I Invited Her In: The new domestic psychological thriller from Sunday Times bestselling author Adele Parks. Adele Parks

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СКАЧАТЬ say anything, but they don’t really mean it,’ said Abi.

      Mel looked crushed. ‘Well, I mean it. Anything at all,’ she insisted.

      Abi smiled and nodded. It was exactly what she wanted to hear.

11

       Melanie

      I’ve never fallen in love at first sight. I’m a slow-burn sort. My boyfriends before Liam’s father were mates before they became dates. I was never in love with Liam’s father; just in lust. And Ben? Well, he had to woo me in the old-fashioned way because, basically, I was terrified he was going to hurt me – or more importantly, Liam – by bouncing in and then out of our lives. His good looks worked against him; it took a long time for me to trust him. Yet, I remember back to that first moment I met Abi, I had flutters in my stomach. An instant spark, a feeling that we were meant to be together. And now, I feel it all over again. I’m not coming out here. I don’t fancy her. I’m just saying being with her is intense, wonderful, uplifting. I’ve missed her.

      I can’t wait to get the girls to bed. They sense it and play up. Ben’s no help because he sees Abi’s visit as an excuse to pop to the gym and then no doubt he’ll undo the good work as he’ll nip to the local for a cold one; he rushes out the door at seven thirty.

      ‘You’ve got yourself a good man there,’ says Abi as she waves to him from the sitting-room window. Ben waves back and grins at her, as he dashes down the path. ‘Where is he from?’

      It’s a strange non-sequitur comment. ‘Newcastle.’

      ‘His parents?’

      ‘Newcastle.’ I know what she’s getting at and even when it’s Abi asking, it’s annoying. It’s hard to see her enquiry as anything other than outright prejudice. There’s an implication that he’s somehow not exactly British, even though he was born here and his parents were born here. ‘His grandparents are Jamaican,’ I add, because this is what she’s asking and because we’re proud of the fact.

      ‘How fascinating. How wonderful. Do you ever go there for holidays?’

      Her obvious enthusiasm makes me relax a little. I feel a bit ashamed that I thought she was being off. It’s just that mixed-race couples still raise an eyebrow and we shouldn’t. But I should never have imagined Abi would be so small-minded.

      ‘No. His mother once went to visit her aunt and uncle but Ben doesn’t know anyone there,’ I explain. ‘I’d love to go one day. Take the kids, so they get to know a bit more about their heritage.’

      ‘You certainly don’t have a type, do you?’ she muses.

      ‘What do you mean?’ I ask carefully. I’m smiling because I don’t want this to be a thing but I sense it is.

      ‘Well, Liam’s father, what was he called? Dean?’

      ‘Ian.’

      ‘Yes, Ian. Well, he can’t have looked much like Ben. Liam is so blonde.’

      ‘I think he gets that from my mother,’ I reply, not prepared to confirm or deny whether Liam’s father was blonde. It’s been a long time since I’ve had these sorts of conversations. I start to head towards the kitchen.

      ‘Maybe. They do say certain genes skip a generation.’

      ‘Shall we try that grapefruit tonic?’ I offer.

      ‘I hope you mean with gin.’

      ‘Absolutely.’

      ‘Then yes.’ As I pass her the drink she asks, ‘Does Liam mind?’

      ‘Mind what?’

      ‘That he doesn’t look anything like the rest of you. Does he feel separate? Isolated?’

      What an odd question. It’s true that the rest of us all have brown hair and eyes. Ben is black and the girls have beautiful sepia brown skin. I pick up quite a good tan in the summer although I’m a ghostly white right now, my hair has a definite kink to it, the girls and Ben have big, confident afros. Liam’s hair is poker straight. He’s pale and blonde, as Abi mentioned. Blue eyed.

      ‘We’ve never really dwelt on the matter.’ I know I sound prickly. I’m trying not to be but I am.

      I nervously flick my gaze at Abi. I don’t see any likenesses between him and his biological father, but then I can hardly remember the face of the young man who impregnated me. For me, Liam’s providence is an ancient story, a closed book. Ben is his dad. And an exceptionally good one. I never feel comfortable talking about the man who brought him into being. It reflects badly on me. I worry that Liam thinks it reflects badly on him, too. Obviously, it doesn’t. But kids see things weirdly. They blame themselves for things that are way out of their control.

      Abi looks abashed. ‘No, no, silly of me to have brought it up. You do know I didn’t mean anything odd.’ She reaches out and grabs my hand, squeezes tightly, like a child might. Impulsively, I bring our hands to my lips and kiss her knuckles. Weird, but she permits intimacy, somehow demands it.

      ‘Of course,’ I reassure her. I want to move on. Get off this topic. She smiles at me, eyes glistening with relief. I matter to her. My good opinion matters to her.

      The evening races by, shimmering with laughter and shared confidences. Our lives are obviously very different, yet we find things in common. We find we watch a lot of the same TV shows and we have the same view on them, we’ve read some of the same novels and I make a note of others Abi recommends. Abi has been to several places on my bucket list and it’s fascinating to hear all about them first hand. She strengthens my resolve to travel more, when the kids are all a bit older and when there’s a bit more spare cash floating about. Abi shows me her Instagram account. It’s full of stunning, glistening, gleaming images. Her in exotic locations, in fabulous restaurants, at gigs, shows and the theatre.

      ‘Don’t you have an Insta?’ she asks, not even self-conscious about the casual use of the abbreviation, as though she was sixteen. She is so confident.

      ‘No, but maybe I should get one.’ I don’t really mean this. Or at least I do, right now, but I won’t in the morning after I’ve slept off the effect of the G&Ts. What would I post? I think about the food I prepare. Liam wolfs it down – there would be no time to photograph it. The girls pick and poke; in the end, everything I prepare looks like a Jackson Pollock on a plate.

      ‘Oh, don’t bother,’ says Abi, sounding bored. ‘It’s so time consuming.’

      ‘That’s what Ben says. He’s not a fan of social media. He thinks it’s desperate and deadening. Basically, I think he just doesn’t like his boss knowing too much about his personal life.’

      ‘Is that why you never post photos?’

      ‘I suppose.’ I take a sip of my G&T.

      Abi nods, thoughtfully. ‘Ben’s quite right. Very dignified.’

      Hearing her compliment Ben encourages me to add, ‘I’ve СКАЧАТЬ