The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence: The Imperfect Lives series, #2

By Catherine Robertson

The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence

Book 2 in the Imperfect Lives series

 

#1 New Zealand best-seller!

"Intelligent, complex, forthright and hilarious."

"An empowering read with strong female characters, fun from the first page to the last."

 

Michelle 'Mo' Lawrence's life is just as she's designed it – perfect –  and she can see no good reason why this should change. But then her husband, Chad, takes a job all the way across the country and change is upon her, whether she likes it or not.

As if building a new life with two small children in a place filled with cat-eating coyotes isn't enough, Michelle's husband Chad is becoming increasingly distant, her oldest friend, Darrell, is getting wedding jitters and her newest, Connie, is a little too obsessed with clean taps.

And down the street, there's Aishe Herne, a woman who could pick a fight with a silent order of nuns. In Aishe's own life there's room for her, her teenage son and no one else. But when cousin Patrick lands in town like a Cockney nemesis, both Aishe and Michelle are forced to look more closely at what it is that actually makes their lives perfect.

(391 pages approx)

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Imperfect Press
• Release date: Apr 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9780473587116

Catherine Robertson

Catherine Robertson is #1 New Zealand bestselling author. She writes contemporary fiction for smart readers who like very good jokes. Catherine has lived in the US and the UK, and currently calls the sunny NZ province of Hawke’s Bay home. She has one husband, two grown sons, four Burmese cats and two dogs, and co-owns a very cool bookshop in Wellington called Good Books.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The first cracks opened when the phone rang at five-forty three on Wednesday evening. Michelle was in the kitchen, crouched before her eight-month old daughter, Rosie, spooning into her mouth an organic mixed-vegetable mush that smelled not unlike the first pumpkin pie Michelle had ever made. That smell (compost peelings with a top note of cough syrup) had been the major reason for it being also the last pumpkin pie Michelle had ever made. That and the fact it hadn’t set properly, and had fallen on the plates in viscous globs much like those you’d find in the handkerchief of someone with an acute sinus infection.

Fortunately, that Thanksgiving it had only been her and Chad. It was their first, eight months after their wedding, before babies and mercifully free of in-laws. Chad’s father had accepted a junket to Rome courtesy of some European mega-bank and taken his wife, Virginia, with him, a joyous event not to be repeated for any of the subsequent Lawrence family Thanksgivings.

Chad had stared at the globs and said, ‘Don’t you make pumpkin pie in New Zealand?’

‘No, we bloody well don’t!’ Michelle had huffed. ‘And we don’t make any of that other freak food like baby marshmallows with sweet potato, or salads encased in — gag me — moulded gelatine. We have roast lamb and pavlova, like normal people!’

Chad had looked up at her, his expression wistful. ‘I like baby marshmallows and sweet potato.’

Michelle had shaken her head. ‘Not on my watch, buckaroo. As long as I have breath in my body, in this house the freakish twain of confectionery and tubers will never, ever meet.’

Of course, every subsequent Thanksgiving at her mother-in-law’s house, Michelle had to watch, powerless, as both her husband and her son, Harry, scarfed down turkey stuffed with sausage, mashed potato oozing with extra cheese, and the sweet potato casserole made with marshmallow crème custard that continued to be served because ‘it’s always been Chad’s favourite’. Michelle noted that Chad studiously avoided her eye as the serving spoon emerged from the casserole dish with a sucking sound, bearing a mound of pinkish goo. Michelle was only grateful that Chad’s mother considered the customary addition of jello cubes to anything, sweet or savoury, as ‘tacky’. And that she didn’t stint on the wine.

No, Virginia Lawrence could not be said to be a stingy hostess, Lord love her. Michelle had never seen her mother-in-law in a state even close to tipsy, but she was convinced there were deeper reasons for her insisting that Harry called her ‘Gin-Gin’.

Michelle glanced over at her son, sitting up at the table, working his way steadily through a plate of beans and rice and carrot sticks. Harry, at three, did everything steadily. He refused to abandon any task before he was finished and, equally, he refused to be hurried. In that respect, as well as physically, Harry was just like his father. The two were blonde, measured and solid. In fact, Harry added a whole new dimension to the word solid. Friends would bend down to pick him up off the floor and exclaim ‘Jesus!’ (or ‘My goodness!’, depending on whether they were Michelle’s friend or a friend of the Lawrence family). Even Lowell, Chad’s father, who until recently had been as hale and robust as a Wagnerian god, had struggled to get baby Harry off the ground.

