shook her head now, not quite knowing how to take this unexpected turn of events. She couldn’t help thinking that Tom hadn’t had these reservations last weekend, and the connection between Ben’s visit and her son’s sudden aversion to going out was impossible to ignore.
‘You’ve not fallen out with Angie, have you?’ she ventured, needing to clarify the situation in her own mind, and Tom looked up at her with guarded eyes.
‘No,’ he said, toying with the cutlery Jaime had laid on the table. ‘Why? Do you want me to go out or something?’
‘Of course not.’ Jaime was thrown on the defensive now, although another thought had occurred to her. ‘It’s just not usual for you to spend Friday night at home, that’s all. You’re not—expecting anyone, are you?’
‘Are you?’
‘Me?’ Jaime was lifting a casserole out of the oven as she spoke, and the word degenerated into a squeak of pain as the dish slipped against her palm. ‘Damn,’ she added, shoving the offending container on to the hob and pressing her two palms together. ‘Who would I be expecting?’
Then, as she was staring somewhat resentfully at her son, the doorbell rang. Like a blatant reaction to her plea of innocence, the sound echoed resonantly around the small kitchen, and Tom was out of his chair and on his way to answer it almost before the chimes died away. But it was the expression he flung at his mother as he did so that caused Jaime’s heart to lurch in silent protest. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought he believed she knew who it was, and his interpretation was obvious.
Jaime froze as he bounded up the hall, the casserole forgotten on the hob beside her. It had to be Ben, she thought sickly, guessing he had chosen this way to do things to avoid any repetition of the confrontation they had had on Monday. By coming to the house, he was forcing her to accept him. And Tom was simply playing into his hands.
The door opened, but the voice that greeted her son wasn’t Ben’s. It was female, and as the numbness that had gripped her began to ease Jaime recognised her mother’s voice. Her mother’s voice! A wave of hysteria swept over her, and she had to physically suppress the urge to laugh out loud. It wasn’t Ben, it was her mother. Dear God, was she going mad?
‘It’s Nan,’ announced Tom offhandedly, preceding his grandmother into the room, and resuming his seat at the table. He didn’t look at his mother, and, conscious of her own weakness, Jaime guessed her son was suffering the same reaction. He had expected it to be Ben, of course, and the sulky twist to his lips was an indication of his disappointment.
‘Hi, Mum!’
Jaime greeted her mother warmly, but Mrs Fenner surveyed the pair of them rather wryly. ‘Did I interrupt an argument or what?’ she asked, setting her handbag down on the floor and unbuttoning her jacket. ‘If I’m in the way, I can easily go back home.’
‘Don’t be silly, Mum.’ Jaime flashed her son a reproving look, and went to help her mother off with her coat. ‘You’re not interrupting anything. We were just going to eat, actually. Why don’t you join us?’
‘Oh, no.’ Mrs Fenner shook her blonde head. Like her daughter—and her grandson—her hair had once been silvery pale, and although its colour now owed more to the skills of her hairdresser than to nature she was still a very attractive woman. ‘I’ll just make myself a cup of tea, if that’s all right with you. It’s so hot! It’s years since we’ve had a summer like this.’
‘Are you sure you won’t have something to eat?’ Jaime moved the casserole on to the table, and took off the lid. ‘It’s your favourite—chicken.’
‘Honestly.’ Her mother fanned herself with a languid hand. ‘Besides, I had a sandwich before I came out. And I mustn’t stay long. I promised your father I’d be back before the place got busy.’
‘All right.’ Jaime looked at her son again. ‘Why don’t you fill the kettle, Tom?’
‘Oh, sure—–’
Tom would have got up from the table there and then, but his grandmother’s hand kept him in his chair. ‘Stay where you are!’ she exclaimed, patting his shoulder. ‘When the day comes that I can’t fill a kettle for myself, I’ll let you know.’
Jaime sighed but, setting the plates on the table, she took her seat. She noticed that Tom avoided her eyes as she ladled some of the delicious-smelling casserole on to his plate, and she guessed he was having a hard time hiding his feelings. She couldn’t help wondering what she would have done if it had been Ben at the door. From now on, that would always be a possibility, and it wasn’t easy to come to terms with.
‘So, to what do we owe the honour of this visit?’ she asked now, making a determined effort to act naturally. ‘Dad’s OK, isn’t he? There’s nothing wrong?’
‘Heavens, no!’
But her mother’s response was almost too prompt, and Jaime was disturbed. It was rare that her mother came here unannounced, and never at this time of day. There had to be a reason. But what?
‘I—er—I’ve been to the Cash and Carry,’ Mrs Fenner said quickly, putting two tea-bags into the pot. ‘I just thought I’d call in—as you didn’t come over last weekend.’
‘Oh.’ That sounded reasonable, but after handing Tom his plate Jaime made no attempt to fill her own. ‘Well—as you know, it was the Haines’s party on Saturday night, and we just had a lazy day on Sunday.’
‘Late night, huh?’ suggested her mother mildly, and Jaime wondered what all this was really about.
‘Not really—–’ she was beginning slowly, when Tom broke in.
‘Uncle Ben came here last Saturday night,’ he interjected, ignoring his mother’s sudden intake of breath. ‘He came while Mum was out. But he stayed until she got home.’
‘Did he?’ Now it was Mrs Fenner’s turn to look disturbed, and she turned half anxious, half accusing eyes in her daughter’s direction. ‘You never said.’
‘Well—I haven’t had the chance, have I?’ Jaime knew she had no need to feel guilty, but she did. ‘I—would have—–’
‘So, he spent the evening with Tom,’ Mrs Fenner murmured faintly, and her grandson nodded.
‘Yes. And he was really nice,’ he declared, through a mouthful of chicken and vegetables. ‘He told me all about working for the BBC, and what it was like living in South Africa. His wife died out there, you know. Auntie Maura, that is. Apparently, she’d been ill for years.’ He paused, and looked defensively at his mother. ‘Did you know that, Mum?’
Jaime got up from the table. ‘I’ve told you, Tom, I’ve got no interest in anything Ben Russell says or does. Now—can we change the subject? Mum—–’ she looked to her mother for assistance ‘—why don’t you go and sit outside? I’ll bring a tray out to you.’
‘Oh—very well.’
Mrs Fenner looked as if she would have liked to argue, but discretion, and her daughter’s tense face, persuaded her otherwise. With a rueful smile at Tom, she opened the back door and stepped out on to the sunny patio.
‘I suppose
