Page 36 of The Mother-in-Law

‘Ollie is going into business for himself!’ Tom can barely contain his joy. ‘A boutique recruitment agency!’

‘Oh!’

My voice registers my surprise. Ollie has never showed any interest in starting his own business, in fact he’s always been resistant to the idea. As his mother, I’ve never known him to be particularly ambitious, and despite Tom’s desperation to see his son ‘make a name for himself’, I thought it made him happy, working for someone else, having less pressure, even less money. The fact is, Ollie has never been motivated by money. ‘Well . . . congratulations, darling.’

‘You should congratulate Dad,’ Ollie says, but he looks pink-cheeked and pleased with himself. ‘He’s been angling for this for years. And I’m not exactly doing it myself. I’ve got a business partner.’

‘Oh? Who is your business partner?’ I ask.

‘Eamon.’

A whisper of dread crawls up my back. ‘Eamon Cockram?’

‘Yes.’

I try for a smile but it feels more like a grimace. Eamon Cockram. I’ve never liked that smarmy boy. He’s the insufferable type who thinks he is charming the mothers by telling us the years have been kind (sadly the years have not been quite as kind to him—the last time I saw him he’d grown tubby and quite bald). I heard through the grapevine that his wife Julia has left him, and I can’t say anyone blamed her.

Tom is grinning from ear to ear. ‘We’ll have to have Frank and Lydia over for a drink, won’t we, Di?’

I make a non-committal noise. Frank and Lydia are Eamon’s parents, and I will be going to the utmost lengths to avoid having a drink with them. Still, there is no point telling this to Tom who is practically floating around the front room, buoyed by the close proximity of his family and his son’s business venture.

Nettie, on the other hand, looks particularly melancholy. She’s gained some weight and has a sheen of sweat across her face. As she reaches up to pull her sweater over her head, her shirt rides up and, even though she said she’s not pregnant, I find myself looking hopefully for a bump. I don’t see one. Instead, to the left of her belly-button, I see a faint, oval-shaped bruise. I open my mouth to ask about it, but she gets in first.

‘So tell me about this recruiting firm,’ she says to Ollie, balling up her sweater and resting it in her lap. ‘Will you specialise in a certain industry?’

‘We’ll focus on IT roles to begin with because that’s our background—’

‘That’syourbackground. What about Eamon?’

If Nettie’s tone is anything to go by, she shares my opinion of Eamon, and I feel a swell of solidarity with my daughter.

‘Well, Eamon has done a lot of things,’ Ollie admits.

‘Anything relevant to recruiting?’

Ollie raises an eyebrow. ‘With due respect, Nettie, do you think I’d be going into business with him if I didn’t think he had anything to add?’

‘I think Eamon could sell sand in the desert,’ Nettie says and she has a point. Besides, Ollie isn’t stupid, nor is he irresponsible. He wouldn’t have gone into business with Eamon if he hadn’t thought it through. At least I hope he wouldn’t have.

‘Is it time for cigars, son?’ Tom asks. ‘Patrick, are you interested?’

Patrick, of course, is very interested. He, Ollie and Tom wander toward the den. Tom has his arms around them as he goes. I know all he wants is the best for his family, but he can be so single-minded about it.

I glance at Lucy, sitting quietly on the other end of the couch—I’ve almost forgotten she was here. She is enormously pregnant. This must be unsettling for her. Starting a new business is a stressful time for anyone, let alone when you are weeks away from giving birth. I wonder, as I have wondered so many times, why she hadn’t gone back to work herself. Even working part time, keeping her toe in the water, would surely give them extra security when starting a new business.

‘How do you feel about the business, Lucy?’ I ask.

‘It’s wonderful,’ she says. ‘Ollie is really excited.’

She smiles, the image of the doting wife, but I see in her eyes that she is worried. And while I know I should be grateful that she is so supportive of my son, all I want to do is grab her by the shoulders and give her a good shake.

The next morning I’m up and about early. I’ll admit it’s a strange arrangement I have with the refugee girls I work with. Generally, it’s a very intense relationship in the lead-up to the baby’s birth that peters out when the babies reach a few months old. I keep in touch where I can—a phone call every so often or a Christmas card—but I quickly become busy with new pregnant girls, and they become busy with their own lives. Still, I’m always pleased when I have reason to hear from them again. Like when Ghezala tells me she’s having another baby.

I pull into the driveway of her home—a different one, only a few streets away from the first but just as rundown. The lawn is overgrown and the gate is hanging from one hinge. I know Ghezala has been cleaning supermarkets at night to make ends meet, but as far as I’m aware Hakem hasn’t worked since they arrived in the country. He’s sitting in a faded deckchair on the front porch smoking a cigarette when I pull up.

‘Hello, Hakem,’ I say, slamming the door. He’s aged since I saw him last. He’s still a young man, barely thirty at a guess, but his black hair is swept through with grey and he’s paunchy around the middle. His eyelids are drooping, as though he’s drunk or half-asleep. I go around to the back of the car and retrieve the basket of maternity things I’ve brought for Ghezala. ‘How are you?’

He doesn’t respond. I let myself in the wonky gate.