Michelle smiled fondly at her son. Her daughter, who was as measured as a rogue firework, did not appreciate even a second’s pause while being fed. With a squeal of irritation, Rosie lunged forward and grabbed the plate.

‘Shit!’ Michelle jerked, and the plate shot out of Rosie’s grasp and flipped upwards, hurling a brown arc of mush into the air. Most of it landed on Rosie, who began to scream at a pitch and volume to rival Maria Sharapova on centre court. A big gob hit Michelle right in the eye. ‘Shit!’ she yelled again, wiping at it frantically. ‘Shit, bugger, bugger, that stings!’

‘Mom-ee!’ Harry hated yelling of any kind but especially the swearing kind. He also hated the thought of anything bad happening to his mother. He’d become inconsolably distraught when Michelle had effed, blinded and hobbled after her bare foot had landed heavily on a piece of LEGO. Now, Michelle made sure she always wore slippers.

‘Mom-ee-ee!’

‘I’m OK, sweet pea!’ Michelle called. ‘It’s just Rosie’s food! Effing stinging bollocksycrap,’ she added under her breath, fumbling for the baby wipes. ‘Organic, my bum.’

Rosie writhed under the wipe, red-faced with rage. Her screams now had that shuddering tremolo of pure fury, and were now potentially audible to not only the neighbours, but also citizens of the next state.

‘MOM-EE-EE!’

Michelle almost snapped at her son, but knew that no one in the history of existence had ever calmed down when ordered to calm down.

The phone rang, so Michelle snapped at it instead. ‘Go away!’

The ringing seemed to get louder, as if the phone knew it was being deliberately ignored. Michelle gave up wiping a furious Rosie and stomped to the refrigerator, where she stabbed the plastic straw into a box of juice, stomped back and shoved it at her daughter, who stopped crying instantly and started sucking. Michelle then went to Harry, picked him up out of his chair and hugged him to her.

‘There you go, sweet pea.’ She stroked his back as he buried his hot little face in her shoulder. ‘Everyone’s all better now. We’re all cool little Fonzies.’

Harry lifted his head. ‘Rosie’s not supposed to have those juices,’ he told his mother. ‘They’re bad for her teeth and she could choke on the straw and die.’

‘Let me guess. Did Gin-Gin tell you that?’

Harry nodded solemnly, and added, ‘The phone’s still ringing.’

‘I know,’ said Michelle. ‘But the only people who call at this time are telemarketing freaks who want to take our money. They’ll go away soon.’

Immediately, the ringing stopped.

‘See?’ Michelle smiled at her son. ‘We’ve just saved twenty bucks of Daddy’s hard-earned moolah!’

The phone started up again.

‘Oh, come on!’ Michelle tried not to yell.

‘Might be Daddy,’ said Harry.

‘Daddy knows better than to call at your dinner time.’

But Michelle plumped Harry back down in his chair and walked a little faster than normal towards the phone.

‘Hello?’

‘Is he there?’

Forty years of living in the South had taken most of the clip out of Virginia Lawrence’s Boston vowels, and while she would never go so far as to adopt the languid formality of a Blanche Dubois, she always spoke with a scrupulous courtesy. She would never, ever, under normal circumstances begin a conversation without a reciprocal hello.

‘Virginia?’ Michelle frowned. ‘What’s up?’

Normally, too, her mother-in-law would protest at the use of the expression ‘What’s up?’, classifying it with others she deemed irretrievably vulgar, such as ‘How’s it hanging?’, ‘Where y’at?’ and ‘Gimme five!’ When Harry was first learning to talk, Michelle had considered teaching him to greet his grandmother, just once, with ‘’Sup, G?’ but had reluctantly decided against it.

But Virginia seemed not even to have heard her. ‘Is he there?’ she said again, with a breathless urgency. ‘Is he home?’

‘Who? Chad?’ Michelle glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s only quarter to six.’

‘He left here ten minutes ago.’

Michelle felt a prickle of dread. The soles of her feet began to tingle, as if the ground she was standing on was no longer stable.

