a surrogate son (their own lives in the States and calls just once a month). Toma changes light bulbs, cuts their grass and makes them feel secure.
I can understand that.
Whenever I am with him, I too feel safe, assured. Even when we are creeping about grubby properties, meeting people who are unsavoury through choice or circumstances. It’s not his huge physical presence, it’s his deep, poignant calm. I guess when the very worst thing that can happen to you has happened, nothing ever scares you again.
‘I am good. Thank you.’ He’s a man of few words.
‘I’m glad you popped in. I think I may have found a lead on a job for you.’
‘Yes?’ He looks keen. He doesn’t like to be idle. He’s been busy enough whilst we’ve been playing detective but that has to stop now. A job might distract him, at least temporarily, from his hunt.
‘It’s in an industrial laundry. It doesn’t pay brilliantly. It’s shift work.’
‘Could I take double shifts?’
I smile. ‘Well yes, if you want to, I guess.’
‘I want. I’ve never been afraid of my own sweat. What else have I to do, besides work?’
‘I hope you might find some level of community there. Many of the workers are Eastern Europeans.’
‘Good. Sounds good.’ Toma nods. ‘I had hoped you called me in because you tracked down the name of the landlord.’
I shake my head. ‘Sorry.’ My stomach turns, I don’t like lying to him.
‘It’s OK. I know you are trying. I know you are doing your best for me.’
I am. I want to reassure Toma that everything will change for him very soon, but I force myself to keep quiet. Sometimes staying silent is the right thing to do. ‘Let me dig out the application form. It’s a formality really. They are keen to get labour as soon as possible. You could be in work by the day after tomorrow.’
‘Or maybe sooner if I walk my application to them right now. Those at the top of the mountain didn’t fall there,’ Toma says, and then he flashes me a rare smile that beams into my core.
8
Lexi
The people from the lottery company said we could have the initial meeting anywhere we liked. We decided it was easiest and most discreet to have them come to our home to go through the paperwork. I can’t help but feel nervous. Once we accept the cheque our lives are changed forever. No going back. But then I ask myself who would want to go back when so much good can be done going forward? Going back is crazy talk.
I pick up a carrot cake from the supermarket on the high street. I also feel the need to purchase some speciality teas. I don’t want to look flash, but I do want to be welcoming. I buy Teapigs, a brand I consider a treat, but I’m regretting choosing liquorice and peppermint combined; it might be challenging, would it seem pretentious? What was I thinking? Still, I can always brew a regular cup of builder’s tea.
I arrive home to bigger challenges than exotic teabags. I am surprised to find Emily sunbathing in the front garden, and a startling yellow Ferrari parked on the road in front of our house, incongruous against the leylandii hedge that needs trimming and the recycling bins that need emptying. I don’t know much about cars, I have little interest in them beyond getting me from A to B, but even I recognise the black horse on the badge. I’m unsure which I should ask about first: the surprise presence of my daughter or the car. Jake takes the matter into his own hands and calls out, ‘I treated myself!’ He laughs, delighted. His hands on his hips, his legs wide, manly, triumphant, he doesn’t take his eyes off the car to glance my way but adds, ‘And I picked up Emily because she texted me to say she was feeling unwell.’
‘How did you buy this? We haven’t got the money in our account yet.’
He beams at me now, pleased with himself as though he’s just done something brilliant like got a promotion or won the fathers’ race on school sports day. ‘I just took the winning ticket into the garage and waved it about. It was amazing. You should have seen their faces.’ He’s giddy, not himself at all. ‘I’m not sure they believed me at first, but I told them we’ve been doing it for years and that we always use the same numbers. That we