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

‘And you’re convinced they’ll buy into that?’

‘They know he’s desperate to work again.’

‘What happens if he doesn’t return for Harry’s party at the weekend?’

‘I’ll send texts to them all from his phone later on. They’ll be fine.’

She’s deluding herself. I’ve dealt with the toughest of kids. Cases involving drug possession, abduction, rape, murder; the real dregs of humanity. And it doesn’t matter where they’ve come from, or where they’re going. Wealthy, poor, privileged or deprived, kids all share a common characteristic. When life really matters, none of them are stupid.

Three

As I pull into our gravelled driveway, Arthur calls. If there’s one annoying thing about my boss, it’s his ability to phone me when I could do without it.

‘I’ve got to go out early tomorrow. Can you and Sharpe pop in and see me first thing?’

‘Sure. What’s happening?’ I ask, staring at the weeds smothering the flower beds, and even more aggravating, sprouting up through the gravel. I must tackle the garden when I’m off work next week.

‘I’ll explain tomorrow. Get hold of Sharpe, can you, please?’ he says before hanging up.

I sit staring at our home, mentally preparing myself for round two of the day. I adore our Georgian, red-bricked house with its symmetrical sash windows, reminiscent of a former rectory, but on extra challenging days like this, I need a moment before I go inside. It’s larger than we need, and I remember Jim insisting we buy it. I hadn’t been so sure. The price tag had made me wince. ‘Ignore the price. I’ve been watching the housing market for years. The only way is up for the right property,’ he told me all those years ago, when I was pregnant with our first child. Back when he was a high-flying director in a private equity firm, and we failed to appreciate money didn’t magically appear in our bank account on the last Friday of every month. ‘We’ll make a fortune on this one when the time comes to sell it in a few years,’ he added. ‘Leave it with me.’ And without me knowing, that’s what he did. He bought it and started doing it up for our future together.

We didn’t move in for quite a while because he had a bad car accident, and everything changed. We’ve reconfigured the downstairs – knocked down walls to make the ground floor more open plan, converted the dining room to a bedroom and added a small extension to provide a wet room. All steps have been removed, and we’ve ramped the garden, so it’s now entirely accessible. That’s because for the months after Jim had battled the spectre of death, we were told that he would probably never walk again. But three years of intense therapy, numerous trips to the States and a dogged determination proved the medics wrong.

As soon as the front door closes, the kids come bouncing up the hallway. ‘Mummy, Mummy, you’re home.’ They each grab a leg and cling to me tightly as if they’re afraid I’ll run back out if they let go.

I ruffle their mops of curly hair, inhaling the smell of apple shampoo. That smell! ‘I sure am. How was school today?’

‘Great,’ Joe says. ‘I got all my sums right.’

‘Mel took us to the lido,’ Isabella says.

They are all smiles and joy as I prise them off me and bend down to lift handfuls of brightly coloured dinosaurs and sparkling princesses onto each hip. Joe has put on weight. When did that happen? I alternately kiss their angelic faces, revelling in their infectious giggles and silky skin tingling my lips.

‘She made us a picnic,’ says Isabella, yanking at my heartstrings. Another special time I’ve missed to add to the ever-growing list. Work versus motherhood, a never-ending tug of war that neither side can effectively win. ‘And she bought us ice creams.’

I hear the squeak of Jim pushing himself along the floorboards. I’ve been meaning to get some oil on those bearings for months, but he’s not had to use his chair much until the last few weeks. His pain levels must be bad today.

‘Evening, darling,’ he says.

‘Pain bad?’ I perch Joe on the hall table and slip today’s pile of post into my bag to deal with later. I bend to kiss Jim. Joe throws his arms out at me, kicking his legs against the table. I slide him back into my arms.

‘Dreadful,’ Jim says. ‘You’re late. I was getting worried.’

‘I’m sorry, something came up. I did text you.’ He needs a haircut, I notice. His floppy hair is hanging over the tops of his glasses; and his usual olive-toned skin looks pale.

‘We’re going to be late for my physio,’ Jim says. Isabella climbs on his lap, beaming like she has won a precious prize.

‘We’re not going.’

‘Why?’

‘It was in my text. Long story.’ I glance from Joe to Isabella and back at him as if to say, let’s discuss this later.

Mel appears, scuttling towards us, carrying her carpet bag like Mary Poppins. I apologise for my irresponsible tardiness like it’s Groundhog Day. ‘Not a problem. For you lovely lot, anything.’ She kisses the top of Isabella’s head then Joe’s. ‘See you in the morning, my smarties,’ she says, and they chorus their heartfelt goodbyes to her.

‘Bye, Mel,’ I say, and she tells me she’ll see me tomorrow, before disappearing out of the door like our family’s fairy godmother. I’m sure one day, if we peep out of the window, we’ll see her take an umbrella out of that bag and launch herself towards the sky and fly away.

‘Time for bed,’ I tell the kids, and they respond with their usual tirade of guilt-tripping words and questions to add to my already stricken conscience. ‘It’s not fair. We haven’t seen you all day.’ ‘You’ll be gone before we wake up.’ ‘Why can’t you pick us up from school like our friends’ mummies do?’

I guide them upstairs with promises of not one, but two stories for whoever’s first in bed.