‘He left your place? What was he doing there? He always comes straight home—’

She heard the click of the front door opening. It was a sound that she subconsciously waited for every weeknight. Usually it released a small but vital bubble of happiness, which flitted upwards from her gut to her heart. Usually that click meant Michelle could be sure all was right with her world.

‘Daddy!’

Seemed she wasn’t the only one who listened for it. Harry scrambled down off his chair, ruddy face alight with joy, and stood bouncing up and down on his tiptoes, ready to race forward at the first sight of his father.

‘Virginia!’ Michelle hissed urgently. ‘What was Chad doing at your place?’

‘It will kill him. Really, you must talk to him!’

‘Kill who? Jesus!’

‘Dad-eeee!’

Harry had spied his father in the kitchen doorway and was racing towards him. Michelle watched as her tall, blonde husband bent to scoop his son up into his arms. She heard Rosie in her highchair grunt and gurgle with excitement, knowing that Daddy would soon stride over and chuck her cheek with his finger and kiss the top of her dark, downy head. That was Chad’s routine — a bear hug and a ‘Hey, big guy!’ for Harry, a quick kiss and a ‘Hey, gorgeous’ for Rosie, then a fuller kiss on the mouth for Michelle and a brief, silent exchange of amusement mixed with disbelief, as if neither of them was entirely sure how all this had come about but it seemed only right to count their blessings.

This Wednesday evening, however, at ten to six, there was no ‘Hey, big guy!’ Chad scooped up Harry and hugged him. But his eyes were on Michelle. The prickle of dread crept up her spine and insinuated itself everywhere. She felt suspended, in that nauseating instant when you realise you’ve stepped out onto nothing and are about to fall.

A muted squawking reminded Michelle that her mother-in-law was still on the line. She held out the receiver to her husband.

‘It’s your mother.’ Chad nodded. ‘Shall I put her on speaker?’

Her husband reached out for the phone. ‘Mom, I’ll call you back.’

The answering squawk was abruptly terminated.

Rosie, outraged at being deprived of her kiss, began to yell. Michelle saw Harry’s face crumple and knew he, too, was about to cry. If Michelle didn’t do something fast, there’d be three people bawling in the kitchen.

‘It would be a very good idea if you got our children into their bath and then put them to bed,’ she informed her husband. ‘You will then find me in the living room, drinking a large glass of wine, and you will tell me what the be-jeepers is going on.’

Chapter 2

‘I blame you,’ Michelle told her best friend, Darrell.

‘How can it possibly be my fault? I’ve never even met Chad! I live in London! In a whole other country! A whole other continent!’

The little figure of Michelle on the screen put its hands over its ears. ‘No, no! Not listening! Too busy blaming!’

‘All right,’ said Darrell. She settled back against the propped-up pillows and shifted her laptop on her knees. ‘I give in. How is it my fault?’

‘It was that bloody Euro road-trip you took with lover-boy! I caught Chad looking at the photos on my computer one weekend! You and the studly Gypsy rover, in some amazing French valley shady! He looked like he was whistling, too!’

‘Gypsy is a racial slur,’ Darrell remarked. ‘The proper term is Roma or Romani. And Anselo doesn’t whistle – he’s more of a hummer.’

‘And in the next photos, you’re on some spectacular Alpine pass, and then on the shores of Lake beeping Como! Did you see George, by the way—?’

‘Little old village men dashed hopes. Signor Giorgio Clooney was in France with his bella moglie. I’m not sure what that means.’

‘It’s Italian for Lucky Cow-io . . . Wait. Lost track. Back to blaming. You have to understand that Chad has been to only two places in his whole life. Home one: here in Charlotte, North Carolina, and home two: the Lawrence family holiday mansion in Ogunquit, Maine. They call it The Cottage, you know, as if at one time it was inhabited by salt-of-the-earth pastoral people. Unlikely, seeing it was built in the 1920’s, and that no Lawrence family matron would let a micron of either salt or earth near the place.’

‘Is there a point coming?’ Darrell said. ‘FaceTime is free but broadband is not. And you made me call you, remember?’

Michelle threw up her hands. ‘Point is that Chad hasn’t even been to his parents’ Boston birthplace! He is about as well travelled as a public monument! I think your photos were like a first hit of crack to him! And now he’s buying Lonely Planet guides and forcing us to up stumps and shift the length of this whole freaking country! To San Freak-Cisco!’

