Page 2 of The Mother-in-Law

But when I edge forward a few paces I see that my worrying isn’t unnecessary. I see it in the sombreness of the policeman’s expression, in the downward turn of his mouth.

The policewoman glances at Edie, then back at Ollie. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk . . . privately?’

The first traces of uncertainty appear on Ollie’s face. His shoulders stiffen and he stands a little bit taller. Perhaps unconsciously, he pushes Edie back from the door, behind him, shielding her.

‘Edie-bug, would you like me to put onThe Wiggles?’ I say, stepping forward finally.

Edie shakes her head resolutely, her gaze not shifting from the police. Her soft round face is alight with interest; her chunky, wobbly legs are planted with improbable firmness.

‘Come on, honey,’ I try again, sweeping a hand over her pale gold hair. ‘How about an ice cream?’

This is more of a dilemma for Edie. She glances at me, watching for a long moment, assessing whether I can be trusted. Finally I shout for Archie to get out the Paddle Pops and she scampers off down the hallway.

‘Come in,’ Ollie says to the police, and they do, sending me a quick polite smile. Asorrysmile. A smile that pierces my heart.It’s not the neighbours, that smile says.This bad news is yours.

There aren’t a lot of private areas in our house so Ollie guides the police to the kitchen and pulls out a couple of chairs. I follow, shoving my newly folded laundry into a basket. The piles collapse into each other like tumbling buildings. The police sit on the chairs, Ollie and I remain sharply upright, stiff. Bracing.

‘Firstly, I need to confirm that you are relatives of Diana Goodwin—’

‘Yes,’ Ollie says, ‘she’s my mother.’

‘Then I’m very sorry to inform you,’ the policewoman starts, and I close my eyes because I already know what she is going to say.

My mother-in-law is dead.

2

LUCY

Ten years ago . . .

Someone once told me that you have two families in your life—the one you are born into and the one you choose. But that’s not entirely true, is it? Yes, you may get to choose your partner, but you don’t, for instance, choose your children. You don’t choose your brothers- or sisters-in-law, you don’t choose your partner’s spinster aunt with the drinking problem, or cousin with the revolving door of girlfriends who don’t speak English. More importantly, you don’t choose your mother-in-law. The cackling mercenaries of fate determine it all.

‘Hello?’ Ollie calls. ‘Anybody home?’

I stand in the yawning foyer of the Goodwins’ home and pan around at the marble extending in every direction. A winding staircase sweeps from the basement up to the first floor, beneath a magnificent crystal chandelier. I feel like I’ve stepped into the pages of aHello!magazine spread, the ones with the ridiculous photos of celebrities sprawling on ornate furniture and on grassy knolls in riding boots with Golden Retrievers at their feet. I’ve always imagined this is what the inside of Buckingham Palace must look like, or if not Buckingham, at least one of the smaller palaces—St James’s or Clarence House.

I try to catch Ollie’s eye, to . . . what? Admonish him? Cheer? Quite frankly I’m not sure, but it’s moot since he’s already charging into the house, announcing our arrival. To say I’m unprepared for this is the most glorious of understatements. When Ollie suggested I come to his parents’ house for dinner, I’d pictured lasagna and salad in a quaint blond-brick bungalow, the kind of home I grew up in. I imagined an adoring mother clasping a photo album of sepia-coloured baby photos, and a brusquely proud but socially awkward father clasping a can of beer and wearing a cautious smile. Instead, artwork and sculptures are up-lit and gleaming, and the parents, socially awkward or otherwise, are nowhere to be seen.

‘Ollie!’ I catch Ollie’s elbow and am about to whisper furiously when a plump, ruddy-faced man rushes through a large arched doorway at the back of the house, clutching a glass of red wine.

‘Dad!’ Ollie cries. ‘There you are!’

‘Well, well. Look who the cat dragged in.’

Tom Goodwin is the very opposite of his tall, dark-haired son. Short, overweight and unstylish, his red checked shirt is tucked into chinos that are belted below his substantial paunch. He throws his arms around his son, and Ollie thumps his old man on the back.

‘You must be Lucy,’ Tom says after releasing Ollie. He takes my hand and pumps it heartily, letting out a low whistle. ‘My word. Well done, son.’

‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr Goodwin.’ I smile.

‘Tom! Call me Tom.’ He smiles at me as though he’s won the Easter raffle, then he appears to remember himself. ‘Diana! Diana, where are you? They’re here!’

After a moment Ollie’s mother emerges from the back of the house. She’s wearing a white shirt and navy slacks and brushing nonexistent crumbs from the front of her shirt. I suddenly wonder about my outfit choice, a full-skirted 1950s red and white polka-dot dress that had belonged to my mother. I thought it would be charming but now it just seems outlandish and stupid, especially given Ollie’s mum’s plain and demure attire.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says from several paces away. ‘I didn’t hear the bell.’

‘This is Lucy,’ Tom says.