‘Oh.’ Pru watched him, apparently engrossed in the contents of his diary. ‘So, you don’t need me then?’
Yes, I need you, Eddie longed to blurt out.
He shook his head, wishing he were thirty-five again, with less paunch and more hair. He wondered if his life would have turned out differently if he’d cultivated muscles and blond highlights.
‘Eddie.’ She sounded hesitant. ‘Have I done something to upset you?’
YES. YES. YES.
‘No.’
‘Okay.’ Pru wasn’t convinced. ‘So what time on Monday?’
When he looked up, she was fiddling with one of her earrings. It occurred to him that if he wanted to, he could sack Liam McPherson. Lay-’em McPherson, he thought bitterly. But what would be the point?
‘Ten thirty.’
‘And roughly when will we be back?’ Pru was mentally juggling her cleaning jobs. She had some serious catching-up to do after her fortnight off.
Listen to her, she just can’t wait to rush home to him.
‘Don’t worry.’ Eddie kept his tone even to hide the pain. ‘You’ll be back by six.’
‘Liza, you look terrible,’ said Margaret Lawson.
‘Thanks, Mum.’
Liza was in the kitchen huddled next to the Rayburn, clutching a mug of tea and watching her mother peel onions for a shepherd’s pie. Her offer to take her parents out to dinner had been met with the usual brisk refusal. Restaurants, according to Margaret Lawson, were a ridiculous waste of money. Anyway, she insisted, cooking for her family was never a chore. ‘I enjoy it,’ she told Liza. ‘And shepherd’s pie is your father’s favourite. He doesn’t care for all that fancy, faffedabout-with food.’
Liza had had this argument too many times before to think she could change their minds. She offered, they refused. That was the unalterable pattern of her visits.
She didn’t want to eat out anyway.
Margaret Lawson began vigorously chopping the onions.
‘I mean it. Terrible,’ she declared, glancing over her shoulder at her daughter. ‘You look as if you’ve been crying for a week.’
Wrong, thought Liza. I’ve only been crying for three days. ‘Been sacked, have you?’
‘No.’
‘Pregnant?’
‘No.’
‘So it’s man trouble,’ her mother concluded, turning her attention back to the onions.
Liza didn’t say anything. She had been on the receiving end of the find-yourself-a-decent-man-and-settle-down lecture almost as often as the restaurants-are-daylight-robbery one. The high turnover of men in her life and her inability to stay interested in any of them was a source of deep concern to her parents, she knew. Nothing would make them happier than to see her safely married. They weren’t fussy either; any niceforty-year-old lawyer, bank manager, accountant or even architect would do.
‘What was it this time, then?’ Margaret persisted lightly. ‘What did this one do to deserve the push? Drum his fingers on the steering wheel? Part his hair on the wrong side? Sing off-key?’
This was her mother’s attempt at humour. It was her way of trying to help. And at the same time have a bit of a dig.
Liza thought of Kit and pressed her lips together. She mustn’t, mustn’t cry.
‘No.’
The onions landed in the frying pan and were expertly tossed in hot butter. Margaret Lawson reached for the carrots. ‘You don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Not really.’
‘So he’s married.’
God, thought Liza, when it comes to interrogation, the KGB have nothing on my mother.
As she shook her head, a single tear slid down her cheek. ‘Did he finish with you?’
‘No. I ended it.’ She heaved a shuddery sigh. ‘You don’t usually ask this many questions.’
‘You don’t usually look like a wet fortnight in Fishguard,’ Margaret Lawson replied with asperity.
Mothers. Who’d have them?
‘I’m sorry,’ said Liza.
The carrots were pushed to one side. Margaret Lawson wiped her hands on a tea towel and turned to face her daughter.
‘Liza,’ she said quietly, ‘you’re frightening me. Tell me what it is. Please.’
‘Oh, Mum ...’
‘This one was special, was he?’
Helplessly Liza nodded.
