Chapter 26
‘What d’you mean, she’s not here?’
Friday morning, and I stood in Mum’s kitchen, staring at a bleary-eyed Dean.
Knowing Dean was unlikely to offer anything more nutritious than a bowl of Coco Pops and past-its-best-date milk for Lola’s breakfast, I’d whizzed up bowls of Greek yoghurt, berries, honey and nuts for her, Joel and myself.
Once I’d sat with Joel and we’d eaten ours, I spent a good twenty minutes on a maths revision paper he was struggling with before he made his way through two huge pieces of toast and marmalade.
And I’d come round to Mum’s to collect Lola.
‘She was here with you last night… Wasn’t she? Dean!’
‘Of course she was. That friend of our Lola’s – Ruby – came to pick her up’ – Dean squinted at the phone permanently attached to his hand – ‘fifteen minutes ago.’
‘An eleven-year-old is driving now, is she?’ I fumed. ‘And you let her go without consulting me?’
‘Some woman anyway. Not Ruby’s mother, I don’t think. Attractive girl, foreign, nice smile, very nice smile indeed, fit…’
‘What?’ I breathed deeply, trying to keep my temper. ‘What sort of foreign?’
‘What do you mean, “what sort of foreign?”’
‘Dean, you think someone south of Barnsley is foreign. Was she the housekeeper? Who the hell was she? Ruby’s mother is dead apparently. And…’
‘Yes, Lola said. She must have been the housekeeper then. I think so. Look, I’m late for work and I’m not showered yet. You know I like to be down at the garage by seven thirty to open up. It’s nearly nine, with me unable to leave Lola.’
So, what was the problem? Surely it was great that Lola was off to stay with her friend from school. Meant I didn’t have to take her up to Mum or down to Patricia. Instead, my daughter was off to her friend’s for the day and what was wrong with that?
‘Lola said you knew about it,’ Dean was saying, heading for the shower.
‘Well, she would, wouldn’t she? This is not what sharing custody is all about, Dean,’ I snapped. ‘You should have rung me.’
‘You were back pretty late last night.’ Dean almost smirked. ‘Lola was tucked up and fast asleep in Sorrel’s room by the time you were back. We’d both been wondering where you were. You know, what you were up to. Have a good time, did you?’
Ignoring Dean’s implication that I was out on the town while he was left at home to babysit, I said, ‘Dean, I have to be up at The White House all morning. I need to know where Lola is, who she’s with and what time she’s coming back.’
‘A sleepover, the woman said.’ Dean took a surreptitious look at his phone. ‘Look, Jess, I really need to get on. You lot might be on an extended Easter holiday, but I have a queue of MOTs and services to get through. So, if you don’t mind…’
‘“A sleepover”? And “the woman said”?’ I air quoted the phrases crossly, pointing my fingers somewhat rudely in Dean’s face as I did so. ‘Ruby was with this woman? This fit housekeeper, wasn’t she?’
Dean hesitated for a split second. ‘Yes, in the car. She must have been.’
‘She must have been? For fuck’s sake, Dean! Did you not go down the drive and see Lola off in the car? What car was it? Have you got a phone number? You do not let Lola go anywhere without my knowing where she is…’
‘You do know!’ Dean was sulky now. ‘Queen’s Gardens. You picked her up from there the other day. She’ll be having a great time away from your wittering. Which, although you’ve decided to throw me out, you still seem to think it OK to subject me to…’
Subject him to? Dean’s vocabulary was obviously improving. I tried to think rationally.
‘Dean,’ I said as calmly as I could, ‘did Lola have clean knickers with her? Her nightie? A bag with her if she’s staying overnight?’
‘I’m sure she did. She went upstairs to get her things while I chatted to the woman.’
Chatted up, I thought peevishly. Could the man never see a female without the need to impress on her the charisma that was Dean Butterworth?
‘I have to get off,’ I said.
‘Fine.’ Dean held up two hands, almost in defeat, before scratching absentmindedly at his scrotum through his boxers, an unsavoury habit of his I’d put up with for the past twelve years or so and now, yes!
Now, I wouldn’t have to put up with it any more.
‘A plate of your scrambled eggs wouldn’t be on the cards, would it, Jessie? ’
‘No, Dean, it wouldn’t,’ I said pleasantly. ‘I’m going to take my dog in my van, to find out exactly where my daughter is before heading off to my new place of work.’
That shut him up. For all of two seconds.
‘OK, if you’re being proprietorial’ – (Dean was obviously proud of this word because he repeated it) – ‘if you’re determined to be proprietorial,’ he shouted at my retreating back, ‘then can I ask just who gave that kid permission to ride my bike and use my helmet…?’
But I was bundling Arthur onto Vera’s backseat and heading for Queen’s Gardens.
