nothing wrong with my senses,’ I tell Mum. ‘I know what I saw. I saw a dead woman in that room, lying in a pool of her own blood. The detective I spoke to this morning is taking it seriously. If you don’t want to, that’s up to you.’
‘Oh, Connie, listen to yourself!’ Mum says sorrowfully.
‘Don’t waste your breath, Val,’ Dad mutters. ‘When does she ever pay attention to what we say?’ He lifts his right arm and studies the table beneath as if he expects to find something there. ‘What happened to that cuppa you were making?’
‘I’m sorry, but it makes no sense, love,’ Mum says to me in a hushed voice as she refills the kettle, shooting guilty glances in Dad’s direction, hoping he won’t notice her continued willingness to engage with the daughter he just dismissed as not worth bothering with. ‘I mean, you only have to think about it for two seconds to realise it’s a non-starter, don’t you? Why would anyone put a murdered woman’s body on a property website? A murderer wouldn’t do it, would he, because he’d want to hide what he’d done. An estate agent wouldn’t do it because he’d want to sell the house, and no one’s going to buy a—’
‘Except my eldest daughter,’ Dad announces loudly. ‘Not only my daughter – also my book-keeper, which is even more worrying. Oh, she’s more than happy to mortgage herself into penury to buy the gruesome death house for 1.2 million pounds!’ I don’t know why he’s glaring at Benji as he says this, as if it’s his fault.
‘Dad, I don’t want to buy 11 Bentley Grove. I can’t afford to buy it. You’re not listening to me.’ As usual . What did he mean by the book-keeper comment? That he’s afraid I might steal from Monk & Sons? That my profligate tendencies are likely to bankrupt the family business? I’ve never done anything but a brilliant job for him, and it counts for nothing. I needn’t have bothered.
And now I’m thinking like a martyr. Don’t they say all women turn into their mothers?
Tell them all you’re leaving Monk & Sons. Resigning. Work full-time for Nulli – that’s what you want to do, isn’t it? What is it about these people that makes it impossible to say what you mean and do what you want?
‘You’re contradicting yourself,’ I say to Dad. ‘If I imagined the body, then it’s not a gruesome death house, is it?’
‘So you do want to buy it. I knew it!’ He thumps his fist down on the table, making it rock.
‘The vendor wouldn’t do it,’ Mum burbles to herself, wrapping her burned hand in a piece of kitchen roll while she waits for the kettle to boil. ‘Presumably he or she wants the house to sell as much as the estate agent does.’
‘Please stop cataloguing everyone who wouldn’t put a dead body up on a website, Mum,’ Fran groans. ‘You’ve made your point: no one would do it.’
‘Well, if no one would do it, Connie can’t have seen it, can she?’ Mum nods triumphantly at me, as if that ought to be the end of the matter.
Why do my family always make me feel like this? Whenever I talk to them for any length of time, I end up wriggling in discomfort, desperately searching for a pocket of air as the oxygen is slowly squeezed from the conversation.
I can’t bear to be around them any longer. Nor can I stand the thought of going home to Kit, who will ask me how it went, and laugh as though at a sitcom when I bring it to life for him, as he will expect me to, as if I am a comedian and my family entertaining and harmless, joke-fodder. There’s only one person I want to talk to at the moment, and although it’s a Saturday, it’s also an emergency.
Is it? Are you sure?
When was I last sure of anything?
I pull my mobile phone out of my bag and leave the room. Mum shouts after me, ‘You don’t have to go into another room. We won’t listen.’
‘And the ridiculous thing was, I nearly didn’t do it. I found myself thinking, “But it’s not a real emergency –
‘Oh, Connie, listen to yourself!’ Mum says sorrowfully.
‘Don’t waste your breath, Val,’ Dad mutters. ‘When does she ever pay attention to what we say?’ He lifts his right arm and studies the table beneath as if he expects to find something there. ‘What happened to that cuppa you were making?’
‘I’m sorry, but it makes no sense, love,’ Mum says to me in a hushed voice as she refills the kettle, shooting guilty glances in Dad’s direction, hoping he won’t notice her continued willingness to engage with the daughter he just dismissed as not worth bothering with. ‘I mean, you only have to think about it for two seconds to realise it’s a non-starter, don’t you? Why would anyone put a murdered woman’s body on a property website? A murderer wouldn’t do it, would he, because he’d want to hide what he’d done. An estate agent wouldn’t do it because he’d want to sell the house, and no one’s going to buy a—’
‘Except my eldest daughter,’ Dad announces loudly. ‘Not only my daughter – also my book-keeper, which is even more worrying. Oh, she’s more than happy to mortgage herself into penury to buy the gruesome death house for 1.2 million pounds!’ I don’t know why he’s glaring at Benji as he says this, as if it’s his fault.
‘Dad, I don’t want to buy 11 Bentley Grove. I can’t afford to buy it. You’re not listening to me.’ As usual . What did he mean by the book-keeper comment? That he’s afraid I might steal from Monk & Sons? That my profligate tendencies are likely to bankrupt the family business? I’ve never done anything but a brilliant job for him, and it counts for nothing. I needn’t have bothered.
And now I’m thinking like a martyr. Don’t they say all women turn into their mothers?
Tell them all you’re leaving Monk & Sons. Resigning. Work full-time for Nulli – that’s what you want to do, isn’t it? What is it about these people that makes it impossible to say what you mean and do what you want?
‘You’re contradicting yourself,’ I say to Dad. ‘If I imagined the body, then it’s not a gruesome death house, is it?’
‘So you do want to buy it. I knew it!’ He thumps his fist down on the table, making it rock.
‘The vendor wouldn’t do it,’ Mum burbles to herself, wrapping her burned hand in a piece of kitchen roll while she waits for the kettle to boil. ‘Presumably he or she wants the house to sell as much as the estate agent does.’
‘Please stop cataloguing everyone who wouldn’t put a dead body up on a website, Mum,’ Fran groans. ‘You’ve made your point: no one would do it.’
‘Well, if no one would do it, Connie can’t have seen it, can she?’ Mum nods triumphantly at me, as if that ought to be the end of the matter.
Why do my family always make me feel like this? Whenever I talk to them for any length of time, I end up wriggling in discomfort, desperately searching for a pocket of air as the oxygen is slowly squeezed from the conversation.
I can’t bear to be around them any longer. Nor can I stand the thought of going home to Kit, who will ask me how it went, and laugh as though at a sitcom when I bring it to life for him, as he will expect me to, as if I am a comedian and my family entertaining and harmless, joke-fodder. There’s only one person I want to talk to at the moment, and although it’s a Saturday, it’s also an emergency.
Is it? Are you sure?
When was I last sure of anything?
I pull my mobile phone out of my bag and leave the room. Mum shouts after me, ‘You don’t have to go into another room. We won’t listen.’
‘And the ridiculous thing was, I nearly didn’t do it. I found myself thinking, “But it’s not a real emergency –
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