‘I don’t think you do,’ Janet said steadily. ‘Your body language, your tone of voice… If you’re sat there thinking, “What a slimebag, what a pitiful excuse for a human being”, and you let it show, then you won’t get that conversation.’
Rachel got her phone out, had enough of the lecture, listened to her voicemail from Alison. Hi, it’s me. We’ve got vouchers for BOGOFs for the new Vietnamese place in Moston, use by the end of the month. Thought maybe you and lover-boy would like to make a foursome. You can’t keep him hidden for ever. She gave a grating laugh. Or are you ashamed of us?
Yes. Truly, madly, deeply. It would be a horror show, Alison and Tony talking school admissions and tracker mortgages and offers on patio furniture from Wickes, and Nick strangling her with his eyes. Cottoning on that this was the Bailey family. With their tiny little lives. This was where Rachel had come from. The underclass, grotty estate on the wrong side of Middleton. She didn’t want him to think of her that way. She was different from Alison, from Dom. Hadn’t even told him of Dom’s existence. And she was way different from her parents, who didn’t even deserve the title. Langley was the past. She’d locked the door on it, she didn’t need Alison blurting stuff out now. Amusing anecdotes of free school meals and scraping by in hand-me-downs, and knock-offs from the market. Rachel was making something of herself. Her dad was still knocking around Middleton. No fixed abode. Half a chance she’d get a call-out one day and find him. Sudden death. Wouldn’t be that sudden really, been killing himself for years on the booze and the fags. Alison tried sorting him out every once in a while. Get him in a flat, take him to the hospital. Playing happy families. Same as Alison kept visiting Dom. Deluded.
If she ignored it, Alison would keep nudging: Did you get the message? Have you decided?
Rachel sent a text: No can do, him away, me overtime.
Best kept separate. Some things wouldn’t mix, like putting lemon juice with milk: whole thing curdles.
The small room smelled sickly, stale, fruity of booze. There was a glass, sticky with fingerprints, and a bottle of sherry on the side table. The air was humid, condensation on the windows, a towel on the radiator.
The FLO left as they arrived, aiming to sort out some nebby neighbours whose offers of help were simply a way of having a good nosy.
‘Can you tell me about Lisa?’ said Janet, starting wide, letting Denise choose where to begin, what tack to take, which memories to share.
