Chapter 68 Liv
Chapter 68
Liv
‘She’s back,’ Brandon yells from the lounge.
I hear him from my home office and know immediately who he means. My shoulders tense.
‘How does she look?’ I shout back.
‘Like she’s about to accept an Academy Award for best actress.’
We’re under siege from news crews scattered about the village. Some have tried to park in the cul-de-sac, but a group of neighbours fed up of being caught in the eye of this media storm have taken action. Word went round that Margot was being discharged from hospital this morning, so they’ve made a human chain across the entrance to our street like those Just Stop Oil protesters, to keep press vehicles out.
Instead of joining Brandon by the window, I remain in front of my Mac. I replay a video I’ve been watching since I uploaded it earlier today. This time, I slow it down to about a quarter of its speed and take in everything I see, frame by frame. Goosebumps cover my back and arms.
I hear Brandon’s footsteps approaching the office so I close down one of the two windows open on my screen, leaving just the spreadsheet.
‘When are you going over to see Dame Judi Dench?’ he asks.
‘I’ll text Nicu later to see how she’s doing then give her a couple of days to settle in.’
Brandon was one of those helping to pull away smouldering wood from Margot’s pyre on Bonfire Night. We then made a swift return home as we didn’t want the kids any more confused than they were already as to why the display had come to a swift halt.
Something wasn’t right when I visited Anna the next morning. At first, I blamed it on the trauma of almost losing a close friend. But when I look back on it now, I’m not so sure. Her explanation of how she had known where to find Margot felt rehearsed and implausible.
The more Brandon and I have discussed it, the more we’re in agreement there are too many holes in her story. How did Anna just so happen to stumble across a telephone with Margot on the other end? Why was Anna’s head bleeding? And why did she tell me Drew was working when he was already there?
‘Oh, did I tell you I’ve booked the concrete delivery?’ Brandon continues.
‘Concrete?’ I repeat.
‘For the orangery floor.’
‘Of course,’ I say and try to appear enthusiastic. ‘When?’
‘Last week in January is the earliest I can get it.’
It took us weeks to make a decision about the orangery after council planners were tipped off that we’d breached regulations. Brandon has since demolished it and has dug out replacement foundations and built most of it by himself. I haven’t been able to bring myself to admit we’re not in a financial position to be going ahead with anything beyond the flooring.
He peers over my shoulder at my screen. He won’t be able to read what’s on the spreadsheets without his contact lenses. And even then, he’s unlikely to make sense of what any of it means. Excel isn’t one of my husband’s fortes.
‘What’s got your attention?’ he asks.
‘Nothing,’ I lie. ‘Just checking a few figures.’
‘And we’re all good?’
‘Yep.’
He kisses me on the crown. ‘See?’ he says. ‘I told you we would be.’
Shouting coming from the hallway takes him back to the children.
I wish I had Brandon’s naivety. He wouldn’t be so carefree if he knew how close we are to slipping into the red. But I want to spare him the truth. It’s my fault I didn’t take out business interruption insurance. If I had, I could make a claim for my two months of recovery. I’m sure a high-street bank would have required me to take one out as a condition of a loan. But mine was organised through blackmail.
So it’s up to me to dig my way out of this hole. I’m not going to fail my family like my parents did me and my siblings when we were moved from pillar to post for unpaid rent or mortgage defaults. I am keeping this roof over our heads come hell or high water. I will find a way.
I reopen the minimised window on my screen and watch the video one more time. I don’t know what to do with it.
But I know it’s going to be the complete opposite of what I should do.