Tell the Truth. Amanda Brittany

       Chapter 5

       February 2018

      ‘It’s a bit weird, that’s all.’ I stared at the kettle, urging it to boil, feeling cross with myself for making too much of the friend request, and for showing it to Angela. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Just someone having a joke.’

      ‘Jokes are meant to be funny, Rachel. Aren’t they?’ Angela heaved herself onto the kitchen stool, and rested her elbows on the breakfast bar, gazing my way.

      She’d moved in next door about a year ago, and we’d hit it off immediately. I liked to think it was because we both liked Imagine Dragons and drinking rhubarb gin, but sometimes wondered if it was more than that. She was around my mum’s age. Was I looking for a replacement mother figure, or perhaps a gran for Grace? I certainly couldn’t rely on Lawrence’s parents to fill that role; they’d started a new life in Australia before I met him, and he rarely spoke to them.

      I swallowed a lump in my throat, guilt rising that I would ever consider replacing my mother, and I attempted to bat down memories of the last time I’d visited her. ‘What a delightful little girl,’ Mum had said, as Grace sat in the communal lounge with her colouring book and crayons, pausing every now and then to suck orange juice through a straw. ‘Is she yours?’

      It was those kinds of moments that held the most regret. Regret that I hadn’t made more of the second chance I’d been given when Mum had a heart attack ten years ago. I’d promised myself at the time that I would make the most of every moment – and I did, for a while, visiting her often. But then I met Lawrence, and worked long hours in Kensington, and later we had Grace. Weeks sometimes turned into months. I should have called her more, visited more, especially as she would never have travelled to London.

      ‘Well, I still think you should take the request seriously, Rachel,’ Angela continued, cutting into my thoughts.

      I bit back tears. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing.’

      ‘It’s pretty odd, if you ask me. Do you think it’s connected to the call-in at the TV studio?’

      Well, I do now. ‘Why the hell would it be?’

      She shrugged. ‘Hey, keep your hair on, I just wondered, that’s all. Have you tried searching for this David Green on the Internet?’

      ‘Yes.’ I spooned coffee into mugs, refusing to catch her eye. ‘Last night, but the name is far too common. There are millions of results on Google.’ I’d even searched random LinkedIn profiles, Twitter, and Instagram to see if I could find him, with no luck.

      ‘Did you add Mandan Road and Sligo to your search?’

      I nodded. ‘Still nothing.’ I felt a wave of anxiety wash over me. Sometimes, like now, Angela drove me crazy with her worrying. ‘Anyway, lots of people get requests from strangers,’ I went on, needing her to back up that theory, not raise more concerns.

      ‘None for me!’ She held up her hand as I rammed a teaspoon into the sugar bowl. ‘I need to lose a couple of stone.’

      I splashed scalding water into the mugs, and handed her a steaming sugar-free coffee. ‘But you look great,’ I said, controlling my desire to ask her to leave.

      She tweaked my cheek. ‘You’re such a sweetie.’

      ‘I mean it.’ I did. Her weight had yo-yoed since I’d known her. Sometimes, like now, she was curvy, and looked great in jeans and a flowing, funky top – the kind my mum loved. Other times, she looked too thin. Today, her highlighted hair fell in layers to her shoulders, and her pleasant round face carried a smile. ‘Are you going anywhere nice?’ I asked, realising she was more made-up than usual.

      ‘Another attempt at meeting Mr Right, this time for lunch – hopefully in liquid form.’ She rolled her eyes. She’d signed up to a dating agency she’d seen advertised on TV, but so far it had been a disaster. ‘It’s costing a fortune to meet idiots and bores, quite frankly. Let me tell you, Rachel, chivalry is dead. I’ve paid my own way every single time.’

      ‘That’s the way it’s done these days,’ I said, with a smile.

      She blew on her coffee, and took a delicate sip. She’d told me before how she’d taken early retirement, and recently she’d felt a bit lost. ‘I just want someone to share my evenings with, Rachel. Is that too much to ask?’ she’d said. ‘It’s lonely spending twenty-four hours a day in your own company.’

      Now she glanced over her shoulder, and into my lounge: a square room with an original fireplace I adored. Toys were put away in the wicker chest, and I’d straightened the cushions and throws, put the books on the crammed shelf in height order, and dashed the hoover over the grey carpet. I was grateful the room looked tidy. Angela’s house was always spotless. Not that she judged me.

      ‘I’m guessing Lawrence has Grace?’ she said.

      ‘Mmm. They won’t be back until Sunday evening, so I’m hoping to drive down to see my mum shortly. I prefer not to take Grace any more.’ Another stab of guilt – what about the times Mum recognised her? ‘It hurts … you know,’ I went on. ‘When Mum doesn’t know us.’ Sharp tears prodded my eyes, and I took a deep breath. I’d done far too much crying.

      Angela reached over and patted my arm. ‘I know, sweetie,’ she said, her voice soft and warm. ‘I know.’

      ***

      Dream Meadows Residential Care Home was deep in the Suffolk countryside, and my mother seemed happy there, as far as I could tell.

      I parked and headed into the front entrance, spotting Margo, a care assistant with a permanent smile and short silver-grey hair.

      ‘Are you looking for your mum, dear?’ she asked breezily, hurrying across the reception area. She’d taken a shine to my mother, and Mum liked her too. ‘She was sleeping when I last put my head round her door. Go up. She’s had a busy day today, but she’ll be delighted to see you.’ She went on her way, straightening her navy tunic over her midriff, as I climbed the stairs.

      Mum’s was a cosy room: a single bed, and a wardrobe and chest of drawers in antique pine. The surfaces were filled with framed photos jostling for space with trinkets Mum had asked me to bring from her house.

      She was asleep on the bed, a duvet with lilac butterflies pulled over her, her breathing shallow. I stepped towards the window, and dragged back the thin curtains that matched the quilt cover.

      Fields extended for miles – sheep and cows no bigger than ants dotted in the distance, and I imagined Mum painting the scene.

      She stirred behind me, and I went over and perched on the edge of the bed near her head, watching her sleep, my body tensing as I pretended she was fine. Her quiet breaths were rapid, her eyes moving under closed lids. What are you dreaming about, Mum? Is it the times we spent together when I was young? Trips to Southwold – eating chips – flying kites – walking along the beach?

       Should I wake her?

      As though sensing me, her eyes flickered and opened. ‘Rachel,’ she said, and my heart sang. It was a good day. Thank God it’s a good day.

      She pulled herself to a sitting position and leaned her head against the wall behind her. She was wearing a faded orange kaftan dress that was creased from sleep. I remembered her wearing it when I was young, yet it still fitted perfectly; she’d never gained weight over the years. I remembered visiting her house a few years ago, and trying to get her to throw a few things out. She’d been horrified when I suggested the dress should go, clutching it to her like a security blanket.

      Now she pulled her plait over her shoulder,