you don’t … be sure you take me along with you next time.’
‘Thank you, Dodge,’ I said, warmed by the offer. ‘I will. Incidentally, your mate Les …’
‘Yes?’
‘I might ring him, just to confirm that, in the photo I sent him, it was Ramiro he identified as Kerry’s dealer, rather than Bruce.’
‘But you know it was, don’t you?’
‘Yes, must have been.’ I havered for a moment. That wasn’t why I’d introduced Les’s name into the conversation. I went on, ‘He’s desperately sorry to have let you down … over the ReProgramme thing.’
‘I know.’
‘Is there any chance he could get back on to the counselling training …?’
‘I’m working on it, Ellen. My argument is that, for a set-up like ReProgramme to black someone after one lapse back into using, well … it goes against the whole spirit of the organization.’
‘Do you think you will be able to get him back?’
‘Quietly confident.’
I knew how much difference that would make to someone in Les’s situation. He’s one of the good guys, Dodge.
‘You want more tea?’
‘I’m fine at the moment, thanks.’
‘You going to be all right, Ellen?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve been through a lot.’
‘I’ll be all right, Dodge.’
‘When you’ve processed it.’
‘When I’ve processed it, yes.’
‘Some people find that stuff easy.’
‘Yes.’
‘Lucky them.’ Dodge sighed. ‘There’s a quote from Queen Elizabeth the first on that very subject.’
‘Is there?’ I was surprised. Not one of his usual sources.
‘“They pass best over this world who trip over it quickly; for it is but a bog – if we stop, we sink.”’
‘True. Funny, I wouldn’t have expected that from Queen Elizabeth the first.’
‘Trouble is,’ said Dodge, ‘neither you nor I are very good at doing that, are we – tripping over quickly?’
‘No,’ I said ruefully. ‘We’re not.’
I never did hear whether Ricky Brewer was brought to justice. Given his planning in terms of the way he’d got into Hilary’s confidence, it was quite possible that he’d planned his escape route with equal efficiency. Maybe, satisfied to have achieved the revenge that he’d always sought, he lived out his life in another country, under yet another identity (probably without a beard). But I doubt whether he lived it out happily. No one who’d written the kind of stuff Ben had found on his laptop could have lived happily.
Bad news on the Ashleigh front, though. The inevitable happened. Another shouting match with one of her neighbours led to the police being called to the block. Ashleigh was found to be using again. I’ll do what I can, so will the social workers, but I don’t think we’ll be able to prevent Zak from being taken into care. And the downward spiral will start all over again, just as it had with Ricky Brewer.
Sometimes, with my clients, I almost scream with frustration about how little I can do.
Ben was good about sending texts and I was delighted to receive one on the Saturday afternoon to say he wouldn’t be back till Sunday evening. Maybe this relationship with Tracey will work out. I hope so. The test will come the first time she sees him really depressed. If they can survive that, the prospects are good. And I know he will get depressed again. He may get better, but he’ll never be completely cured. He has to live with that, and I have to live with the resultant anxiety.
Something I did do on the Saturday was go to the cupboard under the stairs and take out one of the cartoons I’d had framed for Oliver’s forty-third birthday. I hung it up in the hall. I have come that far.
I didn’t hear from Jools in the week after she’d been down for Sunday lunch, but that’s not unusual. I’m sure she’s fine.
But of course, I did hear from my mother and, would you believe, she had heard from Jools. On the Saturday afternoon Fleur rang, inviting me to lunch at Goodwood with her the following day. Kenneth, needless to say, would be playing golf.
For a moment I wondered if Fleur Bonnier could make up a threesome of neglected wives. Like Hilary, like Jeanette, a third one suffering from her husband’s inattention …?
But the minute I saw her on the Sunday, I knew she didn’t fit the template. Her self-esteem was far too strong. I have a sneaking admiration for the way it has kept her buoyant through a series of reversals that might have downed a lesser woman. It just never occurs to her that she could be in the wrong.
I’d arranged taxis both ways to Goodwood, so I could drink with impunity. Drink and listen. My mother, annoying though she can frequently be, is a good raconteur. In her telling of it, she can dress up the dullest of events into something sparkling. And she spent most of the lunch dressing up the events of her week – basically a couple of lunches and a few phone calls to showbiz friends – into a compelling narrative.
When we’d ordered coffee, she paused for breath. ‘Anyway, darling, how’s your week been?’
‘Oh, usual stuff,’ I replied. ‘Not a lot.’
‘And it’s back to the boring old cleaning tomorrow, is it, Ellen?’
‘That’s right, Fleur,’ I said. ‘Back to the boring old cleaning.’