that.
* * *
It was only a week later that Erin got a call from the football camp, telling her that Larry Jr. was “puking up a gale” and asking if she could please come get him. Sandra had started going for workshops and classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays to start out. They both knew that if Sandra leapt into the deep end and went five days a week, she’d be overwhelmed and quit. Going two days also allowed her to be home with the kids the majority of the week, arousing no suspicion in Larry. Erin was the only one who knew what she was doing, Sandra having decided not to tell any of her kids for now. Lucy and Oona thought their mam was at some playgroup with baby Gina. Sandra especially didn’t want Lucy to know, because if she did, she wouldn’t think twice about telling Larry in payback for some slight Sandra might have committed against her, real or imagined. Erin was pretty sure she and Sandra weren’t as stroppy at that age as Lucy was.
It was Jackson Bell who’d rung her. For a split second, all she heard were the words
football camp
and her heart lurched. She promised she’d be there for Larry Jr.—or LJ, as he was now insisting on being called—in a few minutes.
Her intentions were admirable until she remembered, with some embarrassment, that she couldn’t drive. She’d been meaning to call for driving lessons for months but hadn’t gotten around to it, swamped in studies and housework. She remembered Rory trying to teach her to drive when they were fifteen, because her father wouldn’t. The lesson with Rory had turned out to be a minor nightmare: he barked commands at her like a military officer, making her more and more nervous until she burst into tears.
She’d been an idiot to tell Sandra she’d be the emergency contact. What was she thinking? She felt badly for LJ, but she had no choice but to take the bus or to hire acab, which would cost a ton. She couldn’t run to the auto shop and ask her dad to give her a lift and back. Her father treated his Ford Fiesta like it was a Maserati: only he was allowed to drive it, not that he did much of that. He didn’t drive it so much as admire it as it sat there parked in the sun, gleaming. She could plead it was an emergency, but all her dad would have to hear were the words “sick child,” and that would be it.
Right. No time to waste. She started out the door, running smack into her mother.
“Where are you off to, looking like the Devil’s on your heels?”
“Larry Jr. is sick. He needs someone to pick him up at football camp.”
Her mother looked confused. “Why can’t Sandra do it?”
“She’s ill herself. Plus, she can’t drive.”
“May I point out that you can’t drive, either?”
Erin was getting restless. “I was going to get a taxi.”
“Are you out of your skull? Do you know how much that will cost?”
“But—”
“Ladies, ladies.” Erin and her mother turned. Mr. Russell, the dapper, elderly permanent boarder, was right behind them, all dressed and ready for whatever it was he did all day since he retired from the Royal Mail. “Why raised voices on this cloudy morning?”
“I’ll tell you why,” Erin’s mother said, fixing her daughter with a black look. “Erin has to go pick up Sandra’s boy from football camp. He’s ill. Unfortunately, my daughter seems to have forgotten she doesn’t have a license to operate a motor vehicle.”
“I can give you a lift.”
Erin’s face lit up. “Really? Oh, that would be wonderful, Mr. Russell. I’d pay you for the petrol.”
“Don’t be daft. It’d be my pleasure.”
Erin’s mother pasted a smile on her face. “That’s really very generous of you, Mr. Russell.” She turned to Erin. “When do you think you might be back?”
Translation: surely you can’t expect me to do your chores.
“Don’t know. Why does it matter?”
They locked eyes until her mother looked away. “No matter,” she said, affecting a nonchalant tone. She regarded
* * *
It was only a week later that Erin got a call from the football camp, telling her that Larry Jr. was “puking up a gale” and asking if she could please come get him. Sandra had started going for workshops and classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays to start out. They both knew that if Sandra leapt into the deep end and went five days a week, she’d be overwhelmed and quit. Going two days also allowed her to be home with the kids the majority of the week, arousing no suspicion in Larry. Erin was the only one who knew what she was doing, Sandra having decided not to tell any of her kids for now. Lucy and Oona thought their mam was at some playgroup with baby Gina. Sandra especially didn’t want Lucy to know, because if she did, she wouldn’t think twice about telling Larry in payback for some slight Sandra might have committed against her, real or imagined. Erin was pretty sure she and Sandra weren’t as stroppy at that age as Lucy was.
It was Jackson Bell who’d rung her. For a split second, all she heard were the words
football camp
and her heart lurched. She promised she’d be there for Larry Jr.—or LJ, as he was now insisting on being called—in a few minutes.
Her intentions were admirable until she remembered, with some embarrassment, that she couldn’t drive. She’d been meaning to call for driving lessons for months but hadn’t gotten around to it, swamped in studies and housework. She remembered Rory trying to teach her to drive when they were fifteen, because her father wouldn’t. The lesson with Rory had turned out to be a minor nightmare: he barked commands at her like a military officer, making her more and more nervous until she burst into tears.
She’d been an idiot to tell Sandra she’d be the emergency contact. What was she thinking? She felt badly for LJ, but she had no choice but to take the bus or to hire acab, which would cost a ton. She couldn’t run to the auto shop and ask her dad to give her a lift and back. Her father treated his Ford Fiesta like it was a Maserati: only he was allowed to drive it, not that he did much of that. He didn’t drive it so much as admire it as it sat there parked in the sun, gleaming. She could plead it was an emergency, but all her dad would have to hear were the words “sick child,” and that would be it.
Right. No time to waste. She started out the door, running smack into her mother.
“Where are you off to, looking like the Devil’s on your heels?”
“Larry Jr. is sick. He needs someone to pick him up at football camp.”
Her mother looked confused. “Why can’t Sandra do it?”
“She’s ill herself. Plus, she can’t drive.”
“May I point out that you can’t drive, either?”
Erin was getting restless. “I was going to get a taxi.”
“Are you out of your skull? Do you know how much that will cost?”
“But—”
“Ladies, ladies.” Erin and her mother turned. Mr. Russell, the dapper, elderly permanent boarder, was right behind them, all dressed and ready for whatever it was he did all day since he retired from the Royal Mail. “Why raised voices on this cloudy morning?”
“I’ll tell you why,” Erin’s mother said, fixing her daughter with a black look. “Erin has to go pick up Sandra’s boy from football camp. He’s ill. Unfortunately, my daughter seems to have forgotten she doesn’t have a license to operate a motor vehicle.”
“I can give you a lift.”
Erin’s face lit up. “Really? Oh, that would be wonderful, Mr. Russell. I’d pay you for the petrol.”
“Don’t be daft. It’d be my pleasure.”
Erin’s mother pasted a smile on her face. “That’s really very generous of you, Mr. Russell.” She turned to Erin. “When do you think you might be back?”
Translation: surely you can’t expect me to do your chores.
“Don’t know. Why does it matter?”
They locked eyes until her mother looked away. “No matter,” she said, affecting a nonchalant tone. She regarded
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