guests arrive, half our age it seems, and Harry high-fives them. Jim discusses his upcoming appointment on Monday with Art, while I glance around the horseshoe crescent decorated party-style with black, white and silver balloons – fitting for a boy becoming a man. The party is already in full swing. There are more people here than I imagined. A vast banner marking Harry’s coming of age is hooked to the brickwork of Sasha’s studio. This is typical Sasha, digging deep to ensure perfection.

She appears with a tray of fizz-filled flutes each topped with a cherry on a cocktail stick. Harry scoops up four. ‘Steady on, you’ve already had a few.’ Sasha says. She’s dressed in a brightly coloured maxi dress which I saw in Annie’s boutique this morning. ‘Welcome, have a glass of this,’ she says, offering me a drink. ‘You look fantastic. I’m glad Annie found you something.’

A mask of party makeup – red-glossed lips, heavy eyeshadow and glittered cheeks – and a conscious effort to smile for her son’s important night, attempt to disguise the pain in her face, but she doesn’t fool me. ‘At last, the official DJ has arrived!’ she says. ‘I’m glad you’re finally here. George keeps putting on his dreadful rap music.’

‘Sorry, I had trouble getting the kids settled. They wanted to come too. The cab I’d ordered drove off, and we had to wait for another.’

‘You could’ve brought them along. We wouldn’t have minded. But I’m sure it’s good for you and Jim to have a night