Page 62 of The Girlfriend

A DRIVER BLASTED HIS HORN AS LAURA NAVIGATED WHAT HAD TO BE one of the worst roundabouts in London.

She was south of Croydon in Purley, a traffic-choked one-way system of a town, suffocated on one side by this monster roundabout, which was now spitting her out into the entrance road of an extremely large supermarket.

She jolted over the speed bumps and headed for the car park, passing megadeals shouting at her from the posters along the route: three boxes of doughy pizzas, with fake smiling Italians, for three pounds. She parked and took a moment to think.

* * *

She’d lain awake last night for several hours, listening.

In her mind, she’d wandered through the house, each room shadowy, capable of hiding someone.

She’d pictured movement behind the curtains, heard the sound of breathing behind the door.

In amongst the fear, she got flashes of anger, of being afraid in her own home, of losing contact with Daniel.

Cherry was just a kid; as Isabella had said, if Brigitte ever tried anything like that .

. . she’d what? Certainly wade in, perhaps put a stop to it.

It was then she had the idea. She got up and switched on her laptop.

She had to find Cherry’s mother. It wasn’t a certain thing by any stretch; in fact, there was a very good chance it would be the worst move she could make.

Cherry knew how to cover her tracks and gave off an air of the innocent victim, and a mother thought her child more perfect than anyone .

. . but mothers also knew their children better than anyone else did—and maybe, just maybe, she knew something about Cherry.

* * *

Laura peered through the windscreen. This place was where Cherry’s mother might work.

She’d remembered Daniel had once said she worked in a supermarket, and, hoping she might have the same surname as Cherry, Laura had searched staff and managers under “Laine.” She’d gone through about three chains until at Tesco she’d found a woman called Wendy Laine.

The store’s location was about right—still commutable from Croydon, but Laine was a common-enough name, so it was entirely possible she had no connection.

If Cherry’s mother did work there, Laura wasn’t sure how best to approach her.

Her story was outlandish and shocking—no mother wanted to hear that her child had done something awful.

What if she was defensive, angry? What if she punched Laura or something?

What if Cherry had already told her about the lie, and the woman hated her on sight?

Anxiety and fear pushed Laura out of her car.

A woman in tracksuit bottoms, a size too small, walked past, dragging a girl no more than three, with pierced ears and a brash Disney T-shirt.

She was lagging behind, more intent on eating whatever sweet was wrapped in the long, lurid, yellow-and-green paper than following her mother, whose cart was loaded up with bags, at the top of which were cartons of the frozen fake-Italian pizzas.

Laura locked the car, then made her way to the supermarket entrance.

Wendy Laine was a checkout manager, the website had said, but she would obviously work shifts.

There was no way of knowing if she was working today—except, as she walked in, she saw a board by the entrance with all the managers on duty.

Wendy’s name was there, and next to it was her photo.

Laura stared and was disheartened. This woman’s hair was a rather bright shade of reddish brown and she looked nothing like Cherry. A security man was watching her.

“Everything all right?” he said, a note of suspicion in his voice.

“I need to see Wendy Laine, please.” Is there any point?

“What’s it about?”

“A personal matter.”

He looked as if he was about to argue, but then moved away, down one of the aisles, presumably to get her.

* * *

Two minutes later, a petite woman appeared at Laura’s shoulder.

“Can I help you?”

Laura scrutinized her for a resemblance to Cherry, but still saw nothing.

“Hello, I’m Laura Cavendish.”

The woman frowned a moment, then broke into a delighted, albeit perplexed, smile.

“Daniel’s mum?”

Her heart jumped. “That’s right.”

“Cherry never said . . . Are we meant to be meeting?”

“It’s more of an impromptu thing. I didn’t tell Cherry I was coming.”

“It’s almost time for me break. Hold on—” She fiddled with her radio. “Holly, can you cover now? I’m going for a cuppa.”

Laura heard a fuzzy agreement and then followed Wendy to the cafe, a bland, natural-light-starved cubicle at the side of the shop. “They do a lovely latte,” said Wendy, insisting on paying as she got the staff discount.

Laura ordered a peppermint tea, Wendy a latte, and the two sat down at a small round table with brown edging.

Wendy looked at her curiously. “It’s nice to meet you finally. I’ve been asking Cherry to introduce us for ages, but she’s always had some excuse, mostly that you don’t have much free time. Course, we’re both working mums,” she said, smiling.

Laura returned the smile. She thought that Cherry had said nothing about their falling-out; Wendy was too amiable, delighted even to be in her company.

In fact, she was so pleased to meet her, so openly warm, that Laura had an unexpected stab of guilt for what she was about to do.

