‘OK – go!’ I said good-humouredly. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘Yes, with bright blue hands, I expect. Children!’
But she loved being a mum, I knew, and I envied her that, though I wasn’t at all sure how I’d cope given the same situation.
I put down the phone, reached for my crutches, propped up within easy reach, and went through to the kitchen.
‘Don’t cook for me tonight, Mum,’ I said. ‘I’m going out on the razzle with Rachel.’
‘That’s nice.’ Mum looked pleased for me, and I was feeling pleased for myself.
Taken all round, this was turning out to be rather a good day.
Four
Rachel arrived, a little harassed, at about twenty past seven.
‘Sorry I’m late, Sally. You know how it is . . .’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ As she ran a distracted hand through her hair I could see she did indeed have traces of bright blue paint ingrained around her cuticles, and I smiled to myself. ‘I’m just glad you could get away at all.’
‘Me too. It will be heaven to eat a meal I haven’t had to cook myself. There’s only so much cottage pie and macaroni cheese I can take.’
‘I must admit I’m looking forward to a pizza myself,’ I said. ‘Mum’s a wonderful cook but it’s all good old-fashioned casseroles and roasts. What with the way she’s been feeding me and no exercise to speak of I must have put on a good half stone!’
‘You still look fine to me.’
‘Hmm – a matter of opinion. I’m dreading getting back on the scales.’
It’s about half an hour’s drive from the farm into Porton, but we didn’t talk much on the way. Rachel is something of a nervous driver, especially in the dark, which makes me nervous too. She’s prone to waiting at roundabouts and junctions when there’s no need and then going when she shouldn’t, so she was busy concentrating hard and I was reluctant to say anything to distract her.
She did begin to tell me she was rather worried about her sister, Becky, who had, it seemed, recently split up with her husband, but I gently suggested she wait until we were in the wine bar when we could talk more easily.
We never did get around to it, though, because by the time she’d let me out outside Ricardo’s – I couldn’t open the door myself because of the childproof locks on the inside – and she’d gone off to find somewhere to park and then rejoined me, she was far more concerned about the fact that she’d managed to scrape her wing mirror while trying to manoeuvre into a bay in the multi-storey car park.
‘I was so worried I might clip somebody else’s car I didn’t notice I was too close to the pillar!’ she groaned. ‘Steve’s going to kill me.’
‘Is it just the mirror?’ I was feeling horribly responsible – if it weren’t for me it wouldn’t have happened.
‘Yes, but you know what Steve’s like about the car . . . Oh shoot! How could I be so stupid?’
‘I’m sure it’s not nearly as bad as you think,’ I said. ‘Come on, choose your pizza and try to forget about it.’
Ricardo, attentive as ever, had already put little dishes of olives, bread and dipping oil on the table, and I was enjoying a big glass of red wine. Rachel ordered a spritzer, we debated the relative merits of the huge selection of pizza toppings, and then settled back on the leather banquette.
‘So, what have you been up to since I saw you last?’ Rachel asked, a good deal calmer now. ‘No – don’t tell me . . . you’ve been bored silly.’
‘Actually no,’ I said. ‘I’ve got myself a project.’
‘A project. Oh – not a calf! You haven’t got a baby at home to bottle feed, have you? Because if you have you can send him over to me.’
I laughed. ‘I’d have thought you had quite enough to do already! But no, it’s not a calf. It’s work . . . sort of. A story I’m following up on.’
‘Tell me more,’ Rachel said. ‘I thought you said nothing ever happens in Stoke Compton that’s worth writing about.’
‘It did, though, didn’t it – five years ago. The big fire in the High Street.’
‘Well, yes, but surely that’s old news?’ Rachel sipped her spritzer. ‘The weirdo that did it was caught and convicted. He’s in prison, isn’t he?’
‘But his sister is convinced he’s innocent and I thought . . . oh, I might be flogging a dead horse, of course, but miscarriages of justice do happen. Wouldn’t it be fantastic if I could find something out that meant the whole case had to be reopened?’