Page 68 of The Mother-in-Law

I look down at myself, at my black jeans, grey T-shirt and nude ballet flats. The shirt has a bedazzled picture of the Eiffel Tower on the front, but it’s a relatively plain outfit by my standards. I don’t even have any hair accessories or adornments in. The only jewellery I’m wearing, in fact, is the necklace Diana left to me.

‘My style is . . . evolving,’ I admit.

Ollie smiles. ‘This outfit actually reminds me of something Mum would wear.’

I smile back. I don’t tell him Diana didn’t own a pair of jeans, and she would roll over in her grave if she heard anyone suggest that she might wear a bedazzled T-shirt. His point, that I’m favouring plainer, more practical outfits lately, is a valid one. Odd as it sounds, Dianamighthave played a role in that.

We go through a few more items before we decide to call it a day. Then, as we are about to get into the car, I hear gravel crunching on the driveway.

‘Lucy! Ollie!’

We turn in unison. Housseini and Jones are coming down the driveway toward us. Immediately I go on high-alert.

‘Hello,’ I say uncertainly.

They continue walking toward us. They’re not alone. Beside Housseini is a woman in workout gear whose face is far from friendly. She plants her feet, several metres back from us.

‘It was him,’ she says quietly to Housseini. ‘Him. Definitely.’

Housseini remains beside the woman, and Jones continues a few paces further up the driveway, stopping in front of us.

‘Can we help you?’ Ollie says.

‘We’ve just been talking with the neighbours again,’ Jones says, ‘trying to ascertain who was the last person to see your mother before she died.’ She glances back over her shoulder at the woman in the active wear, the woman who is looking at Ollie but slightly south of his face, as though she’s nervous to look him in the eye. Nervous to look atOllie.

‘It was him,’ she says again, louder now.

‘What was him?’ I ask her.

‘I live across the road,’ she says. She seems happy enough to lookmein the face. ‘I was headed out for a run last week, the same day Diana was killed, and I saw him,’ she jabs a thumb at Ollie, ‘walk through the gates.’

‘Were you here, Ollie?’ Jones asks. ‘The afternoon your mother was killed?’

Ollie shakes his head, baffled-looking. ‘No.’

‘Youwere. You were wearing navy trousers. And a checked shirt.’ The woman nods deeply, as if becoming more convinced herself. ‘Blue and white!’

‘You must be getting him mixed up with someone else,’ I say. ‘Or maybe you saw him here another day.’

Both are reasonable explanations. Besides, Ollie’s not particularly distinctive looking. Tall, medium build, brown hair. It would be easy to discount this woman’s account of things, and that’s exactly what I do. Until a memory flashes into my mind. It’s Ollie, arriving home from work the day Diana died.

He’s wearing navy trousers and a blue and white checked shirt.

40

LUCY

The past . . .

‘Shhh,’ I say to the kids as we enter Diana and Tom’s house. Of course it doesn’t make the blindest bit of difference. It’s impossible to silence kids’ plastic shoes against marble, and Archie and Harriet scamper loudly through the place, feet slapping as they go.

We let ourselves into the house these days. I get the feeling Diana isn’t delighted about this, but her life is about practical matters now that she is caring for Tom around the clock, and it’s not practical for her to be answering the door all the time.

I follow the kids, hauling baby Edie in her car seat through the main floor. Everything has been moved onto this level since Tom has been in his wheelchair. I like the house more like this actually. With the extra furniture down here, the house is filled out nicely and has a cosy feel it didn’t have before. Also, everything is closer together. You can call out and pretty much anyone in the house can hear you.

‘It’s us,’ I say as we enter the back room.

Tom’s wheelchair is pushed up to the table. Diana is beside him, reading the newspaper aloud, but she pauses to hug Archie and Harriet, who throw themselves at her with abandon.