The Happy Family by Jackie Kabler (electric book reader txt) 📕

on cue, here are those gorgeous grandchildren of mine. Let’s go and celebrate!’

Eloise and Finley finally wrench the taxi door open, bickering as they climb in next to us, and for a moment I think I’m going to cry with joy as all of my stupid anxieties evaporate.

She’s moving in. She’s moving in, and Dad’s recovering, and everything’s AMAZING. How did I get this lucky?

The evening’s pretty amazing too. The food is delicious, and Mum and the kids are chatting away like old friends. I try not to eat too much; this new sense of wanting to dress more stylishly is also, for some reason, making me think about my weight. I know I’m bigger than I used to be, but until now I’ve been OK with that. As long as I’m healthy, what does the size label in my clothes matter? But now … Mum’s just so slim, so elegant, and I feel big and awkward next to her. At the same time, I’m feeling so happy, and it’s such a treat to be out … and the pizza is so hot and fresh and tasty and, well, I leave a little on my plate – the crust mainly. I blame the wine, which always makes me peckish; knowing we’re calling another cab to take us home, I break my usual weeknight rules and have a little too much of the perfectly chilled Sauvignon Blanc, and by the time we get back to Prestbury I’m definitely a little tipsy. Leaving Mum to watch the ten o’clock news in the living room, I shoo the children off to bed and go into my room to change into my PJs. I’ll make some hot chocolate, I think, to finish the night off. But as I open the drawer to find a fresh pair of pyjamas I pause. Something doesn’t look right. The little arrangement of cosmetics and perfume bottles that sit in regimented rows on top of my chest of drawers is somehow askew.

Why is that bottle of Obsession at the front? I haven’t used that in ages; I’ve gone off it. And I didn’t leave my eyeshadow palettes piled up like that. Or did I?

I frown, trying to remember, but the alcohol is making my head fuzzy. Slowly, I put everything back in its correct place, thinking. Barbara was in the house tonight, wasn’t she? But she was looking for her glasses, and there’s no way they would be up here, in my bedroom. She’d only have looked downstairs, in the kitchen or living room. Unless … could she have thought that maybe Robin found the glasses when she was cleaning and thought they were mine? Might she have had a root around up here just in case? Maybe. I cast my eyes around the room, looking for anything else out of place, but everything seems in order.

I did get ready in a hurry earlier, didn’t I? And all that wine … I roll my eyes at myself in the mirror. It was probably me, then. I’m such an idiot at the moment. I’ll be hearing voices next.

Stop it, Beth. Hot chocolate and a good night’s sleep, that’s what you need.

I give the now neat rows of cosmetics one more glance, then pull some clean pyjamas on and head back downstairs.

Chapter 14

It’s Friday, and I’ve finally remembered the books I promised to bring Nadia. When we close for lunch, I peer out of the waiting room window to check that she’s there – she is; she always seems to be there these days – and nip across the road. When I reach her, she greets me with a small smile. She’s reading a newspaper today, The Independent I think, but her eyes light up when I open the bag I’m carrying and show her the selection of Agatha Christies I’ve selected from my bookshelf.

‘I’ve brought Crooked House, Endless Night, and a couple of Poirots – Third Girl and The Clocks. Are they OK?’ I ask.

‘Perfect, thanks. Very kind of you,’ she says, and smiles again. Her teeth are yellow and one upper incisor is missing.

‘That’s OK. Enjoy. And I don’t need them back; my bookshelves are bursting at the seams, so just pass them on to someone else when you’re done or leave them with a charity shop or something.’

She nods, eyes fixed on the books, and I feel a little surge of sympathy and sadness.

This poor woman.

I squat down beside her. There’s a faint, stale odour of sweat and dirty clothes, but in her fingerless gloves her hands look clean and her nails are neatly clipped.

‘Nadia, is there anything else I can do for you? What do you do at the weekends, when the surgery is closed? Do you still sit here or go somewhere else?’

She closes the plastic bag and pushes it into the big black half-open suitcase that’s sitting next to her in the doorway. I can see clothes in it – a pair of denim jeans and a navy jumper.

‘No, I usually go down to the Prom at weekends. Shoppers, you know. Some can be generous,’ she says. Her throat sounds raspy, and she reaches under the blanket that covers her knees and pulls out a bottle of water. I wait while she takes a drink, unsure what to do next.

Give her some money? Would she be offended? Oh gosh, I don’t know how to help her. I’m rubbish …

‘What are you doing this weekend? Anything nice?’ she says unexpectedly. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and screws the cap back on the bottle with slightly trembling fingers.

‘Nothing exciting really,’ I say. I’m starting to wish I hadn’t squatted down now; my left leg is starting to cramp.

‘My mum is staying with me at the moment and I’ve got some friends coming round to meet her. We haven’t seen each other for a long time – years, in fact – so none of my friends know her, you see. She