* * *
‘Hello?’ On this, my second visit to Will-O’-The-Wisp, the intercom crackled immediately into life once I’d pressed the buzzer on the gate post.
‘Oh, Mr…’ I couldn’t for the life of me remember what Ruby’s dad was called.
Henry, that was it. Henry double-barrelled.
‘Hi, it’s Jessica, Lola’s mum again. We met a couple of days ago?
I just need…’ The huge metal gate swung open, cutting me off mid flow.
I followed the gravel path I’d taken before, but this time, Henry (that was his name, thank goodness I’d remembered) was waiting in front of the huge closed second gate, no dogs (either the daft Pomeranians or the ravening beasts as described to me by Lola) to be seen or heard.
‘Jessica, isn’t it? Do come in. How lovely to see you again!’
Was it? I stared up at this tall, good-looking man, dressed, today, in white shirt and chinos. Very stylish.
‘So, what can I do for you?’
‘Basically, I need a phone number.’
‘A phone number? Any particular one?’ He smiled.
‘Your phone number.’
‘Mine? Oh? Why?’
Hell, this was hard work. ‘Lola is here…’
‘Lola? Oh, your daughter? She’s here?’ Henry glanced around the garden and towards the house and then back at his watch. ‘At this time of the morning?’
My pulse raced. ‘My husband said a woman had picked Lola up an hour or so ago?’
Henry frowned. ‘Right. Well, news to me.’
This was when I started to hyperventilate, taking in great gulps of air that still seemed unable to satisfy my parched lungs. ‘Please tell me she’s here,’ I breathed.
‘Hang on.’ Henry put out a hand to my arm. ‘Take deep breaths. Maybe a paper bag?’
‘Maybe my daughter…’ I managed to get out, looking round somewhat wildly at the house.
‘Come on,’ Henry said. ‘If your husband said my housekeeper picked Lola up, then she must be here.’ He started heading back towards the house with me desperately trying to hurry him up as we walked.
‘But you don’t know? You don’t know what’s going on in your own house? With your own daughter?’
‘I have a very busy life…’
‘Don’t we all,’ I said through a new intake of air.
‘Right, here we are.’ Henry opened a side door which led into a cloakroom. ‘Any of her things here?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know what she was wearing.’ My eyes scanned rows of Barbour-type jackets and expensive, trendy wellingtons.
You know the sort: not a ￡7.99 pair of black wellies from Aldi’s middle aisle, but navy and green Hunter and Burberry.
Something called Le Chameau. I could see nothing of Lola’s hanging up in there.
‘OK, follow me.’ Henry led the way through the most divine kitchen I’d ever seen and, if I hadn’t been in such a state of agitation, I’d probably have loitered, taking in the Gaggenau bank of ovens and cooker tops, the blissfully high-tech espresso machine, the Kaiser beer and wine cooler.
The place was so vast, it took a good ten seconds to walk through, despite my mentally urging him onwards and then upwards to the next (all cream-carpeted) level.
‘Right, here we are.’ Henry knocked softly on a door to his left. ‘Can we come in?’ he asked.
Can we come in? Was the man serious? I was ready to bash the bloody door down if it would reveal my daughter in there, safe and sound.
‘Mum?’ Lola looked up from the iPad she was holding and concentrating on, quickly closing it as she saw my head appear round the door. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Thank goodness,’ I said, my heart still racing but now from relief.
‘Thank goodness what?’ Lola pulled a face at me, obviously totally embarrassed that her mother had appeared out of the ether when she was least expecting her.
‘I didn’t know where you were,’ I said.
‘Hello, Mrs Butterworth.’ An exceptionally pretty, tall, blonde-haired girl closed her own iPad, standing from the huge king-sized bed she’d been sprawled on before walking towards me, holding out her hand. ‘It’s so nice to meet you.’
Well, that took the wind completely from my sails.
‘Erm, you too. Ruby, isn’t it?’
The girl nodded. ‘I do hope it’s all right, Lola coming over? And staying the night?’
‘Well, if I’d been a bit more informed,’ I said, still cross that I appeared to be the last to know what was going on.
‘Dad told you,’ Lola said impatiently. ‘Didn’t he?’
‘Well, yes, sort of. At the last minute. Said some woman had come to pick you up, Lola. She could have been anyone!’
‘Like the Snow Queen, Mrs Butterworth?’ Ruby asked, and, although her tone was nothing but polite, was there, I wondered, an undertone of high-handedness? Of arrogance even? ‘Honestly, Mrs Butterworth, Lola is safe here with us. Do let her stay.’
Was this eleven-year-old for real?
I glanced round the huge bedroom, totally getting why Lola wanted to be here instead of down at our cottage.
Or in the oil-smelling, girly-pin-up-walled office of Dean’s garage in the village.
On the walls were myriad framed pictures, all of a blonde girl.
I realised every one was of Ruby at different ages and in different poses.