by Maggie James
‘You are the best thing in my life.’ Dana’s eyes fill with tears, her gaze drifting away.
‘Look at me, Mum.’ A command, not a request. Dana, startled, lifts her pupils to meet those of her daughter. ‘I have lost my sister. I love my father, but we don’t connect well. Whereas you and me, we’ve always been rock solid.’
Dana nods, wipes away a tear.
‘You mean everything to me,’ Lori says. ‘So don’t ever – ever, do you understand? – tell me I’d be better off without you. Don’t spout crap about how I’ll be happier once you’re dead and I’ve inherited your money. Because it’s bullshit, plain and simple. No,’ she says, as Dana tries to speak. ‘I don’t want to hear how sorry you are. I’ve had a bellyful of your apologies. I’m sick of them. All I want from you is one thing.’
Dana gulps. When she speaks, it’s a mere whisper. ‘What?’
Lori’s eyes blaze into those of her mother. ‘Promise me this. That never again will you try to kill yourself. I don’t ever want to take another phone call as awful as that one.’
For a few seconds she’s not sure whether her mother will reply. Then Dana’s fingers press against hers. ‘I promise,’ she says, and this time her voice is firmer, clearer. Lori feels the iron fist clutching her heart loosen a little.
Chapter 15
LETTER
Over the next couple of days, Dana’s mood remains stable. She’s far from normal, but depression doesn’t appear to be stalking her too relentlessly. Instead, she’s somewhere in between: flat, robotic, her responses muted. She’ll chat if Lori initiates conversation, she’s eating better, but a light inside her remains dimmed. Despite Dana’s promise, Lori’s still concerned for her mental health.
Nearly a week after her mother’s suicide attempt, they’re eating breakfast. Saturday has dawned cold but dry, prompting Lori to suggest a walk later.
‘We’ve not been to Oldbury Court for ages. Please, Mum.’
Dana toys with a slice of toast, her eyes avoiding those of her daughter. ‘Might be too muddy.’
‘Not if we stick to the main paths. And the weather looks OK.’
‘I don’t know, Lori.’ Exhaustion in Dana’s voice.
‘Please, Mum. It’ll do you good. And we can go for lunch at Gourmet Delight afterwards. You said ages ago you wanted to try their salmon blinis.’
Her mother lets out a defeated breath. ‘OK, darling. If you insist.’
By the time Lori’s cleared up after breakfast, it’s mid-morning; they don coats, woolly hats, sensible shoes, ready for their walk. Once Lori’s parked at Oldbury Court, they turn towards the arboretum, its trees now winter-bare. Ahead, at the foot of the hill, lies the River Frome. At the top of the slope they pass a couple holding hands, reminding Lori, with a pang, of Ryan. She’s seeing him tonight at long last, and the thought of his warm body keeps out the November chill.
As they start the steep descent to the river, a familiar figure comes into view. It’s Aiden, kitted out in tracksuit and running shoes, heading towards them. She’d forgotten he trains here at weekends. She’s not seen him for a while, although they’ve called and texted each other. His eyes snag Lori’s, exhaustion arresting him in mid-stride as he bends over, hands on knees, to catch his breath. The exercise clearly hasn’t helped his asthma; he needs a strong puff on his inhaler before he can speak.
Lori smiles at him. ‘Training for another half-marathon?’
Aiden straightens up, wiping sweat from his brow. His eyes flick towards Dana. Lori reads a question in them.
‘Aiden, this is my mother,’ she says. ‘Mum, this is my friend Aiden.’
Dana manages a thin smile. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise.’ Lori catches him staring at her mother. He bites his lip, clearly hesitant. Probably wondering whether to mention Dana’s hospital stay. She’s not informed him about her suicide attempt, of course. She’s no intention of telling her father, either. Dana’s suicide bid should remain a private matter, known only by Lori, Ryan and her mother. Instead, she told Aiden, when she texted him earlier that week, that her mother has been ill, how she was admitted to Southmead, allowing him to assume her kidney problems were the cause. He called immediately, offering support and sympathy, thereby earning her gratitude.
‘I hope you’re better, Mrs Golden,’ Aiden says. ‘Lori told me you’ve been unwell.’
Time to steer the conversation away from dangerous waters. ‘We’re walking down to the river, then back up for lunch at Gourmet Delight,’ she responds. ‘Want to join us?’
He hesitates.
