Page 54 of The Mother-in-Law

‘It is what it is. I moved forward with my life and started a new family. I have Tom and the children now.’

‘But your children are unhappy with you?’

I sigh. ‘Because of money. It’s always about money.’

‘Your children want your money?’

‘Naturally.’

‘And you don’t want to give it?’

I smile. There’s something so delightfully simple about the way Ghezala speaks. There’s no ambiguity, no judgment. It frees me to speak equally simply.

‘Being poor and having to survive without my parents was the single most defining thing I’ve ever done. It showed me what I am capable of. As a mother, I think this is the most important gift you can give to your children. Unlike money, it can’t be taken away or lost.’

‘It sounds like you have your answer,’ Ghezala says.

‘But it’s more complicated than that. Nettie wants to have a baby and she’s having trouble getting pregnant. IVF is very expensive and she wants us to help her with the cost. The clock is ticking too, as she’s forty now. And that’s not even the whole picture. I have reason to believe that her husband is unfaithful.’

Ghezala’s brown eyes widen. ‘Does she know?’

‘I’m not sure. The funny thing is . . . I’m not sure she’llwantto know. This baby thing has sent her quite mad. She’s got her eye on the prize—a baby—and she’s unable to see anything else.’

‘So . . . instead of talking to her about it, you’re . . . ensuring she won’t get pregnant, by withholding money?’

‘As I’ve said, I have many reasons not to give her the money. But to be honest, yes, I’d rather not help her shackle herself to a man who is unfaithful. She’s already struggling. I couldn’t bear for her to become pregnant, give up her livelihood and her career, only to have it thrown back in her face when he leaves her for another woman.’

I look at Ghezala, waiting for some words of wisdom or comment or even a question. But Ghezala doesn’t say anything at all, which, I realise, is a much more powerful response.

31

LUCY

The present . . .

‘No iPads,’ I tell the kids, to a chorus of moans. They have just got home from school and kindergarten and my front hall is full of bags, my sink is full of lunchboxes and my couch is full of children. ‘Go play a game or read a book.’

They proceed to go ballistic and I ask myself, why am I doing this? Who cares if they watch the iPad for twenty-four hours straight? Their eyeballs won’t bleed or turn square, their brains won’t rot. It doesn’t matter a single jot. And yet I continue my mothering on autopilot, as natural to me these days as breathing, in spite of everything that’s going on.

Ollie came home from the will reading and immediately shut himself up in the home office. He didn’t say much in the car, other than that he was still in shock and needed some time to think.

He hasn’t been back to work yet since Diana died, and I’m starting to worry about that. For the past year it’s been so hard to keep him away from the place—he regularly worked weekends and well into each evening. I hoped that by this point, four years into the business, he’d have been able to back off a little and enjoy what they’d built, but they always seemed to be hurtling toward the next target. (‘When we sign this client, we’ll be able to take the kids to Disneyland.’ ‘When we land this contract, champagne for everyone.’) But they keep signing clients and landing contracts and Ollie keeps placing candidates, yet profits still seem to be thin.

A year ago I suggested Ollie and Eamon get someone to look at the books, to do an inventory of incomings and outgoings. Ollie liked that idea and came home and reported that Eamon had hired an accountant he knew to do exactly that. But the accountant came back with the same advice that Eamon had been giving. ‘More clients = more money.’ A good philosophy, but with Ollie as the only recruiter, and no money to hire anyone else, it has taken its toll on him. Now, to hear that his mother had disinherited him, it’s got to feel like the final straw in what has been a stressful couple of years.

From the living room I hear Ollie’s phone ring and then quickly stop. He’s screening the call, probably, he’s been doing that all day. I imagine him in his swivel chair, his forehead resting against the desk. Ollie and I never talked explicitly about the fact that we would one day come into money—it always seemed to be in poor taste, to me—but even I can admit that I thought about it from time to time, and it always made me feel secure to know that even if we were poor now, our retirement would be taken care of. The idea that Diana would cut her children out of her will had never occurred to me and clearly it had never occurred to Ollie either.

There is a sharpbang bangat the door. My stomach constricts. Lately, a bang at the door has come to signal bad news, and given the amount of force this person is using, it seems unlikely that this time should be any different.

I tread slowly down the hall. Through the window at the side of the door I notice the distinctive royal blue of Eamon’s suit jacket. When I toss open the door, he straightens his spine, bending his lips upward in what I think is supposed to be a smile. ‘Hi, Luce.’

‘Eamon,’ I say. ‘Is everything all right?’

His expression is tight and he has a slight twitchiness about him that is unnerving. ‘Sure, sure. Everything’s great. Fantastic.’

Fantastic. Ollie has started using that word too, since being in partnership with Eamon, mostly on the phone. (‘Everything is fantastic, how are things with you, Steve?Fantastic!’ Someone must have told them in a networking course that it is highly important to be fantastic at all times.)

‘Ollie home?’ he says.