The Wicked Girls

Chapter Seventeen

‘No, sorry, mate. I think you’ve got the wrong number. No Jade here,’ says Jim.

Kirsty feels her hands slip on the wheel, hurriedly compensates as the car jerks to the left.

‘Mum!’ Sophie protests from the back. Her orange juice has gone all over her tennis gear.

‘’S’OK,’ says Jim, and hangs up.

‘Sorry,’ says Kirsty. ‘Sorry. Don’t know what happened there. I just slipped.’

‘I’m all wet now,’ whines Sophie.

‘Never mind,’ says Jim. ‘It’ll be dry by Monday.’

Casual. I must act casually. ‘Who was that?’ Kirsty enquires. Changes down to third as they approach the roundabout.

‘Wrong number,’ says Jim. ‘Wanted someone called Jade.’

‘Oh,’ she says.

‘What’s for tea?’ asks Sophie.

‘I don’t know,’ she says vaguely. ‘Fish fingers?’

Jade. A man who wanted Jade. Not her. Not Bel: a man. Jesus. Is someone on to me? Or was it just coincidence? Oh God, has the Mail on Sunday finally tracked me down?

‘Fish fingers!’ protests Sophie. ‘But it’s Saturday!’

‘So what?’

‘Other people get a takeaway on Saturdays! Chinese or something.’

‘Yeah,’ says Jim, ‘other people don’t get tennis lessons and piano lessons. It’s an either-or choice here, Sophie. We’re not rich. People like us don’t get both.’

‘Hunh,’ grunts Sophie.

‘I’m doing a roast tomorrow,’ says Kirsty encouragingly. ‘Chicken and all the trimmings. Stop kicking the back of my seat, Sophie.’

‘But I’m a vegetarian!’ she cries.

‘Really?’ Jim turns around. ‘When did this happen?’

‘You don’t listen to a word I say.’

‘Of course we do, Sophie,’ he teases. ‘Every single word. No wonder you don’t want fish fingers. What do you think, darling?’ He turns to Kirsty. ‘Can we whip her up a nice salad?’

‘Of course we can,’ says Kirsty. ‘We’ve got lots of salad in the garden just waiting to be eaten. I’m so sorry, Sophie. If you’d told us, we’d’ve been picking it for you every day.’

Sophie groans. ‘Not that sort of vegetarian. Not a salad vegetarian.’

Jim catches Kirsty’s eye. ‘Ah. A chocolatarian.’

Sophie glares out of the window. ‘I don’t like fish fingers.’

What if we get home, and there’s photographers on the doorstep? What will I do? It will kill them. Not just the revelation: the lie. He’ll find out he’s been living with a stranger all these years. He’ll think that if I could lie to him about something so huge, I could lie to him about anything. He’ll end up wondering if I ever loved him at all.

‘No skin off my nose, sweetie,’ she says. ‘How about a lettuce sandwich?’

‘A lettuce sandwich isn’t dinner!’ she protests.

‘You’ll be eating a lot of lettuce if you’re going to be a vegetarian. Might as well get used to it.’

‘And broad beans,’ adds Jim. ‘Don’t forget those.’

Luke’s standing outside the rugby club when they draw up, his boots dangling by their laces over his shoulders. ‘I wish he wouldn’t do that,’ says Jim. ‘He goes through a pair of laces a week.’

He reaches over and beeps the horn. Luke jumps, turns and waves. He comes running over, grinning, and hops into the car.

‘How was it?’ asks Kirsty.

‘Awesome,’ he replies. ‘I scored a try. And Mr Jones says I might be able to try out for the first team in a year.’

‘Fantastic!’ she says. ‘Luke! Sit on the bin liner, darling. You’re going to get mud all over.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ he says, and settles into his seat. Sophie looks at him the way all little girls look at muddy little brothers.

‘What’s for tea?’ he asks.

‘Well, we were going to have fish fingers, but your sister wants a salad,’ says Jim. ‘She’s turned vegetarian.’

Luke howls with disgust. ‘You’re kidding! I can’t eat salad. I’ve been playing rugby.’

Jim shrugs. ‘Well, it’s not up to me. Perhaps you can negotiate.’

Kirsty puts the car into gear and pulls into the road. Luke frowns at Sophie.

‘All right,’ she says. ‘I’ll eat fish, OK? I’ll be a fishatarian, if it makes you happy.’

‘Pescatarian,’ says Jim.

‘Whatever,’ says Sophie, and folds her arms.

It must have been Bel, Kirsty thinks. Is it that her voice is so deep he thought she was a bloke? It didn’t sound like it. But – I don’t know. Please, please, please, God, let it have been Bel. Let it not have been someone else, someone with another agenda altogether.

‘But I’m not eating any stinking chicken,’ says Sophie.

‘Fine,’ says Jim. ‘But don’t think that means you can double up on roast potatoes.’