‘Well, that is where his new job is—’

‘He doesn’t need a new job! He has a perfectly good old job!’

‘Is it a step up? Career- and money-wise?’

‘He doesn’t need a step up! We’re more than comfortable here!’

Darrell knew this to be true. She and Michelle had been best friends since secondary school, and despite having had miles of globe between them for years, messaged or called each other pretty much every week. Michelle spared Darrell no details of her life, so Darrell had not only seen photos of Michelle’s house, she probably knew more about it than Michelle’s immediate neighbours.

Michelle and Chad lived in an affluent part of uptown Charlotte called Elizabeth. Although it was no more than ten minutes’ drive from the central city, the streets were leafy and, thanks to the streetcars that had once run down them, broad. The houses, including Michelle’s, were large and mainly Victorian. Michelle’s house had a blue and white painted outside and lots of wood panelling inside. Out front, it had a huge wrap-around porch, where on fine weekends the whole family hung out and shouted cheery hellos to other families passing by on their way to the park. Darrell and Michelle had grown up in Wellington, New Zealand, in a conservative suburb where porch-sitting was, in good English-derived tradition, frowned upon as slummy.

Darrell knew Michelle loved where she lived. She was part of a neighbourhood mothers’ group, who shared baby-sitting and play dates. She loved the park, one of Charlotte’s oldest, where they watched Fourth of July fireworks in summer and Chad pulled Harry on a sled in the small amount of snow that fell in winter. Over the tops of the trees you could see the shiny peaks of the city skyscrapers.

Despite a population of less than two million, Charlotte was, after New York, America’s second largest financial centre. Many banks and large corporations were headquartered in Charlotte. Chad worked for a bank. Darrell wasn’t entirely sure what he did, but whatever it was, his father, Lowell, had done the same thing before him and made a pile. When you added this to the pile he had inherited from his Boston Brahmin family and the Maine property his wife had brought as dowry, it was clear that Lowell Lawrence was really quite wealthy indeed. Darrell knew that while Chad earned a good income, the only reason he and Michelle were living in their large Victorian uptown house was that Lowell had paid for half of it. He’d called it a loan, but everyone knew that was a lie. It was a gift to his only child, his only son, and, in a way, to his wife, because it ensured the Lawrence grandchildren would be only a few minutes’ drive from Lowell and Virginia’s even larger grand old home in Myers Park, and not in some ranch house at the farthest reaches of Mecklenburg County or, God forbid, in one of Charlotte’s more artistic and ethnically diverse communities.

Darrell felt Michelle had accepted that her house came at a price. But her friend was determined that familial obligation would only extend so far. Michelle had recounted to Darrell her refusal of Virginia’s offer to pay for a nanny, during which she told her mother-in-law that she did not want to reach fifty and realise she’d missed her one real chance to be actively involved in her children’s lives.

‘But I’m still actively involved in Chad’s life,’ Virginia had protested.

‘My aim is to do it while they still want me to,’ Michelle had replied, which had prompted a week of frosty silence.

Darrell remembered when her best friend had arrived in Charlotte from London six years earlier, to work as a corporate lawyer. Michelle had stayed in New Zealand long enough to gain a top-class law degree and a stellar reference from her first employer, and at age twenty-six had landed in London to take the kind of high-powered job Darrell had no doubts Michelle had always considered her due. After three years, though, Michelle made it very clear that she’d  had enough of grey days that hung about her like an old man’s cardigan and asked for, nay, demanded, a transfer to anywhere that did not require her take daily vitamin D supplements. The firm she worked for was headquartered in New York, but had rapidly and aggressively branched out to strategic locations around the world. They had a branch in Charlotte because wherever there is high finance there are substantial legal fees. The Charlotte branch made so much money its New York owners referred to it as ‘Cha-ching!’

Michelle had been on a fast upward track in her career, but seemed to Darrell to have no regrets about leaving it behind. Darrell had long observed that whatever Michelle decided she wanted to do, she went at with single-minded and unswerving ambition. Michelle had pursued Chad from the second she’d first spied him, sitting on a park bench on a balmy Charlotte summer day, surrounded by a gaggle of doting blondes like some gleaming Nordic hero. She’d extracted him swiftly and ruthlessly from the women, whom she’d described to Darrell as the human equivalent of crème caramel, all golden, soft and syrupy.

