After You by Jojo Moyes

that my little car rattled. ‘I don’t live here.
They
live here.’
    She let herself in and I followed awkwardly, feeling like an intruder. We were in a spacious, high-ceilinged hallway, with parquet flooring and a huge gilt mirror on the wall, a slew of white-card invitations jostling for space in its frame. A vase of beautifully arranged flowers sat on a small antique table. The air was scented with their perfume.
    From upstairs came the sound of commotion, possibly children’s voices – it was hard to tell.
    ‘My half-brothers,’ Lily said dismissively, and walked through to the kitchen, apparently expecting me to follow. It was enormous, in modernist grey, with an endless mushroom-coloured polished-concrete worktop. Everything in it screamed money, from the Dualit toaster to the coffee-maker, which was large and complicated enough not to be out of place in a Milanese café. Lily opened the fridge and scanned it, finally pulling out a box of fresh pineapple pieces that she started to eat with her fingers.
    ‘Lily?’
    A voice from upstairs, urgent, female.
    ‘Lily, is that you?’ The sound of footsteps racing down.
    Lily rolled her eyes.
    A blonde woman appeared in the doorway. She stared at me, then at Lily, who was dropping a piece of pineapple languidly into her mouth. She walked over and snatched the container from her hands. ‘Where the
hell
have you been? The school is beside themselves. Daddy was out driving round the neighbourhood. We thought you’d been murdered! Where
were
you?’
    ‘He’s not my dad.’
    ‘Don’t get smart with me, young lady. You can’t just walk back in here like nothing’s happened! Do you have any idea of the trouble you’ve caused? I was up with your brother half the night, and then I couldn’t sleep for worrying about what had happened to you. I’ve had to cancel our trip to Granny Houghton’s because we didn’t know where you were.’
    Lily stared at her coolly. ‘I don’t know why you bothered. You don’t usually care where I am.’
    The woman stiffened with rage. She was thin, the kind of thin that comes with faddy diets or compulsive exercise; her hair was expensively cut and coloured so that it looked neither, and she was wearing what I assumed were designer jeans. But her face, tanned as it was, betrayed her: she looked exhausted.
    She spun round to me. ‘Is it you she’s been staying with?’
    ‘Well, yes, but –’
    She looked me up and down, and apparently decided she was not enamoured of what she saw. ‘Do you know the trouble you’re causing? Do you have any idea how old she is? What the hell do you want with a girl that young anyway? You must be, what, thirty?’
    ‘Actually, I –’
    ‘Is this what it’s about?’ she asked her daughter. ‘Are you having a relationship with this woman?’
    ‘Oh, Mum, shut
up
.’ Lily had picked up the pineapple again, and was fishing around in it with her forefinger. ‘It’s not what you think. She hasn’t caused any of it.’ She lowered the last piece of pineapple into her mouth, pausing to chew, perhaps for dramatic effect, before she spoke again. ‘She’s the woman who used to look after my dad. My real dad.’
    Tanya Houghton-Miller sat back in the endless cushions of her cream sofa and stirred her coffee. I perched on the edge of the sofa opposite, gazing at the oversized Diptyque candles and the artfully placed
Interiors
magazines. I was slightly afraid that if I sat back as she had, my coffee would tip into my lap.
    ‘How did you meet my daughter?’ she said wearily. Her wedding finger sported two of the biggest diamonds I’d ever seen.
    ‘I didn’t, really. She turned up at my flat. I had no idea who she was.’
    She digested that for a minute. ‘And you used to look after Will Traynor.’
    ‘Yes. Until he died.’
    There was a brief pause as we both studied the ceiling – something had just crashed above our heads. ‘My sons.’ She sighed. ‘They have some behavioural