Heather jumped back from the door. “Sorry, of course. Come in.”
The woman moved smoothly down the corridor, heading straight for the kitchen, her confidence suggesting she was familiar with the place.
“It’s just a stew,” Lillian announced as she put the dish down on the counter. “Lamb, carrots, onions, and so on. You’re not vegetarian are you, dear? No, I thought not. Good. Heat it slowly in the oven.” Catching the expression on Heather’s face, she smiled again. “I know what it’s like when you’re dealing with something like this. It’s very easy to forget to eat properly, but that will do you no favors at all. Make sure you get something hot in your stomach, every night. Colleen was a dear friend. She’d be pulling her hair out if she knew you were wasting yourself away over this.”
Heather nodded, trying to catch up with the conversation.
“It’s very kind of you to think of me, uh, Lillian. You knew my mum well? Colleen, I mean. You said you live round here? You must have moved here in the last few years?” She was trying to remember Lillian from her own childhood, or her infrequent visits as an adult, but she couldn’t place the woman.
“Just round the corner,” Lillian was looking around the kitchen, as if she could spot every bit of dust Colleen would have been mortified about. Although Mr. Ramsey had instantly inspired Heather’s contempt, the idea of disappointing Lillian was oddly alarming. “Colleen and I used to spend afternoons together sometimes, drinking tea and talking about old lady things.”
Heather nodded, although it was strange to think of her mother as an “old lady”.
“How did she seem to you? Over the last month or so?” The question seemed to bring Lillian up short, so Heather uncrossed her arms and tried to look more relaxed. “I didn’t see her as often as I should have, you see. All this has come as a bit of a shock.”
“She was a strong woman, your mother. Surprisingly so. But it’s a generational thing, you see. People my age, well, we don’t talk about our feelings.” Lillian smiled thinly. “It’s not the done thing, and I’m afraid if Colleen was struggling, I had no idea.”
Heather thought about the screwed-up page on the dressing table, the pained face of the police officer as he passed her her mother’s wedding ring.
“So, nothing she said struck you as strange? No odd behavior?”
“Goodness,” Lillian looked down at the countertop as if Heather had just said a rude word in front of the vicar. “Colleen mentioned you were a journalist, but …”
“I’m sorry, I …” Heather looked away, half smiling. I can’t even do small talk properly. Mum would have found that funny, probably. “Look, can I get you a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you dear,” Lillian flapped a hand at her. “I wouldn’t dream of intruding, not now. I just wanted to drop that off and get a look at you. Colleen used to talk about you all the time, you know.”
“Really?” Heather smiled again, but it felt forced this time. We didn’t always get on so well. I was a pain in the ass when I was a kid, as I’m sure she told you.”
“Oh not at all,” Lillian brushed a piece of fluff from her sleeve. “Nothing but praise for her golden girl.”
Heather had the sudden impression that Lillian was lying, but she nodded anyway. The woman made to leave, squeezing her arm briefly as she came past.
“If there’s anything you need, dear, just tell me. Like I said, I’m very close, always happy to bake or cook or even do laundry if you’re feeling overwhelmed …” Heather followed her down the corridor like an errant schoolchild; she suspected people were often following Lillian about like this, dragged in her wake.
“Oh, would you look at that?” Lillian had stopped at a small side table in the hallway, where Colleen used to stack her post and keys each day. On it was a framed photograph of Heather. It showed her as a teenager, sitting on her bed in her old room. Tall and gangly, her dark hair hanging in her face, she was holding up a certificate of merit she’d been awarded at school; for an essay, a short story, Heather couldn’t remember. Seeing the photo made her stomach turn over—it had been taken just a few weeks before her dad had died and everything between her and her mother had started to turn to poison.
“That’s my favorite photo of you,” said Lillian, sounding pleased for reasons Heather couldn’t guess. “Isn’t it charming?”
Heather opened her mouth, uncertain what to say. In the photo she was wearing a black X-Files T-shirt that was too baggy on her, and she looked sulky. She had no idea why her mum had even framed it, let alone why this stranger was so taken with it.
“Anyway, I’ll let you get on.” The woman was already out the door, her neat white shoes crunching on the gravel. “Remember dear, anything you need, just let me know.”
Heather gathered up the post from the hallway carpet and chucked it on the kitchen counter. Lots of shiny leaflets, a few bills, several takeaway menus. Frowning, she separated out the stuff that would need attention, then dumped the rest in the bin. Something in the bottom of the bin had gone bad—some old bit of food, probably, the remains of her mother’s last dinner—and the waft of rotten meat made her stomach roll uncomfortably. Suddenly very close to being sick, Heather headed to the back door, sure that fresh air would make her feel better.
Tall evergreen trees obscured the view of the neighbors. When she had been a kid—when she had lived here, too, getting under her mum’s feet—those trees had been shorter, friendlier even. Now they threw the garden into shade, hiding Heather from view and keeping
