The Single Mums' Secrets - Janet Hoggarth Page 0,116

since I started at the surgery, the dark coal pit in my chest has started to feel less suffocating. Work is a good medicine, helping people is a good way of helping yourself.’

I turned the key in the front door at eight-fifteen and the smell of baked goods hit me in the face like a comedy custard tart. Chocolate, cinnamon and something else I didn’t recognise. My olfactory detective skills were letting me down. I dropped my presents and work bag at the foot of the stairs.

‘Aunty Christa, we made marshmallow puff crispie cakes for your party,’ Gemma cried from the kitchen.

I thought it odd she was still up. All of them were normally in bed by eight at the latest, Ted eight-thirty on a weekend. She was standing on a stool with a miniature cat-print apron tied round her. That was the smell my Skippy senses couldn’t decipher – melted bovine hooves blended with sugar. It caught in the back of my throat – just the thought of pillowy, syrupy-flavoured polystyrene plucked at my gag reflex.

‘Oh no, are you going to be sick?’

I shook my head and breathed in through my mouth. Marshmallows were the kryptonite of the confectionary world. Simply watching someone else eat one made my tonsils tingle, even without a bun in the oven.

‘Is Mummy here?’

‘She went outside to put something in the bin.’

Funny, I hadn’t seen her there when I arrived. Ahhh… I walked over to the doors and pushed one aside, stepping out into the damp garden. I could smell the smoke. Louise had been frequently disappearing since about Wednesday at strange times. I never managed to find her on her own and I needed to ask her something, the earlier conversation with Winnie consolidating my idea.

She’d been acting peculiar too. Going to bed early, way before me most nights, saying she was tired, but when I turned in an hour later, I could hear her TV on and heard the loo flush a few times above me and feet walking round the floor, like she was pacing. I’d already suspected smoking, but couldn’t be sure and I didn’t want to dig too deep in the bins in case it was true. If she wanted to smoke I couldn’t stop her, but it meant something else was categorically at play. Either she was experiencing that honeymoon period with a new vibrator or she was dreading this first Christmas as a widow. In spite of the suspected dread, she’d still rearranged the entire Christmas tree the minute the children had disappeared to bed, redistributing minimalist tin stars and stylish glass icicles evenly round the branches so it looked less like Frosty the Snowman had power-puked down one side.

‘Smoking gives you wrinkles!’ I called into the alley between next door. The glowing tip jerked in the dark.

‘Fuck’s sake, Christa, I nearly burned my fringe.’

‘Another hazard of smoking.’

She stepped out of the shadows, grinding the cigarette under her trainer.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked soothingly, not wanting to judge. She clearly had something on her mind, other than the recent death of her husband.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said shrilly, bending down and picking up the half-finished fag. ‘You? How was the party? You’re back early.’

‘I wasn’t in the mood.’

‘Oh. I hope you’ll be in the mood for tomorrow.’

I winced. Everything was overwhelming. Sally, my oldest childhood friend, was staying the night tomorrow, and not even the thought of seeing her was enough to propel me into some kind of enthusiastic jazz-hand sequence for the baby shower.

‘I will be; I just need to sleep. Can you come inside? I want to ask you something.’

‘Oh, shit, what is it?’ Her eyes widened in alarm.

‘What’s going on? You’re being so weird.’ The penny dropped, possibly down the wrong slot. ‘Have you started seeing James again?’

‘What? No way! What made you think that?’

‘All the smoking and sneaking around. You’re on edge.’

‘I’m just nervous about the party,’ she replied too quickly.

‘Then cancel it if it’s that much hassle.’

‘No! I’ve made all the cakes.’ Back in the kitchen the nauseating smell of marshmallows swamped me and I had to switch back to mouth breathing.

‘Mum, can we have a cake?’ Ted asked. He’d joined Gemma from the living room.

‘No, bed for you two now. Got to be full of beans for tomorrow.’

‘Can I talk to you before you go to bed, please?’

Louise’s eyebrows shot into her fringe and she started fiddling with a button on her cardigan. ‘Sure. Teeth, you two. I’ll be up in