Jane Renshaw - Watch Over Me

‘Well, they need to get a bloody move on! So you live next door?’

‘Someone has to.’

‘ Neil! ’

A grin. ‘Lucky for you I’m not Ailish’s sister or something.’

‘Lucky for you ,’ said Neil, on a roll, beaming in smug wonder at his own wit as Apprentice Woman threw back her head and laughed, clutching Flora’s arm for support.

Flora couldn’t help smiling too.

‘Oh God,’ said Apprentice Woman, ‘can you imagine being actually related ?’

And they all looked over at the teenagers’ table.

‘I try not to,’ Flora found herself saying. ‘I don’t think Jasmine…’ But no, she couldn’t say that. She didn’t even know this woman. And who was she, anyway, to criticise the way someone else was bringing up their daughter?

‘Oh God, I know! Surely there must be laws she’s breaking? Seriously? I mean, what is she thinking? Putting the poor girl all over Facebook and Instagram practically in a thong, like she’s pimping her own daughter?’

Neil guffawed, spraying beer onto the flagstones.

Apprentice Woman looked behind them again to check there was no one in earshot. ‘Apparently Mia’s mum has started calling Jasmine “Princess Prozzie”.’

Jasmine, it had to be said, did look like a prostitute.

And she must be freezing.

‘Oh, so that’s what those posts were about?’ Neil grinned. ‘The inspirational quotes…’

‘“You can mess with me but mess with my kid and I’m coming after you with fifty shades of crazy”?’

‘Where does one actually get those things?’ Neil was loving this. ‘Is there a website specifically catering to offended parents of fifteen-year-old girls dressed up for a walk round Leith docks?’

‘Some of those posts aren’t even private.’

Flora grimaced. ‘I don’t think she feels there’s anything wrong with the way Jasmine dresses. I think she just considers it teenage culture… All the celebrities are doing it. She’s desperate for Jasmine to fit in and be popular; to be an object of desire, I suppose. It’s kind of sad, really.’

Good. That had sounded like Flora was trying to understand rather than judge.

A big part of the problem, she suspected, was that Jasmine wasn’t pretty enough for Ailish’s purposes. And so, to achieve the ‘stunning’ accolades Ailish was always fishing for on Facebook, a lot of work was required. The girl was always heavily made up, with those thick eyebrows, huge false eyelashes, heavy smoky eye make-up, lip-liner and glossy lipstick. Her clothes were designed to showcase her figure, which, thanks to being on a diet since she was eleven, was straight up and down with little in the way of breasts or hips. Flora suspected that the calorie restrictions may have prevented her going through puberty properly.

Neil and Apprentice Woman had assumed suitably serious faces, like kids who’d just been told off by the teacher.

‘Oh oh, here she comes,’ said Flora, feeling herself flushing as Ailish tottered out onto the patio with her retinue, Marianne screaming with laughter, her arm hooked through Ailish’s. But then she found herself muttering at Apprentice Woman: ‘Phone at the ready to get a Facebookable shot of Princess Prozzie.’

‘Shot into the sun. With maximum soft-focus. God, we’re such bitches.’

Flora couldn’t help grinning. ‘This is going to sound really bad, but I can’t remember your name.’ Somehow it was okay to admit this to her.

‘Caroline, right?’ said Neil.

‘Give the man a cigar! Caroline Turnbull. And you’re Flora?’

‘You could at least have pretended to get it wrong.’

‘Yeah, sorry, I forgot to mention I’m also irritatingly anal, so I know your daughter is Beckie and she’s eight going on nine and in Thomas’s class at school, and she’s quite the chess champ and is teaching Thomas the finer points. Now, that’s impressive, you have to admit, given that Ailish hardly ever refers to Thomas – or, for that matter, to the accomplishments of other people’s children.’

‘That is impressive,’ said Neil, sitting down on the low wall of the raised pond, crossing his feet at the ankles and smiling up at Caroline. ‘Being anal is a very underrated quality.’

‘It is! Thank you!’

‘Okay, so you can tell us all about our fellow guests, then?’ said Flora, keen to divert the conversation from Ailish and her parenting shortcomings.

‘Probably the only one of any interest is that guy.’ Caroline tipped her head in the direction of a man standing on the edge of the barbeque group, who was looking beyond them to the table of teenagers. ‘Mr Rapist.’

‘Mister what ?’

‘Or Mr Serial Killer. Or Mr Rapist-hyphen-Serial Killer. Not sure. Need a few more months probably to decide. He lives upstairs from me, so I’m likely to be a target at some point.’

‘And here was I,’ said Flora, ‘berating myself for being judgemental.’

‘Hey, you’re playing with the big girls now. But actually I think I could be right about him. Maybe being judgemental’s not such a bad thing? Could actually save your life?’

‘Yes!’ Neil was really enjoying this. ‘It could be that humans have adapted through natural selection to living among rapists and serial killers and what have you – only the judgemental have stayed out of their clutches and passed on their genes.’

‘Looks like we’re all safe then,’ said Flora drily. ‘So what’s his real name?’

‘Tony Hewson.’

‘Just a rapist then,’ said Neil. ‘Hasn’t got the serial killer ring.’

‘Anthony Hewson?’

‘Better. But he calls himself Tony to throw people off the scent. But okay, I’ll bite – what makes you think he’s either a rapist or a serial killer?’

‘Oh… The usual. Stands too close when he’s talking to you… Weird whispery voice… Stary eyes… Obsessed with the outflow pipe.’

‘The what?’

‘Or whatever it’s called, the waste pipe thing that goes down the outside of the building? Which the baths and sinks and loos feed into? He’s obsessed with it. Keeps asking me if I’ve had any problems with it getting blocked.’

‘Body parts?’ Flora mused.

‘Yep, I reckon he’s flushing body parts and he’s worried they might back up into my bath –’ Caroline broke off as a football came sailing across the pond right at her. She did a sort of hop and a jump and stopped the ball dead with her foot, then turned and flicked it up over her back to send it arcing back onto the grass.

Beckie and Thomas came running up.

‘Sorry!’ panted Thomas, mouth hanging open as he stared at Caroline.

‘How do you do that?’ said Beckie in awe, going to the ball and trying to flick it up with her foot like Caroline had done.

‘Easy-peasy,’ grinned Caroline, setting down her glass and jogging round the pond and onto the lawn. ‘I’ll show you…’

The other kids were soon gathering round. Flora heard, somewhere behind them, Marianne saying, ‘She’s probably in a women’s football team or something,’ and Ailish: ‘Or just hangs around men’s ones a lot,’ and shrieking.

‘Mr Rapist-hyphen-Serial Killer at nine o’clock,’ Neil muttered.

‘Shh!’

The poor man seemed more like victim material: thinning, greasy hair that looked like he cut it himself, stary eyes as advertised, and a shuffling walk. He was carrying a tray of burgers in buns.

‘Hi. Tony… Can I interest you in one of these?’ His voice wasn’t so much whispery as very soft, so you had to lean towards him to hear.

‘Oh, no thanks, I’ve been stuffing my face with macarons,’ said Flora. ‘I’m Flora and this is my husband Neil.’