‘That’s the thing with Southern women,’ Michelle had told Darrell. ‘They’re all so freaking polite. It was like Dynasty. They were Krystle. I was Alexis. I’m not even sure they knew what happened,’ she’d added. ‘I should have stolen their Tiffany tennis bracelets while I was at it.’

Chad and Michelle were married within a year. Virginia had been surprisingly accepting of Chad’s choice of wife. According to Michelle, Virginia Lawrence’s own preference for her son would have been the daughter of one of her Boston social register acquaintances or, failing that, some Euro-royal, like Princess Elisabeth von Thurn und Taxis, even though she had the misfortune to be Catholic.

In Michelle’s opinion, Virginia had accepted her when, during the inevitable phone calls that preceded the wedding, Virginia had recognised in Michelle’s own mother a kindred spirit. Michelle’s father, when she was twelve, had left not only his wife and only child, but also the country. Darrell knew Michelle hadn’t been too bothered by this; the scandal of it gave her a certain cachet among her friends, and her father had regularly sent excellent presents from his new home in the Yukon, like beaded fur-lined boots and (the gift Darrell personally had coveted) a silver pendant in the shape of a howling wolf. Michelle’s mother, on the other hand, had wrapped around her a protective cloak of propriety. Her vowels became impeccable, her home immaculate. Now, twenty-three years later, her respectability was as gleaming and impervious as the layers of polish on her ugly Victorian furniture. Even from eight thousand miles away, Virginia Lawrence could sense this and appreciate it. Michelle may have been a little too frank for her taste, but Michelle’s mother was beyond reproach.

Darrell had been at Michelle’s wedding, but Michelle’s mother had not . Her excuse had been a reluctance to fly. Darrell had listened in as Michelle told Chad it was more likely that her mother considered the whole of North America beyond the pale for harbouring her errant ex-husband.

‘But we’re nowhere near Canada,’ he’d protested.

‘Yes, but to Mother Horton, it’s all one,’ his new wife had told him, ‘just as every feminist has hairy armpits and every liberal voter should be committed.’

Mrs Horton had sent a tasteful card and a cut crystal vase of such extraordinary ugliness that Michelle was reluctant even to inflict it on Goodwill.

Nine months and one week after the wedding, Harry was born. He looked just like Chad, and instantly became the second object of Lowell and Virginia’s veneration. Rosie, much to Michelle’s relief, arrived dark, fierce and squalling. ‘She’s a mini-me!’ a delighted Michelle had told Darrell. ‘When her hair grows I’m going to cut it exactly like mine. We’ll be terrifying!’ Now, at eight months, Rosie’s hair was still a downy fuzz, and Darrell couldn’t quite picture her with Michelle’s dark, dead-straight bob. She had no doubt, though, that Michelle would keep her word. Michelle always meant exactly what she said...

‘So,’ Darrell asked. ‘Why does Chad want this new job then?’

‘I have no freaking idea!’ Michelle replied. ‘It makes no sense at all! Virginia is in a complete lather about it, not to mention Chad’s dad! I’ve never seen big Lowell express even a smidgeon of uncertainty. Lowell knows best about everything — he’s like Dr Phil, only not so tactful. Even that stint in hospital didn’t faze him. He came out more Ride of the Valkyries than ever. Now, it’s like he’s shrunk in the wash. He hesitates before he speaks, and the other night at dinner he actually asked Virginia if he should have a second helping of pie! It’s heart breaking. But Chad refuses to admit there’s anything wrong. He says they’ll get used to it, as if us being ripped from the family bosom is akin to a new set of dentures!’

‘Um,’ Darrell ventured. ‘Could his dad’s health be a factor?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, when people close to you have a scare, it can freak you out a bit. Makes you aware of your own mortality as well that of your loved ones.’

Michelle’s voice rose. ‘Are you suggesting Chad’s worried he’s also going to die of a stroke? Lowell’s wasn’t even a big stroke! It was a teeny-tiny one! He’s fine! You’d never even know he’d had one!’

‘OK...’

‘Chad’s not going to die. He’s the picture of health. When people think of health, they immediately see Chad in all his glory. It’s a well-known fact.’

