Never, Not Ever by Jodie Benveniste

Author:Jodie Benveniste [Benveniste, Jodie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780975822548
Publisher: Brave New Word

14

Mum’s office was a bluestone cottage on the fringe of the Park Lands. On the outside it looked like an idyllic family home, with a low wrought-iron fence, agapanthus lining the brick path and potted shrubs by the front door.

But I was not here for happy families.

Sarah, Mum’s receptionist or secretary or personal assistant or whatever she called herself, smiled when I blasted open the door. At least it was cool inside. The heat had been bearing down on me as I’d stomped across the Park Lands, so I was hot and sweating. And angry. Really angry.

“How are you, Tilly? Lovely to see you. What can I do for you today?” Sarah was speaking as though I made regular appearances at Mum’s office. But I never came here. Why would I? This was Mum’s world. Not mine.

“I need to see my mum,” I said abruptly. There was no time to be nice.

My mind was reeling. What was Mum keeping from me now? What excuse would she have this time? How could she possibly explain this away?

“Well, she’s just on a client call. You can take a seat and I’ll let her know you’re here.” I must have looked impatient because she added, “She won’t be long.”

I couldn’t sit. I paced around the waiting room. Fortunately, there was no one else there, no need for me to smile politely or sit calmly in the corner and avoid eye contact.

I had no intention of smiling politely or sitting calmly. I needed answers. I needed the truth.

Finally, Mum appeared. Here in her natural habitat, she looked assured, confident and maybe a little bit scary. I suppose that’s what you want in a family lawyer.

She didn’t hug me, which was good because I would have brushed her off. She just beckoned me into her office, settled behind her desk, and pointed me towards a chair.

I didn’t sit. “Why didn’t you tell me he came here every year?”

She almost contained her surprise. Almost. “What do you mean?”

“Mitch,” I spat out. “He comes here every year for the French Festival.”

“Does he?” She was drumming her fingers on the desk, eyebrows furrowed.

“Don’t play dumb with me!” I shouted. “Why didn’t you tell me? How could you do that to me?”

“Tilly,” she lowered her voice, “I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, right.” I crossed my arms over my chest, shaking my head. Lies. More lies.

Her hands were flat on the desk now, and she was leaning slightly forward. She spoke in a tone that said, “Here are the facts whether you like them or not.”

“I promise you that I did not know. The first time I have seen him in years is when he drove past our house last week. The day you met him. I was in the driveway, picking up the paper, and he stopped and said hello.”

So that’s how it happened? A random drive-by?

She sighed. “He said he’d been avoiding travelling by my house—our house,” she corrected, “for years. But something compelled him to stop.” She was gazing past me now.

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