‘Please.’ Things still feel weird between them following her accusations about Damon Quinn, and she’s keen to get their friendship back on track. The fires at the rental houses continue to scare her; what if another one gets torched? Has she been right to suspect Damon, despite Aiden’s reassurances?
He nods. ‘OK. Yes, I’d like that.’
They descend the hill, Dana making small talk with Aiden. ‘What do you do for a living?’ she asks.
He grins. ‘Nothing very exciting, I’m afraid. I work for an insurance company, handling claims. Mostly burglaries and stolen cars.’
Aiden’s voice washes over Lori as he chats further with Dana. Lori hears the exhaustion in her mother’s tone. Time for lunch, even though it’s too early; the hill on the way back will test what remains of Dana’s strength.
‘We should go,’ she says. ‘Make sure we get a decent table.’
Once at the restaurant, Lori’s surprised at how well Aiden and her mother are getting on. Sure, Aiden’s a charmer, but it’s rare for Dana to open up so soon to a stranger. What’s more, it’s doing her mother good. A hint of colour hovers in her cheeks, and he’s made her smile a few times.
‘Want to hear a bad joke?’ he asks, pointing at Dana’s salmon blinis. When she nods, he continues, ‘Did you know there’s a fish that writes books? His name’s Salmon Rushdie.’
She laughs. ‘God, that was terrible. Are you always like this?’
He grins at her. ‘Pretty much. All part of my charm, as Lori will testify. I suspect she’ll need a hefty bribe, though.’ Dana smiles, but Lori doesn’t.
The conversation rolls on, Aiden asking her mother about her life: has she always lived in Bristol, how does she manage her illness, what music does she like? Lori observes how Dana blossoms as she laps up his attention. While she’s pleased the two of them are getting along, she can’t help feeling a twinge of resentment. He’s only just met her mother, yet he’s making her smile in a way Lori doesn’t, not anymore. However much she tells herself not to be childish, it rankles. She feels ousted, almost forgotten, and it hurts.
Then he says something that unsettles her. Dana’s chatting about food, saying how she loves to cook. How Jessie always loved her lamb roast, studded with garlic and served with herbed potatoes. It’s a throwaway remark, made during a casual conversation, so she’s surprised when Aiden leans forward, his expression intense.
‘That sounds delicious,’ he says. ‘Neither of my parents can cook to save their lives. As for me, I can manage a couple of pasta dishes but not much else.’ He smiles. ‘Been a while since I had roast lamb.’ The hint springs from his words, his intention plain.
‘Then you must come to lunch tomorrow,’ Dana says, while Lori wonders what’s going on. ‘I insist. Come round at one. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, darling?’ she says, turning to Lori.
‘Of course,’ Lori replies, while reflecting how he manipulated her mother into inviting him. What’s more, Aiden’s displaying a strange desperation, one she’s not seen before. As though Dana’s offer of lunch means more than he’s letting on. Her gut’s telling her something else is at stake, other than Aiden simply being a meat and potatoes man, keen for a free meal. But what?
After Dana settles the bill, Aiden reaches over, laying his hand on her arm.
‘It was lovely to meet you, Mrs Golden,’ he says. ‘I’m looking forward to lunch tomorrow
.’
‘He’s a charmer,’ Dana remarks once they’re back in the car, driving home. ‘How come you’ve never invited him over? I’ll enjoy cooking a decent roast meal for him.’
Beside her, Lori stays silent. The sense that Aiden deliberately manipulated her mother takes root, won’t let go. Once home, she checks the text she sent him earlier that day, the one mentioning their proposed walk at Oldbury Court. Unease grows in Lori’s belly, an idea gripping her tightly. Was the meeting with Aiden a coincidence, or did he engineer it?
The next day, Dana’s up early, preparing the lamb shank she bought on the way home from Gourmet Delight, peeling garlic, chopping the vegetables, shooing away Lori’s offers of help. It’s clear she’s in her element, and while Lori’s delighted her mother’s mood has lifted, she remains uneasy. In her room, lying on her bed with Oreo beside her, she reflects how she’s not felt comfortable around Aiden in recent weeks. Ever since his strange, over-the-top reaction to Jessie’s death, the constant phone calls and texts that followed. Their strained conversations concerning Damon Quinn. She’s always known Aiden’s a charmer, able to manipulate women with ease, thanks to that rumpled blonde hair, those soft blue eyes, his calendar-shoot body. Hell, she’s seen him in action often enough, when they’ve visited the Bierkeller, or when Celine’s around. Now she wonders if she herself hasn’t fallen prey to the guy. Her mother too. But what might his motivation be, given that it’s plain he doesn’t fancy her or Dana?
