Conditional Love by Cathy Bramley Read Free Book Online

gone,’ he protested.
    ‘You heard the lady.’ Emma suddenly went all Mafia, hoicked fifteen stone of muscle off the sofa and bundled my ex-boyfriend towards the door.
    Marc tried to make eye contact with me over the top of Emma’s red mane. He made the international sign for phone with thumb and little finger. ‘Call me if you need any help, yeah? Princess?’
    And I’m back in the game.

seven
    The set of keys that Mr Whelan had lent me were like one of those creepy paintings where the eyes seem to follow you. Every time they caught my eye, it was as if they were waving to me, until finally I could take it no more.
    I had dragged Jess and Emma away from Saturday morning telly by promising them fresh air, fields of wheat and barley and gambolling lambs. And when that hadn’t worked, I told them I’d buy them a drink on the way home. Ten minutes later we were on our way.
    Woodby was one of those little villages far enough out of the city to be able to claim it was in the countryside, but close enough for even the most committed townie to cope without getting panic attacks. The sort of place you might drive out to for a pub lunch.
    Maybe it was the time of year; I’m not really up on my countryside life cycle, but the fields were mostly brown squares and the sheep were all massive with straggly wool and not a spring lamb in sight. I kept my fingers crossed for a pub.
    If I had to sum up my driving style in three words it would be ‘white knuckle ride’. Hence, the journey to see the bungalow I had no intention of inheriting was largely a silent one, pierced from time to time with shrill screams. Emma, in the front seat, held onto the map, Jess, in the back, attempted to hold onto her partly digested breakfast, and I held onto the steering wheel for grim death.
    Jess had offered to drive us, but in a bid to demonstrate the new independent me, I’d cadged a pool car from The Herald . The car must have been ancient because the gearbox sounded like an old man with a forty-a-day smoker’s cough and it wheezed its way up even the mildest incline.
    The journey was pushing my stress levels to their limits. Whoever had thought to build these country lanes so windy was a fool. My biceps were shaking with the effort of negotiating all the bends and I had to concentrate hard. But focussing on my driving was a relief. Ever since I’d made the decision to come and look at the bungalow, my brain and my stomach had been in turmoil. It wasn’t just my biceps that felt shaky, my whole body was trembling.
    All my life I had had no contact with my father or his family. Today, however indirectly, I would be entering into his world. It felt like a massive milestone and, worse than that, a complete betrayal of my mother.
    Despite my reservations, as we came into Woodby, my heart lifted at its prettiness: red brick cottages, a village green, a pub and an old-fashioned telephone box – it ticked all the ‘quintessentially English’ boxes! The grass verges were lined with daffodils, like a miniature welcoming committee all blowing their tiny yellow trumpets.
    ‘Next on the left should be Lilac Lane,’ Emma informed us, tapping the map with her finger.
    ‘Thank goodness for that!’ groaned Jess from the back, her knees squashed up under her chin. ‘Rigor mortis is beginning to set in. This car is definitely designed for speed and not comfort.’
    Emma opened her mouth to speak.
    ‘I know what you’re going to say, so don’t,’ said Jess, sucking her stomach in.
    I turned left. Lilac Lane was on the far side of the village. It was a short, narrow, unmade road with bungalows on one side and trees and bushes on the other, behind which I could just make out a ditch with the trickle of a stream running through it.
    There were no odd numbers, only evens, so number eight was the fourth house along. I pulled onto the drive and turned off the engine. Blood was pumping so hard round my body that I had a whooshing noise in my ears.
    We