Roses Are Red - Miranda Rijks Page 0,89

interested in racing cars, but clearly she is. ‘The bad news is, you need to be in our car and ready to go in forty-five minutes. Think you can make it?’

‘Yes!’ they say in harmony.

I am not so thrilled with the prospect. I am still under the weather, and even if I wasn’t, hanging around a racetrack, my heart in my mouth as my kids are driven at high speed, is not my idea of a great day out. My voice sounds relatively normal, but my head feels as if it’s stuffed with cardboard and my back aches. Nevertheless, by the time Gail arrives with two of her staff, the house looks as neat as it’s ever going to look, and we’re ready to leave her to it.

I can’t stop thinking about Ajay. Have the police arrested him? What is happening? I’ve heard nothing from DI Cornish during the past forty-eight hours. I know the team will be doing the best they can, but I have to steel myself to be inundated with work when I return to Cracking Crafts on Monday. Without any of us three directors at work during the past week, I have no doubt that decisions won’t have been made and payments withheld.

With my car in the garage or perhaps being examined by the police, I suggest that we take Adam’s Bentley. I hand the keys to Patrick and his eyes light up. It’s the first time he will have driven it.

‘Take it easy,’ I say, trying to keep my advice light. ‘It’s ridiculously powerful and quite hard to keep within the speed limits.’ He rolls his eyes at me as he presses the button to open the electric garage door.

I slip into the passenger seat, pushing my basket of handicrafts and my laptop to one side. I don’t go anywhere without my project-on-the-go. I keep a bag with my crafting projects in the car and another one in a bag by the back door next to the coat rack. I suppose crafting is as addictive to me as gaming is to Oliver. The kids climb into the back of the car, but Patrick is still in the garage. He bends down into his knees and looks underneath the car.

I open my car door. ‘What are you doing?’

He beckons me with his finger and motions for me to get out of the car. ‘Just checking there isn’t a bomb or any device underneath the Bentley,’ he whispers in a low voice.

‘What!’ I exclaim. And I thought I was paranoid. ‘Really?’

‘I’m not taking any chances, Lydia,’ Patrick says, gently pushing me back towards the passenger door. ‘All clear. Let’s go.’

I spend most of the day in the car, listening to the radio, doing my knitting and catching up on emails.

About 2.30 p.m. Gail calls me.

‘We’ve had lots of interest in the house, Lydia. Lots of interest. And bear in mind the market conditions are terrible, so I am very optimistic. There were two couples who have booked another viewing for this coming week. I really think that we could be seeing a quick sale.’

‘That’s great,’ I say. ‘Can we come home?’

‘We’ll be done here about 3 p.m. Will you be back in time, or should I lock up?’

‘Please lock up and post the key back through the letter box.’

On Sunday morning I have a sleep-in, and when I awake, I can tell straight away that the flu has dissipated from my body. It is such a relief. Patrick is in the shower, so I walk downstairs in my dressing gown and am surprised that Mia is already in the kitchen.

‘Sleep well?’ I ask, yawning.

‘Yeah. It was fun yesterday.’ She hovers next to the toaster. ‘I can’t wait to be old enough to drive.’

I open the doors to the big pantry unit and take out my jar of granola, the same breakfast cereal that I eat every morning: a mixture of nuts and oats and dried berries that I make myself. After tipping a decent portion into my bowl, I open the fridge and take out some milk and mixed berries. I make myself a mug of mint tea and sit at the table, switching on BBC News 24 to catch the headlines.

I know within seconds that something is wrong. My throat tightens up and my tongue begins to swell, as if it is much too big for my mouth. I try to stand up, but the dizziness forces me back down again and I miss the chair,