‘I believe you,’ said Darrell. ‘But it does freak you out. I’m still a bit freaked out even now...’

‘Why? You don’t even know Chad’s dad,’ said Michelle. ‘Oh. Right. Sorry. Dead hubby. I temporarily forgot.’

‘That’s all right,’ Darrell said. ‘We both know you are an insensitive bint.’

‘True.’ Michelle went quiet. ‘Look, I know Tom’s death was sudden and completely unexpected, and there was absolutely nothing you could have done because his heart was buggered—’

‘This is going to get less sensitive from now on, isn’t it?’

‘You know me so well,’ said Michelle. ‘But my excuse is I am under duress. I don’t know what’s going on in Chad’s brain and I tell you, if he is running away because he’s scared of dying, I may have to kill him myself.’

‘It’s a plan,’ said Darrell. ‘Not the best plan, but you have to start somewhere—’

The knob on Darrell’s bedroom door rattled as someone outside struggled to open it.

‘Hang on a mo, Mo—’

Darrell dumped the laptop off her knees and hopped off the bed. Outside the door she found her boyfriend, Anselo, trying and failing to hold two cups of tea in one hand without spilling any.

‘Thanks!’ Darrell took one from him.

Anselo wiped the spilled tea from his hand onto his ancient Stranglers t-shirt and nodded towards the laptop on the bed. ‘You done?’

‘Not quite. Come on. Hop up and join me. Michelle’s in a state about having to move states.’

Anselo gave her a pained look. ‘How will I help?’

Darrell smiled. ‘Someone else for her to rant at.’

‘Look who’s here!’ said Darrell brightly as she and Anselo settled onto the bed.

‘What do you know about San Francisco?’ demanded the little on-screen Michelle.

Anselo shrugged. ‘Not much. Earthquakes. Cable cars. Flowers in your hair?’

Michelle scowled. ‘All I know about it I learned from the first George of the Jungle movie. I don’t know anyone who lives there at all!’

‘Danielle Steele lives there,’ said Darrell, ‘and, according to Wikipedia, in a fifty-five-room mansion that used to belong to a tycoon called Adolph B. Spreckels.’

‘Right. Well, I’m pretty sure Dani and I won’t be bonding over goldfish crackers and Paw Patrol at the ex-Spreckels pad any time soon. Any other leads?’

‘I know someone who lives there,’ said Anselo.

Darrell’s surprised enquiry chimed with Michelle’s. ‘Who?’

‘My sister.’

‘I thought she was teaching art somewhere up north?’

‘That’s Jenepher, my youngest sister. There’s another one in between her and me. Aishe.’

‘Why is your sister named after a continent?’ said Michelle.

Darrell frowned. ‘And why don’t you ever mention her?’

‘First,’ said Anselo, ‘it’s Ay-sha, not Asia. And second, I’ve only seen her twice in—’ Anselo did a quick calculation. ‘Wow. Twice in the last sixteen years.’

‘Is she the family pariah?’ Michelle asked.

Anselo shook his head. ‘She was the one who wanted to leave. She took off when she was seventeen.’

‘To San Francisco?’

‘Europe. Odd-jobbed around for almost two years. Then in Germany she hooked up with a Norwegian death metal band, who were on tour. Got pregnant to the drummer. Took off again. Had the baby in a backpackers in Bratislava.’

‘Jeepers,’ said Darrell. ‘Does she have some congenital condition that overrides all survival instincts?"

‘Personally, I’m beginning to like the sound of this woman,’ said Michelle. ‘So where did she and the infant Scandiwegian head to from Bratislava?’

‘Jamaica.’

‘Of course.’

‘Where she met the owner of a chain of Louisiana fried-chicken outlets called Frank Lewis. The guy, not the chicken outlets. He was black and weighed about twenty stone. I saw a photo. They got married in New Orleans and he was dead less than two years later.’

‘Let me guess. Heart attack? Sorry, Darrell.’

‘It was my guess, too. Are we right?’ Darrell asked Anselo.

‘Nope. Choked on a peanut at a bar. Tossed it up to catch it in his mouth and it went right down his windpipe. He was too big for anyone to give him the Heimlich manoeuvre.’

‘That’s terrible!’ said Michelle. ‘So is that how your sister got a green card?’

‘I guess so.’