No matter how many times she tells herself she’s making something out of nothing, her sense of unease won’t go away.
At one o’clock precisely, the doorbell chimes. Lori hears her mother opening the front door. She hauls herself off her bed, enticed by the aromas of garlic and roast meat. When she comes downstairs and heads into the kitchen, she finds her mother busy at the stove, Aiden ensconced at the table. He smiles at Lori.
‘I brought wine,’ he says, gesturing towards the bottle of Merlot in front of him.
‘Isn’t that thoughtful?’ Dana says. ‘Told you, darling. This one’s a charmer.’
Aiden laughs, but Lori doesn’t. Over lunch, she observes him closely. Everything she sees and hears adds to her disquiet. He pays her mother most of his attention, drawing her out, smiling at her replies as his eyes hold hers. Lori’s puzzled. Given he’s supposed to be her friend, she’d have expected him to chat more with her. Instead, he’s acting like he’s known Dana for years. As though he belongs at the Goldens’ kitchen table, drinking wine and eating roast lamb.
‘Best meal I’ve had in years,’ Aiden tells Dana, once he’s finished his second helping. ‘Any restaurant would be proud to serve lamb that good.’
A blush tinges Dana’s cheeks. ‘Would you like some apple pie for dessert?’
‘Wow. Not an offer I can refuse. Go on, make my stomach even happier.’
She laughs. ‘My pleasure. I’m too full to move, but Lori will cut you a slice. Do you want cream with it?’
Great. Isn’t it bad enough he’s monopolising Dana? Now Lori has to wait on him as well. Even worse, when she plonks his dessert in front of him, he’s so engrossed with her mother that he doesn’t even thank her.
Sour resentment fills Lori. She knows she’s being childish, but can’t put her finger on why Aiden’s behaviour bothers her. She only knows that it does.
Monday morning, and Lori and Dana have just finished breakfast when the doorbell rings. ‘I’ll go,’ Dana says. She walks into the hallway, Lori glancing past her to see who it is. When her mother opens the door, black uniforms appear in the gap. Then voices, footsteps, two police officers accompanying Dana into the kitchen.
‘Hello, Lori,’ DC Lightfoot says, DC Timpson behind her. Lori nods in acknowledgement. Dread gathers in her stomach. She’s fairly sure she knows the purpose of this visit.
And she’s proved right. ‘We believe there was another attempted arson attack last night,’ Timpson tells Dana, whose face pales rapidly. ‘On the remaining property you own, at number five Lime Tree Avenue. We’d already warned the tenant there to be vigilant, because of the other fires. Which he was, thank goodness. Seems he spotted a man acting suspiciously, carrying what looked like a petrol can and some rags. He gave chase, but whoever it was ran off.’
‘Dear God.’ Dana sinks into a chair, more colour draining from her face. ‘Not again, surely? I can’t believe this is happening. Why would someone target my family this way?’ Lori moves behind her, wrapping her arm around her mother’s shoulders, hugging Dana close. When the police begin their questions, Lori notes her mother’s pallor, the scared expression in her eyes, the way her hands tremble in her lap as she answers. No physical damage done, from what Lightfoot’s said. Mentally, though, it’s a different story, at least for Dana and Lori.
Just before Lightfoot and Timpson are getting ready to leave, her mother stops them. ‘Wait,’ she says, terror in her voice. ‘This latest fire at Lime Tree Avenue means whoever is waging this vendetta has torched all five of my rental properties. What’s next? Will this maniac target my home? Are my daughter and I at risk?’
‘They tried to say all the right things, but neither Lightfoot nor Timpson could guarantee our safety,’ Lori tells Ryan later that night. They’re at his place, tucking into a fish pie, and Lori’s striving to stay calm, despite the worry gnawing holes in her. ‘It’s got so bad I can’t sleep at nights. I lie in bed, tossing and turning, terrified this lunatic might be outside the house, splashing petrol around, preparing to strike a match.’ Her fingers shake as she takes a gulp of wine. She’s already downed half a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, and the way she’s feeling, chances are she’ll finish the rest of it off before long.
