Climbing the stairs quickly, she gathered which was Ollie’s room from the dinosaur-themed name plaque on the door, which was remarkably similar to the one he had at home, she realised, somewhat disconcerted. Had Steve chosen it? But … he hadn’t long moved in. Surely they hadn’t been planning the theme for Ollie’s room before that? Pushing the partially open door wider, she glanced inside, feeling somewhat reassured as she noted the high-sided toddler bed in the shape of a racing car, which had undoubtedly been Steve’s choice. He’d chosen the similar bed at home, which was one of the all-important ‘boys and their toys’ decisions he’d made. Perhaps he was trying to replicate Ollie’s bedroom? He had mentioned he was concerned about him being homesick.
She was less reassured when she glanced towards the dinosaur toy box – also similar to the one Ollie had at home – on top of which Bunny was noticeable by his absence. Listening to make sure Laura hadn’t emerged from the kitchen, she tiptoed across to the box and lifted the lid. Bunny didn’t appear to be in there either. Her heart lifted a little as it occurred to her he might be tucked under the duvet where he belonged. She was about to close the lid when she spotted a familiar tuft of baby-blue fur peeking up between a playtime bus and a fire truck. Moving the toys aside, she extracted Bunny – who was lying face down, obviously already languishing in the toy box – and her heart skipped a beat.
He was missing an ear, the one that had been personalised with Ollie’s name. The hairs rose on Sarah’s skin as she examined him more closely to find that the ear didn’t appear to have been accidentally torn. It had been cut off.
Eleven
Laura
‘I’m really sorry about this,’ Laura said, showing Sarah out. ‘She’s been abroad for a while. She’s a fashion columnist and tends to travel a lot. And then turns up when she feels like it, unfortunately.’
‘It’s fine,’ Sarah assured her. ‘I wasn’t going to stay long anyway. Joe’s on duty this evening, so I have to get back.’ Smiling, she turned for the door.
Something behind her eyes had shifted, though, Laura perceived. She was sure Sarah had warmed to her. That she’d decided she could trust her. Now, there was a wariness about her. She’d probably heard her exchange with her mother as she’d barged her way in. Laura had told her that they were estranged, but there was no way to explain that she lived in a constant state of emotional flux where her mother was concerned. That she dreaded her breezing back into her life whenever she deemed it necessary, dreaded more the ghosts from her past that would sweep icily in with her. She was also angry with herself for not being assertive with her mother, as she always vowed she would be, especially after the last time she’d turned up and her world had fallen apart.
Closing the door behind Sarah, she walked determinedly back to the kitchen. Just do it. Tell her no, she willed herself. It’s not that hard a word. Tell her to go; that you don’t want her here. Not now, not ever.
‘Tea, sweetheart?’ her mother asked over her shoulder as she waited for the kettle to boil – as if everything were perfectly normal. As if it ever had been or ever could be.
‘Mmmum …’ Laura started.
‘Do call me Sherry, darling,’ her mother interrupted. ‘You know you struggle with the word Mum.’
Laura’s chest constricted with anger. She did struggle to address her mum. Not because of her difficulties enunciating the ‘m’, but because the woman didn’t have a maternal bone in her body. After the unbearable tragedy that had ripped Laura’s damaged heart from her chest, she’d begun to address her as Sherry, the name her mother had adopted, deeming Sharon too ordinary for a fashion columnist who travelled in the social circles she did. She was a fake. Everything about her mother was false.
Turning from the work surface, Sherry frowned as she surveyed Laura critically. ‘Really, Laura … grey?’ Taking in her M&S cashmere sweater and tracksuit bottoms, she shook her head disparagingly. ‘You know neutral colours don’t flatter your pale skin tone, darling. If you wore that outfit to the hospice, you’d probably be mistaken for a corpse. And that hair …’
Leaving that one hanging, and Laura tugging on a lock of hair she’d refused to cut, no matter how many times her mother, out of jealousy and insecurity, had suggested she should, Sherry strode past her, her heels clicking on the ceramic kitchen tiles as she headed to the hall.
‘Despite my busy schedule, I managed to squeeze in a bit of retail therapy, you’ll be pleased to hear,’ she called enthusiastically back from where she was retrieving the bags she’d dropped beside the front door.
Laura’s irritation escalated. Her mother would have been shopping for her – again – selecting clothes that were horrendously expensive and tasteless. She just wanted to be seen to be doing the things normal mothers might. Laura had no doubt this was all for Steve’s benefit, and that whilst appearing to be concerned for her, Sherry would slowly but surely turn him against her. If she were to forge a relationship with someone she could trust implicitly, long-held secrets might surface, after all, and her mother couldn’t possibly have that, could she?
How dearly Laura wished Steve hadn’t answered her phone that fateful day her mother had called from the spring fashion show in Milan – which was what had prompted her to immediately change her number. Once her mother realised she was in a new relationship, Laura had known she would materialise, embroiling herself in her life, making it impossible for her to have the only thing she craved: a normal family, the child she desperately wanted. Now it was within her grasp, and here was Sherry like a bad omen about to spoil it.
‘How did you know my address?’ she asked, following her mother to the hall.
Straightening up with her bags, Sherry blinked at her in surprise. ‘Your young man told me, darling,’ she said, as if wondering why on earth she would ask.
Laura guessed that he would have. Steve was far too easily taken in, and she hadn’t asked him not to. She’d only ever given him scant detail about her past, as much as she thought it was necessary for him to know.
‘I’ll just take these straight up, shall I?’ Sherry asked, her Dior-painted mouth curving into that brittle sweet smile Laura had seen so many times. It was as fake as the rest of her. Behind the facade, she was scared, living in fear that her world would come tumbling down. ‘You do have a spare room, don’t you, darling? You did say it was a little three-bedroomed house you’d rented?’
Laura picked up on the word ‘little’. It stung, reminding her of everything her mother had ever valued above her: the grand Georgian farmhouse set in two acres of rolling Warwickshire countryside, with its paddocks, tennis courts and gym. And its pool, of course. They loved that pool. Laura couldn’t stand the sight of it.
Sherry was in her element there. She would never give it up, or the prestige she imagined it afforded her in the tiny village of Stepton, where she was ‘respected by the community’. She even helped out in the parish church nowadays, laughably; trying to assuage her conscience, Laura would bet. The house was a living, breathing part of her, she often said. She’d refurbished it with sweat and blood, making it the desirable residence it was. Or rather, with Grant’s money, once she’d got her fingernails firmly dug into him.