Darling: The most shocking psychological thriller you will read this summer. Rachel Edwards
She said nothing.
‘Why, Lola?’
She shifted so that her feet tucked further up under the creamy blanket and lowered her gaze to the floor.
‘You seemed really stressy without them. Just trying to help.’
‘That’s the only reason?’
She looked me in the eye. Looked away.
‘OK … Well, thanks for the support, or whatever, but I need to kick these things. I will quit, too. Here.’ I passed her the hankie.
‘Thanks.’
‘And don’t you even think of trying it.’
‘No way,’ she advert-flicked her hair to one side, patted an eye. ‘That’s never going to happen. I’m not stupid.’
‘Well, that’s fine but—’
Clack-clack. Stevie was coming in, with Thomas close behind.
‘Mummy, we’ve got tomatoes for the salad, look!’
‘Thanks, sweetness.’ I got up, trying to give Lola an ‘our secret’ look. She was staring at her nails.
‘Let me show you, Mummy. Let me show you the plants, let me—’
‘OK, OK,’ I said, with a sunny nod at Thomas. ‘Someone’s had a lot of fun! I’m coming.’
I turned back to Lola once more, but with a wave of her wrist she had already commanded the TV to amuse her. We three walked up the garden. Quite some garden too; long and wide beyond anything I had ever imagined when I had first walked down this street. A lavender farewell by the kitchen door, alongside pots of herbs: rosemary, purple-afroed chives, thyme, mint, a stately bay tree. We walked on, passing the shed, through lawns fringed with a whole production of blooms, past the willow tree and onwards until there, before we reached that murderous pond, we breathed in the must of tomato plants.
Stevie tugged me closer to what was left of them. ‘Here, Mummy.’
‘They’re beautiful, aren’t they?’
‘I wish we could live here so I can eat them every day.’
I said, ‘I’ll buy you some nice tomatoes, sweetie.’
‘But I want these!’
Thomas was saying nothing. My eyes must have spoken despite me, and the look he gave answered at perfect pitch, did not shout, did not whisper.
‘Can I dig a muddy pool?’
Thomas laughed. ‘Sure, why not? I’ll get a trowel.’
I chose that moment to leave them in the sunlight, Stevie sitting straight-legged on the grass in his dew-smeared KAFOs, with Thomas making a whole mudpit of mess in the place where his good things grew, and all for my boy.
Unwatched, I wandered back towards the house with sassy step, arms swinging free, pausing only to lean into the boundary shrubs and pick a trumpet of buddleia. Black and a flash of crimson fluttering out: a Red Admiral weaving up into the sky, first I’d seen for years.
I moved through the French windows into the cool of the kitchen. Lola’s phone drawl drifted to me, a sharp note in the August air:
‘Yeah, she’s still around. And her son … I know … Yeah, she’s basically a pretty big slut.’
My foot paused mid-step. I was rinsed down by disgust and anger, all washed over by something icier: cold shame. Shame that I had even tried with her, shame that I had failed. I turned and grabbed my handbag from the counter, slipped into the dining room, ducked sideways through the conservatory, out of the side gate. I had to have it.
I ran, a mad tiptoed sprint, halfway up the road. Just a couple more final puffs.
Her conjuror’s trick cigarette glowed as I lit it. Lola knew, she had always known. The fags weren’t some anarchic take on Girl Guide charity. She was a Millennial, she had been told her whole life that the nasty things were multi-talented killers. I inhaled deep.
First the cellar, then this. She clearly wished me a slow death.
Almost impressive. Not too shabby; no sugar-candy Mandy, this one. But dislike could do more damage than tooth-rot. No matter, la! I would sure as hell win her over.
One, one coco full basket.
She would change. We would be just fine in the end, Lola and I. Because that was how it was going to be. Love wins.
On the Monday evening, I engineered an excuse to stay over at Littleton Lodge when Stevie was with Demarcus and Thomas was dining with clients. I needed time alone with Lola. I would cook for us.
Food, though, was turning from my gift into our battleground. Most days Stevie ate anything, but Lola? She was a tricky one. That night I offered her spaghetti, with either bolognese or a tuna and tomato sauce, but she ‘wasn’t feeling’ pasta, so I offered grilled chicken and potatoes, but she wasn’t feeling chicken, or potatoes, so I offered a sea bass fillet, not feeling it, sausages, nah, sirloin steak, nah – she wasn’t feeling any meat at all. By this time I was feeling the need for air, so – back in a minute! – I left her in front of the TV and grabbed my bag, which now held a fresh pack of cigarettes, put there by me alone.
I smoked. Then, with my deliberate failure already stale in my mouth, I hit upon a meat-free inspiration: everyone loved my Caribbean vegetable curry. I aimed for Pattie’s West Indian Food Store a few streets away, bought what was needed and wandered back.
There was no sign of Lola downstairs.
I snatched up a knife and cut out the scowling. There would be no asking, nor pleading; no telling, no pandering now, just dinner on a plate. I needed to calm my blood and get this sauce to bubble; it would taste almost as good from Thomas’s overpriced pot. I diced the onion fast – chuk-chuk-chuk – grated the ginger, then fried them together nice and slow. I whistled as I chunked up the vegetables, inhaled a savoury puff which seared my skin as I poured liquid over. A breather.
I padded to the back door. Time for the flavours to mix themselves up, for it all to meld together and break down a touch. I considered another cigarette but remembered Lola’s gift of suffering and pushed the urge aside, for now. I went back to the hob, added coconut milk, stirred and covered.
Soon come.
After at least twenty minutes, I decided to seek her out upstairs.
Lola was in her room. She was sitting up on the bed, Facetiming some friend, and when she looked up I saw it: that naked, honest hatred that she had not been quick enough to hide. So then, Lola.
I stood, rock steady, in her bedroom doorway until she killed the call.
‘I’m making a Caribbean vegetable curry for you …’
‘I’m not really feeling—’
‘What aren’t you feeling now Lola?’ I said. ‘Curry? Vegetables? Or simply the Caribbean?’
A twitch at her mouth. ‘Well. No. I was just going to say I wasn’t feeling that well.’
‘Oh,’ I said. I waited for the sympathy to come, but it did not.
Two seconds passed. Three.
Then from cool flat nothing the magnesium sparked and flared, and Lola reheated a smile:
‘Hey, want to see my new skirt? Try it on if you like!’
It was a black and turquoise patterned mini, and it was pov-chic and it was witty-tacky and it was small as hell; it would never have fitted over my rounded old black backside, even at her age. She threw it down on to the bed, a polyester gauntlet.
I did not rise, I did not move; I paused, made admiring noises.
‘So