‘Hey.’ As ever, Ryan’s voice is calm. ‘My offer still stands, sweetheart.’
Lori stares at him, her mind clouded by drink, unable to fathom what he means. When she doesn’t reply, he continues, ‘Don’t forget, you can move in with me. Oreo too, of course.’
Regret washes over Lori. Such a tempting offer; if only she didn’t need to stay with her mother right now. His invitation warms her right the way through, however, delivering a swift kick to worry’s butt, at least for a while.
On Tuesday morning, Dana lies in bed, fighting the urge to stay there forever. Despite the anti-depressants, her world remains as grey as before her suicide attempt. Made a thousand times worse by knowing someone hates her enough to burn down her properties. Lightfoot and Timpson have made all the right noises, offering to provide night-time surveillance of her home. Fine as far as it goes, but Lightfoot explained it would be for a couple of days only; a longer period would exhaust resources that are already depleted. Dana’s considering whether to move with Lori into rented accommodation. Of course, that will leave her home an open target, but if it goes up in flames, at least the two of them won’t burn to death.
A few things have provided small islands of comfort amid the bleakness. Fraser hasn’t been in touch, for which she’s grateful. Only pain has resulted from reheating the ashes of their marriage. A mistake to have slept with him; what on earth was she thinking?
Dana forces her mind away from her ex-husband, turning to Aiden Scott’s visit for Sunday lunch. Such a nice lad, witty and great company; handsome too. She’d be happy for Lori to invite him round more often. As the three of them devoured her garlic lamb, she found herself laughing, something she’s not done for a long while. Not at anything in particular, just a daft joke he cracked, but at the time Aiden’s silliness pressed all the right buttons. For a moment, Dana’s world turned shiny and rainbow-hued instead of dull and grey. Afterwards, although the bleakness returned, it wasn’t half as stark as before.
Lori’s voice reaches her from the hallway. ‘Mum? I’m off to work now.’
‘See you later, sweetheart. Don’t forget to buy milk on the way home.’ She injects a breezy tone into her voice, and it works, because seconds afterwards she hears the front door open and close, then the clippety-clop of Lori’s heels o
n the driveway. Her daughter’s bagged herself a day’s temporary employment, for which Dana’s glad. She may be unwell, but she’s neither blind nor stupid. She’s noticed the exhaustion etched under Lori’s eyes, realises how draining this must be for her. Her daughter’s been forced into parenting her own mother, and that’s not healthy. Lori deserves a chance to escape for a few hours.
Dana exhales a breath, then forces herself from the bed. If nothing else, she needs to pee, and her stomach is growling. She’ll attend to both urges, then retreat to bed, its warmth a cocoon from the horrors of the world. Real life is a hell in which daughters die, kidneys turn traitorous and houses burn down. If she dresses and seats herself on the sofa, magazine in hand, by late afternoon, Lori will never know how her mother’s spent most of her day. Anything to avoid causing her beloved child more worry.
So Dana pees, then pads downstairs to slot bread in the toaster and switch on the coffee machine. She spreads butter and Marmite on the toast, spoons sugar into her mug, inhales the aroma from the perking beans. As she nibbles at her breakfast, the question that’s nagged her for so long returns: does she have anything to live for?
Nothing that she can think of, apart from Lori. She’s bound by her promise to her daughter, though. No way will she inflict more pain on her.
A noise at the front door startles her from her thoughts. It’s the postman shoving the day’s delivery through the letter box, the mail’s weight thudding onto the mat. Her guts contract with nerves; what if another of those vile greetings cards has arrived?
Dana rises, moves into the hallway, picks up the bundle of letters. Most of it junk mail, nothing with the stiffness of a greetings card, thank God. The last item is in a plain white envelope, with an unknown return address on the back. She tears it open, expecting another junk letter, drawing out the two sheets of A4 it contains. As she walks towards the kitchen, she unfolds them and reads.
Around Dana, the world stills; her feet root themselves to the floor, and she stands, letter in hand, as she devours its contents. Once, then again and again, until the words are burned into her brain. Somewhere along the line she realises she’s forgotten to breathe, so strong are the emotions choking her chest. She sinks to the floor, the letter crumpled beneath her fingers. The words ‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God’ stream from her, an endless chant of incredulity. For several moments she curls, foetus-like, on the tiles, while her tears flow unchecked. Her emotions running riot, she struggles for breath.