‘And she’s in San Francisco?’

‘Marin County. Across the Golden Gate Bridge. Moved there about ten years ago. We never thought she’d stay so long, because before that she’d never stayed anywhere more than a few months. Guess she wanted to give her son some stability when he was growing up, though stability isn’t something Aishe’s ever seemed to put much store in.’ He added, ‘Mind you, by now her son will almost be grown up. He’ll be — what?’ Anselo did another quick calculation. ‘Fourteen?’

‘What’s his name?’ Darrell asked.

‘Gulliver.’

‘As in travels? Makes sense, I suppose.’

‘More likely as in never do anything that could be remotely considered conventional. Or simple,’ Anselo added darkly.

Darrell and Michelle exchanged a glance through the screen.

‘Your sister’s a rebel,’ said Michelle. ‘A mutineer on the good ship Establishment!’

Anselo shook his head. ‘Aishe doesn’t need a cause to be angry. She doesn’t even need provocation. She’d pick a fight with a silent order of nuns.’

‘Excellent!’ said Michelle. ‘What’s her number?’

Chapter 3

‘G ulliver Herne-Lewis !’ his mother yelled up the stairs. ‘If you do not pick up these t-shirts that I have washed, dried and folded for you, then I will take them to the back garden and set them on fire! And then I will come to your next band recital completely naked, my body covered only in the smeared ashes of your incinerated clothing! Comprende?’

Aishe heard a short, muffled sound which may or may not have been a word.

‘Your tutor will be turning up in five minutes! That’s five minutes before your shirts are burned! Got it?’

No response at all this time. Aishe fought down the urge to race upstairs, rip open her son’s bedroom door and yell right at him. Every teenager in history drove their parents nuts, she knew, but it was harder to take when up until recently, they’d been perfect. Right from when he was a toddler, Gulliver had been such a helpful boy; she’d rarely had to tell him twice to do anything. It was as if he’d always known they’d been a team, him and her, and that teams always pulled together. But over the last few months, it seemed that for every inch in height he had suddenly, alarmingly, gained, he’d lost a proportionate willingness for any kind of interaction. The week before, Aishe had been flicking a duster over the photographs on top of her bookshelf and found herself smiling fondly at a photo of her curly mopped urchin, all round, freckled cheeks and a huge, gappy grin. How sweet he’d been when he was little, she’d thought. Then she’d recalled that the photo had been taken only last year, and felt her insides flip with an emotion she found hard to pin down. It seemed most like regret, she decided. But what on earth for? Her son was growing into a fine young man, despite his troglodyte tendencies, and it was beautiful and gratifying to watch.

Aishe thought about her brother, Anselo, the one she was closest to in age — and in personality too, though Anse had always been a bit too stuck in the duty and obligation groove. Anselo, the middle Herne, had been a skinny little child, much slighter than his two older brothers. He’d been quiet and wary too, a silent, frowning observer when his strapping, handsome brothers would inevitably throw themselves into the thick of things and emerge yelling in either triumph or pain, usually the latter. But the last time Aishe had seen him, which was over seven years ago, she’d been agog to see how much he’d filled out. He was six feet tall, broad-shouldered and well-muscled. ‘Wow, bro,’ she’d said to him. ‘Been hitting the gym?’ He’d reddened and brushed off the remark with his usual scowl. And then he said what he’d been forced to say, and the conversation went rapidly downhill from there.

Her two oldest brothers were married now with a brood of children each and a matching set of over-stuffed English rose wives who expected them to bring home the bacon and lie about their ethnic origin at dinner parties. The wives felt that even being thought to have Arab blood was less of a social death than being Roma. Stupid cows.

Anselo, however, was not married. Well, as far as Aishe knew . . .

A jaunty tattoo sounded against the door. Aishe bristled. Even the way he knocked was gratingly smug.

‘Gulliver!’ she yelled again. ‘Get down here! And kiss goodbye to your shirts on the way!’

Aishe’s house being very small, the front door was all of two feet from the stairs. She wrenched it open and glared.

‘Hello,’ said her visitor mildly, as he stepped inside. ‘You could always attach wires to his testicles. Although I doubt he’s let you see him naked for at least three years.’

Aishe closed the door behind him with more force than was strictly necessary.

‘Let’s hope you know more about teaching than