Chapter 25 #2
‘I am not getting your kids. If it comes to it, I will look after them if you have to serve what will surely be a very short sentence for your first, desperate, small-time offence. They are not my children and never will be. I’m Auntie Alex, who gets to swan in and do the fun stuff, but you’re their mother.
An amazing one. Up until recently.’ I added that last bit after seeing her eyebrow arch.
‘I’m here so we can fight this together.
Don’t you dare give up before we’ve even started. ’
It took more cajoling, caustic sarcasm and the reminder of when she once made me sign a blood oath to be her minion, which as far as I was aware was still binding, but as we finished the bottle, we came up with a plan.
Firstly, I was hiring the best criminal defence lawyer I could find, and Lacey was doing whatever they told her to. After fumbling through the initial brief hearing in the magistrates’ court, she was now due in the Crown Court on 29 December where she had to enter her plea.
Secondly, we were making damn sure she passed whatever assessment social services threw at her. Trudy Barnes was going to eat her words.
After a stuffy night in Bronte’s bed, trying to block out Kaylynn’s whuffling and Lacey’s alcohol-induced snores, I got up in time to get the kids fed and dressed and walk the boys to school. Mum was still crashed out on the sofa when I came back.
Lacey and I spent the rest of the day blitzing the house.
We tossed everything that wasn’t working or had no obvious function.
I crammed the e-scooters into my car, then left them at a local park where Lacey assured me the CCTV wasn’t working before alerting a community police officer who happened to be nearby.
The boxes in the loft contained either bags of mouldy bird seed, hair removal cream called ‘Baldilocks’ or cartons of toy building bricks branded ‘Legone’.
After carrying the boxes down to my parents’ bedroom, we found no available floorspace, so dumped them on the bed and left them for Dad to deal with.
It wasn’t pleasant clearing the living room to the background squawks of Mum’s indignation.
In the end, Lacey stuck on her teenage noughties playlist at a volume high enough to drown out both Mum and Cat Deeley on This Morning and we simply acted as though we couldn’t see her arms waving in protest.
Dad had also objected, grabbing one of the full bin bags and insisting he had good reason for keeping whatever was in there.
Lacey planted herself in front of him, stuck her finger in his face and reminded him that thanks to his benefits tricks, it was her name on the rental agreement and he wasn’t legally living there, which meant she had every right to throw him out along with his junk if he didn’t start helping.
Something else nobody had shared with me. I would need to read the tenancy agreement to see whether everyone could stay here if Lacey was in prison. Losing her house would be another blow, given how hard it would be to find somewhere suitable for her and the children once she was released.
All these different what-ifs and what-about-thats tumbled about inside my head for the rest of the day, churning up a migraine.
Dad was so agitated about us disposing of his stash that when Lacey sent him to collect the kids, he left without bothering to argue.
Lennon summed our progress up perfectly when he got home. ‘Ew! What did you tidy up for? Now you can see how dirty and old everything is.’
The bare carpets were revolting, the walls flecked with goodness knows what. I was inclined to drape a towel on one of the chairs before sitting down, only they were all in the washer-dryer.
I had no intention of letting the kids sit about, however. Instead, I channelled my fraught nerves into taking them for haircuts, shoe and clothes shopping, in the hope they’d appear presentable the next time Trudy Barnes came calling.
I had intended on phoning Will at some point, but after that ordeal, by the time they were in bed, my head was throbbing so hard I wasn’t capable of conversation.
Instead, I typed a quick reply to his messages saying he was thinking about me, and there whenever I wanted to talk.
I couldn’t begin to explain what was happening in a WhatsApp, simply responding that I was mostly okay, but my sister needed me for at least a couple more days, I was exhausted but I missed him and would call soon.
Merry had also sent me an update. The Tucker’s interior was almost finished, and the photos looked gorgeous.
The next few days were all about the kitchen – stocking up, sorting out, perfecting the new recipes.
Her enthusiasm and positivity eased some of the guilt of abandoning her and Joel mid-project.
Wednesday followed a similar pattern. We blitzed the house with cleaning products while instructing Dad to mend the broken blinds, cupboard doors and other bits and pieces.
Mum huffed herself up to bed, so she could watch television in peace and we could get on without her constant grumbling.
We did a giant supermarket shop, including new bedding and toiletries alongside some decorative touches from the homeware section.
We then went on the IKEA website and ordered extra furniture to squeeze into the loft, along with whatever else would transform the space into gorgeous little rooms.
After school, we all headed straight to a local garden centre and chose an artificial Christmas tree and decorations, as well as visiting Santa’s grotto.
I exchanged a few messages with Will throughout the day.
I’d missed Tuesday’s advent challenge word, which had been WILD, along with photos and videos that couldn’t help but make me smile.
It had felt a little wild, sneaking those e-scooters into Crandon Park, but with my sister currently on bail I wasn’t about to take, let alone post, a photo.
Today’s word was SPARKLY. That was an easy one.
I uploaded the most gorgeous picture of Kaylynn completely entwined in the tacky rainbow tinsel she’d fallen in love with at the garden centre, her cute face peeking out of the top, freshly cut ginger hair alive with static, cheeks dimpled from her proud smile.
The rest of the group posted endless photos of their Christmas social, all of them dressed up to the nines.
Lola had booked tickets for a Great Gatsby-themed Christmas murder mystery night at the National Justice Museum in Nottingham.
There were cocktails, a three-course dinner and a live band.
Their team solved the murder, thanks to Donovan spotting a crucial musical clue.
I scrolled through all the photos, pausing to have a little swoon at Will in a tuxedo.
But, honestly? It seemed like an alternate universe.
As if it was a different Alex who had spent time with these wonderful people.
A brief, beautiful, brilliant dream in the mangled mayhem that was Alexis Nixon’s real life.