She took a deep breath and clasped her hands on her lap.

“Wendy, a few months ago, I did something rather awful to Cherry.”

Her face was blank. “Did you? She never said.”

“Cherry and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, and when Daniel was not expected to live . . . you know he was injured?”

“Yes, terrible news, I felt so sorry for you—”

“Yes, well, when the doctors said he was unlikely to live, I told Cherry he’d died, just so I could spend those last few days with him alone. Just his father and I.”

It didn’t sink in at first. “You what?”

She didn’t say it again.

“Oh, my God.”

“And when he did live, I didn’t tell Cherry. I did a terrible thing, and I’m sorry for the hurt I caused them.... But since Cherry found out, she’s . . . well, to put it bluntly, threatened me with destroying my life.”

“Come again?”

Laura was wary. She’d caught the indignation on Wendy’s face, the flash of anger. “I know it’s probably very hard to hear. I would find it hard—”

“Now, just a minute. How do you get off coming here and telling me my daughter’s some sort of monster?”

“I didn’t say that exactly—”

“What have you got against her?” said Wendy, voice raised.

Laura laid her hands on the table. “Wendy. Please. Please hear me out.”

“Go on,” Wendy said begrudgingly.

Laura explained about the letter to Marianne, the puppy, and all the while, Wendy’s face tried to deny the shock.

“This is pretty far-fetched.”

“You think I made it up?” cried Laura. “I didn’t want to come and tell you this, and I certainly didn’t want to upset you or offend you, but I don’t know what she’s going to do next, and that makes me .

. . extremely nervous.” She paused. “And I don’t know how to stop her.

” Laura looked at Wendy, hoping she’d have some word of comfort, some solution to make the nightmare go away, but she just looked like a woman whose pleasant morning cup of tea with another mother had soured beyond anything she could have imagined.

“Who do you think you are . . . coming in here, insulting me and my daughter . . . ?”

She went to stand, but then Laura did too, begging.

“Don’t go. Please. I don’t know what to do. My own son won’t talk to me. You’ve no idea what that’s like.”

Did she imagine it, or did Wendy flinch? After a moment, she sat down again, much to Laura’s relief.

“She’s moved in with him, your Daniel, hasn’t she?”

Laura nodded. “He thinks I’m so against Cherry, it’s clouded my judgment.” She looked awkward. “Recently I’ve not been too keen on the relationship.”

“Why?”

Should she tell her? It might push the insults too far. Might make Wendy fly at her. “I had a notion that Cherry might like my son primarily because of his money.”

Wendy shook her head angrily, vindicated now. “No way. She had that job—over thirty grand a year it was.”

Laura was embarrassed. “She doesn’t work there anymore.”

“No, but she’s looking.”

Laura spoke softly. “I don’t think so.”

“But Daniel, no offense, Laura, but he’s still training, isn’t he? Not exactly loaded yet, and I can’t see him forking out for both of them. And he lives in a posh bit of London, doesn’t he? Must be one helluva mortgage.”

“He has a trust fund. And the flat . . . it’s paid for. His father bought it.”

Her eyes opened wider.

“Daniel has five thousand put into his bank account every month. Even though he has a career, which we hope will blossom, he doesn’t actually need to work.” She stopped, seeing her words finally had sunk in. Wendy had colored and, for the first time, seemed out of her depth.

“Bloody hell.” Silence fell between them. She’d closed off. Embarrassed about not understanding the scale of riches. Laura had a fear she was about to lose her and took her hand and held it tightly. “Please, Wendy. I don’t know what else to do.”

The other woman didn’t seem too comfortable with having her hand held and Laura awkwardly pulled away.

“And now she’s getting married,” said Wendy to herself.

Laura reeled beneath a million tiny shards of pain, her ears ringing.

“You didn’t know.”

“Married? Daniel and Cherry are getting married? When?” she said, panic rising.

“January.”

Her hands started shaking. “No, please, God . . . I can’t . . . Please, Wendy, I know she’s your daughter, but please don’t let her do this.”

“You don’t understand what you’re asking me.”

“It’s gone beyond the money. It’s turned into something where she wants him, wants all of him, and me not to have him. I’ll never see him again. She’ll cut me off completely. You know your daughter better than anyone—please, anything you can do.”

Wendy sipped her drink, then slowly put the cup down. It clattered noisily in the saucer, the china thick, designed to withstand the handling of the masses.

“No.”

A tightness gripped Laura’s chest.

Wendy stood. “You must understand, Laura. She’s my daughter.”

Laura watched as Wendy, trembling, walked away.