Cath Staincliffe - Blink of an Eye

© 2013

For help with research thanks to crime writers Martin Baggoley and Roger Forsdyke, Peter Grogan from JMW Solicitors LLP and Martin Walsh from Stephensons Solicitors LLP. Thanks to Maggie Wood for advice on the world of social work. All mistakes or departures from normal procedures are mine.

Carmel

Before and after. Two different lives. Before – did we really know how lucky we were? How wonderful everything was? How fragile?

A warm May day, the sun golden, the air soft with a hint of humidity, the silver birch offering dappled shade in the corner of the garden. I’d spent most of the afternoon on the swing seat there, doting grandma, three-week-old Ollie dozing in my arms. Phil, as besotted as I was, taking photographs, dozens of photographs. I had not believed people when they eulogized about the emotional impact of having grandchildren, but meeting Ollie had been like a punch to my gut, the sensation close to that I’d felt when our girls were born. A mix of overwhelming love and rabid fear – the urge to cherish and the fearsome drive to protect. Part of me was bemused, though, thinking, how did I get here? Like the Talking Heads track. When did I get to be a middle-aged woman? Fifty-two and still feeling like a seventeen-year-old inside.

The place was brimming with guests, mainly friends of Suzanne and Jonty, a sprinkling of kids, a couple of their neighbours, Julia and Fraser from the end cottage.

Jonty was living it large at the barbecue, florid with heat, his ginger curls damp, sporting a butcher’s apron, garish Bermuda shorts and flip-flops. A bear of a man next to our daughter, who is petite, neat, who can get away with buying children’s clothes.

Phil, at my side, traced a finger down Ollie’s nose; the baby’s eyelids flickered in response.

‘He takes after Suzanne,’ I murmured. ‘The fair hair.’

‘And the build, thank God,’ he replied. ‘Maybe they’ll have a girl next, big as Jonty; she can take up rugby.’

‘Don’t,’ I shushed him.

We had speculated plenty of times what an odd couple they made. Suzanne so crisp and competent, always in control, bossy even; and Jonty, who had something of the overgrown schoolboy about him. Exuberant, expansive, generous to a fault. Phil reckoned Jonty was a work in progress for Suzanne. Whatever – it seemed to work.

I loved to see her happy, in her element, socializing, serving drinks, prompting people to take another kebab or choose a dessert. She and Jonty were foodies, an interest verging on obsession in my opinion; you couldn’t eat a thing they’d made without a spiel about its provenance and preparation. But it did make for a stunning barbecue: filo parcels of cheese and spinach, sizzling lamb patties, spatchcocked chicken seasoned with lemon and cardamom, peppered beef and tuna steaks, seafood or veg kebabs, puffy golden garlic-mushroom rolls. There were huge bowls of glossy purple-black olives, Colcannon mash, a table of salads: watercress, pepper and avocado, wild rice and chilli, Moroccan couscous. A cheeseboard and puddings: tropical fruit salad, cranberry pinwheels, chocolate mousse, lemon cheesecake, lavender sorbet. The colours a feast in themselves.

Jonty and Suzanne shared an energy, a drive which had underpinned their life together so far. They were both on good salaries – Suzanne as a buyer for Debenham’s and Jonty as a television producer – which enabled them to get a mortgage and buy the house. It was on the outskirts of the city, an old weaver’s cottage with thick stone walls and tiny windows. One of three original cottages on the cul-de-sac. The only other houses were two new-build detacheds opposite.

The previous owners had modernized it inside. Suzanne and Jonty had redecorated and remodelled the garden, replacing the lawn and cottage borders with a patio and barbecue pit, gravel paths and specimen plants: mimosa, ailanthus, bamboo, birch. Now that they had a baby, Suzanne would take three months off work, then return part time until Ollie started school. Jonty was in the process of producing a series of historical documentaries that would keep him in work for the next two years. They were on a roll.

Things had been tougher for Naomi, our younger daughter. She was still out of work, though she helped out in Phil’s music shop whenever his assistant was on holiday or off sick. She was one of thousands of graduates who had found that their hard-won qualifications – hers was a degree in tourism and leisure – didn’t translate into better job opportunities. Not yet, anyway. Though she had got an interview at long last, for a job as a teaching assistant. We tried to keep positive with her; the recession wouldn’t last for ever. Naomi’s boyfriend Alex was struggling too, eager to put his law qualification to some use. The pair divided their time between our house and his mother’s. We rubbed along okay, but of course they wanted their independence.

Ollie began to fuss, nose creased, head turning. Suzanne heard, set down the plates she’d been clearing and came over to feed him.

‘Tea?’ I offered, and she nodded.

‘Thirsty work.’ I smiled. ‘He’s gorgeous.’

‘Of course he is,’ she said.

‘And you’re amazing,’ I said.

‘What? Why?’

I gestured to Ollie, then at the guests. ‘All this. I don’t think I made it out of bed for the first month. Certainly didn’t get dressed properly for a year, never left the house before midday.’ Whereas she looked cool and composed in a white linen skirt and a white blouse with pale gold trim.

She raised an eyebrow as she settled the baby at her breast. ‘It’s just a question of routine.’

I bit my tongue, swallowed a smile. She was serious. Phil and I swapped a look. She noticed. ‘Well, you and Dad, you were all hippy-trippy.’

‘Punk!’ Phil protested. ‘Totally different scene.’

‘Man,’ Suzanne said, putting the word in inverted commas, teasing Phil. She snorted. Ollie paused for a moment; she stroked his head and he continued suckling.

Naomi

The sun is shining and I’m ravenous and there’s bound to be a really good buffet: Suzanne’s a great cook – well, they both are.

I want to show Alex off, shout his news from the rooftops. It finally feels like everything is falling into place. I haven’t felt this good for ages; it’s not been a brilliant few months really. I want to dance, they might have dancing later – in fact I’ll make sure of it. I’ve sorted out a playlist.

Alex pulls me back just before we go in the side gate. Kisses me, and I get that hollow, sexy feeling inside. I kiss him back harder, and he groans a little and then pulls free, laughing. He’s excited. ‘Better stop now,’ he says.

‘You started it,’ I say.

‘Yeah?’ His eyes dance, green eyes, teasing me. ‘Well I’ll finish it later.’

This is so corny, I crack up laughing and he does too. And I hold the champagne with both hands, making sure I don’t drop the bottle.

He grabs my waist and turns me to face down the path, leans his chin on my shoulder and says quietly in my ear, ‘Come on then, into the dragon’s den, eh?’

‘Maybe motherhood has mellowed her,’ I say. ‘Hope so.’

He kisses my ear and smacks me on the bum and we head on in.

Carmel

When I came back out with Suzanne’s tea, there were calls and greetings at the side gate. Naomi and Alex were arriving. Naomi made a beeline for Suzanne. She was swinging a bottle of champagne. ‘Hello.’ She bent down and stroked Ollie’s leg, cupped his foot in her hand. ‘Oh, Suze, he’s so sweet. He looks bigger already. Can I hold him after?’